Morning found him sprawled in bed, snoring softly

This is a oneshot I've been working on for a while now, possibly the longest oneshot I've ever written. The pairing is, as ever, Murtagh x Eragon, with a little Arya x Nasuada and Thorn x Saphira thrown in.

Warnings: as always, there will be swearing and slash (male x male pairing, for those who don't know). There will also be some drinking. If any of that offends you, the back button is 100-percent clickable. Take advantage of it, please.



Morning found him sprawled in bed, snoring softly.

Sunlight streamed through the window over his head, falling on the dirty clothes that littered his floor. Like any teenager's, the bedroom was messy, which it firmly remained despite the hundreds of time Eragon's self-appointed older brother, Roran, had told him to pick it up. The window was open, and a few things that had once sat on the sill now lay on the floor – evidence that someone had climbed through the window and knocked them off. A pair of baggy black pants, criss-crossed with chains, lay next to the bed where he'd tossed them the previous night, and Eragon's wallet and car keys lay on top of them.

It was his cell phone that finally woke him up.

Eragon groaned, shifting from within his thick covers and struggling to block out the shrill ring tone. He pulled the blankets over his head and squeezed his eyes shut, somewhere in between consciousness and sleep and struggling away from the first. Needless to say, he was losing.

As Eragon opened his eyes, the cell phone stopped ringing.

Eragon sighed in relief, then started to drift back to sleep despite the light shining through the window into his eyes. But as soon as he'd closed his eyes, the cell phone began to ring again – whoever it was wasn't giving up.

Eragon groaned and reluctantly rolled over, blinking sleepily at his alarm clock. 11:21 AM. He winced at the shrill noise the cell phone was making, which was no longer muffled by the covers that had been over his ears seconds ago. Fuck, but his head hurt for some reason.

He picked up his cell phone and fumbled with it. After a moment, he managed to flip it open; the number on the screen swan before his eyes. It seemed familiar. He struggled to remember whose it was, but came up blank. He stared at the cell phone, picturing himself hurling the annoying thing against the wall. Then he sighed, pressed and button on the keypad, and put it to his ear.

"H'lo?" he mumbled.


Now that was a familiar voice. "Saph? Why're you calling me?" he groaned, voice hoarse. "It's too early."

"Did you make it home okay?" Saphira's voice was worried, annoyed, scared, and angry. All at the same time. How she managed it, Eragon would never know.

"Uh…" Eragon stared blankly around the room. Yeah, this was his room… how did he get here? He didn't remember going to bed last night. Heck, he didn't remember last night at all. "Yeah… 'mm home."

"Good!" Saphira cried, sounding slightly hysterical. "I'm fine, too. Roran can kill us both, then! Eragon, what the hell were you doing last night?"

"…Wha?" Eragon muttered. "Saph, don't yell. My head hurts…"

"Of course it hurts! Do you have any idea how much we drank last night?" She sounded so irritated Eragon didn't doubt that she probably had a hangover, too.

"Uh… no." Eragon winced. He staggered out of bed, yawning, then stumbled over to the bathroom. He struggled to remember the previous night. "Why was I drinking…?"

"We went to some nightclub after the concert, remember? Well, I think we did. I think I was already drunk by then, so I'm not sure."

Eragon frowned at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He looked like shit. Eyeliner was half smudged off – why had he even been wearing eyeliner? Then he glanced down at what he was wearing – a rumpled T-shirt with the words "The Forsworn: Concert Tour" displayed proudly in crimson letters. He was also wearing back tennis shoes, oddly enough, though he wasn't wearing pants, just boxers.

He reached up to make an attempt at getting the eyeliner off, and his eyes widened at what he saw in the mirror. His fingers…! He held one hand before his eyes. His fingertips had been rubbed raw, and his fingernails were torn up. It looked as if he'd tried to scratch a cement block to pieces. What the hell happened? he thought, disbelieving.

He turned his attention back to his conversation. "A concert?" he asked. He was starting to remember a bit more clearly now.

"Yes! The one we went to last night, remember?" -

Eragon flushed. "Uh, no." He struggled to remember anything of last night, and vague flashes came back to him. Dancing. Pounding music… screaming fans. Loud screaming fans. "Well, I sort of do. Was it any good?" He turned and began to make his way to the kitchen, glancing around for Roran, who was probably up by now.

"You mean the concert, the after party, or the sex?"

Eragon froze. "Huh?"

"You really don't remember, huh?"

"Saph, what are you talking about?" Eragon demanded.

"I'll give you a hint. Look on the front page of today's paper."

She hung up, and Eragon closed the cell phone and tossed it on his bed. He hurried to the kitchen. He stopped when he saw Roran calmly sitting at the small table, sipping coffee and staring silently at the paper. Roran looked up when Eragon entered the room, then smiled serenely.

"Eragon, good morning," Roran said. He leaned back in his chair. Eragon paled slightly – it was never good when Roran smiled like that. "Do you know what I just read in the paper?" he continued.

Eragon flushed. "Er, no. What?"

Roran held up the one of the middle page, where a large black-and-white photo was displayed. Eragon's face went dead white as he stared at it.

Roran was going to murder him.


It'd all started two days ago, with four simple words.

