Seasickness

Part 6

The first thing that hits Ryan when he opens his eyes is a blinding, agonising headache, and he lets out a moan of pain. He doesn't think he's ever had a headache this badly, and he raises a weak hand to his face, to lay over his eyes. He's hot and clammy and sickly, and he can't, for the life of him, remember why.

Then, slowly, the pieces begin to fit together in his mind; the dinner, the drinking, the kissing, the stripping, and then... He attempts, slowly, to sit up, but suddenly nausea preys upon him and he ducks his head to the side, throwing up all over the floor.

All over Brendon's beautiful red carpet.

"Oh, fuck," he whispers to himself, close to tears. He's trembling, now, with the sickness, and he hugs his knees to his chest. He glances next to him, to the other side of the bed, and then buries his head into the tops of his knees. "Oh, fuck."

He has no idea what to do. He wants to get up and run away, but where the hell can he run to? His room? Brendon knows where that is, and after all, he can't avoid the young man forever. He'll be sacked if that happens, and then he won't get any money for the voyage, and will have to face even more shit at home. He draws the silky, red covers more tightly over his naked body, and bites his lip. He's royally fucked.

As he thinks this, he feels a painful throb in his ass, which seems to confirm the sentiment in more ways than one. He wasn't a virgin, of course not, but from what he can remember, the experience was like nothing he'd ever felt before. Not in a bad way, either. Then, he remembers that an A-list, bitchy, asshole of a celebrity got him drunk, seduced him, and then fucked him. Despite the memories of the kisses and the moaning of names, a fire billows up inside of him, and his fists clench, twisting in the sheets.

"You bastard," he says, clearly, to Brendon. Brendon stirs, a little, opening his eyes for the merest second and then closing them again. He throws an arm around Ryan's waist, snuggling close to his side, but Ryan pushes him harshly away. That wakes Brendon up; his eyes snap open and he frowns, brain evidently taking a moment to adjust to the current situation.

"Um. What?" he asks, weakly, blinking a few times. He glances at Ryan, and then smiles, a softer smile than Ryan's seen him wear before. "Morning. How are you feeling?"

"You bastard," Ryan repeats, a tremble in his voice now. Brendon sits up, rubbing his eyes, and stares at the boy next to him. He lifts a tentative hand and runs it down Ryan's bare side, but Ryan violently shoves him away, causing him to topple, hard, onto the floor. "I can't believe you. Who the hell do you think you are?"

Brendon stands up, pushing his hair out of his eyes, face furious. Ryan remembers, suddenly, that Brendon really, really isn't a morning person. "What," Brendon says, slowly, "the fuck did you do that for?"

Ryan feels way too young, and way too old, and he wants to throw up again. Then, he does, doubled over the bed and vomiting in the same spot. Before he knows what's happening, Brendon is back on the bed, one hand smoothing it's way around his stomach, the other smoothing his hair from his face. "Shh," he murmurs, into Ryan's ear, "get it all out. You drank a lot last night, you must be feeling pretty rough and --"

"I know I drank a lot," Ryan spits, climbing out of bed unsteadily, and somehow managing to avoid stepping in the mess on the floor. "I'm sure you know just how much, don't you? Were you just trying to see how much of a slut I am when I've downed a few, then?"

Brendon stares at him, and then replies, coldly, "You're an adult, Ryan. Don't act like I've corrupted you. How old are you, exactly?"

"Twenty-two."

Brendon smiles, though it's humourless. "Well, I'm twenty-one, so I'd say that you're looking at things from the completely wrong perspective here."