Three and a half months ago, Brendon had relapsed- again. He was starting to doubt himself, and wonder whether this was just how his life was supposed to pan out- drinking himself blind and destroying ever bridge he ever built in his brief periods of soberity. The irony of some of his (or rather Ryan’s) old songs left a bitter taste in his mouth- sit back, relapse again. He tried not to think about it too much. Two and a half months ago, he had gotten worse, and Ryan wasn’t exactly doing great either, though he granted himself the privilege of not particularly caring, or rather subduing that quality with more alcohol. One month a half ago, they had an argument- a bit quite explosive, but a crushing, desperate one, where Brendon, in self defence, had shut himself off completely from Ryan and decided to leave before Ryan could properly tell him to. He felt slightly better knowing he hadn’t technically been told to fuck off.

With a month a half to reflect on, Brendon was still uneasy about whether breaking it off (officially? kind of? Brendon didn’t know and was too afraid to ask) was the right thing to do for both of them. The first few weeks, he’d been a mess- since the next day he’d moved to Joey’s with barely a backwards glance, he spent most of his time curled up in a chair, sometimes nursing a bottle of whatever Joey reluctantly let him have, Bogart close to his chest and his brown eyes colder, darker, almost hollow. It had gotten easier- Joey told him he was getting better, he was in the process of being weaned off, but the success of this didn’t rub off on him when he was busy trying to offset shakes and steady his hand. Joey had been a saint through all of this, and the guilt did kick in sometimes that this definitely wasn’t easy for him on multiple levels. Brendon knew he could be selfish, and it occurred to him that he hadn’t even thanked him, but for some reason, the words felt wrong and muddled and his usually talkative self couldn’t quite formulate one sincere enough.

Now, Brendon was doing significantly better, but something inside of him was void- it became prevalent when he felt the ghost of a hand intertwined with his own, the sound of a voice played on repeat in his head, the missing warmth at night while he lay awake staring at the empty space beside him. It was all kind of cliche and he was sick to death of himself to the point he wondered whether it was better to break things off for good rather than just leaving himself to speculate and agonise over uncertainties. He just couldn’t bring himself to pick up the phone. He wasn’t sure where he and Ryan stood. Was Ryan doing better without him? He hoped so, but also selfishly hoped that Ryan missed him just as much. To fill his time, Brendon mostly turned to Joey, or Bogart, or whatever bullshit he could find on the TV. He stayed away from music because a certain song had started to play on shuffle once and he’d grown [i]angry[/i] instead of sad and almost thrown his phone across the room.

That particular day, though, Brendon was feeling better than he had in a long time. Bogart was curled up in his lap, his hair was actually falling right, his eyes looked a little brighter and the crinkles returned when he smiled whenever Joey said something to make him laugh. Ryan was, astoundingly, the last thing on his mind, and since he had kind of forced Joey to play some Sinatra on the sound system, he was singing enthusiastically along to that and having a good enough time that he could skim over the tremors in his hands for once. He was getting better. Brendon was in the middle of ‘My Way’ when he heard the front door open, and he only stopped momentarily to listen and pat Bogart reassuringly. Probably Wade come back from work, about to walk in and demand a meal from one of three good groups- pasta, a different pasta or any variation of Mexican food. When Ryan walked in, he was kind of taken aback, and his voice faltered and stopped.

Unable to stop his eyebrows from raising, he felt Bogart sit up, alert and nervously excited. Brendon opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, and Ryan beat him to it by a mile anyway. [i]We need to talk.[/i] He said nothing, and only wondered why Ryan couldn’t just drop him a warning text first so he could look a little sexier. Jesus, what was he thinking? This was still his husband. Not his ex. This in mind, he tilted his head, as if to tell him to continue. [i]I’m so sorry, Bren.[/i] For what? All but unloading everything on him while he’d been piss-drunk and incredibly vulnerable? Brendon held his tongue. [i]I’m so sorry, I got so fucking scared, and then. It just- that’s not what I should’ve done, no one should do that, I didn’t think it through, shouldn’t have left you alone like that-[/i] [b]”Ryan, stop.”[/b] He cut in finally, kind of annoyed that a downer had been put on his day but also feeling a stab of pain in his chest and an ache in his heart he’d tried to drink away resurfacing. 

[b]“Don’t apologise. What else were you supposed to do? Stay with me in sickness and in health like you promised at our wedding? That would be asking too much. Anyway, I wasn’t alone. I got Joey.”[/b] Joey, who he specifically told to not let Ryan in. Brendon grimaced for a second, then shook his head and broke into a relatively easy smile. [b]”Anyway, how are you? Doing okay?”[/b] He was trying not to seem too passive aggressive, but when Bogart jumped down from his lap and bounded towards Ryan excitedly, he couldn’t help but accidentally exclaim ‘Traitor’. He rested his head against the couch cushion. [b]“How’s Dot?”[/b]