DAMN YOUR KISS; ryden

Chapter Nine: Keep Telling Yourself 'I'm A Diva!'

“Is he … drunk?” Dallon said incredulously to Spencer, as they both watched Brendon stumble about, crashing into things, tripping over his own feet and cursing.

Spencer twirled the drumsticks clutched in his hands, his face a mask of impassiveness. That mask nearly always meant, inside, Spencer was giving a strongly worded opinion. He was just a lot better at hiding his emotions than most people. “Seems like.”

Dallon shook his head. “Dude, that’s …” he shook his head again. “Shouldn’t we, like, do something about that?”

Spencer put the tip of his drumstick on his bottom lip, watching his best friend make a fool out of himself, totally blotto. “Something’s worked him up big time.”

Dallon nudged his shoulder against his, rolling his eyes. “Oh, you think?”

“You’re probably right. He’s gonna end up snapping the neck of that guitar he’s got there.” He pointed a stick at Brendon, who was now sitting atop the piano bench, legs crossed and tucked under him, fingers clumsily trying to strum each fret, slipping, followed by his curse. Dude seemed determined though, his frustration only buoying him on, making him use more force.

“Jesus, it’s actually painful to watch.” Dallon pulled a face. “He watched his friend for a moment longer. Never, ever, in his life had he seen him like this. Even when they’d gone out to clubs and bars, Brendon never seemed to get affected by his drink in this way. And never had the relatively vanilla Brendon ever gotten drunk in the morning. “This isn’t … this isn’t to do with Ryan, right?”

Spencer rolled his shoulders about in their joints. “Probably.”

Dallon shot Spencer a look. “My, aren’t we helpful today.”

“I had a bad night.” Spencer shrugged. “Had a fight with Linda.”

That stopped Dallon still for a moment. Rarely, very rarely, had he ever heard of an argument between Spence rand his girlfriend. Sure, that passive, calm personality had something to do with it, but it was also … they were just a good couple. Happy. Blissful. They were in love, but not the overly mushy, gooey, kissy kind. So yeah, it was a shock. “Oh, bro.”

Spencer waved him away. “S’nothing.” He smiled, a soft, small smile. “Really. I’m gonna make it up to her tonight.”

So that’s why he was so quiet and blasé. He was lost in his thoughts about this fight he’d had, and like the true happy-maker, peaceful person who couldn’t stand confrontation that he was, he was probably running off a list of flowers to put in the bouquet, and the shops of where he could get them from.

But still.

Drunk Brendon.

So Dallon sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and went over to his inebriated friend. “Bro,” he said softly, placing his hand atop the ball of Brendon’s shoulder, causing him to jump, his hand to slip, cut into one of the strings of his guitar. The wound opened immediately, bright red, running down the length of his finger, his hand.

And Brendon simply looked at it in wonder. “Oh, shit.” He said in awe.

“Bro, I think you need some time.”

Brendon curled his fingers into a fist, wincing. “I got time.”

“No,” Dallon said, firmly, grabbing his wrist, and trying to coax those fingers to uncurl again. “Time out. Time away.”

The blood dripped onto the carpet, and he sneezed. “I don’t need to go anyway. We need time in the studio.”

“Not when you’re like this, Bren, we don’t.” Dallon, finally got the wounded finger out, lifted it to inspect the damage. It wasn’t terribly deep, but it was still pretty bad, and would need a bandage. He’d only seen Brendon this reckless once before. When he’d split with his last girlfriend. But even then, he wasn’t …

“I want to go home.” Brendon said in a small voice. “I want to sleep.”

Dallon looked over at Spencer, who shrugged, and mouthed ‘Your call, dude,’

“Sure.” Dallon plastered a smile on. “Home it is!” he attempted to haul Brendon up under his armpits, help him along. He’d get the first aid kit from his car, bandage him up, and get him away. But his feet stuck, tripping, and he nearly went down. Brendon giggled. “My legs are dead.”

“I noticed.” Dallon said, before sighing for what felt like the hundredth time, and leaning down, hauling Brendon off his feet, and throwing his over his shoulder. For all Brendon wasn’t that much smaller than him, he was still light as a feather, and he offered no resistance.

A little while later, after he’d laid him along the back of his car, bandaged his finger, and got in the front, Dallon heard him groan.

“Where are we going?”

Dallon said nothing, as he twisted the key, making the engine growl to life, and he backed out the studio’s lot.

Quite enough adventure for one day, he reckoned.