My dad ends up picking me up, because well, someone has to stay at the hospital with Ryan, and I think it goes without saying that it would be a little more than awkward if my dad was left to comfort Ryan. But you know, just saying.

When my car pulls up twenty minutes after I've hung up with my mom, I'm still pretty drunk. I wave my goodbye to Spencer and Jon who are still standing on the crowded sidewalk, waiting for Jon's mom to pick them up. I already tried one hundred billion times while waiting for my dad, convincing them to come because I really think Ryan would appreciate it if his life-long best friend came to give him some support. I mean sure, maybe Spencer is kind of really pissed the fuck off at Ryan right now, but still, I mean, come on, his dad is in the hospital. Anyways, my attempts at persuading were just a complete and total fail because Spencer would give me this incredulous look every time, and be like, "Brendon, you idiot, we're drunk."

This was true, but hey, I'm drunk too. At least, I figure, a third of the attention would be taken off of me for awhile.

Before getting into my car, I take a deep breath thinking, okay, I can do this. I can be normal. I wont slur, or say inappropriate things. I'll be fine. Unless... oh my God, what if I smell like alcohol, and smoke, and drag queens? I bet I do.

However, it turns out any chance of normalcy gets ruined before I even properly get into the car, because somehow, I manage to trip over some imaginary object, go flying into the passenger seat, almost falling back out of the car and landing on my big, fat butt out on the sidewalk in the process.

I curse under my breath for being such a drunken buffoon, then count one, two, three before turning to my dad, flashing him mouthful of pearly white teeth. It's okay, it's cool. He wont know, I mean, it's my dad after all. I'm just clumsy anyways, that's all. Just be normal, just be normal. "HI DAD!" I practically yell out, full-force into my dads face (and of course, with a bit of a slur) probably giving him a huge whiff of the sour, alcohol smell lingering in my mouth.

Damnit! So not normal, Brendon. So not normal.

My dad stares at me, completely deadpanned, for a total of like, I don't even know, a billion seconds or something like that before going, "You're drunk."

I stare back at him, and blink, forcing back the laugh that's just so inappropriately bubbling up my throat like vomit. I send him the most innocent, angelic look I can muster up in my drunken state. "Who? Meeee?" I gasp. "Dad, no! Who do you think I am?!"

"Brendon," he warns, not smiling, and no, definitely not convinced either.

I sigh, defeated as my dad takes off down the packed street, into the big mess of traffic, shaking his head.

"'Kay, you caught me dad, I am," I admit, head hung low. "But only jus' a little. Justa bit. S'nothing, really," I slur, then add in just for good measures, "that s'all."

He doesn't say anything for a good few solid minutes. I stare at him, waiting, and oh my God, the silence is excruciating.

"You're lucky we're going home," he finally says.

"What? Why?" I cry. "We aren't going to the hospital?"

"Because, your mother figured since we'd be leaving soon anyway, there's really no point in going all the way there," he explains, stopping behind a car for the 34588344 time in the past five minutes since he picked me up. Trust me, driving on the strip on a Saturday night really isn't the best thing ever. "They won't be too long. Ryan just wants to talk to his dad and then they're leaving."

"Oh, okay. Well 'ike, what happened anyway? He's s'okay then, I guess? Right?" I ask, and just fuck, SLUR GO AWAY. I DON'T WANT YOU ANYMORE!!!

"Yes, he's fine. He'll probably just be overnight," my dad says.

I breathe a sigh of relief, because maybe I kind of really hate the guy, and maybe he's a real big ass and only caused grief for me and Ryan lately, but he's still Ryan's dad, and I don't want him to be dying or anything.

"Sooo... What happened though?" I ask again.

He lets out this big, long, annoyed sigh, and gives me a look like, shut up. At first, I'm insulted, because um, like, sorry but I'm just asking questions here about my boyfriend's father being in the hospital. Then I realize, oh right, he's probably just being like any other normal parent, and is mad at me for being underage and drunk. But, I don't know, just maybe. "Alcohol poisoning, Brendon," he replies. And yeah, that could also be why.