"They're coming to Carvahall!" Arya cried. She shoved a piece of paper in their faces, beaming. Eragon stared at her blankly, then sighed and went back to fiddling with his guitar. Saphira just looked mildly curious.

"Keep your voice down, Arya," she said. "My dad's asleep." She continued to flip through the TV channels.

Arya scowled. "That's your reaction to this – the opportunity of a century? The Forsworn are coming to our town, and all you do is – "

"Those jerks?" Eragon muttered, not even glancing up.

Saphira and Arya both ignored him. "The Forsworn?" Saphira repeated, disbelieving. "As in Thorn Briarson?"

"As in Thorn Briarson, Murtagh Morzanson, and Vanir Black," Arya said, looking very pleased with herself.

She smirked and tossed the paper onto the table. It landed face-up, and Eragon glanced at it. It was open to the third page, were there was a photo of the three band members. Murtagh Morzanson was the center of the three and had his usually fuck-off scowl in place. Eragon scowled back and resisted the urge to burn the picture. Bastard, he thought, then went back to fiddling with his guitar.

Saphira grinned. "You've got to be kidding me! When?"

Arya plopped down on the sofa next to her. "Tomorrow night," she said. "There's a concert nearby; it's only a forty-five minute drive there."

"Tomorrow? Tell me you somehow got tickets," Saphira said.

Tell me she only managed to get two, Eragon prayed silently.

Arya smirked and leaned back on the couch. "Of course I got tickets. I mean, my mom's a CEO and my dad's a big music producer. A few phone calls and I have three tickets." She shrugged. "They're not front-row, but they're fair."

Saphira giggled. A less level-headed person would have been doing cartwheels. "Thorn Briarson… we have to go. Eragon, you too."

Eragon glared at her. "No," he said flatly.

"It's Thorn Briarson! I have to go, and if I'm going, you have to come with me," she retorted. "Best friends, right?"

"Only for so long," Eragon snapped. "And Thorn Briarson might be there, but I don't care. Morzanson will be there, too. Who wants to go watch that bastard act like he owns the place?"

Saphira rolled her eyes. "You'll get over it."

"No, I won't, because I don't have to." Eragon tightened a string on his guitar, plucked at it experimentally, then frowned and loosened it a bit. "Besides," he added a moment later. "I'm grounded, remember? Roran's still mad about the whole kitchen incident." He glared at Arya.

She put her hands up defensively. "Not my fault."

"Yes, it was!"

"Not the point," Saphira interrupted. "Eragon, you're going if I have to sneak you out myself."

"No," Eragon snapped. "I'm not."

He tweaked another string on his guitar, then played a few notes. Apparently satisfied with it, he set it in it's case, zipped it up and slung the strap over his shoulder. Saphira frowned at him silently. Arya watched him, looking faintly amused. He walked out the door, still scowling, and began to walk home.

It wasn't that he was bad-tempered. No, not at all. But the Forsworn… well. See, there were few things in the world that Eragon hated more than boy bands. They were annoying. They were overly sentimental. They were a bunch of pretty boys in prancing around on stage singing about how sensitive they were. The only thing worse than a boy band, in Eragon's opinion, was an emo boy band, and that was exactly what the Forsworn were.

Naturally, the band was incredibly popular.

But the very worst thing part was none other than Murtagh Morzanson – bad-boy, former delinquent, and backup singer slash bass guitarist for the band. The one rabid fangirls swooned over, wrote bad slash fanfiction about, and had the inexplicable urge to "save" from himself.

Yeah, right.

There's no way Arya and Saphira are dragging me to see the stupid concert, he thought as he crossed the street.

Oh, if only he hadn't jinxed it.


He spent the next day more or less on his own. He did hang out with Arya and Saphira once, but, of course, they spent most of their time debating on who was hotter – Thorn Briarson or Nasuada Queen, the band's agent. They spent the rest of the time talking about how they were going to drag him along kicking and screaming.

Eragon had just scowled and tuned them out – no doubt they'd get over it soon and stop bothering him about it. He wasn't going, and they were going to accept that.

They had, of course, done nothing of the sort.

The next night, he was awakened by a tapping noise. He groaned, rolling over and blinking sleepily at the window. "Wha?" he mumbled, yawning. Had something just hit his window? A branch, maybe. All he could see was a back background, and… something thin and pale?

A finger?

He stared blankly at it, then did what anyone would do if something stupid woke him up in the middle of the night. He plopped back down on the bed and closed his eyes. As soon as he did, the tapping noise continued. He opened his eyes and glared at it. Yes, it was definitely a finger. Then he blinked as something rose up to join it – a hand. Then a small blonde mound… which rose up to form the upper part of a head. Bright, sky blue eyes stared back at him from the other side of the glass.

The hand turned into knuckles, which rap-tap-tapped against the window pane.

Eragon then did something he would soon regret; he rose into a sitting position and opened the window. "Saph," he said. "What the hell?"

"C'mon," Saphira said, moving away from the window and motioning for him to hop out. "We're going to the concert."

His drowsiness turned into annoyance in two seconds flat. "No," he snapped, then slammed the window shut.

She caught it halfway down, and held it there. Eragon blinked. It was easy to forget that she was so much stronger than her little body suggested. She glared at him. "You're going to make me go alone? With just Arya?" Her voice shook, as if she was about to cry.

