As far as Brendon was concerned, Ryan could lie, lie, lie all he wanted about his intentions- be it tonight, given the bus had been empty and they’d had the night to themselves, or in general- as Brendon could effectively see straight through him. He was transparent. When he straight-up accused him of initially having very specific intentions, Brendon knew he could be accused of being unfair. After all, there had been times where Brendon had done the same, he’d intitiated, not Ryan; say, they were practicing, Ryan would be sat playing guitar, for once concentrated, and Brendon would watch him in silence, hoping that when Ryan looked up the expression on his face would be enough. That’s how they communicated now- it was safer and somehow less [i]real [/i]than actual flirting. When they did that, Brendon could treat it like it was nothing to him. He had also come to believe that Ryan didn’t have to. Anyway, he wasn’t a hypocrite, not really, only kind of, because as of recently Brendon had been frequently and reliably rejecting any of Ryan’s advances- at first he had pretended he didn’t notice when Ryan tried to catch his eye, then he’d make sure ryan knew he had blatantly refused, by shaking his head or arching a judgemental eyebrow or smirking mockingly in his direction. This, apparently, wasn’t enough for Ryan to get the message, and he was nothing if not persistent and stubborn about it, which was unusual because Ryan had always been someone less inclined to chase, more inclined to settle and give up. That’s what Brendon thought, anyway.

Brendon thought a lot of things about Ryan- some things had he felt sick to even entertain now- and currently, colourful expletives cursed him in his head as he stared at his dumb, gorgeous face. Frowning at that thought, he looked down stonily as he felt Ryan’s eyes on him, careful and searching and remorseful and Brendon didn’t want Ryan to be sorry, he just wanted him to fuck off permenantly so they could go back to the way they were- high-strung, confrontational, all the anger but none of the unbearable subtext. That would be much less complicated and much safer, and it wouldn’t lead to Brendon whining about Ryan not caring about him [i]emotionally.[/i] Of course he didn’t. Why would he? Why did Brendon ever, even subconsciously, expect that from him? And even if he did miraculously care about Ryan, why would he ever admit it, when every occasion that Ryan had ever been minutely personal (say, about his dad, or his deteriorating relationship with Keltie) Brendon had been harsh and critical, not cruel, per say, but not exactly willing to sympathise. Brendon looked back up, and Ryan glanced away. Brendon felt a sick sense of triumph. [i]Don’t make assumptions if you’re going to be that far off the mark.[/i] That’s funny, Brendon thought, as he curled his hands into fists. He thought all the intitial anger and fire had drained out of him.

[b]”Sorry, yeah, I didn’t realise you had feelings for me, I can’t believe I didn’t get that message through all the yelling, that’s insane,”[/b] Brendon spat, closing his eyes tightly and watching scenes flash through his head that made anger surge into him again- not just anger, but dejection. He thought back to that one time where Brendon’s room had been on a different floor to the rest of the band’s by mistake, and they’d taken advantage of the time and been together effectively til the sun came up, after which Ryan abruptly excused himself, getting dressed half with his clothes, half with Brendon’s, which was funny, Brendon’s mouth twisted as his own tight blue v-neck rode halfway up Ryan’s back- there hasn’t even been a ‘goodbye’ or anything, just a cleared throat and a ‘be there for soundcheck’. Another memory was of before that soundcheck, alone in a hallway backstage and they’d been laughing, talking, uneasily easy with eachother, and Brendon, in this rare harmony, had tried his chances to lean in for a kiss. Ryan had cut it all off short and pulled back, looking panicked, rambling excuses and backing away down the corridor, back the way they’d come. Brendon felt that sting of shame now. He recalled every time, feeling cheap. He didn’t want that anymore.

[i]I didn’t know.[/i] His voice was unsteady, and Brendon felt another twisted sensation of victory from having reduced Ryan to that, minutes after the motherfucker had been vehemently jealous and in denial about his own jealousy. Brendon’s eyes narrowed as he leaned against the back of the couch, crossing his legs, the picture of composure even though he still felt the sting of Ryan’s callous actions to his core. [i]I didn’t know how badly I misled you.[/i] Misled- what? Brendon’s brow furrowed, and he wondered what the hell Ryan had intended to lead him believe. Because if everything was just Ryan pretending to be a dickhead, it was extremely convincing and realistic and somehow even worse than if he just hated Brendon’s guts. [i]If you really think I'm like that, then I fucked up beyond belief, Brendon, and I'm sorry.[/i] An apology, then. Brendon wanted to be bitter, snap at him to keep his name out of his mouth, but he just sat, uncharacteristically quiet, wondering again what the hell Ryan thought his shitty behaviour would achieve as far as Brendon’s good graces went. If he had some ulterior motive, Ryan didn’t know about it.

[i]I thought- I thought I was being convincing for other people, I didn't think it was- I didn't mean to hurt you.[/i] Brendon glared at Ryan, sullen. He found it hard to believe any word that left his lips, even if he knew what Ryan looked like when he was lying, and there were flashes of geniuity in his somber, remorseful expression. Brendon, stubbornly, tried not to notice, just pursed his lips. [b]”Why do you have to be a dick to me in private to convince other people that you hate my guts? Everyone already [i]knows[/i] you do,”[/b] Brendon murmured, and he cringed at how pathetic he sounded, how vulnerable, as his voice faltered and broke towards the end. He looked down, subdued, as Ryan did the same. [i]I’m sorry about Ian.[/i] Brendon’s eyes flicked back up to Ryan’s face, and he leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in one hand. [b]”What’re you sorry for? Being a dick to him, or being a dick to me because of him? And- are we done here, can I ask him back over,”[/b] Brendon mumbled, leaning back and reaching into his pocket for his phone, wiping his face by lifting up his shirt, pretending his eyes hadn’t welled up.