jakob

be cruel to me, ‘cause i’m a fool for you

The struggle between 'what do I really feel' and 'what are the exact right final draft-worthy words to say here' was what took place in Ryan's mind in those suffocating thirty seconds following Brendon's confession, then the five minutes alone on the steps, and then, well. It continued even when he came to Brendon's door. For the first time, words left his mouth that weren't quite so thought out; that weren't something he scribbled out in the notebook of his mind, then had to approve in a different sector, then finally spoke aloud. Granted, at first, it was pretty stupid. 'Are you okay?' Come on. Hell no. No one would be. He supposed the thought of Brendon leaving, the idea coming to full fruition from Brendon himself, out loud, then and there - that was enough to kick him into gear. Fuck a 'proofread' version of his feelings. He figured they were uncomplicated enough. Brendon was a grand example to follow. His emotions weren't so... reined in. It was a beautiful thing to witness.

Ryan was quick to the punch, fairly concise, and he supposed by Brendon's reaction, it was hardly convincing for a split-second - even out of character. Yeah, he could see that. This was all a far cry from the chainsmoking evil porch man Brendon had first met. The asshole who waltzed into his study and demanded that Brendon get out... although, he was received pretty well then. Regardless, it was all very different in this moment, simply because he felt a different kind of mental clarity. This, he supposed, was what living in a moment rather than concocting your own stories all the time was like. His life was usually so predictable, measurable, quantified by pages, by word counts, by chapters. It's, shockingly, exhilarating to admit that you are and have been very much in love with the person you spend sometimes 100% of your day with (and then, as they often did, opt to work late into the night on any given chapter that didn't have a deadline and could wait until the next day... though, of course, half of this overtime was dedicated to random, derivative conversations, hanging out of seats upside down when they were bored, so forth).

Alongside Ryan's urgency, Brendon appeared to begin to agree with him, nodding with brighter eyes, his grin almost matching. Ryan didn't take it lightly - he was endlessly lucky that Brendon just naturally understood him at this point, seemed to catch on that the nervous pause he took wasn't anything real to go off of. He wasn't demanding explanation, wasn't pushing him away; he knew Ryan well enough. Ryan admired him up close when he was hovering over him, realizing in the moment that he hadn't quite done this yet, that he needed the moment to stretch a little longer. Yes, he was observant, he was only human, and Brendon was stupidly pretty. But this close up - it wasn't really welcome before. Or, well. They hadn't caught up with one another until now. He ran his fingers through his hair another time, mirroring the way Brendon always cleared it from his eyes, as if it'd be any more revealing. Who are you? Ryan squinted, raised his eyebrows right back at Brendon. He had a smart-ass answer-that's-really-a-question loaded up, like, 'boyfriend?' but wasn't quite as brazen as usual.

Quick, say something normal, like- be an asshole, so I know it’s really you and I’m not fuckin’- dreaming. Ryan laughed, a little more settled, muted. He hummed thoughtfully for a moment. "You were right. You are, in fact, loud as hell from floors away. Doesn't mean I don't miss you." He grinned again, like he was on the verge of laughing again, but they were tilted towards each other, the angle a little too perfect to ignore. Brendon answered with action, not words, taking the liberty of leaning them backward, tugging Ryan with him. His surety was infectious; Ryan fell easily into rhythm with him, resting against his hand, even losing tension in his arms and relaxing into him, and - he chased Brendon's lips for an embarrassing split second when he pulled away, blinking like he'd just been woken up. I- Ryan, fuck. Oh, god, he must've done something weird. Ryan lifted himself slightly, prepared for the worst. I need to get dressed, oh my god. Look at me. Ryan followed his gaze, then paused, squinting at Brendon when his hand raised to his chest. Well, unfortunate, but understandable. "How modest of you." He almost let up, then caught himself, placing a hand over Brendon's and leaning down again to kiss him once more, just brief, before rolling aside.