Eragon blinked. Huh? he thought. "What's wrong with Arya?" he asked, surprised. Saphira sounded… hurt?

Saphira's eyes suddenly seemed over bright, almost teary. "I don't know," she mumbled. "She just… she's so flighty. And I'm so… small. I mean, it's a concert and there's going to be loud music and big guys everywhere, and there might be drinking. I don't want to get…" She blushed and averted her eyes. "Please, Era?" she asked, her voice tiny.

He stared at her silently, feeling confused and at a loss. She's just doing this to get you to come with her, he told himself. Don't –

"Okay," he sighed.

Idiot! screamed his mind.

The almost-tears vanished. Saphira smiled happily, then moved out of the way again. Eragon scowled and climbed out. "If Roran catches me, this is your fault," he told her.

"Deal," she said, and walked off. "C'mon."

He followed her. Ahead, almost invisible in the darkness, was a sleek car with tinted windows. Saphira opened a backseat door and slid in. Eragon followed her example and got in the back, then pulled the door shut. The driver grinned at him, pushing her long black hair out of her face as she did.

"I didn't know you had a car," Eragon said to her, eying the expensive leather seats.

Arya shrugged. "Birthday present. Now buckle up, you two."

She reached over to the empty seat next to her as her two passengers followed their orders. She felt around for something for a moment, then, getting a good grip on it, tossed it back to Eragon. He caught the bundle, surprised. "What's this?" he asked. It felt hard, but was wrapped in cloth. He pulled the cloth away and discovered that part of it was a shirt. "Clothes? We're a bit old for dress-up."

"You're wearing pajamas and we're going to a rock concert," Arya pointed out as she drove. "You're better off in those."

Eragon glanced down at his grubby Winnie-the-Pooh t-shirt and his faded plaid pajama pants and saw that Arya had a point. He glanced at Saphira, decided he couldn't care less what parts of him she saw, and pulled off his shirt. "So," he said as he fumbled to put the shirt Arya's tossed him, "how long is the torture going to last?"

"Two hours," Saphira replied, staring out the window, "and you're staying the entire time."

"Why should I?"

Arya chuckled. "Because, Rider, I happen to be your ride, and I most certainly am staying the entire time. I want to get some pictures of Queen. I hear she's actually going to be onstage and singing with Vanir Black at some point. I'm going to get a good look at her, whatever it takes."

"Hmph." He finished putting on the shirt and unfolded the rest of the bundle. He gaped at it when he did. Part off it was just a pair of pants, but… a bottle of wine? "Arya, what the hell?" he asked.

"It's a present," Arya replied. "Merry Christmas."

"It's June."

"Not the point. Just take a drink. You need a little loosening up."

He hesitated, then made the second mistake of the night – he popped off the top and took a swig.

The taste sharp, but he'd been expecting something like the heavy taste of beer. It was nowhere near the same. It was certainly… kind of gross, to tell the truth, but… huh. Eragon took another experimental drink. It tasted even better the second time.

"Not too much, child," Arya told him dryly. "Wait to get drunk at the concert."

Eragon scowled. He wasn't stupid enough to get drunk. What did she think he was, some alcoholic lightweight? (He'd never drank anything but a few sips of beer before, but that wasn't the point.)

Saphira eyed the bottle with interest. "Try some," Eragon said, pushing it at her. Saphira hesitated.

"Well, it couldn't hurt to take a few sips," she muttered. Eragon nodded in agreement and Saphira took a drink.

Eragon began to squirm about in his seat, trying to get out of the pants he was wearing, which wasn't easy considering that he was sitting down. When he was done, he looked at the pants she'd given him. They were a size too big and weighed down by chains. If I didn't know her better I'd say she was planning to pants me later, he thought.

When he was done putting them on, he looked down at himself and sighed. He looked like he'd just come back from a gothic anime convention held in a Hot Topic paradise. "Arya, you have no taste," he told her.

Arya adjusted her rear view mirror to get a better look at him, laughed, and sped up.


When they got there, the place was packed, which wasn't exactly a surprise, although the concert hadn't started yet. It was the Forsworn, after all. Eragon glanced around himself, noting the complete lack of any straight male within a 200 yard radius. Not that there were many men around at all, straight or otherwise.

He was feeling a bit light-headed, but nothing bad, really. He'd had just a few more sips of wine, that was all. Saphira looked a little unsteady; she'd had quite a bit more wine than he had, and she was supposed to be the sensible, mature one.

Eragon kept an eye on Arya, making sure he kept her nearby – the last thing he wanted was to be abandoned here, of all places. Saphira stood next to him, eyes fixed on the stage, waiting for her idol to appear.

"There she is!" Arya exclaimed suddenly.

Eragon turned towards the stage to see who "she" was. He blinked as he saw her – he certainly wasn't expecting to see someone so… young. He couldn't really tell from the distance, but she couldn't have been past her mid-twenties.

The child prodigy of music agents, Nasuada Queen, was striding onstage.

She looked irritated, though she put on a smile once she was before the mike. "How is everyone tonight?" she called out, beginning the traditional cheesy rock concert banter. The crowd cheered.

