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Bars reminded Ryland of all the bad decisions he made in college.
See, Colt had this misconception in his head about Ryland. He hadn't known Ryland in college, beyond infrequent texts and occasional meetups. He saw the Ryland who cleaned up a lot to pretend he wasn't… going a little downhill.
Ryland in college had slept around. Ryland in college had gone to house parties where people didn't watch drinks and rooms were locked for illicit activities. He went to bars with people he barely knew and left the bathroom wiping his nose. Realistically, Ryland knew Colt had done none of that stuff. For all Colt claimed to be an old, wise expert, his alcohol tolerance was shameful beside Ryland's, and the worst he had done was a little acid. By then, Colt had known what he wanted to be.
That was part of it.
He swirled the liquid around. It was a mellow, orange colour. Colt had invited him, and it had been sweet — really. A celebration with him and his fancy actor friends, though Ryland didn’t actually know what exactly for. A movie release? A record broken? It didn’t matter and Ryland simply wanted to enjoy this. He was not enjoying this. People kept coming over to him, mistaking him for Colt. He didn’t even look like what Colt looked like. Ryland had worn one of his favourite, hand-knitted cardigans. Colt wouldn’t be caught dead in a cardigan, and he had shown up in his Miami Vice jacket. They were identical twins, sure, but in Ryland’s opinion, they really weren’t that similar.
Still, there were people coming over, patting him on the back like he was an old friend. If they didn’t think he was Colt they were flirting. Ryland had experience with flirtatious weirdos. Middle-aged women in dead-end marriages were half of the people who showed up to parent teacher meetings in a school like his. Just on the outskirts of the very nice parts of San Francisco, but not in the areas where you’d feel unsafe walking at night.
This was one of the flirtatious cases.
“So, babe. Let me order you a drink. Let me. Please.” She’s too drunk to stay upright, but Ryland could see the way her hand his hovering over her bag. It was Louis Vuitton, he absently noted. He wished he had the disposable cash for a bag with an ugly logo stamped all over it.
Ryland sidled to the left. He shook his head, staring down his vodka and Red Bull like it would solve his problems.
The girl was pushy. Ryland didn’t even know her name. “You look just like Ryder. But cuter. Softer. C’mon, I’m literally so famous. I could buy you. Trust me. What’s your price?”
Ryland had been described as many things, but soft was a new one to send his stomach into knots. Did she have any self awareness at how weird she was sounding? Possibly not. She had long, brown hair, that was very slightly wavy. Her makeup was rubbing off her face, and she had seemingly poorly reapplied her lipstick. To most people, she was conventionally attractive. Ryland found her attractive! But being called soft and having her not so subtly imply he was poor was really doing her no favours.
“I’m not…” Ryland trailed off. Rich people were just like this, apparently. He wondered if Colt had this problem, but he probably told them to fuck off before it got this far. And anyway, everyone knew he was with Jody. Or had a thing. Or, whatever. It didn’t matter. It was something, and he wasn’t giving up on it. He shifted, uncomfortable in his seat.
“Who looks like me?”
The girl fell quiet and turned around. Ryland glanced, before turning back immediately when he saw it was Tom Ryder.
He didn’t want to deal with that. Nope. He was probably here for the girl. The girl, who probably wanted Ryder, not Ryland. Ryland was a middle school teacher here to hang out with his brother who was nowhere to be found. He was half-expecting him to pop over at any moment with Jody.
“Uh. You know, I didn’t get your name hot stuff.” She leaned back into his space. Ryland cringed. She was barely trying to flirt, at this point. Hot stuff? Who even said that. Not Ryland. His compliments were perfectly nerdy, and sweet, according to his ex.
Ryder snorted, and Ryland could tell he had something. He was wobbling just a little, and Ryland recognised the signs better than most. He used to be the prime suspect, in college bars, long ago.
“Hun, he isn’t interested. Look at him. That’s Colt’s twin. Colt’ll kill you if you try get with him.”
Ryland wanted the Earth to swallow him. It wasn’t particularly surprising Ryder was aware of him (being so self centred, he was probably delighted at the thought of someone who looked so similar to him having a twin). He was surprised that Ryder was taking his side. Or knew what Colt’s reaction would be, unless Colt had specifically told Ryder to not flirt with Ryland. Which, knowing Colt, was surprisingly likely. Ryland took a sip of his god-awful drink. This was too much to think about.
The girl hesitated. She laughed. “No, Ryder, he’s playing hard to get.”
