friends (rick riley and scott holland)(INDEFINITE HIATUS)

chapter two

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chapter two: once in a lifetime fuck(up)

a/n:

gwen is such a bitch I want her to marry me.

tw(s) -- mentions of sex, mentions of intoxication, descriptions of hangover symptoms, strange family dynamics, and more sexual tension

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While Gwendolyn Banks will argue that it is biologically impossible for her to be anything but perfect, she will admit that, sometimes, she makes the occasional mistake.

She had a whole plan for how the morning before Eden Hall's first day was supposed to go. Gwen was going to wake up earlier than normal, get ready, and then, like the matriarchal head of household she is, make a huge breakfast for her brothers and their father. She'd make eggs and bacon for Jake, who's on some weird low-carb diet for his lacrosse captain, and chocolate chip pancakes for Adam, whom she wants to start his day with his favorite thing, and both orange juice and black coffee for Phillip, whose doctor called to complain about his vitamin c intake. She'd been smart enough to allow time for any potential problems, everything between Jake's stubbornness and Phillip's potential hangover.

She hadn't been smart enough, however, to prepare for the party Miranda Sommers would throw the night before. Or, rather, the nameless boy in her bed that she took home from said party.

Waking up, she feels crappy enough (and doesn't have enough of a recollection of last night) to freak out.

She's hungover. Hungover in a way that tells her she had more tequila last night than she thought. Gwen can feel it with such intensity, the scratch of thirst in the back of her throat and a heavy ache in every limb. With everything in the house quiet, it's all she can focus on: the sensation that her head might explode with every movement. The first minutes of being awake consist of her writhing in her self-hatred and shutting her eyes to the rest of the world in hopes that things will just stop hurting.

Her alarm goes off, then, and cuts through the silence, spiking her blood pressure up through the roof and making her brain throb.

That's when she notices him. And there, in nearly six feet worth of brown hair and lean muscle, lies one of said (very rare) mistakes.

It's a delayed reaction. A hesitation where, after her attempt to reach out and silence her alarm gets foiled by the feeling of another person's skin, Gwen sits up and stares down at the naked boy in her bed as if all the answers to her unasked questions are written in his only vaguely familiar face. (Perhaps, subconsciously, she thought that the boy lying next to her was one of her boys for just a moment. Maybe a glimpse of brown hair tricked her into thinking he was someone else.) Who is he? Where does he go to school?

The night starts to come back to her in small flashes —— the ghost of lips on her throat, and an overwhelming feeling of dissatisfaction flooding her system.

Oh. She thinks with a wince. Oh, Gwen, you dumb bitch.

It isn't until he cracks open an incredibly blue eye that Gwen gets the good sense to cover up with the sheet. She shuffles away from him and curls her knees to her chest as he stretches languidly. Her nose wrinkles up at that, a spike of irrational, territorial anger shooting through her at the sight of this boy so comfortable in her bed. 

"Good morning." He says a little too cheery for her liking, his voice cracking from sleep. He sits up, too, and the blanket falls from his chest.

Gwen's eyes don't dare to glance away from his face. "Morning."