I nearly fall out of the passenger seat (for the second time) in shock. Because, I mean, what? The pastor has even tried alcohol? Isn't that like, a sin? I take a moment to let this sink in before I'm freaking the fuck out, because oh my God, Ryan's going to come home, upset and probably crying because his dad drank too much and ended up in the hospital for it, and there I'll be, drunk.

Why did I have to accept the alcohol from Jon? Why?!

My dad must notice me freaking out on the inside because he goes, "Exactly."

I want to cry.

Me and my dad sit there in silence, and I'm also about seconds from rolling down the window and vomiting. This is not funny. God, really, if you're out there, why do you find the need to put me and Ryan through this crap over and over and over again? Why can't you just leave us in peace? Can't we be happy for once? Can't we be a cute, little, perfect, worry-free couple like Spencer and Jon for once? Do you not love us?

Okay, well, let's look at it this way, maybe - just maybe, Ryan won't know I'm drunk. I just wont talk, I'll just keep my mouth shut and hug him. That should work, shouldn't it? Maybe even by the time him and my mom come home, I'll be sober, or at least enough to pretend I am. Maybe he'll just be too upset to notice anyways.

My dad gives his head another shake, and stares at the road ahead of us with this long, thoughtful expression on his face. I realize that this is the first actual conversation I've had with my dad in a long, long time - and I'm drunk. How depressing. "Shit, Brendon," he swears under his breath. "What were you even thinking? Drinking? You're underage. How'd you even manage to get alcohol?"

"Jon hassa beard," I state simply, because like, that in itself could explain how the world was made. Really.

"Jon. Right."

"Okay, well, like, what if I just don't talk?" I suggest. "I mean, they wont know."

He shakes his head humorously, and lets out a tiny laugh under his breath. "Brendon, I knew before you spoke."

"Fuck!" I cry. I'm so, so, so, so, so dead.

My dad sends me a look and goes, "Language!"

I stare at him and roll my eyes, because I mean, really dad? Really? Is now really the time to be getting mad at me for swearing?

My dad turns back to the road, and we stay in complete silence for the next ten minutes. In the beginning I stare out the window but then after a few minutes I force myself to turn away because I was starting to feel a little nauseous.

"Look, okay," my dad starts once we pull into my driveway, breaking the silence, "have a shower. It probably won't make much of a difference, but preferably a cold one. I'll make some coffee too."

Yes, yes, YES! My dad is my hero! "Thank you!"

"This isn't for you, Brendon," he points out, face expressionless as he stares at me. "This is for Ryan, because he doesn't need to come home, after dealing with his dad being in the hospital for alcohol poisoning, to find you drunk."

"Yes... yeah, I know," I reply, nodding. "Yes. Thanks."

I open the car door, and as I'm heading up the driveway to our front door, my dad says, "and don't think I won't be telling your mom about this if she doesn't find out herself - which, knowing her, she probably will."

Damn.

- - -

When Ryan and my mom finally get back home, I'm sitting at the kitchen table in my PJ's, drinking my third cup of coffee (thank the lord it's only Amanda who's Mormon or I would not be enjoying this right now).

I'm thinking I'm mostly sober, and I am so fucking happy about that.

Ryan's not crying, and I'm also happy about that. But his eyes are rimmed red, and he looks exhausted - like, seconds from collapsing onto the ground, exhausted.

I immediately jump to my feet, run over to him, probably a bit too quickly than I should have in my still not-quite-sober stage, because I feel a bit woozy causing me to stumble a bit at first. I pray he or my mom didn't notice, and wrap my arms tight around his neck. He falls into me automatically, and lets out a big, relieved breath.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

He shakes his head, but says nothing.

"Are you okay?" I ask. "Is your dad?"

He nods, and sighs, lifting his face up from my shoulder. "Yeah..."

My mom walks by giving me a long, disapproving look. I don't know if its because she knows I am/was drunk or just for not answering my phone, leaving Ryan to cry at the hospital while I watched Queen impersonators and chilled with drag queens. I hope it's the former, even though my dad so nicely, previously stated that he'll tell her anyway.

"It's a good thing Ryan went to the house and found him when he did," my mom says, going to the cupboard to pull out her own mug. "Ryan, do you want some coffee?" she asks.

