Sick Boy

It was near noon before Ryan actually woke up. And when he did, it wasn’t pleasant. He remembered the night before slightly, and once again wished he had kept that promise to himself never to drink. It was fun at first and then…boom! It fucking sucked. Ryan, you do have a lot of regrets though, don’t you? Oh let’s not get started on this again boy. No, no, don’t. Your head hurts enough as it is.

Ryan got up and stumbled right into the doorframe of his bedroom door. Gerard. Where had Gerard gone? He looked down at himself. Fuck you Ryan, you’re so skinny. White wife beater, blue basketball shorts. You look like a skeleton. Won’t you eat something boy? Goddamn you. Just…goddamn you.

“Gee?” he called out, picking up Gerard’s sweatshirt from a heap on the floor. Black. How surprising. It was a color seen too much around all their houses. They did have maybe a couple to many. One in New Jersey, that belonged to Gerard. One in Las Vegas, that was Ryan’s. An apartment in LA, both of their names on the leases. Gerard liked California, Ryan did too. They were there a lot. It worked. But right now, they were hiding. Or not really hiding. More so just hiding in plain sight. Las Vegas. Ryan was off tour for a week. Gerard was taking a break from recording. So Las Vegas it was.

“Hey, Sick Boy,” Gerard smiled, kissing Ryan’s forehead as he entered the kitchen, “How’re you feeling?” It was definitely a smirk playing on his lips. No, definitely.

Ryan couldn’t help but smile, but then regretted it as he felt the effort cut into his headache even worse. “Shut up, stupid.”

“I’m not the one that got drunk.”

“I’m not the one who’s a helluva lot closer to retirement age,” Ryan muttered under his breath, sitting down at the table and putting his head down on the cool wood. Nice. Ah. Finally, relief.

Gerard threw a dishtowel at Ryan’s head.

“Oh I love you too,” Ryan snapped, “Fucker. You’re not helping. And you denied me sex last night.”

“You were drunk, Ry. You’re shit when you’re drunk,” Gerard muttered, turning to the stove. God. This made him feel like a housewife or something. What was he? The new Adrienne Armstrong? Oh god no. Shut up Gerard! You’re just jealous ‘cause right now, Ryan gets to run around the world and complain about how something he wrote is overplayed and you’re shut up in a recording studio, bickering with Ray about what the melody should be. You’re just bitter.

“Are you cooking?” Ryan asked.

“Yeah. Shut up.”

Ryan raised his eyebrows momentarily, then let it go. Since when did Gerard cook? Things didn’t make sense this morning. Ah, but things never made sense the morning after you achieved total and complete insanity the night before. You’re insane Ryan. You don’t even get the privilege of being insain. That’s Gerard’s thing, sorry baby. You’re just…sick. Fuck. And you don’t even get to misspell shit. Sic? Sik? Ha. That looks so bad, Ry, and you know it.

“Don’t eat anything,” Gerard warned, “I think you’ll vomit it all up. And you have to at least look half alive tonight.”

“Why the hell do I have to do that?” Headaches pissed Ryan off. Hangovers pissed him off even more.

“Because your mother’s coming to dinner. And her husband.”

“What the fuck?” Ryan shouted. Wince. Not a smart idea. But still, be logical. Oh motherfucker no way. His mother. He did not get along with his mother. No, no, no. Not one bit. She had another kid—another life. He talked to her what—once, twice a month? If that? Really, the last time he had had a well…pleasant—no, not pleasant…civil conversation had been last May.

“Your mother says you left like…at noon or something so I’m kind of wondering where the fuck you are!”

Early May. It hadn’t been a nice night. No, no definitely not. And Ryan’s mother had been perpetually pissed off at him for not telling her about what was going on ever since.

But then again, it seemed, great men never got to live to see their biggest accomplishments achieved, wasn’t it?

Why should Ryan tell his mother stuff like that anyways? He…he hardly knew her. His dad raised him, or rather took the legal position of guardian at least. In his teenage years, Ryan had been left to his own devices, left to either beg rides from Spencer’s mother to and from school or in later years, drive a crappy car to and from the hospital—another day, another stint in the emergency room.

Now he was being psychotic almost. He didn’t really know why his was doing this anymore, he logic had all just been destroyed by that stupid reasoning!

Oh dear Ryan. You have problems. Why are you thinking about this? You don’t want to think about this. Really, you really, really don’t. And why the hell are—Ryan, you suck. Just acknowledge it. You suck ass.

“Mhm, sorry. I couldn’t really refuse. She was all, ‘I’m coming over tonight, Gerard, and you can tell my son that I look forward to seeing him nice and healthy,’” Gerard purred in a cool woman’s voice, clearly disdainful, “Fuck. I think she hates me.” He knew it. He’d never met her but he just knew it. Anyone Ryan could bitch about for as long as he could had to be horrid.

“Yeah, welcome to the club.”

“Oh stop Ryan, she doesn’t hate you. You’re her son. Maybe she’s just…hard on you.”

“Whatever.” This was not doing things for his headache. “I’m going back to bed. Don’t wake me up until the doorbell rings.”

“Okay. I’m just gonna act like a housewife or something.”

Ryan got up and sauntered off to the bedroom, his hips swaying girlishly, his basketball shorts swinging, his hair bouncing. Perfect, isn’t he Gerard? Utter perfection. Something you’ll never get to be.

“Have fun.”

“You’re sick.”

“I know.”