A little more in character now. He folded an arm behind his head and looked reflective. "I mean, you're usually, like." Ryan propped himself up, keeping from cracking up. "Remember when you got into my study and you were acting in very un-Christian ways? You're a changed man." This was a little more familiar - teasing was in their nature. He rested on his arm again, watching Brendon with an amused grin back on his face.

be cruel to me, ‘cause i’m a fool for you

When Ryan spoke, he received an automatic reaction, but it wasn't a hopeful one. It wasn't an automatically believing one. He didn't blame Brendon. Ryan tended to be blunt (and therefore truthful), but that didn't mean he was emotionally open, it didn't mean he was trustworthy when it came to feelings like this. They were both pretty cognizant of that. His mind, not prone to nostalgia but welcoming it in that moment, blinked back to that moment on his porch when a curious stranger circled his home, clearly having just been looking for any inhabitors at all. He remembers Brendon saying something innocent, like, 'um, hi,' and his response was something a little more eloquent, along the lines of - that's right. Hi. What the literal fuck are you doing on my porch at eleven in the morning? He remembers that Jon had made this little delivery to him. He remembers that he should definitely say thank you for that, considering this moment, right here. (And, he remembers that Brendon often gave back as good as he got. Things like, 'don't you have a deadline?' and telling Ryan he'd just skim over the summary of his book on Wikipedia, and generally being a pain in the ass, but also just goofy enough to keep around.)

He was rewarded with a gentle smile from Brendon, finally, followed by an even gentler that’s ridiculous, and Ryan tilted his head honestly at him, charmed. You always say I’m loud and can hear me from- wherever you are. A weak argument. Ryan kept on recounting his reasons, and in the back of his mind, memories kept coming back to him - even more rationale to go by, it seemed. He remembers a week after Brendon arrived, when he came down at two in the morning for coffee (yeah, yeah, dumb, whatever), and Brendon was in his jersey, in a state of undress otherwise. He told Ryan he was the hardest worker he'd ever met - which, y'know, was either a load of bullshit, or Brendon hadn't quite the repertoire of people necessary for comparison. He asked about whether the writing was draining, not the immediate approach most people took - 'what are you writing about?' 'What trauma are you writing from?' You know, all the invasive shit. Brendon didn't even vaguely think the way that most people did. He was considerate without putting energy towards it.

That’s all you ever have to say to me, you know. Ryan took a seat, watched him, considered this. That you miss me. That you want me around. Okay. All right. It's all true. Ryan wasn't just feeding him the information he wanted - it was all things that he thought, everything that passed through his mind but was funneled into something else, something more acceptable and less vulnerable. Evidently, vulnerable was okay. Look: he'd just done it, and the world hadn't imploded. Brendon wasn't shocked at him, wasn't acting like he was a different person. But that’s- what I feel, Ry, it’s more than that, I- I can’t stay here if you don’t... Brendon looked like he was at a loss, but Ryan's mind had never been clearer. He was only quiet for a moment, because this wasn't exactly something he'd practiced and it was very much unfamiliar territory, and fuck, what if there was a certain way to say it, but. He was in love with him. That's all he could do.

Brendon looked suspended for a moment, and Ryan took this pause to examine him, his posture, arms folded and all. Again, couldn't blame him for that. It wasn't really defensiveness - it was self-preservation, and somehow there was a distinction there, but he could tell Brendon wasn't in any profound state of disbelief. Yeah, Ryan had made it clear from the get-go that he wasn't someone who talked out of his ass. The beat that passed didn't serve to heighten his anxiety, oddly, because Brendon's feelings were already confirmed regardless of what happened - it was more peaceful, reflective, and he was almost ready to laugh at their circumstances, Brendon only halfway wrapped in his towel, still speckled with droplets of water. And then it set in that Ryan was really and truly impatient, because love was also a physical feeling, and he'd been drawn to Brendon for the longest time, and he wanted to hold him close and be forgiven for his stupid, stunted brain right away.

I- why couldn’t you- why couldn’t you have just said - "I know," Ryan said quickly, shifting, shaking his head to show just how ridiculous it was to him, too. Not hearing that back, it. It really hurt. You- are you serious? You’re not just... Ryan waited with baited breath until Brendon had finished (or not-quite-finished) his thought until he nodded rapidly, comprehensively. "I'm sorry. I'm dumb. I don't know." He grinned at the same time as Brendon, breath rushing out almost as a relieved laugh, completely aware of the nonsense coming out of his mouth and having no idea how to right it. You asshole. Ryan laughed entirely then, shifting closer, fondly. God, I’m going to kill you. "Then do it!" Ryan taunted, shifting onto his knees, fussing the sheets, until he leveled slightly above Brendon, beaming at him.