He shakes his head, and I blink, confused. Because why would he be at his house? It's not like he needs anything there. He's got all his clothes, and really, anything he needs here. I send him a questioning look, and he looks away.

"How about you boys go up to bed?" my mom suggests, pouring herself a cup of coffee. "You must be exhausted, Ryan." In other words, she wants us to leave so they can talk about us - and then my dad will tell her how I was/am drunk, and I'll forever be locked up in the cellar downstairs.

"Yeah..." Ryan nods, voice soft and quiet.

We say our goodnights and I make sure to hold his hand as we walk upstairs. Ryan sniffs a few times beside me, but every time I turn to look, his cheeks are dry.

When we get to my room, Ryan strips to his boxers, leaving his clothes to sit in a pile on the floor - which on any other circumstances he rarely does, except for like, well, sex. He doesn't really care then, obviously. Which is a good thing because then that would really ruin the mood and - anyways! Moving back to the current situation that is so far away from sex that it's not even funny.

Ryan grabs onto my hands, pulling the two of us to sit on the/my/our bed. He takes a deep breath, and runs his eyes over my face, letting them linger on my lips for a few moments before bringing them back to my eyes as he starts. I immediately shift my eyes away, nervous, because shit, what if he can tell by my eyes that I'm drunk? "So, you know how I wanted to tell you something before?" he asks.

I take a moment, collect myself, then nod, slow. And right, how did I even forget about that?

"Well..." He sighs. Pause, one, two, three. "It had to do with my dad actually, and well... it'll probably explain all of um, this."

I breathe a long sigh of relief because thank god, it doesn't have to do with that evil skank (Which, I'm sure all of you know who I'm referring to by now, right?)

"Okay, well," He takes another deep breath, his eyes darting around the room before he goes, "This is um, really hard." He looks down at the blanket underneath us and picks at his right sock.

I inch my hand towards his before grabbing a hold of it and squeezing tight. "It's okay," I say.

He looks up at me, unsure, then rubs his eye with his fingers. "Okay, so, you know - well, you know how my mom... passed away when I was younger?" he says, slow and a bit awkward, forcing out every word like he's in pain - which, okay, he probably is.

I nod, heart clenching.

"Okay, well, I was eight, and um, one night - it was late, well, after my bed-time late and my dad decided that would should get some ice cream. Me, being a eight year old, didn't need much convincing. So, me and my mom got into my car while my dad stayed at home, and drove down to the gas station just a few blocks away." He stops, squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep, shaky breath. I slide over to beside him, and wrap my arm around his waist, and practically pull his head onto my chest, running my fingers through his hair. He lets out a small choked sound, and a ball forms at my own throat.

"One moment - one moment we were singing along to the radio and the next thing I know... I'm lying in a hospital bed. Turns out -" He shakes his head, and sniffs, rubbing his small nose into my shirt. "Turns out we had gotten hit by some seventeen year old, drunk driver. Directly into the drivers seat."

He whimpers, and I pull him tighter into me, pressing tiny kisses to anywhere I can manage - his temple, his ear, eyebrow, cheek, nose. "S'okay," I whisper. "You don't have to go on, I understand."

He shakes his head, and wipes a tear from under his eye. "No," he refuses, then sniffles. "I want to. You should know."

I nod, biting my lip, my own tears welling at my eyes. This is just... shit, this is just so effing depressing.

He swallows, then continues, voice cracking, "She died almost instantly, at least that's what they told me. And me, well, I was lucky. I almost died too. I was in the hospital for three weeks. I flew out the window, apparently, and landed in someone's front yard. I broke my wrist, and leg, and had a pretty bad head injury," he explains as he absentmindedly picking at my PJ pants, tears slipping down his cheeks every few moments. "My dad's never been the same since. He blames himself for her death, and for almost killing me." He takes a moment, and lets out the smallest, saddest and most bitter laugh imaginable and goes, "You know, it's funny, that he was just so upset, for so long... that he punished himself for almost killing me, and now - now he wishes I was dead."

Yes, Ryan, that's just hilarious.

"No, he doesn't," I say instantly, running my fingers over his wet cheeks.

