Mercy [boyxboy]

Chapter Seven

"Ugh, someone put me out of my misery," Bentley moans pitifully into his pillow. He's still dressed in his horribly coordinated outfit from the night before and smells pungently of alcohol. "Seriously, my head's killing me."

Mercy, who has been watching Bentley squirm and grumble for the better part of thirty minutes, eyes him disinterestedly. "That's what you get for drinking in excess."

Bentley groans. "Sorry. Not all of us can be as perfect as you."

Mercy rolls his eyes as he chucks a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers and a hot soda at the back of Bentley's head. Bentley squawks, fights wildly with his blankets and eventually sits up, red hair wild as he squints at Mercy, face betrayed. "That hurt," he pouts, but he downs two pills anyway, knocking them back with a gulp of warm soda. "Yuck," he grimaces as he runs a hand through his already messy hair. He yawns and grapples blindly through his heap of blankets in search of his misplaced glasses. Once found, they're shoved up on the bridge of his nose as he turns to blink sleepily at Mercy. "What time's it?"

Mercy glances at his phone. "Just after noon."

Bentley rubs at his face. "Crap." He peers lazily at Mercy, lower lip caught between his teeth. "So, um, it's later. Wanna tell me why you were sucking face with David before he went pyromaniac on that room?"

Mercy swallows, throat suddenly dry. "I was hopeful you would forget that."

Bentley snorts. "Wasn't that drunk." Then he frowns, like he's remembering something particularly unpleasant.

"Is David... always like that? When he's ah, intoxicated?" Mercy asks, deftly redirecting the conversation as he gets to his feet. He crosses the room to his drawer, where he pulls out a fresh pair of clothes.

"Uh, I'm not really sure. He, um, doesn't drink, really? Guy's got no self-control and a temper that rivals Spencer's, though he's a pretty alright guy most of the time." Bentley blinks, and then narrows his eyes. "Hey, don't go trying to change the subject!"

Mercy pulls a tight, blue-gray shirt over his head as he rotates his torso to half-grimace at Bentley. "I wasn't 'sucking face,' with David, as you so eloquently put it."

Bentley cocks an eyebrow, face revealing he believes not a word of Mercy's pathetic attempt to dodge his question. "Uh, I'm pretty sure you were doing just that."

With a sigh, Mercy shoves his pajama pants down and wiggles into a pair of loose fitting jeans. "Curiosity killed the cat," he warns, lips twitching.

"And satisfaction brought it back," Bentley returns, grinning smugly.

Mercy smiles tightly, irritated. "That was my polite way of telling you to mind your own business."

Bentley scrambles out of his bed and knocks Mercy easily in the shoulder, the gesture friendly. "Friends are supposed to pry," he informs him, sticking out his tongue and laughing loudly when all Mercy does in retaliation is glower.

"Are they?" Mercy replies dryly, unconvinced. "I suppose I should ask you about your fight with Spence, then?"

"Ow, man," Bentley exhales, laughing weakly. "That was cruel."

Watching the way Bentley's shoulders droop in dejection tugs at Mercy's reluctant heartstrings. "Sorry," he apologizes immediately. "That was out of line."

Bentley shakes his head. "No, no, you're right... um, if you don't want to tell me, you don't have to..."

Mercy pauses, conflicted. "It isn't that I wish not to tell you," he begins. "It's rather... you're better off not knowing." He shrugs. "It's that sort of thing."