"Goodmorning, sunshine." Chuck offered his hungover boyfriend while sipping a morning screwdriver.

"…mrgh." Nate attempted to verbalize something, but gave up and headed to the edge of the balcony to see if the ocean could calm his nausea.

"Ahh, hangover. Take anything yet?" Chuck questioned moving next to Nate placing a hand on his back and rubbing in a slow circles.

"Mmm…mrgh?"

"I'll take that as a no. Why don't you lie down and I'll see what I can do?"

Nate nodded and slumped back across the veranda and into bed as Chuck ordered a late breakfast for two and a mason jar of Tylenol.

"I've got to hand it to you Nathaniel, classy way to kick off the summer. Getting hosed in Barcelona, getting yourself mistaken for a male stripper at some old queen's birthday party, making out with a chick who had more back hair than the Captain and barfing all over your boyfriend after checking into your hotel. At 7AM."

Nate groaned, "It's not my fault our flight was late, and you had fair warning," he sat up a bit in bed, "And I quote 'Chuck, the second we touch down in Barcelona I'm tearing that place up.'"

"Since when were you the authority on partying? You never party your first night in town, not before you show your face around town in a normal, sober environment."

"I knew people."

"You knew a coke dealer and a gypsy."

"They're people, too."

Room service arrived and Chuck waved the food in front of Nate to see if his gag reflexes had let up any since that morning—they hadn't.

Nate laughed weakly at the vomit covered omlette matching Chuck's vomit colored sleeve.

"You're fucking disgusting!" Chuck dropped the food in the bed and whisked himself to the lavatory.

"Babe!" Nate called out now chuckling in his own vomit.

"I really like this fucking shirt, you know." Chuck called out.

"I'm sorry! I'll take you shopping later, I promise."

Chuck poked his head out from the lavatory, "I don't think I'm at liberty to believe any promises made from some pig covered in his own vomit and breakfast. The latter of the two undigested, thankfully."

"Chuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuckie!" Nate cooed.

"Not happening Archibald, you will address me as Chuck until you've cleaned your filth," he paused "or preferably not at all."

Nate groaned and downed a few pills and washed it down with some orange juice, "Fine."