He rolls his eyes and sniffs. "Pretty much, yeah, Bren."

I shake my head.

He moves some hair from his eyes and darts his tongue across his salty lips, hand clutching at my arm. "Anyways... the whole point of this story was, is that every year, to the day - I wouldn't be surprised if it was to the minute - he does this. He drinks... too much. Every year since I was nine he ended up in the hospital to get his stomach pumped, and I've always been the one to find him. I mean, who else would? He hasn't so much as looked at another woman since my mom died," he explains, then presses his face into my neck, lips brushing my skin and he nudges his nose against my Adams apple. I turn to jelly a bit. "That's why I went today because I knew," he murmurs, "and well, of course I was right. There he was, passed out on the living room floor, empty vodka bottle in his hands. It's pathetic, you know. It really is. I mean, I know she was his wife, but she was my mom, and you don't see me getting all self-destructive every year."

I just... wow. I just, I can't even believe it. That was an overload on just, everything. That, I wasn't expecting, at all. "Whoa," I breath, and wow, Brendon. Okay, good one.

"Yeah..." he trails off, shaking his head. "Anyways, I'm sorry," he apologizes. "I know I should have told you soon - "

I shut him up right away by grabbing onto his knee and using my other hand to press my finger to his lips. "No. You shouldn't have," I say. "That's something you tell when you feel right, not because you think you have to because I'm your boyfriend."

He shrugs, and looks away.

"Seriously," I say, nudging my forehead against his. "So, really, thanks for telling me," I murmur into his cheek. "I know that wasn't easy."

He nods, sniffs, and I run my the palms of my hands over his cheeks. I nudge his face up towards me and press a soft kiss to his wet, tear-soaked lips. "Lets go to sleep, yeah?"

He gives me another small, pathetic nod, and I just want to cry. Seriously. I'm so close.

I slide off the bed, and then look down at him, all curled up in himself with a red nose and eyes. "Okay, Ry, baby, get under the covers. I'm going to tuck you in," I order. I've never really been the type for pet names, and neither has Ryan, but there's a time and a place for everything - and really, I think now is the time.

He giggles softly, but does as I say. I pull the blanket up to his chin, tuck it under his sides (which, I realize is pretty frickin' pointless considering I'm going to ruin it in five seconds when I crawl back in) and finish with a quick peck to his forehead, nose and lips.

His lips twitch into a small but genuine smile. "I love you, Bren," he mumbles.

"I know," I reply, heading over to flick off the light, "and I love you too, Ry."

I crawl up the bed, over his feet, kneeing him in the process, before sliding under the covers with him, wrapping my arms tight around his small, slightly shaking frame.

We lay in silence for a few moments with me tracing patterns into his hip, before Ryan's tiny voice goes, "Bren?"

"Hmmm?"

"Can you sing to me?" he asks, so quiet I barely catch it.

"S-Sure," I stutter, a little taken back, because no one has ever asked me to sing for them before and honestly, I mean, it's just Ryan and all but I'm a little nervous. "Um, what do you want me to sing?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I don't care," he says sleepily, yawning into my shoulder. "Anything you want."

I take a deep breath, and think this over. I mean, what do I even sing? I don't have any music in the background, or like the beat or... anything. And just, what if I suck and make his ears bleed? I mean, I personally don't think I'm that bad, but I never sing except for when I'm in the shower - alone. "Um, okay," I say, then clear my throat.

Ryan stays still at my side, hard breath spilling against my neck.

Okay, I can do this. It's just Ryan. He wont care whether I suck or not.

I press my lips by his ear, and softly start singing out the song that my mom always used to sing me when I was sad when I was younger. I feel his lips twitch into a smile against my skin, as he curls further into my side, letting out a tiny noise of appreciation.

"Mr. Blue, don't hold your head so low that you cant see the sky," I sing, softly, voice cracking the slightest bit. I try not to get to embarrassed, and force myself to continue, "Mr. Blue, it aint so long since you were flying high."

I repeat the chorus a few times, because I don't really remember much else, and just before I'm about to change songs, I look down to see Ryan, fast asleep, head buried in my chest and hands clutching at my arms.

I press my lips to his forehead, and fall asleep myself.