Nasuada Queen flashed a smile. "So you're ready?" she continued. Eragon rolled his eyes.

After a bit more pointless banter, Nasuada flashed one last forced smile and strode offstage. The lights flashed and dimmed. Spotlights spun and centered on the place Nasuada had been standing moments ago. Fog billowed out from center stage. In the background, a guitar rift was heard, soaring higher and higher. Vanir Black, ever the show-off.

The crowd roared in approval. Next to Eragon, Saphira cheered loudly. Eragon glanced at her. Maybe she'd taken a few too many sips of wine…

Three dark silhouettes appeared in the mist, and they began to play.

Now that he was there, listening to it, Eragon had to admit that their music wasn't so bad. It was pretty good, actually. Thorn was a great drummer, just as Vanir was a great guitarist. Vanir wasn't that bad when it came to the vocal parts he did, either. And Morzanson... Eragon let his eyes flicker close, listening closely to the bass and the strong voice swimming above it. It… it really wasn't…

It wasn't that bad.

In fact, it was actually pretty good.

"Still an arrogant bastard," Eragon muttered, but his voice was lost in the noise.

Eragon found himself cheering along with everyone else at the end of the song, and swaying to the next tune, which was much slower. He found himself actually… kind of… happy. Happy that he'd been dragged out of bed at ten o'clock at night at the risk of being grounded just to go to a concert by a band he hated.

Come to think of it, he also felt kind of dizzy.

And… a bit sick, really.

He was vaguely aware of the crowd cheering, and the Forsworn beginning their third song. He blinked, and everything went back into focus. That was better. He shook his head, clearing it, then glanced at Arya and Saphira to see if they'd noticed anything weird or if it was just him.

Arya's eyes were locked on the stage, but Saphira was nowhere to be seen.

Eragon stared in disbelief at where Saphira had stood moment before, then caught a glimpse of blond hair in the lower part on his vision. He looked down. Saphira was on the ground, looking rather muddled.

Eragon bend over her, surprised. "Are you okay, Saph?" he asked. He could barely hear himself over the music. Saphira looked up at him, confused.

"Dunno," she muttered. Eragon bent closer and put his ear to her mouth so he could hear her over the noise. "Feel sick… 'n dizzy…"

He offered her a hand up, and she took it, stumbling upright. Arya looked over. "What's wrong?" she shouted over the noise.

"I don't know," Eragon shouted back. "She says she's dizzy. We should get her outside or something."

Arya glanced longingly at the stage.

Eragon scowled. "Fine, stay and wait for your idol. I'll take her."

He wrapped a protective arm around his best friend's waist and began to push through the crowd.

Saphira stumbled as she kept up with him. For a moment or two he did, too, but things righted themselves quickly and they kept going. Maybe I had a bit too much to drink, too, he thought. Then they were outside, in the cool, fresh night air (if city air could be called fresh).

Saphira swayed, holding onto his arm tightly to keep from falling over. He held carefully still. "Are you going to be okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," she slurred. "'m fine."

"Are you going to throw up?"

She shook her head, looking quite certain of herself, then leaned over and threw up.

She got a little on his shirt. He grimaced and supported her, holding her blond hair out of her face as she hurled again. "Idiot," he muttered fondly. "You know, you're supposed to be the responsible one."

She giggled. "Don't wanna be responsible." She snuggled closer to his arm. "You know," she said dreamily, "you're very comfy."

Eragon laughed and gently set her down.


A while later, they still sat outside the entrance. The music of the last song cut off, and the cheering died out moment later. People began to wander out in crowds. Saphira and Eragon moved to avoid getting trampled, and stood farther away, to the right of the doors. After a while, Arya saw them and came over. She noticed the vomit on Eragon's shirt and tossed him something she'd been carrying. "Here," she said. "I was going to have it as a keepsake, but it looks like you need it more."

Eragon caught it. It was one of the T-shirts he'd seen some guy selling earlier, reading "The Forsworn: Concert Tour." He quickly changed.

"You're all right?" Arya asked, glancing at Saphira. "No permanent damage?"

"'m fine," Saphira muttered, looking dazed. She giggled. "You shouldn't give children alcohol. Eragon says he feels kind of funny, too.

"You're seventeen, I'm twenty-one, and you're twice as mature as I am," Arya pointed out. "You should know how to handle your own drinking."

Eragon stared at her. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nasuada didn't show," Arya said. She looked annoyed. "She was supposed to sing during the last song, but apparently she's sick. The flu, or something. But…" Her face lost it's scowl for a moment, and her eyes glinted. "There's an exclusive after-party. My dad's throwing it at a nearby club."

Eragon shook his head. "Hell no. I want to go home."

Arya looked surprised. "Why?"

"Saphira's still tipsy, and I didn't want to be here in the first place."

"Tipsy?" Saphira protested. "I am not." The slightly slurred speech didn't help convince them, oddly enough.

"See?" Arya said. "She says she's fine. We should go."

Eragon scowled.

"C'mon," Arya said. "It'll be fun, I swear. Just come for ten minutes, and then we can leave if you're bored."

Eragon hesitated. "…Okay."

That was his third mistake.


