Ryan wasn’t much of a drinker. Sometimes, and mostly for appearances in these instances, he’d order a red with dinner - but then he never ended up finishing it himself unless the wine was ridiculously sweet (at least Brendon always ended up getting the remnants). Occasionally, when Brendon would have a beer at home or the odd whiskey while he was streaming or lounging around, Ryan joined in himself, albeit at a much slower pace. At parties, at festivals, anywhere where drinking was ‘expected,’ sure, he’d go for something fairly low content, just because he limited himself from going beyond the level of ‘tipsy’ around other people. In general, he wasn’t fond of the taste, wasn’t fond of the aftermath, just didn’t understand the hype, even if he’d give in to participation once in a while. Because he so rarely partook in the popular habit, Ryan wasn’t very familiar with his drunk self. Most people understood, at least vaguely, what became of them when they drank, or even whether their behavior was influenced by the type of drink they chose - some were happy drunks, some were angry, some became sleepy after a white wine and had to leave the bar early. Ryan had no clue. Probably the drunkest he’d ever been was when he turned twenty-one and everyone around him had convinced him that tonight was the night to get trashed (though, of course, no one abided by the drinking age before then anyway). He’d gone with it, but wasn’t dedicated enough to make it past a few shots, couldn’t bring himself to like any alcohol without it being 80% mixer. Ah, adolescence. Last night it became apparent that his tastes had matured, because he had no problem going past the point of no return then. In fairness, his point was probably far easier to reach than others, given the fact that he was so unused to the substance. Regardless - Brendon had never seen him this way, either, not just drunk but acting vaguely sexual at all outside of private moments, and he was in for a complete shock once he peeled Ryan off the side of the road. Kind of literally. Yes, it was all truthful, every ridiculously embarrassing thing coming out of Ryan’s mouth was brutal honesty, the boldness only someone with a BAC of .17 could manage. Sober Ryan stored all of that thirst in the back of his head, didn’t even think any of it to himself usually because he’d get all [i]wistful[/i], but apparently drunk Ryan had no such filter. It was a mystery how Ryan got home - at least, to him it was. ‘twas probably seared into Zack’s and Brendon’s memory. Regardless he was in bed, light from the almost-noon sun keeping his skin ineffably warm, his arms encircling the pillow he’d probably dribbled on at some point. That didn’t keep [i]someone[/i] from inching closer, fitting easily along his side, face buried over his shoulder. Not even awake and feeling like death already, Ryan naturally moved in his 99% asleep state to accomodate Brendon, turning his own head and smushing his face into Brendon’s hair comfortably. He registered, vaguely, the sensation of Brendon cuddling even closer, and he wormed his arm out from his pillow, from between them, until he could wrap it around Brendon loosely. Still not awake enough to actually hold on, but evidently haphazardly throwing a dead arm over your boyfriend was a romantic gesture in the sleeping-hungover world. [i]Baby?[/i] At the sound of his voice, Ryan stirred for real this time, more conscious. And he realized he felt like [i]shit.[/i] He hummed almost inaudibly, the limp arm hanging over Brendon suddenly stiffening to hold him close as if he were a comfort pillow. Unfortunately, that wasn’t much of a hangover cure. [i]You alive, Ry? Only just?[/i] Ryan chanced leaning his head back a little until he could actually see, blinking very dry eyes open to squint at Brendon. No, he was pretty sure he was dead, and he couldn’t even tell Brendon as much, on account of him being dead. [i]Idiot. Wake up, your incredibly sexy boyfriend is here. Drink me in.[/i] Ryan groaned almost immediately, rolling his face into the pillow miserably. [b]”I don’t want to drink anything, ever,”[/b] he replied in a wrecked voice, muffled in the cushions. Unable to feel bad right now about detaching from Brendon in the rare instance that he wanted to actually cuddle, Ryan lifted himself up off of his stomach slowly until he was sitting criss-cross, facing the headboard tiredly. He scrubbed his hands over his face, then through his hair, then over his face again, pressing his fingers into his eyes insistently. And then, almost perfectly mimicking a cat, he stretched out languidly, reaching for the ceiling as theatrically as possible. [b]”Is this life after death...? Am I in a coma?”[/b] He was speaking to the wall, but then he looked at Brendon again, helpless. And it occurred to him in that moment that any position other than horizontal was asking for pure discomfort, so he dramatically collapsed forward, returning similar to his original position but engaging more with Brendon, urging close to him for what he hoped to be pity treatment. [b]”I can’t remember anything after, like, eight. And I’m dead. Or dying. Take care of me,”[/b] he mumbled into Brendon’s shoulder, utterly useless.