Disclaimer: You know the drill. Don't own 'em and I'll have 'em back mostly unscathed.
A/N: I can't believe I wrote something that I actually like. Holy balls!
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Jack awoke with a dry mouth, a headache, and no recollection of what had happened last night. His mouth was full of cotton and his head full of jackhammers. Somewhere in the apartment, music was blaring. Jack rolled over and pulled a pillow over his head. Why was it so loud?
The combination of moving his arms and placing the pillow atop his ears made a bolt of pain shudder through him. The pain was made worse when the singing started.
"I'm gonna tell ya how it's gonna be!" the saccharine sweet voice of his roommate was hitting him like a sledgehammer. "A you're gonna give a your love to me!"
Jack tossed the pillow aside and it landed with, he swore, an audible thunk on the other side of the room. Shakily, he rose from bed, one hand positioned to the throbbing place on his head. Of course, the throbbing—coming like a thundering subway—was inside his head but holding his head gave him some sense of help.
Jack stumbled into the kitchen, where he found Mush setting the table and cooking eggs. The smell made Jack want to throw up.
"I wanna love you night and day!" he kept singing. "You know my love a not fade away!"
Jack threw himself down into a chair and cradled his head in his hands.
"Mushy," he mumbled. "It's too early for Buddy Holly."
Mush gave him a confused look. The boy wore the look so often, Jack often entertained the notion of telling him to get a patent on it.
"That's not Buddy Holly," he said. "It's The Rolling Stones."
Even in the morning—and with a hangover—he could still correct him.
"Buddy Holly sang it originally," he explained before adding as an afterthought. "And it's way too early to be listening to The Rolling Stones."
Mush pouted. "But I like them."
"And I'm hungover."
Mush shook his head and went back to preparing eggs. "You wouldn't be hungover if you didn't drink so much, Jack."
"Thank you, for that startling revelation, Mush," he told him. "Shall I take a vow of chastity next?"
He frowned. "For someone so hungover, you're being really bitchy."
"The two go hand-in-hand, Mushy. Besides, you got pretty toasted last night. How come you're little Marty Sunshine?"
He gave a little conspiratorial grin and held the spatula to his chin. "I took that special pill that doesn't give you hangovers the next morning. With the amount you drink at parties, you should really look into it."
Jack lifted his head just to give him a one finger salute and, in the process of lowering it, he noticed something odd about the table.
"Mush…why is the table set for three?" he asked slowly. "Did you forget how to count again?"
"Nope," he said sunnily before bursting into 'Brown Sugar.' When they were younger, Mush had believed that the song was written for him until Jack set him straight. He believed the curly-haired boy never quite forgave him for that.
"Did someone go home with you?" he asked, sitting up straight.
"Nope," he repeated and then crossed their tiny kitchen to reach the refrigerator. He pulled out a Diet Coke and handed it to Jack. "Here. For the hangover."
Mush flashed him an award-winning smile and went back to preparing eggs, scraping them along the bottom of the skillet and making a smell that turned Jack's stomach be emitted into the air. He popped the tab on the Coke and drank heartily. As he did, something slowly dawned on him.
"Mush…" he put down the can and turned it this way and that in his hands. "Did someone go home with me?"
"Ah, brown sugar!" he sang ridiculously loud and it did nothing for Jack's head. "How come you taste so good?!"
"Mush!" His head throbbed and he grabbed the Diet Coke again.
"Brown sugar! Just like a black girl should!"
"Mush!"
He turned. "Sorry, Jack. I dunno what you're talking about. I came home after you did. You left the party early."
With that, he turned and went back to singing. Jack rubbed his temples. God love him, but Mush really couldn't sing.
As the eggs sizzled—probably being burnt by now, knowing his roommate's cooking—and Mush sang and his head throbbed, Jack tried to remember what happened at the party. He remembered the booze contest and having to lick booze off of some chick's stomach. That had all been Spot's idea, of course. Just so he could sit back and laugh at them all, the queer. Then he remembered flirting with some inhibited, smart girl with this short, curly hair. She had been cute. Maybe he had gotten her toasted enough to come home with him. Everything after that was a blur.