When they got to the club, Eragon eyed the huge bouncer nervously. Or, more accurately, the bouncers. There were three, and all of them topped 6'6" easily, not to mention the thick arms and menacing postures. A crowd stood outside, most fans and few getting in.

Arya strode up to them without hesitation. Eragon minced his way over to them with quite a bit of hesitation. Saphira, still tipsy, giggled and held onto Eragon's arm for support as they walked. "I like strong men," she said, and fluttered her eyelashes at the bouncers.

The middle bouncer gave them a withering look. "Name?" he growled.

"Arya Fey and her friends," Arya replied. She pulled her driver's license out of her pocket and showed them her ID. "Daughter of your boss. Open up."

The bouncers glanced nervously at each other and quickly stepped aside. Eragon hurried after Arya and she went inside, wondering exactly what kind of reputation she'd earned among her father's employees.

Once inside, Eragon glanced around. It was just a typical club, all pounding music and flashing lights and writhing bodies. Arya led the way to a booth and sat down, stretching out. "Now this is going to be fun," she announced.

Eragon gently put Saphira down in the booth, and the blonde promptly flopped down onto the cushions.

"Comfy," Saphira muttered, her eyes fluttering shut.

Eragon sighed and sat down next to her.

Arya's eyes were roving, scanning the crowd. "Hmph," she said. "There's no one interesting."

"Interesting for what?"

Arya shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe some fun later? Or to dance with? No one stands out." She continued to look. "Eragon, what do you think? Any recommendations?"

Eragon shrugged. For some reason, girls had never really interested him, despite Arya's talk of hormones kicking in and Roran's suspicious glances every time Eragon started to talk about Saphira.

"Hmph," Arya said. "You're no help." She continued to look, then started and pointed. "Look!"

Eragon looked. A ways away sat Thorn Briarson and Vanir Black, Thorn grinning (as usual) and Vanir looking bored (also as usual). "If they're here, what about Nasuada?" Arya asked, excited.

Eragon shrugged. "I don't know. Didn't you say she was sick?" At least Morzanson isn't here, he thought.

Arya sighed. "True." She began to look around again, then just shook her head in frustration. "Honestly," she muttered. "Absolutely no one interesting." She looked at Eragon, who was scowling and looking bored – he'd never cared for clubs. "Y'know what? You need to loosen up. Act like this too long and you might turn into Roran." Before Eragon could ask what she meant by that, she'd disappeared.

Moments later, she returned. She held two drinks, one of which she set before Eragon on the table and the other she took a drink from herself. "Here," she said. "Drink up."

He eyed it suspiciously, remembering only too well what the last thing she'd given them had done to Saphira.

"Oh, just drink it," she said.

He hesitated, then obeyed. Once again, he felt surprised. It tasted much better than he'd imagined it would. He took another drink, this one slightly bigger. "Easy," Arya said. "You're supposed to sip it."

Eragon shrugged and leaned back.

Arya continued to scan the people in the club. She suddenly froze, eyes getting almost comically big. Eragon followed her gaze to the door, where two people were walking in.

Murtagh Morzanson looked nothing if not pissed. His expression screamed "drop-dead". Oddly enough, this didn't deter the mob of girls that jumped him as soon as he came in. His shocked expression as he was tackled was priceless. Eragon snickered. Murtagh's companion also seemed amused. Nasuada Queen glanced back at the small gaggle of fangirls that had devoured her friend and smirked, then just continued walking. She sat down at the bar, where Arya's gaze remained trained on her.

"Look at her," Arya breathed. "She's even more gorgeous up close!"

"You're obsessed," Eragon muttered, wondering why she was here if she was supposedly sick.

"He is very pretty," Saphira said dreamily, opening her eyes.

Arya glanced down at her. "Nasuada's a girl, sweet."

"Oh, yes, he is kind of strange like that," Saphira agreed. She closed her eyes.

Eragon and Arya stared at her. "Arya," Eragon said after a moment, "what exactly was in that wine you gave us?"

"Nothing bad except alcohol, I thought," Arya said nervously. She put her hand on Saphira forehead to check for temperature, then frowned. She glanced back over to where Nasuada was sitting, and stared longingly.

"Oh, go talk to her," Eragon said disgustedly, and downed the rest of his drink.

Arya got up and hurried over to the brown-skinned woman. Eragon watched as Arya slid up behind her, then first spoke to the bartender. The bartender turned around and began to prepare something as Arya and Nasuada began to speak.

Saphira giggled again.

Eragon glanced over at her. Her face was flushed and her eyes were hazy. "Eragon," she said suddenly. She fumbled around on the seat and finally managed to sit upright.

"What?" he replied. He blinked as he did. Things were getting slightly out of focus again…

"Does wine have calories?" she slurred.


Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "It does, doesn't it? It…taste nice. An' all nice stuff has calories." She flopped back down on the seat. "I'll get fat!"

Eragon shook his head, then stopped. Shaking his head made him… kind of dizzy. He glanced down at his drink, and was startled to find it empty. He stumbled upright and left to get anther, returning a moment later to find Saphira just as he left her. He began to finish off the second drink, deciding that he could handle it. It wasn't like he had anything better to do, and it wasn't like he was going to get drunk.

Things got a little blurry after that.