Almost dotingly, his hand passed through Brendon's hair, resting at the back of his head, attempting to tilt him back gently. Not much experience here, he realized belatedly, and his gaze flickered between Brendon's, to his lips, then back, the confidence still there but some unwelcome wariness arriving. "Before you kill me - can I kiss you first?"

well i never really thought that you’d come tonight

Tenseness in the air is something I find myself very proficient at detecting. Call it years of adaptation to a less-than-reliable home life, or the dizzying adventure of a few years in the limelight, frequent meetings with bullshit producers who want nothing but an artist's humanity - whatever the case may be, I know, usually, when to put my guard up. And in that moment, that's not quite what happened, only because I had never done that with Brendon. Not in the past, anyway. Brendon was dependable, too. Historically I'd trusted him enough not to put those walls up (or at least not as strongly as I did with others); I saw no point in doing it then. Regardless, something was amiss, and I looked away for a beat, wondering at what my intuition was telling me. The party? The environment? Was I only used to seeing him in some claustrophobic, cramped little space, those tiny tour buses and staged interview rooms and crowded backstage mazes? I looked back at him after only an inhale, and upon a silent breath of relief, I read his expression. He didn't feel the uneasiness. If we're going off of 'historically,' then, I'd always trusted Brendon's intuition more. I stick to the habit, ignoring the overwrought feeling in my chest and focusing instead on the fervent way he was looking at me, the ease he had about him. This is what I missed, the uncommon times I thought about him. The security. How ever-so opposite he is from me. My heart beats in a different kind of nervous rhythm, more intoxicated than apprehensive.

Swaying closer, with such an exploring expression that I could only understand that he was asking a silent question, Brendon looked still so ingenuous and inviting that my usually obstinate mind didn't think to object to this obvious course of action. This is what feels exactly right. I angled toward him, closing the gap, and... time slowed for a moment, some mechanism in my brain giving me space to figure out what wasn't fitting here, and from muscle memory my hand lifted just barely, grazing his jaw in an almost-cradle - only scarcely, until we both decided that it wasn't going to work. Synchronous, we pulled apart.

I’m sorry, he said, and my quickening heart hurt for him. I shouldn’t have done that. He didn't do it alone, I wanted to point out, and I tried to communicate mutual grief through my expression. He may have initiated - I certainly punctuated. I felt like that would fix everything. My hand raised again, more muscle memory, needing him to see me, know that I empathized. I tried lifting his chin, tried to level my gaze with his. "It’s okay," was all it took, and I was met with his regard. But, as much as I understood the sentiment he shared, I didn't know why... it felt like a natural course of action, and then it didn't. I spoke without preparation. "I know what you mean. I think it’s just- we barely know each other now, it’s so..." Unfamiliar? Foreign? Maybe we needed to reconnect more beforehand - but I felt like I knew him just as well, losing some minor details. I hadn't known his favored drink. Everything else, I felt I deserved credit for. "I don’t know. I wanted to kiss you. I was wondering how it would- I don’t know, whether it would be the same, or."

I wasn't chasing that feeling in particular, though, I figured. I was longing for what we had in conjunction with the physical connection - he knew me as well as I knew him, and when we kissed, we fit like puzzle pieces as a result of that. That was what I wondered, in the back of my mind; or at least, that was a fraction of the drama in my head, the part that I could somewhat rationalize. But this is not the kind of thing to communicate in the back of your Trans Am, to a person you have not known for so long, outside of a slowly multiplying party. So I just pursed my lips, losing the nerve to hold his gaze after a few moments, slumping slowly back against the car door. It felt, oddly, like I had fucked up, like if I had done something differently then this would have gone more accordingly. Alas, a selfish way to think.

Brendon was at least polite about leaving. Surprisingly, however, he had the patience to give me his phone number and address. Okay, then, maybe my shortcomings weren't so much so. Come over anytime. All right. Okay. Another thing about Brendon - he doesn't quit on you.