"Mush, what happened at the party?"
He got no answer, just more singing. Jack rested his head upon the table and moaned. The Coke, though, had lessened his headache and the throbbing had subsided to a slight pulsating. Other than Mush's singing, he could hear other sounds: the eggs, a bird chirping outside of the window, Spot in the upstairs apartment screaming at his boyfriend like he did every morning and...the shower?
Someone was in their shower? He pictured that curly-haired girl. Her lithe, boyish body under what was probably her brother's, blue Polo shirt. He remembered the shirt. It caught his eye across the crowded room. He wondered if he could join her. However, any movement would probably start the throbbing again so, against his libido, he stayed put.
"Oh, shit." Jack turned his attention back to Mush who was shoveling the burnt eggs onto the plates. Apparently, his treat this morning was a medley of The 'Stones' greatest hits because, outside of the expletive, Mush was singing 'Jumpin' Jack Flash' now. Of course, every time he got to the chorus—which was a lot since it was all he knew—he would give Jack a pointed look. Jack, of course, had to convince him that that song wasn't written for himself.
"I'm not surprised," he muttered. "You're a shitty cook."
Mush looked taken aback and had the nerve to slap an affronted look on his face after the eggs and his "singing" had tortured Jack for the past five minutes. However, the look disappeared as his curly-haired roommate turned his brown gaze over Jack's shoulder and a smug little grin popped onto his face. Before Jack could turn, someone spoke.
"Um…was someone in here just singing The Rolling Stones or, rather, murdering The Rolling Stones?"
He was going to turn again to see the girl but he froze. The voice was deep and masculine. Obviously, Mush had brought someone home and hadn't owned up to it. And, apparently, this guy wasn't getting off to a good start since he was making fun of Mush's singing.
"I was," he said sunnily, confusing Jack even more. "And go ahead and take a seat, David."
David? Well, at least Mush had the right mind to remember to ask what the guy's name was.
"I'm all wet and in a towel." The guy, David as it seemed, sounded apprehensive.
Mush waved a dismissive hand. "Jack and I don't care. Sit. Eat. Besides, it's nothing we haven't seen before. Right, Jack?"
He was giving him that pointed look again.
"What?" he mumbled. "Yeah?"
"Well…okay."
There was a kind of wet, slapping sound as David came into the kitchen and sat at the chair across from Jack. He glanced up and noted that he was pretty good-looking. He had this mop of rich, brown curls and his eyes were the nicest shade of blue.
"David," Mush asked sweetly. "Would you like any bacon or anything?"
He shook his head. "No, thanks. I'm…um…kosher."
"Oh," he said, slightly deflated but then, in true Mush fashion, instantly perked up again. "Well, I'm gonna go get David some clothes from your room, Jack. You guys can talk."
He skirted away, probably to leave the two of them at the mercy of his rank cooking. Jack poked the wet, charred monstrosity on his plate and recoiled at the smell. He noticed David doing the same thing and couldn't help but smile. After what seemed like eternity, he spoke.
"I don't usually do this sort of thing," he said quietly.
"It's fine. Mush is a good guy," Jack assured him. "You guys will probably do shit today or something. He's not really a one-night stand kind of guy."
His pale, narrow face creased in confusion. "Mush?"
"The guy who was just in here," he explained but then realized that David might not have heard his nickname. "Dino."
"I know that," he said. "That boy in the purple, leather pants last night called him Mush. I meant, why would I spend the day with him?"
The boy in question was, of course, Spot. Jack rolled his eyes. That boy was such a stereotype.
"Because you slept with him?" he added in a very rude voice. A 'no-duh' type of voice.
To his surprise, David began to laugh. Jack watched his bare, pale face convulse with laughter and—it may have been the hangover—but his face started to heat up.
"You were really drunk last night, weren't you." It wasn't a question.
"Um…yeah. Why?"
David grinned at him. "Because, Jack. I didn't go home with Mush. I went home with you."
Jack nearly toppled out of his chair. He heard laughter coming from his room, followed by Mush singing again.
"I'm Jumpin' Jack Flash! It's a gas! Gas! Gas!"