He vaguely recalled having two more of the drinks (whatever they were) then looking at Saphira and thinking how out of it she was, then deciding to go talk Arya into taking them home. After that… he'd gotten up, he was sure of it, but somehow he'd ended up on the floor. The room was tilted, and Eragon found himself vaguely wondering how everyone could stand and dance while the wall they were on was at an angle like that. He glanced back and noted that Saphira was staring at him curiously.

Eragon put his arms under himself and tried to push himself upright, but somehow it didn't work out. He rolled over and stared blankly at the ceiling, then blinked dazedly as a familiar face came into view.

"Eragon?" came Arya's voice, sounding surprised. "What are you doing?"

Eragon tried to reply, but his tongue felt funny in his mouth. He managed to get something out to the effect of telling Arya he was lying on the floor, of course, couldn't she see that?

Arya frowned at him and exchanged glances with another someone who was standing near his head. "I take it he drank a bit much," came a new female voice. No, wait, this one was familiar, too. A second face came into view as the girl bent over him. Brown skin, honey-colored eyes, and wiry black hair pulled back into a half-ponytail. "Hey," Eragon slurred. "You're Nasuada Queen."

The honey-colored eyes crinkled up in amusement, and the thick lips curled into a smile that made the seriousness of the face vanish altogether. "Yeah," she said. She grabbed his arms. "Arya, get his feet?"

Between to two women, Eragon found himself sitting in the booth. Nasuada took a step back, scanning the crowd for someone.

"Drat," Eragon heard Arya mutter. "I shouldn't have left them alone. Now they're both drunk out of their minds. Saphira was bad enough."

Nasuada seemed to find whoever she was looking for. She answered Arya distractedly, but Eragon didn't catch it. The world was too busy spinning again. He closed his eyes to try and make it stop, and when he opened them, he found a huge redheaded dragon peering down at him. He stared blankly back, wondering why Arya and Nasuada didn't seemed alarmed by the dragon.

"Well," the dragon was saying, "I'd be happy to watch… blond, but… don't do…" Eragon lost his voice after that. He closed his eyes again, then opened them, startled, when he was pulled upright. His blue eyes stared into honey-colored eyes, and Nasuada patted him gently with the hand she hand around his waist. His arm was around her shoulder.

"C'mon," she was saying. "You need looking after." She led him through the crowd, and he stumbled uselessly. She was solidly built, though, and apparently strong for a woman, for she kept him upright easily.

"Y'know," Eragon slurred, deciding to start a polite conversation, "you're very pretty."

Nasuada laughed quietly. "Thank you."

"But don't worry," Eragon muttered weakly. "I don't like you. But… Arya does." He snickered. "She called you… gorgeous."

Nasuada was didn't reply. Eragon wondered why.

Soon they were at a door, which soon opened, which led to a grimy staircase, which led upwards to another staircase, which led to a door, which led to… darkness, with a faint light. They stumbled out into the night air, and Eragon found himself leaning against a wall. He slid down it to sit down and stared blankly around him. They were on the roof.

Nasuada began to speak, though at first Eragon didn't understand who she was talking to.

But there was someone else on the roof. A young man sat at the edge, his legs hanging off into space; a bottle, mostly empty, sat next to him. He was scowling and looking back at Nasuada. For a moment, he glanced over at Eragon, looking annoyed with his mere presence. It was fairly dark, so Eragon couldn't see much, but the young man looked kind of…


Maybe I am drunk, Eragon thought dazedly.

Then Nasuada had vanished behind him, through the door. "Watch him, Murtagh," she called back behind her. Eragon twisted the name around in his head a few times, mulling over it. It sounded… well, familiar? Wasn't there some bastard named Murtagh around and about somewhere or something, sometime?

"Oh, yeah," Eragon muttered, closing his eyes. "Morzanson."


Eragon opened his eyes again. Murtagh was staring at him curiously. "Huh?" Eragon said, a surprisingly eloquent reply considering his current state.

"You said my name," Murtagh said. He took a swig of what-ever-it-was from the bottle. "Not that I care," he added. If Eragon hadn't been quite so drunk, he might have noticed that Murtagh looked a bit tipsy as well.

"Oh. I didn't mean anything," Eragon muttered, closing his eyes again. Murtagh snorted and Eragon heard the bottle slosh again; he'd taken another drink.

"So, kid," Murtagh said bitterly. "What's got you so down you decided to get drunk about it."

"'m only a liddle drunk," Eragon insisted. "An' I don't have anything to drunk about anyway. I jus'… did."

Murtagh scowled. "Lucky bastard, aren't you." He took another drink.

Eragon scowled, too. "You're the bastard," he said.

Murtagh was silent for a moment. Eragon opened his eyes to find the man staring at him in surprise. "What?"

"You're a bastard," Eragon slurred. "Really. Cocky, arrogant bastard. I'd…beat you up… 'n…kick your ass, but…" He sighed. "Arya and Saphira'd kill me… they like you. Well, not really." He shrugged limply.

Murtagh stared at him.

"Saphira likes… the dragon. Redheaded big guy," Eragon explained vaguely. "And Arya's a lesbian, she doesn't like-like you." He held his hands in front of his face and made as if he was squeezing two very large, soft somethings. "Likes women. Likes breasts, really. I don't get it."

