Mad as Jazzmen |1930s Ryden AU| ✔️

-12-

It was the worst Brendon had slept in months.

He woke with a terrible ache in his neck, and his head pounded with every beat of his heart.  He felt as if he'd been drugged and beaten half to death, and for a fleeting moment, before he dared to open his eyes, he had to convince himself he hadn't touched a single alcoholic drink the previous night.  He sure as hell felt like he had a hangover.

He groaned as he sat up, the couch cushions shifting under his weight.  Weak sunlight barely peeked through the curtains.  It must have just been past dawn.  No wonder he felt like hell.  He'd only slept for a few, unrestful hours after one of the longest and most harrowing days of his life.

He wished he had slept longer.

Nonetheless, he knew he would never be able to fall back asleep after all of his racing thoughts returned for the day.  His mind was already clouded and fuzzy and frantic, and he had only just woken up.  With his nearly sleepless night, his frenzied mind, and the unknown fate of The Spotted Cat and its owners all attacking him at once, he'd never felt sicker.

Maybe coffee would help.

Groggy with the little sleep he'd gotten, Brendon stumbled to the dim kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.  His limbs felt numb, tingling with anticipation.  His head spun, still swirling with dangerous and panicked thoughts, and that only fueled his intense migraine.  Without a doubt, he was sure he'd never felt worse in his life.

His week just kept getting better and better.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee soon began to permeate the still air around him.  It filled his nose, energized his senses, and he hadn't even taken a sip yet.  It was times like these when Brendon had never been more grateful for the invention of a caffeinated drink.

But as he sat at the table to drink his coffee, he couldn't push the troubling things Ryan had told him out of his mind.  Spencer was sick.  No one knew his fate, and that only made the situation ten times worse.  The Spotted Cat was still drowning in crippling debt and threats of foreclosure, and time was ticking.  They had less than two weeks to pay off the debt, and unless Jon was able to pull some strings like he had said, Brendon had no idea how they were ever going to even think about paying the bank all that money.  It was impossible.

Things looked bleak, and Brendon feared the uncertainty of the future.

The coffee was scalding and flavorful.  It livened his senses and cleared his foggy mind, even if it was only for the briefest of moments.  As long as it steered his thoughts away from the worrisome problems at hand, he didn't care what it was.  He was beginning to understand why Ryan had broken into Spencer's alcohol supply the previous night.

Now that Ryan crossed his mind, Brendon hoped he would stay asleep for at least a few more hours.  He needed the rest much more than Brendon did, especially after the previous day's torturous events.  Sleep was simply an all-around fantastic idea, and Brendon wished he could have enjoyed it for longer.

He finished his coffee in record time, although its effects didn't seem to last incredibly long.  His limbs were already weak again, the clouds in his mind returning to torment him for the remainder of the day.  He felt like a walking corpse, going through the motions of everyday life.  Why did his amazing adventure in New Orleans have to turn so sour in such a short amount of time?

That was a question he was afraid he was never going to learn the answer to.

It didn't take but another hour for Brendon to hear his bedroom door creaking open, and Ryan, his hair tousled and the bags under his eyes heavy, ambled into the silent kitchen, dragging his feet along the floor.  His skin was ghostly, and he could barely keep his eyes open.  Brendon was worried he was going to crash into the kitchen table if he wasn't careful.