[i]Where’s here?[/i] I spare a glance at him. He figures it out. I can’t help the tiny victorious smile that arises.

Brendon, he’s all about rhythm. He lives it. When he was in his studio, he produced instrumental tracks back to back, seemingly no end to his feverish talent, his head brimming with ideas on a constant. He walked with a full-body swing, jaunty, timed by his own natural beat, never stunted like the rest of us. He played piano without having to read the sheets, without the stupid stickers on the keys I still need after a while without practice, beautifully, flawlessly, effortlessly. Brendon, he’s all about rhythm, and as I help him from the car, I watch his chest start to rise and fall with the sound of the waves crashing ashore, and I have probably never loved him more than I love him in this moment. 

He’s barely himself these days, because it’s hard to be him, and this is just. So Brendon. 

He goes to hide away in my chest, but I take the opportunity to look at him for a moment, careful. Barely himself, but it’s him. I’ve memorized his face by now, have had it for years, but I still have to take a minute, appreciate him in an environment other than pure white and plastic grey again. [i]Thank you.[/i] It’s then that I pull him in, fingers curling around the back of his head, hold him close where he’d intended to go moments earlier anyway. I haven’t properly hugged him in a while.

He’s colder than I anticipated.

I remind him about my birthday while I pull away, shrugging my coat off while he nods, and he’s smiling, radiant, brighter than day, more hopeful than life. It’s not cold, and he’s probably covered up enough, but I still gingerly wrap my coat over his shoulders before throwing my arm around his waist again. [i]I remember, you’d never seen the sea before.[/i] I laugh softly at the irony. [b]”Despite all of the songs about it. And growing up on the West Coast. I’m a walking contradiction.”[/b] It takes willpower to look away from his fond expression, the most tender man I’ve ever known. I’m not saying it’s not going to happen, I just thought the stakes would be lower. But. I always figured he’d outlive me. It takes more willpower to pretend this is not what occupies my mind on a 24/7 basis.

I walk us forward.

I’m not sure why we’re relying on my uncertain, unsteady steps, my shoddy guidance, but I’m more carrying Brendon than I am holding him. So it makes sense.

We’re getting closer to the water so I start kicking my shoes off, one heel helping the other, and after a moment I’m barefoot, stooping and rolling up mine and Brendon’s jeans’ legs to avoid the water. Our fingers are locked with no chance of breaking and I can feel his gaze on me, most of the time, comforting but somewhat a source of pressure. I can still only think, if only I’d have fucking said something. If I’d have asked. If I hadn’t brushed it all under the rug, because Brendon said he’s okay, so he must be okay. This isn’t all his responsibility, still, and I knew that. I learned that in my first round of Al-Anon groups, forever ago, when my dad said he wanted to try. The first time, anyway.

[i]I missed it too.[/i] I blink, once, twice, finally turn my head to see him again.[i] I miss everything.[/i] Everything. Because now he has nothing.

I look away reluctantly. The upside-down ‘V’ of a seagull flies in the distance, wavering, inverting with every flap of its wings. The sand, it’s greyer than pictures depict, the water touching it closest less foamy and cerulean and more green, soapy looking. There’s can tabs everywhere, but otherwise the litter’s not so bad. No one else, not a soul, is around, though I suspect the two misshapen figures far, far in the distance may be someone walking their dog. Any footprints they may have left near us, washed away. It’s almost as if Brendon and I are the first ones here, the first generation, Adam and, well. Adam.

The trick to forgetting the big picture is to look at everything close-up. The shortcut to closing the door is to bury yourself in the details.

This is how we must look to God.

[b]”Brendon,”[/b] I say distractedly, muted, and my hand is so, so tight on his. I’m not talking directly to him, I’m addressing the sea, the one that has no telltale facial expression or hollows in its cheeks from a disease I ultimately contributed to. [b]”Brendon, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t do anything sooner, I just.”[/b] Self-deluded. I take a breath. It is nowhere in tune with Brendon’s, the sea swells, just a lone, panicked, misplaced chord in the middle of an easy rhythm. He must have thought I didn’t even [i]care,[/i] when I wasn’t stepping in. [b]”I let you down, baby.”[/b] I hear my voice falter, and that’s a good point to shut up.