"Don't get what? Liking breasts?" Murtagh seemed more interested in the conversation now. He shrugged. "I don't get it, either. They can be very nice, though." He turned around and sat cross-legged. Almost as an afterthought, he offered Eragon the mostly-empty bottle.

"Nah," Eragon mumbled, waving the bottle away. "I think I'm drunk already."

Murtagh's mouth twitched upwards ever so slightly. "You are." But he didn't press the issue.

Eragon considered this, then decided Murtagh was probably right. "Why're you up here, anyway?" he asked.

Murtagh shrugged. "Damn fangirls are everywhere. I figured they wouldn't look for me up here." To Eragon's surprise, Murtagh scooted over and leaned against the wall next to him and took another drink. "It's frustrating as hell," Murtagh said. His voice was getting a little slurred, too, Eragon noticed. "Always mobbing me whenever I want quiet. I mean, I appreciate pretty girls throwing themselves on me as the next guy, trust me." He chuckled a little. "But there's a point where I just want to have some alone time, and I never seem to get it."

Eragon nodded in dazed agreement. "Yeah," he muttered. "Damn women."

Murtagh stared at him in surprise. "What, you don't like women?"

"Dunno. They're not very interesting." Eragon stared blankly into space, beginning to wonder a little. "Maybe I've just never run into my type."

"Maybe you've run into them, but don't know they're your type," Murtagh suggested.

Eragon thought about this, then nodded solemnly, acknowledging this piece of wisdom. "What's your type?" he slurred.

Murtagh chuckled again. He drained the last whatever he'd been drinking and relaxed against the wall. "I've got two kinds… first, women with chocolate skin and golden eyes," he said. He looked a little sad when he said it. "With… wiry black hair. But…" He chuckled. "But only the kind of chocolate women that aren't lesbians."

"Oh," Eragon said sympathetically, not sure why he was being sympathetic. "Aww…," he added a moment later when Murtagh didn't keep talking. "Something not work out? 's sad."

"That turned out not to be my type after all," Murtagh explained. "And I most definitely wasn't hers." He froze when Eragon flung his arms around him and snuggled up close. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, his bad mood back in an instant, despite the alcohol and friendly conversation.

"Look like you need a hug," Eragon slurred, nuzzling his neck.

"O-oh," Murtagh said, staring at Eragon like he was crazy. Or drunk. And he was. He awkwardly put his arms around Eragon and held them there for a moment. Then he, even more awkwardly, untangled Eragon from himself and pushing him back to where Eragon was sitting back where he had been before. Eragon didn't protest, or even seem to care. Murtagh leaned back against the wall again, and they lapsed into silence.

"'s your other type?" Eragon asked a moment later.

Murtagh hesitated, then smirked a little. "Blue-eyed boys," he said. "With brown hair and cute faces." He glanced at Eragon.

"Mm," Eragon said, closing his eyes. Then he opened them, blinking. Wait, he thought. He reached up and pulled a lock of his hair down before his eyes. Yes, it was brown. And unless he was mistaken, he had blue eyes.

Murtagh sighed a little. "I forgot we're drunk," he said.

"Oh," Eragon said again. What did that have to do with anything?

"Hitting on people is harder when both of you are drunk," Murtagh explained.

"Oh," Eragon said again.

"You have to be more direct."

Eragon nodded in agreement.

"Kind of like this," Murtagh said. Eragon started when he realized that Murtagh was leaning over, on his knees, and – very awkwardly, considering their positions – kissing him.

Then Murtagh pulled back slightly, smirking. "Oh," Eragon said a third time, finally realizing what the hell Murtagh had meant.

Murtagh grinned. "Cute," he said, brushing Eragon's cheek with his hand. "Just like that."

Then somehow they were on the ground, kissing once again, and Eragon's head was spinning. He wasn't sure if it was from the alcohol, or the heat from Murtagh's lips on his, pressing just the right way with such hunger and softness and oh that felt perfect, right there – and the world was spinning, not his head, but it didn't matter. Murtagh's mouth – such a wonderful mouth – was leaving his, though Eragon groaned in protest. That groan turned into a whimper as he felt a hot tongue ever-so-gently flick across his neck, and teeth scrape the sensitive skin there.

Eragon's hands clenched, his fingernails scraping across the cement under them. He found himself panting as Murtagh – a man – did these things to him. I'm gay, Eragon realized through all of it, all of the alcohol and pleasure and want and –

Oh, never mind; it didn't matter any more, because Murtagh had most definitely not stopped and had gone even further.

Eragon's eyes squeezed shut and he gasped as Murtagh's cool hand slid up his shirt. Sparks of electric pleasure tingled down his spine, gathering as pure heat in his suddenly tight pants. Murtagh's fingers – oh his blessed fingers – tweaked Eragon's hardened nipples, and Eragon's breath hitched in his throat. Eragon groaned as those fingers moved down, down to a far more important area and squeezed roughly.

Pants and moans escaped Eragon's throat and his fingers scrabbled for purchase against the rough cement. He'd never done anything like this before, never wanted to, never knew what he was missing. Little tingles of pain bit into his fingers as the cement scraped them raw, but he was too far gone to even notice, much less care. He tasted something metallic, and was surprised to find it blood – he'd bitten his lip so hard he'd broken the skin.

