The Powers That Be Ship Thee Brendan x Wally (Loverivalshipping)

Tidy Endings Are for Little Kid Books

Me: *Steeples hand evilly in front of face* "The setting for this chapter is...nothing. You are given nothing to work with right off the bat. You must glean all context clues from the text itself, and I leave it to you completely to interpret what has happened to the story at this point. I will you see you at the end to tell you how evil I am. Until then, farewell...Muahahahaha-! Okay, you can just read it now." *Starts the show*

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*Brendan's POV*

I can tell May is really into this just by the way she's dressed: a dress with an Elizabethan collar neckline, the top of which is black, and the skirt of which is done in a black and white diamond pattern. If she didn't care, she wouldn't have bothered to dress up so nice, nor would she have spent the past two hours explaining to me all of her design choices. Like, I didn't know what an Elizabethan collar neckline was until she showed me her outfit, and I would've never—insert sarcastic eye roll here—never, in my small-minded ways ever even begun to realize that her outfit wasn't a dress at all but a shirt with a skirt pulled up over it so it looked, together, like they were one dress! Oh, woe is me.

I bet it's fucking obvious to anyone watching that I'm not into this. I mean, I'm practically falling asleep at the bar, and it's only a matter of time until I actually fall off this stool—the train wreck happening over here can't exactly be interpreted as the picture of enthusiasm, can it?

I hold my glass of water up a little higher to keep from spilling as I tip forward drunkenly again. The only thing that keeps me on my seat, this time, is my other arm braced against the counter behind me as it literally holds me up. Why did I let May drag me here again? Not even ten minutes after I had taken my sleeping pills? I can't even drink like this—I'd lapse into a fucking coma or something if I did. I just about have to roll my eyes into the back of my head as something stimulating enough to keep me awake anymore. I'm sure I look insane to anyone watching.

My brain is no longer functioning at sufficient capacity to tell if I see or hear May approaching the bar to check on me, but whatever senses I use, I can tell that she is. "Wow, you look like you're straight up tripping. So which is actually better? Getting drunk or getting high off sleeping pills?" She laughs lowly, smoothing a hand down her skirt, assuring me that if I asked, she'd tell me she's still obsessed with her dress that's not a dress. Blech. I don't even recognize this fucking person next to me right now. We used to hate everything together, even each other.

Some part of my brain remembers that I've been requested to speak. "They both suck. I just feel like I need to take a nap."

"An epic nap," May corrects me, "and with the way you look, it seems like whatever nap you take after this might be better than an orgasm."

"Don't," I groan, protesting, "I'm very susceptible to suggestion right now, and I don't want to associate you with the concept of having an orgasm ever. Did that make any sense to you?" I have to check—I'm not even sure I actually said the words.

If May responds, I don't hear it. The next thing I know, she's tugging on my arm and pointing somewhere out at the dancefloor or the tables on the other side of the dancefloor. "Sweet baby Azurill Jesus," she sounds pure evil right now, more familiar to me than the girl who talks about dresses that aren't dresses, "look who it is, Brendy. Ugh!" she turns to me and takes my face in her hands, "Look, I remember when I swore if I ever referred to you as Brendy with any affection in my heart, I would kill myself, but fuck me for changing, Brendy."