THE ADVENTURES OF FRANK AND RYAN

11

IF IT WEREN'T for all the banging cabinets and clattering plates disturbing him, Ryan wouldn't have woken up. Usually he's the one making all the noise in the kitchen—trying to get Grey out of bed on the weekends before noon, wanting to show him his latest breakfast creation he took two hours to make—but it seems that the alarm clock position has been taken up by Grey this morning, who sounds as if he's trying to break all the kitchenware a little more forcefully than necessary.

"Shit, Grey, you need to tone it down. Even I don't make this much noise in the morning," Ryan mutters, though with the intention of speaking louder. He pulls a throw pillow over his head, only moving it out of the way a couple of minutes later when the air between the fabric gets stale. His head pounds like the bass in a bad club remix. Grey's continuous racket only serves as unwanted accompaniment. A few more seconds pass before he can't take it anymore.

"Grey!" he yells, sitting up, ready to go in the kitchen and break every possible object in his path so Grey won't be able to, but a wave of nausea hits him in the gut from the sudden movement, and he has to hold himself upright against the back of the couch to avoid passing out.

Grey stares at him blankly, hand paused mid-air, ready to hit the spoon he holds against the mug in front of him on the dining table. Ryan heaves a sigh, annoyed with Grey's blatant attempt to disturb him. The least he could do is pretend like he's doing something meaningful.

"You look like shit," Grey says as way of greeting, setting the spoon down on the table. "God, like, your eyes—I don't think you've ever looked this bad." He laughs quietly to himself, shaking his head with reasons unknown to Ryan.

"I feel like shit, too, thanks." He looks around the living room, unsure of what he's searching for. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Like, ten o'clock," Grey says, standing up to take his mug to sink. "A bit late for you, don't you think?" His spoon clatters loudly as he tosses it with the mug. Ryan's eardrums are just about ready to explode. Usually, Grey's passive-aggressive attitude is tolerable, if not endearing to Ryan, but right now, all it adds is further confusion to his foggy mind, and he knows Grey is experiencing way too much joy from skirting around the truth—whatever that may be. He's being blinded by the daylight flooding through the open windows that Grey most definitely opened, yet his memory feels left in the dark.

"You know what?" Ryan starts, finally finding the energy to stand up. "Fuck you. I'm gonna go get waffles."

"Might want to hurry," Grey says, unfazed, "the caf stops serving breakfast after eleven."

"No they fucking don't." He picks up what looks like his sweatshirt discarded on the floor, pulls it on without properly looking. "It's Sunday. Breakfast is served all day."

"Oh, good, so at least you remember that much. I was afraid you'd been transformed into some weird anti-Ryan that loves to say bad words overnight, so I had to test you to make sure I wasn't being conned." Grey walks over to the front door, holding it open for Ryan like a concierge, seemingly amused by their predicament. Ryan glares at him as he walks out, moving slowly as he half exits, half attempts to put his shoes on without using his hands.

He makes it a third of the way down the hallway before Grey calls out to him. "Alcohol makes you intolerable, you know. Or maybe it's the hangover you that's intolerable. I don't know whether or not I would like intoxicated Ryan, since he was too involved with Francis for me to get a good feel for his personality."

"I don't want to be your friend anymore," Ryan calls back, not bothering to turn around.

"Mission accomplished."

"Fuck you."

"Love you. Don't get lost on your way to caf! I don't want to have to come find you later like some lost puppy."