Pretty. (Frerard, Petekey, Ryden, Peterick)

30: Gay Guys Don't Grow On Trees

Ryan's head was spinning.

In fact, it hadn't stopped spinning since the party and since everyone slowly left until he was left alone in his living room, and that was when he started to cry, and from then on, the difficultly had solely resided in the matter of trying to get himself to stop.

Ryan Ross had no self control and there was nothing like the smack in the face reminder of that in the form of the fact that he still hadn't quite grown the guts to really let Brendon go: he just hadn't the guts to make himself hate the guy, let alone the power to delete him from his life, and god forbid that he actually even considered moving on.

It was just fucked up, and it was just sitting alone on his cluttered living room floor for two hours or until things stopped feeling really - it never quite got to that point: it ended in him giving up, and still he couldn't quite give up on Brendon.

He turned his phone off and threw it behind the sofa: somewhere where he knew he'd never have the motivation to look in, and fuck, by two in the morning, Ryan had concluded that the only good thing to come out of this party was the excess of alcohol littered around his house, and a state such as this, he was all too quick to utilise and take advantage of such a thing.

He'd rather be drunk than sad, but Ryan was just drunk and sad, and that was the absolute worst. At the very least, it fitted his mood, and that was just fucking fantastic.

And still, several hours on, Ryan was still nothing more than fucking fantastic.

Come ten in the morning, Ryan was slightly more sober, but in no way less sad, and in no way less fucked up, and god, all that alcohol had definitely hadn't helped his head, and in fact, it was spinning like crazy, and he couldn't even find any fucking pills to shut up the screaming inside his head.

Ryan wasn't the best when it came to break ups, to say the least, but then again, Brendon wasn't just any kind of asshole disposable boyfriend, and even if it only became clear to him now, Ryan was definitely in love with him, and dear god, that fucking sucked.

And if his headache wasn't killing him enough already, some asshole had decided to ring the doorbell at ten am on a Saturday, when Ryan was in a state close to committing mass genocide: a state in which he was fucked up enough to consider getting drunk again, because that was a fucking great idea, but then again, Ryan wasn't Gee, and therefore wasn't the specialist in fucking great and fucking life ruining ideas.

And he swore that if the person behind the door was Brendon, that he was going to fucking punch him this time, despite the fact that Ryan couldn't punch for shit, but whatever, he'd drank enough in the last twelve hours for that not to matter in the slightest.

With a great deal of reluctance, he eventually found himself opening the door and looking wide eyed up at the girl on the other side: it took him a minute, and that was mostly the fault of the alcohol, but soon enough he came to the realisation that this was in fact none other than Sarah... Brendon's girlfriend.

And Ryan hadn't the slightest clue what to make of this.

"Hey, look, I wouldn't blame you if you hated me, but I honestly had no idea about this, and I really appreciate it if I could just have a few minutes to talk to you - this is driving me crazy and I imagine that it's much the same for you." She sighed out, forcing a smile in Ryan's direction, and leaving the seventeen year old to only raise his eyebrows and shrug in response.

"Whatever, I'm hungover as fuck and I need a distraction from this eternal compulsion to punch myself in the face. Come in."

Sarah thought it best not to question the guy and simply made her way inside, raising her eyebrows a little at the mess, but saying nothing of it, and resorted to just following Ryan into the living room and taking a seat beside him on the floor.