Murtagh kissed him roughly, his hands never pausing. His mouth muffled Eragon's desperate noises as the brunet writhed. His own hardness was pressed against Eragon's hip, leaving no doubt in Eragon's mind that his torturer – for this was torture of the worst kind – was enjoying this quite a bit.

Just as Eragon thought he might not be able to take it any longer, Murtagh's hand moved away. Instead, Murtagh moved so that he was straddling Eragon and ground their hips together forcefully. Eragon groaned into Murtagh's mouth, arching his back and pressing his hips upwards. It was too much, too hot, too fast, too unexpected and just completely ridiculous. Murtagh was a hurried person, a spur-of-the-moment don't-wait-for-objections-first kind of person, a person who didn't hesitate to assume he was wanted and decided to take advantage of this.

"Fuck," Murtagh moaned through gritted. "'s been way too long since I…"

A light flashed, and they both froze.

Murtagh scrambled off him, and Eragon was just in time to see a young woman gripping a camera vanish back down the steps. Murtagh cursed. Eragon stumbled upright, wondering what the hell had happened.

After that, thing became even blurrier. Time seemed to move much faster. Murtagh glanced at him, eyes sharp. "'s not such a big deal," he muttered. "Stupid journalists." But he looked a little upset, and more than a little irritated. They looked at each other, thoughts of what they'd just been doing long gone.

Murtagh hurried to the door and down the grimy, ill-lit stairway, and Eragon followed, still stumbling a little. Somehow he felt a little more alert than he had been before. Soon enough they were back in the club, all flashing light and music – nothing had changed, but everything felt different somehow because of what had just happened.

Eragon wasn't even sure what had just happened.

Eragon, starting to feel sick again, stumbled slightly, and Murtagh caught and steadied him. A mob of girls moved to attack Murtagh, but the withering glare he sent in their direction, combined with the fact he was obviously helping a drunk friend and was therefore busy, managed to make them hesitate a bit. By the time they'd gathered up the courage to maybe thinking of trying again, Murtagh was gone, having pushed his way through the crowd.

"Thorn!" Murtagh called. The huge redhead, who was relaxing in the booth Eragon had been sitting in earlier, turned around as they approached.

"Oh. Hey, Murtagh. Hey, kiddo," Thorn said.

"Hey, dragon," Eragon muttered, blinking dully at the redhead. Murtagh didn't respond to the greeting.

"Did you see a girl with a camera hurrying through here?" he demanded.

Thorn raised his eyebrows. "No, why?"

Eragon, curious as to where Saphira had gone, leaned around the front of the booth so he could see if she was lying down out of sight still. She was indeed lying down – in Thorn's lap. She appeared to be asleep or just passed out. Eragon blinked. Why - ?

"I want to smash her camera," Murtagh explained, flushing slightly.

"Is that what you kids call it these day?" Thorn said dryly. "Smashing cameras? And here I thought the phrase 'popping cherries' would stick around longer."

Murtagh stared at him in surprise. "What? No! Agh, damn it." He scowled, frustrated. "Never mind. It's useless, she's probably long gone."

Eragon swayed slightly. Murtagh grimaced. "You really are drunk, kid," he muttered. He gave Eragon an almost regretful look, then said, "Who drove you here? Or did you drive yourself?"

Eragon shrugged. "Arya."

"Where is she?"


Thorn glanced at him. "Long black hair? Green eyes? Kind of bitchy?"

Eragon nodded, then immediately stopped. Nodding made him dizzy.

"She left with Nasuada as soon as they managed to find babysitters for you kids," he explained. He chuckled slightly and ruffled Saphira's blond hair. "Though I don't mind watching Blondie here."

Murtagh scowled. "Fine, then. Thorn, get her home when she wakes up." Still supporting a very tipsy Eragon, he began to make his way through the crowd.

Soon they were outside, and Eragon found himself being helped into the backseat of a black car. Murtagh was saying something about an address. His address. Eragon struggled to remember, and the names and numbers came to him. He told Murtagh, having to pause between some words to try and remember again. Everything seemed blurry and out of focus, even his mind. It was… strange, to say the least.

Then, somehow, they were at his house, and Murtagh was standing in the passenger door, urging him to get out. Eragon remembered stumbling through the bushes around the side of the house then, the taste of vomit thick in his mouth even though he didn't remember hurling. He crawled through his window and collapsed on the bed beneath it, safe inside his own home. He struggled briefly to get out of his pants - the chains on them made them very uncomfortable to lie on. The last conscious thought he had was a fervent prayer that Roran would never, ever find out about this.

Of course, the picture that appeared in the newspaper the next day, showing none other than Murtagh Morzanson straddling him, didn't exactly help.

(end part one)

Whoo-hoo! Finally finished. I do believe this is the longest oneshot I have ever written. Eight thousand words... and it took forever. I have no idea how some people manage to write ten or fifteen thousand word oneshots...

There might be a sequel to this, but I'm really not sure where to go with it, so I'm not sure when it'll be written. I am, however, re-writing the entire story from Nasuada's point of view for as a gift for a friend of mine who happens to like femslash (the pervert) and that will also be posted as a oneshot.