“No. He’s just not interested. He’s with me for tonight. I’m fucking with Seavers.”
What??
Out of quite literally everything Ryland had been expecting Ryder to do, this was so far down on his list it was incomprehensible. Ryder was doing the fake boyfriend thing with him. Or real? Was Ryder trying to get with him? Ryland’s brain was going to explode.
Ryland straightened up as Ryder invitingly held his palm out. The girl stared at him, her disappointment evident. While it was not the “out” Ryland was hoping for, he’d be stupid not to take it. Ryland took Ryder’s hand, clammy and slightly over-heated from whatever he took, and followed Ryder through the crowds towards the centre. Ryder was already swaying a little too hard, now Ryland was trying to follow the idiot somewhere.
“Colt left, by the way.”
Ryland sighed. “Figures.”
“But like. I did a solid for you.”
“Sure did.”
Ryder half-dragged Ryland to a table in a corner. It was mildly quieter. Probably. Ryland was still very confused at what Ryder actually wanted. He leaned back, before making the realisation he left his drink behind. Ryland groaned softly, letting his head smack against the booth. Ryder blinked, a little slowly. “What?”
“I left my drink behind.”
“Oh, I’ll buy you something.”
Ryland made a face. He didn’t want to hear Ryder’s idea of a good drink. He’d heard Colt complain about the guy enough the time that his bar for a first impression was in the deepest darkest depths of hell.
He’s a self centred asshole!
He’s idiotic. Moronic. Whatever synonyms you know, Ry.
I’ve been in his house. He has a fridge covered in sticky notes. I saw one. It said ‘look up moronic’. After I called him that, I guess.
Ryder returned with a pale and fizzy drink that Ryland was mostly certain was a champagne or a spritzer. If Ryland had been buying it, it would be a spitzer, but it was Ryder. Probably champagne. Or prosecco, or, Ryder was passing it to him. He was a little slow still. Ryland took a cautious sip before settling a little. It really wasn’t terrible. Or bad at all. It was actually good.
Ryland was definitely mildly drunk. Ryder was giving him a look.
“Yes, I like it. You can pat yourself on the back.” Ryland snorted softly into his glass, using his free hand to jokingly rub Ryder’s back. Mildly was the wrong one. He was plastered. Just, on his feet. Ryder wasn’t talking that much, instead, staring at him with pupils far too blown out to form much thought.
Like a cat, seeking attention. It was almost cute. Wow, Colt was going to kill him in the morning.
“Eve can be a lot.” Ryder suddenly spoke. Ryland assumed Eve was the girl who had been flirting with him.
“Yeah?”
Ryder nodded sagely. “Yeaaah. But we’re chill. We’re so cool. You know?”
“I know.” Ryland couldn’t chase the smile off his face. If he was still young and dumb and in college he knew he’d be tripping into Ryder’s bed tonight. Now, he was older, and certainly not stupid enough to do anything this fucked. He was drunk, Ryder was … high? Bad idea all around.
A guy in a very furry jacket wandered over. Ryland’s stomach fell at the thought of it being real fur. Ryder giggled, slumping hard into Ryland’s side. He was fumbling for Ryland’s hand again. Ryland gave it to him. What Colt didn’t see, he didn’t know. “Hey, Francis.”
“Hey Tom.”
“Ryder.”
The correction wasn’t missed on Ryland, nor was the fact Francis was walked closer. Slick-black hair and a cologne entirely too strong. Ryland had met the type, mostly because they had money and could skip trying to get into the good colleges. He carefully wrapped an arm around Ryder before he could question what he was doing. It was old habits, Ryland told himself. He’d do it for anyone back in the day, though the reasoning was not happening. At all.
“I’m going with him tonight.”
Francis frowned. “No you aren’t. Isn’t that Colt?”
Ryland helped Ryder up. This guy was giving him the wrong vibes, especially since Ryder was possibly in the worst condition to be going out. This was how you got STDs. He’s had to tell off hook-ups before for it.
“He’s not Colt.” Ryder whined, and Ryland stepped backwards towards the door. Francis adjusted his grip on a drink. No part of Ryland trusted anything in that cup. He opened the door, and carefully readjusted his grip on Ryder, who was nuzzling him now.
Great.
Ryder hummed in appreciation. “Y’know, I usually phone Gail at this point.”
“Well. No need. I live close by. Part of why Colt invited me.”
