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Skye wakes up with her head on a fully clothed Christian Ward. Grant’s got his arm spread over her stomach, and Thomas is curled up by Christian’s head. And while Skye has no fucking clue where they are, she’s almost positive by the framed portrait of Christian and Anna overlooking the bed that she’s made it to the Senator’s house.
What an honor.
“Guys,” she groans. “Oh my God, Grant. Get off me. I need to puke.”
Christian murmurs in his sleep. Rolls over, so that her head falls off his stomach and hits the mattress. “Thanks, Maynard,” Skye says.
He stills. “Who told you that name?” he whispers.
“I have no idea,” Skye says back, trying to move Grant’s leaden arm off her. “I think you called yourself the Great Maynard Christian Ward around the fourth bar?”
“Oh my God,” Christian groans. “How many bars did we go to?”
“I don’t even know how we got here,” Skye replies. “So no idea.”
Christian wriggles to the edge of the bed. Moves into a sitting position. “Ugh,” he says, bringing a hand to his head. “Did we try to serenade my wife last night?”
“Why is everyone yelling?” Thomas asks, from the fetal position. “Can’t I sleep?”
“Can someone please get Grant off me before I puke on the bed?” Skye says. “This comforter just feels expensive.”
“It is,” Christian says.
She tilts her head back to glare at him. With a smirk, he shoves Grant’s arm off her chest, and she feels wonderful, horrible oxygen fill her lungs.
She rolls off the bed and runs for the bathroom as quickly as she can.
She finds her old friend, the porcelain god, and quickly falls to her knees. Up comes a surprising amount of green slush.
Gross.
They should probably wake Grant up, try to piece last night together.
But first, she should really rinse her mouth out. God fucking bless rich people. They have mouthwash in every bathroom. And tiny cups! Living the high life.
She spits out the residue vomit into the sink. Dry heaves once for good measure.
“Rinse the sink!” Christian calls. “When you’re done.”
“Why are you yelling?” Thomas groans. “Shut uuuuup.”
Skye turns the faucet on. Splashes her face a couple times. Tries not to study her reflection too hard. She’s got mascara rubbed under her eyes, raccoon-style, and her lipstick seems to have smeared up and off onto her cheek.
Charming.
She grabs a monogrammed bath towel and wipes her face off. Shuts off the sink.
She’s left her face print on what may be the most outlandish towel she’s ever seen. She’s never been so proud.
“Okay,” she says, gently opening the bathroom door. “Someone wake Grant up.”
Thomas nudges Grant with his foot. “Grant,” he says. “Wakey-wakey.”
Nothing.
“I think he’s dead,” Thomas says.
Christian rolls his eyes. “He’s not dead,” Christian says. Leans over Grant’s ear. “Grant, I’m on the phone with Mother-”
“Tell her I’m not here,” Grant says, shooting upward. “Oh, shit.” He wraps his arms around his stomach. “Why?”
“Welcome to the world of the living,” Skye says. “Does anyone have coffee?”
“Can I go throw up?” Grant asks.
Skye steps out of the bathroom doorway. “All you, big guy.”
Grant lumbers off the bed. Goes into the bathroom, with Skye following behind him.
“Hey,” she says, dropping beside him. He retches into the toilet. She strokes his back. “Hey, Grant. Crazy night, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, weakly. “Crazy.”
“Mouthwash?” Skye asks.
“Please.”
She gets him a cup as Thomas and Christian crowd the doorway. “Anyone else want to puke?”
“I’m good,” Thomas says.
“Grant’s always had the weakest stomach,” Christian adds.
“Hey big brother,” Grant says, resting his heat on the toilet seat. “Fuck you.”
Skye hands him the mouthwash. He doesn’t bother getting up from his seat. Just rinses and spits into the toilet.
“Charming,” Christian says.
Grant rises onto shaky legs. Takes his tee-shirt off, which is appreciated. Mops his brow. “Greasy breakfast?” Grant asks.
“Oh, God,” Skye says, leaning on the countertop. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Race to the kitchen?” Thomas says.
Skye and Grant groan in tandem.
“Oh,” Anna says, looking up from her paper. “You lived.”
“Hello, darling,” Christian offers, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
She wrinkles her nose. “You smell like rubbing alcohol,” she says. “And shamrock shakes.”
