It’s been hard trying to find someone that understood my truest self as much as Brendon did. I’ve never sought to replace him, of course; I know I never can. Still, going through life without someone like that, it’s a sad existence. I have close friends, obviously. People from well-off backgrounds who cling to those falling from stardom, mostly, looking to build their own careers, but it’s whatever, I’ll take what I can get, and besides, sometimes there’s a diamond in the rough. Z, for example, we’ve got a special kind of connection. Past that awkward stage where we thought we worked while in a romantic relationship, which we definitely, definitely didn’t, We’re better as friends. I’m only now considering that maybe the reason for that is because I’m still so attached to the man standing in front of me, an attachment longwithstanding on a subconscious level. Or maybe I just missed him so much I’m playing it all up in my head.

He knew when it was okay to mess around with me and when I was sensitive to the slightest provocation. He could distinguish between my ridiculous extremes, even when I was good at putting up an emotional barrier. And then, to top it off, he knew how to deal with it all. Spencer was my childhood best friend, he knew me longer than anyone, longer than some blood relatives; even then, he didn’t know what to do with me as well as Brendon did. Whereas Spence would get fed up with my neuroses and my little depressive episodes and give up, Brendon would practically scoop me up out of my bunk and force a hotel comment card into my hands so I’d get it all out of my head. Eventually he was someone I could rely on so much that I started saying some of it - though definitely not [i]all[/i] - out loud. He listened better than anyone, and he never gave me the bullshit predictable sympathies. He was real, and genuine, and I couldn’t imagine life without him - all the way up until I had to re-learn to exist by myself.

I remember, I visited my father, and he showed me this collection, boxes upon boxes, of our records, our CDs, promotional posters, recordings of interviews, magazines... anything to do with the band. He looked sallow and vaguely unwell, but he was so lucid, and he seemed so excited about a band he once deemed a ridiculous endeavor, a massive disappointment, why wasn’t I studying something serious, what was I doing with my life. He believed in me, after all. He was doing better, even if he had his moments. And then, like pinching candlelight, he died six weeks later.

Brendon was the one I went to, when that happened. First I had my little breakdown, where nobody was my friend, nobody understood, fuck everything, what was the point - and then he let me in, just like that. He didn’t ask questions and he didn’t force me to talk about it, nothing. I remember how it felt, in his arms; safe, like I could stay there forever and nothing would ever hurt again. That was the first time I thought that maybe I’d be okay, that I’d get past this, it was just grief. It was the first time I let anyone see me cry for a very long time, and I’m sure I was only able to stop when I did because he was there. 

Funny to think that if we hadn’t been so scared of - what, deviation from the norm? - that would have been the case for us for the last decade. But those tranquil moments were private, just for us, and when they ended we were always back to lustful escapades and snapshots of weakness where maybe we’d border on romantic behavior. We never let it get too deep, and when we did, we never let it last too long. Something about vulnerability was petrifying, even though I know now, reasonably, that he’s the person I was most comfortable being vulnerable around. I was so fucking [i]dumb.[/i]

Looking at him now, yeah, I was a complete idiot. I’m fairly sure I heard about Brendon saying something publicly about not being straight, something understated but definite, because Jon texted me something along the lines of ‘[i]wow, can’t believe he did it[/i]’ coupled with a link to an article, and I wondered if that meant Jon [i]knew something[/i] or if he was making innocent commentary, but whatever. I was happy for him. I’m still not out, and still not really sure. In theory, I’d probably identify the same as Brendon. In practice, I have absolutely no clue. Lucky for me, I’m far enough away from the spotlight that hardly anyone’s putting pressure on me to do what Brendon did. Speculation once may have circled both of us, but at this point I’m pretty much in the clear.

Anyway, the point is: it’s not like there’s... no hope for us. I shouldn’t be thinking about it, because it’s been almost a decade and we’re different people and I’d be stupid and naïve to think we could do everything we were too scared to do back then, and anyway [i]I’m supposed to be moved on[/i], but the thought crosses my mind. I deliberately try not to look at him directly because I know I’ll just. Want. Almost a decade. I’m a dumbass.

[i]It’s exactly the car I pictured you to have.[/i] As if can pull off any charm, and without complete control over my mouth, apparently, I smile and say, [b]”You pictured what kind of car I’d have?”[/b] And, yeah, I’m messing with him as if we still talk all the time. But it’s almost easy to slip into that normalcy, with him - partially. [b]”I’ll take you on a tour sometime.”[/b] On the joking front, it’s easy; I doubt we’d be able to talk about anything that actually mattered. A few beats later, to lessen the teasing, I speak more softly, and I can feel myself leaning closer even though I don’t really mean to. [b]”I think about you, too.”[/b] Still. He’s not totally off the hook. [b]”And the Tesla that’s probably in your high-security garage.”[/b] Alright. I’m not funny. I shove my hands in my pockets, shoulders sloping high.

[i]I don’t doubt it, man.[/i] Gabe’s predictable. And a little intimidating. I actually do glance around to make sure he’s not gathering intel on us. [i]Hey, don’t stop on my account.[/i] I open my mouth for a second to contradict him, but I’m not sure how to say that I really would rather be talking to him than anyone else in the world. Gabe practically never existed to me at this point. Not that I’d say that to their face. I just change the subject - and I’m serious, I’m glad he came. Maybe I’m getting myself into trouble, here, but I’m glad I got to see him. The sound Brendon makes when he hears that is so ridiculously endearing that I grin widely in response, lasting just half a second before I can get it under control into a fond smile, biting my cheek determinedly.

[i]Nice to hear.[/i] I chew my lip momentarily before I can work up the stupidity to offer him a drink. [i]Sure.[/i] Thank god. I resist the urge to physically guide him by the shoulder or, like, with a hand at his back, because it seems so [i]easy[/i] and apparently I’m still this attached, and instead just turn to lead him to the open bar Gabe has set up, people crowding around but easy enough to clear a path through at my size. It saddens me, for a second, that I don’t know what Brendon’s favorite drink is anymore. It could be the same - he was always a beer guy, trying a new one in every city we went to. Even underage, someone on the crew would score something. It was ridiculous. [b]”What’s your poison now? Assuming a few world tours have changed your tastes.”[/b] I smile a little lopsidedly, already pouring out honey whiskey for myself. There have got to be pictures of me on my 21st out there still, this exact drink in my hand. [b]”I guess I haven’t changed much.”[/b] The double meaning wasn’t really intended, but here we are.