A day passed and, whenever I found myself sitting around absently, be it in a parking lot or in my study, I would look at the note I made on my phone with his information thinking, well, maybe he's hungover. Two days passed and I thought, well, maybe he's recovering from the hangover. Three days passed and I had too much free time and I tried scouring social media looking for any excuse that he was doing something else and therefore couldn't catch up with me, and, hey, would you look at that, two weeks ago he posted a 'thanks' for the numbers on a streaming app, maybe he's listening to music. Fuck. On the fourth day - not even a week later, shows how busy I am - I decided that there's no point in worrying about whether he won't reply, whether he will have time, whether he'll actually want to talk to me. He volunteered his number, his address. He was serious. Another thing about Brendon - he's genuine.

Brendon is about the only Brendon alive, so I texted 'Brendon,' and then pressed enter almost immediately so that I didn't overthink it: Hi, Brendon, sorry for not texting sooner. I’ve been- well, not busy, I don’t do anything these days. But I was wondering if you wanted to maybe come over sometime. I’d love to properly catch up after you left kind of abruptly.

That sounded quite direct. I backspaced on nothing at all, remembered I already sent it. So. Which I completely get, by the way. Sorry, I don’t know how to do this anymore. Embarrassing, but whatever, we both kind of embarrassed ourselves a few nights ago. I was ready to toss my phone aside and call that my human interaction of the day when it vibrated at me, a reward for my efforts. 'Why don’t we just go for a drive? I owe you that, I think.' I smiled and drew my teeth over my bottom lip slowly, feeling a little vitality come back to me, something exuberant. I hesitated for a moment before deciding, texting, In your Tesla, rich boy? No thanks. I’ll just pick you up tomorrow, okay? Open-ended. But I got a yes.

I'm wondering if there's a way to prepare for this, if there's a 'look' you're supposed to go for when you're meeting with an 'ex' who you are actually on quite good terms with and you are both pretty curious as to why, when you kissed briefly that night both of you coincidentally ended up at Gabe's party, it was way totally awkward and not like we expected. If you're supposed to style your hair. If I should be preparing at all because that would look like I really put in a lot of effort and cared or if I should put in minimal preparation so as to communicate that I'm very chill and casual and Brendon and I, we're cool.

We don't really get a handbook. I don't even know what to talk about. The 'Topics of Conversation' chapter would be interesting. Or 'How to Take Down Your Nerves When You Are About to be the Designated Driver and Therefore Cannot Drink a Whole Bottle of Boxed Wine.'

I dress in whatever looks most laidback, I suppose, some loose-fitting button-up I haven't actually worn more than twice and pants that are far too worn in that they are my most comfortable, shove my hand through my hair once or twice and decide that any product in it would be detected and therefore: not allowed. I hold it back with sunglasses instead, despite the fact that the sun is going down. This is what I wanted. Settings we are familiar with and we are both fond with: sunsets, sunrises. Everything in between gets lost. But the minutes are ticking by past 5 pm and as I look out the window, the sky is imbued with new colors, more deep oranges and purple and pink as the sun sinks low, low, lower, and it isn't dark out, but it's preparing to be in a few hours. So I think Brendon will enjoy it.

Brendon lives 45 minutes away from me. I get to the door and examine his house, a little proud on his behalf, before rapping on it. "Bren, if you're in there, give me a sign," I called theatrically, vaguely amused.

be cruel to me, ‘cause i’m a fool for you

In the beginning, Ryan wasn’t looking for anyone. He wasn’t searching to be rescued - he didn’t need a friend. In fact, it may even be possible that he didn’t have a register for loneliness, like when he was born his brain just... didn’t pick up on that cue. And that isn’t a sad fact, necessarily; he’d grown proud of his independence. Chalk it up to a self-sustained childhood, if you want to. Or dumb it down to years spent alone in a practical paradise, where he managed to evade the only visits he ever happened to get (from a housekeeper, or seven). If he’d made friends before this (he did, let’s not talk about it), his mind occasionally wandered, remembered their faces in subsidiary details of course only an author or a keen-eyed artist would pick up on. Laugh lines, a lack thereof, course fingertips from various instruments, tired eyes, what exactly needed to be said to make their brow furrow with emotion. The feelings associated with these memories were not what he would call loneliness or yearning, so no, he decided; he didn’t need anyone. If his past didn’t matter to him, then the future may as well be empty, too.

And then, like a flood to a circuitboard, Brendon came to scramble his calculated way of living up.