“Mhm.” Ryder sounded far too happy about this all. Ryland was past the point of tipsy to care about the implications to this point. He was just helping him get out of the hair of all those people. Maybe Ryder had been looking for Colt. Maybe Ryder figured whoever was related to Colt couldn’t have been that bad. Maybe, maybe, maybe, Ryland was at his apartment elevator.
He usually took the stairs.
He was also dealing with an armful of Ryder. He was in a gaudy neon coat, which Ryland had strategically hidden under his cardigan. The magazines were the last place Ryland wanted to be.
Ryland hated the elevator. The sudden lift up, the wobble, the existential fear that the thing would drop. Ryder was distracting him from that, this time, because he was too busy mumbling about lines he was learning for a movie. Ryland sighed, and carefully helped Ryder past the doors for the elevator and into his apartment.
Friendship. You’ve never met this guy. Friiieeendshiiip.
“C’mon. You need sleep.” Ryland murmured. He carefully helped Ryder into his bed, pulling off a few of the layers and taking off his shoes. Ryder stared at him, in almost confusion, when Ryland headed for the door.
“S’that it? Nothing more.”
“Yeah. See you. We’re both… it’s just a bad idea, you know?”
Ryland headed into his living room. His flat wasn’t the prettiest of sights. Paperwork was all over the floor, along with his clothes. Some habits from university had been harder to break, what could he say? His walls had stains that would never come out. His kitchen was a mess. His life was a mess, despite what Colt would try and say.
He sat down on the sofa. Awkwardly, Ryland curled up, and tried to fall asleep. He only managed to do so after about twenty minutes of tossing and turning, fighting the need to vomit.
“Hey. Hey.”
Ryland blinked the sleep out of his eyes. He glanced up, and screamed.
Ryder was laughing at him. Why was Tom Ryder in his living room? Already dressed, in one of his stupid science pun shirts, staring down at him. Ryder sat on the coffee table. It creaked. He didn’t move. “What, don’t you remember? Carrying me home? So romantic.”
“Uh.” Ryland answered, blankly. He paused. Nope, he remembered it. That was very embarrassing. Had he been really considering hooking up with Ryder??? The night hadn’t been that bad, but the entire situation was actually awful for even happening in the very first place.
Ryder giggled, like the entire situation had been funny, not concerning. “Okay, perfect. Colt talks about you all the time. I knew he had a twin, but not a hot twin. Wait, didn’t I get on someone’s case about flirting with you?”
So Ryder didn’t recall everything perfectly, either. Was Ryland that memorable, or was he just one of those guys who could do whatever he wants with alcohol and walk away fine. Ryland’s stomach was already churning far much.
“Yes. Starting to think that was jealousy.” Ryland sighed and pinched his brow. He stood up, trudging into the kitchen to get himself a coffee. And Ryder, he guessed. That would probably be nice. Tom Ryder was his house guest. The sentence alone was already a mess for Ryland’s hungover brain. He needed two paracetamol. Scratch that. He needed twenty. The whole box. Stomach lining be damned.
Ryder hung behind him as he turned the kettle on. He sounded rather petulant. “I thought you’d have a coffee maker. Colt has one.”
“Colt earns triple what I do,” Ryland pointed out, pouring the hot water on the instant coffee. Nothing glamorous. He gestured to the kettle for Ryder. The actor stared at it, blankly, until Ryland poured him a coffee too.
“Why’s that?” Ryder sipped his coffee, blanching, and reaching for the sugar. He poured half the container in before smiling at the taste. Ryland wanted to act like he was Colt, taking his coffee as pure as possibly, but also wanted to have his coffee. He grabbed the sugar container, pouring and stirring it into his coffee. He probably poured just as much as Ryder, which was visibly amusing the actor. Ryland dumped some paracetamol on the counter. Ryder took two.
Ryland leaned against a kitchen counter. “Well. I’m a teacher?”
“Oh.”
“Teachers are, you know, poorly paid?”
Ryder frowned, like that was his genuine first encounter with the concept. He placed his hand on Ryland’s counter, beside the film packet of paracetamol. “So, cutie. Are we going to pick up what we,”
“No. I’m not, you know, Ryder, I brought you back here because I was worried,” Ryland scolded. Ryder seemed to find that hot, by the way his hand flexed against the counter and he sipped to hide his face.
“Oh.”
Ryland huffed. “Yeah, oh.”
“Sooooo. Do I get your digits?”
“Colt will kill me.”
He saved the contact as ‘tom ryder’. All lowercase.