Skye claps her hands. “So that’s what that green slush was!”
“If you make that noise again,” Thomas says. “I will push you into the pool.”
Skye pauses, mid-step. “There’s a pool?”
“Yeah,” Grant says, arm wrapping easily around Skye’s waist. “Christian has a multi-season pool.”
“So like, we could go swimming right now,” Skye says.
“The pool is closed for the day,” Christian says, settling next to Anna.
“Boo,” Skye says. “I want to use the pool!”
“I don’t see why they can’t go swimming,” Anna says, stirring milk into her tea. “The lot of you look like you need a good chlorine bath.”
“Fair,” Skye says. Grant sits down, and she plops into his lap. “More than fair.”
“Ugh, babe,” Grant says. “I’m sorry, but could you-”
“Right,” Skye says, wiggling into the next seat. “Sorry.”
Grant takes her hand under the table. “Don’t worry about it.”
He’s kind of sweaty, still. Probably needs a shower. Was puking less than 30 minutes ago. But God, he’s so stupidly handsome.
Grant blinks at her. “Did you tell me you loved me last night?”
Skye slams her hand on the table. Ignores Thomas swearing at her. “Who wants coffee?”
“French press or regular?” Anna asks.
Skye stares at her. “Instant’s fine.”
Christian makes a face. “We don’t have instant coffee.”
“Okay, whatever,” Skye says. “Didn’t realize your house was the Ouran High School Host Club.”
A round of stares.
Skye cocks an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“I honestly don’t even want to know,” Christian says.
“Because you’re a loser,” Skye says. “Obviously.”
Christian bristles. “I am not a loser.”
“You are kind of a loser,” Thomas says.
Skye smirks. Coughs “Maynard,” behind her hand, which earns her a laugh from Grant.
“He told you?” Grant says. “You told her about Maynard?”
“It’s just my name!” Christian says. “I don’t know why that’s the only thing she remembers from last night! Or why she thinks it’s so funny!”
“Um, because it’s the greatest name in the world?” Skye says. “Maynard Ward. Mayonnaise Ward.”
Thomas chokes on the pastry he’s shoved halfway into his mouth.
“Oh my God,” Grant says. “Mayonnaise Ward.”
“This isn’t funny,” Christian says. “It’s not funny at all.”
“It’s a little funny,” Anna says, nudging Christian’s shoulder. “Come on. Lighten up.”
“Anna, darling,” he says. “I am so hungover that I don’t think that’s possible.”
She kisses his temple. “Go put coffee on, Christian.”
He groans. Rises from the table. “I’m under-appreciated.”
“You are, darling,” Anna says. And pinches his butt.
Skye’s almost positive that Grant and Thomas are making the same shocked face she is. “What?”
“I like my husband’s butt?” Anna asks, tilting her head. “Is that weird?”
“Gross,” Thomas says. “Christian having sex.”
“I can hear you,” Christian says.
“It’s gross, Christian!” Thomas calls back.
Anna smirks to herself. “So none of you remember last night?” Anna asks.
“Not a thing,” Grant says.
“You tried to help Christian serenade me,” she says. “You had a ukelele, Grant.”
“Where did I get a ukelele?” Grant asks.
“Aw, Grant,” Skye says. “Look at you, being a supportive brother.”
“Did we do a good job?” Thomas asks.
Anna makes a face. “You know the song ‘Lola?’”
“Yes,” Thomas says.
“Christian replaced it with ‘Anna,’” she says. “Which was cute, but, you know. A little weird.”
“Anna!” Christian calls, from the kitchen. “I can’t find the coffee I like.”
She shakes her head. “Coming, dear!” She rises gracefully from the table. Disappears into the kitchen.
A silence.
“Hungover skinny dipping in the indoor pool?” Skye asks.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Grant says, already reaching for his belt.
“God, I thought we were going to like, have breakfast like normal people,” Thomas says, pulling his shirt off. “I was worried.”
“And who the heck knew Christian and Anna were like,” Skye drops her voice. “Frisky?”
“Nope,” Grant says.
“Never speak those words again,” Thomas adds.
Skye pulls off her jeans, leaves them on the dining chair. “Whatever, nerds,” Skye says. “Speed walk to the pool?”
“Totally,” Grant says.
And they do. As quickly as their hungover little legs will carry them.