The first time Ryan caught him wandering about in the middle of the night and only had brief conversation, he eventually had to return to his own quarters, and there was this not-quite-right sense about doing that. Sometimes he prolonged conversation whenever he actually had Brendon doing his job giving him information - once he’d gotten a full picture, he pretended to need more pieces for an already complete puzzle, because he knew when he walked away he’d have that feeling hanging over his head. Other times he wouldn’t even have to have just seen Brendon to feel it. He’d be in the middle of something, even. Fingers adrift over a half-faded keyboard, a worn-out backspace, and he’d think about the other presence that he was neglecting to be around. This was it: loneliness. Ryan thought it wasn’t an option for him.

It’s a unique kind of loneliness, though. He wonders if it’s worse. It’s not just out of nowhere, wishing anybody could be here. It’s knowing that you could have just one person around, and they’re not. In any case, as is so predictable of Ryan, he doesn’t spend any time interpreting it. The pangs are only now and again, and besides, Brendon is dependable. He always comes back. Their relationship is a bond, now, very different from how snappy they were at first (even if Ryan still has his moments - Brendon seems to be forgiving).

(And understanding.)

You’re just reliving things through showing other people your pain and not actually- tackling it.

(And he genuinely - cannot stress this enough - gives an entire fuck.)

Just write what makes you happy.

Ryan wasn’t as graceful, and has never been, so of course he did not respond at that time - physically or verbal. His response was action-oriented. His next writing seemed to communicate, okay, Brendon, almost, with heedless gaiety, no more inhibitions, this is what makes me happy. It was easy to be jovial when you had a subject. There was an inexhaustible amount of features in whatever he wrote that, again, were things that only authors or keen-eyed artists would pick up on. He was not as telltale, and he was always trying to fit a given context, but something specific breathed life into his writing. This is you.

He observed every reaction to what he gave Brendon closely, and to each he received something positive, but he always wondered. Do you realize? I couldn’t do this without you.

Sometimes there were more direct lines of communication. Brendon simply taking a brief trip back to NYC felt like when he was a kid, waiting for school to begin so that he could get out of his house, for a hellish summer to end. And what a long, hardly productive ‘summer’ that was; Brendon was sort of his muse. He’d never been reliant on just one ever before, but when Brendon left his home, it became pretty clear that he’d found a major one. (And this is where he started to tend more to his guitar. It requires much less focus than writing.) When Brendon came back, Ryan scooped him up, no invitation, nothing - something so rare for him. Better than that, he wasn’t denied. Ryan counted the seconds, took his first full breath in a while, cradled the curve at the back of his neck, and then it was over, and Brendon was telling Ryan he missed him. Ryan exhaled, finding relief and calm, and decided he’d follow his usual pattern of showing Brendon as best as he could how he felt. I missed you, too.

But it can’t repeat forever. If he keeps making Brendon hop over obstacles, doing guesswork, he won’t know how needed he is. As ‘ungraceful’ as Ryan feels he is.

Brendon stepped backwards and Ryan moved boldly in congruence with him, watching his face fall, wishing he could repeat everything he’d ever hidden in analogy and metaphor out loud, only bared free this time for Brendon to hear in plain terms. Here is how I feel - I’m sorry I’ve been afraid. Why? Ryan tilted his head up at the suddenness, uncertain how to receive him. Are you sure? Or do you just need- someone. Because I only need you. Ryan searched his face, shaking his head. ”Brendon–“ he started, stopping when he registered Brendon’s body language, his defenses going up. Ryan’s lack of initiative began this - it couldn’t continue it.

I wish I didn’t. I wish I just- lived not knowing rather than finding out you don’t feel the same. I can’t stay, it’s too- it’s too much. Ryan listened with hands almost outstretched, wanting to keep him in place, not knowing if the gesture was welcome. The urge to outright contradict him arose, but the scene played out in his head, a writer’s theatre, and it seemed argumentative. He wanted to treat him as gently as Brendon had treated him all along. Ryan watched him turn away, his shoulders sloping down, face settling into calmness when he sat down. I’m leaving. As soon as- as soon as I’m ready. Ryan swallowed, eyebrows knotted together in concern for a moment before he stepped through the doorway fully, coming to a safe distance at the end of the bed.

”Once, you told me to write about what makes me happy. Ever since, I’ve only been writing about you.” You cannot just show people these things - least of all Brendon. Ryan has seen his language of love, and he has to speak the same language to be understood. He’s more afraid of losing Brendon than he is of being vulnerable. ”I miss you when you’re a floor away,” he said, and he started to smile, realizing how silly it sounded. ”Sometimes I’ll change a story just because I think you’d like a different ending.” His grin became more reserved as he reflected, expression more thoughtful, at peace. ”I counted down the days until you came back from the city. I’d forgotten what it’s like without you around. Not great, by the way.” Ryan smiled lopsidedly, only a little cynical.

His smiled quitened into a more neutral expression, deciding he was determined. He dropped down onto the end of the bed until he could sit criss-crossed, facing Brendon. ”I’m in love with you.” A tack-on of ‘and I suck at talking about it’ lingered on his tongue, but maybe it was a little too soon to make jokes at his own expense.

i wandered through the sunshine

Unfortunately, I did hear the songs, and I am always my own worst enemy - I’m prone to analysis in the worst way, particularly when it comes to Brendon’s newer works. I remember listening to it for the first time, hoping to hell and back that Brendon paid someone to write these lyrics, but knowing him too well at the same time. Brendon wouldn’t relinquish creative control to some unknown, and he especially would never let words so true to our situation leave from a pen that was not his own. No, it would be too lucky. I had been in bed, hidden from the world, both earbuds in, not wanting to invest myself that fully but afraid to miss a note. I bought the album as soon as it was released, despite the tremor that came from seeing the announcement (and why that anxiety arose - I wasn’t sure. It’s not like the album was predictably going to involve me, and it’s not like I’d been nervously awaiting its release; maybe I was afraid to hear my own creation release something undoubtedly better without myself as an essential player).

They were young and independent, and they thought they had it planned. Should have known right from the start you can’t predict the end. Only four songs in. I remember turning down the volume here, hoping for some outside bustle to drown out the sound. It was at The Calendar when I actually did stop listening, just for a moment. It wasn’t so dramatic that I had this heartwrenching internal struggle of ‘I can’t bear this any longer’ - not quite. But the words I meant everything I said that night played easily in my ears, and I waited for the theatrical replay in my head that is so inevitably told in films; I will come back to life, but only for you. There was no montage in my head, there was no artistic retelling of our story. I was simply reminded that we were over, and this was closure, or a mimicry of it. I stopped listening, and occasionally I came back to it, just to observe the words, wonder whether there was a message for me and me only.

Brendon’s always been more direct than I am. He’s always been better at this. We feel, I think, just as intensely as one another, but he expresses it so much more beautifully, and is so much more forthright. If there was a message for me, it would have been received. This is why I don’t pursue. This is why every path I choose takes me further away from the life I used to lead, closer to safety. I am always swimming diagonally to shore, away from the current I floated with so long.

Here I am now, beached, sand in my toes, everything about me skewed by the tides. I look out upon the waters, and I miss the pull of the current, I suppose. This is why I continue to write about the past. If I don’t put it to paper, at least, I am afraid I will hear the version of myself in my head that yearns to be loved in such an unconditional way once more. He’s pretty convincing, when he wants to be. These writings take up an insurmountable number of pages in various books, always ending up scratched out, like I have some sort of confidential information I’m hiding from the world. No, I’m not hiding anything. I’m protecting myself. I know doors have closed. I know too much time has passed for me to go back. And anyway, the forefront version of myself doesn’t mind it.

I don’t think about any of it. The part of me that does, he’s easy to ignore. He writes his lyrics for fans to observe with critical eyes, then he disappears into the wind. Just like that. I have a comfortable routine, that way. But when I do let myself lapse and think of it, it ruins me just for a moment, because I still don’t know what happened. The closure that we pretend we have - it isn’t enough. It feels like I wrote this new song in a daze, with a possession. I come back to it and listen and resonate with it, but I’m almost shocked I made it public. This song addresses exactly what goes through my mind in those moments, those ‘lapses.’ It’s a question, but not really - it is also, so brazenly, a reminder. ‘I remember, and I hope you do too.’ There aren’t a lot of different verses - such a simple song, but with a vast reflection.

I feel absurd when I reply to Brendon nonchalantly, because I feel anything but that. He heard me. Not just heard, he heard, I can tell he listened truly, because if he had just let it play in the background with no attention on it, he wouldn’t be talking to me. I’m acting unnatural. I wish we could skip ten steps, so I can pretend we’re at least best friends again. I get it. You don’t want to be with me. I’ll take having my friend. This is weird.

Some fans decided to send the link to me, like, hundreds of them. Just as well, really, not like you would have shown me. I smile bittersweetly, and I realize my forehead aches from the anxious shape of my brow. I rub my knuckle between my eyes until the pressure goes away, hoping he just miscommunicated his tone. I try to carry on with my charade, which is so damn hard that I have to just let my fingers flutter indecisively over the keys for a moment, until another text comes through. Call me? You know I hate texting. I wonder if I knew that. I wonder what I know about him that’s still true. Anyway.

Fuck. Phone calls have not made me anxious in a long time. Yet... I start sitting up, running my hands through my hair, clearing my throat, positioning myself as if there was an optimal way to have a phone call. I’m curled in towards the couch cushion once I’ve finally settled down, my thumb hovering over his number. On an exhale, I call him, pressing my forehead briefly to the screen before shifting my phone to my ear, closing my eyes to drown my surroundings out while I listen to the other line ring. ”Thank you,” is the first thing I say, unexpectedly. I purse my lips. ”I was nervous about it. The song. Thank you for listening.” It’s at this moment that I hate having a smart phone. A coil would be very useful to occupy my nervous hands right now. ”I heard your album, too. It was indescribable, Brendon. I don’t think I told you that.” I’m a little quieter than when I began, words rolling out as if I’d been waiting to tell him these things. I suppose I was.

we were always thick as thieves, you and me

I don’t even leave my house, Ry, so you’re damn right. I smile at him fondly when I hear my nickname, and I know it’s too bright, too affected, but somehow I’m just. Comfortable. More than I’ve been in a long time, I’m so comfortable right now, with him and joking around and just basking in one another’s presence again. I forgot how this felt. I thought I played it all up in my head before, but I didn’t. He really just does have that calming effect on you. Like everything in life is easy and simple - ironic, when nothing between us had ever been that way before. But it’s easier to pretend around him.

Okay, okay, so we won’t trade- I’ll buy it from you, it can join my Tesla in being a car I have just for the sake of it, because I’m too lazy to leave my home. I laugh dubiously, about to comment on the fact that he probably has plenty of awards shows to be at or otherwise some invitation someplace that keeps him occupied, out of home. [i[Seriously, come over anytime, guarantee I’ll be in.[/i] My smile fades, by just a notch. I imagine us being people who actively hang out, spend time together. I imagine us being friends - and whether that means being “friends” the way we used to be, or actually friends, it didn’t matter, I’d take any excuse to be around him again because Brendon did mark the most wonderful, exciting, awful, emotionally tolling time of my life. Nowadays I didn’t feel much of anything. I’d appreciate his company again, yeah, if it meant that this short space of time together wasn’t just going to be a fleeting taste at what could’ve been. ”Maybe I will,” I say, and not mysteriously. More contemplatively. Maybe I will.

It seems like he knows, too, how valued a member of this party he is, how much people would love to whisk him away for conversation, and yet he’s not making any move to cut me off and make his exit. I’m almost flattered. Not like he’d ever be above talking to anyone, but still - I’m from the past, he could move on if he wanted. God knows he has all the options in the world. Well, yeah. I was a good boy. You know that better than anyone. I stare at him for a moment, wondering if I should pretend like that’d gone right over my head, but we’re so painfully obvious. We are so, so ridiculously obvious that I crack a smile straight at him, gaze warm and knowing, and the way I welcome him back outside is as if I’m actively agreeing.

We’re back at the car, and I’m aligned against the door, body sloping from the curb comfortably as if I’m already drunk, but really - I’m just this relaxed, for once. I watch him admiring my car, and vaguely, I entertain the idea of what it’d be like to kiss him again. Not the storybook yearning, not something desperate and wanton and hungry, just. I wonder, distantly. It’s the kind of affection you’d have for someone you’ve only met a couple hours ago, who you’ve laughed with in a bar a little. It’s not all-consuming. But I register, belatedly, that I probably shouldn’t be thinking about that. You are. Hey, how much was this thing? I raise my eyebrows. ”Hasn’t anyone told you it’s rude to ask that? Don’t know why, but people say so.” I grin, then actually contemplate the question, knowing he’d come closer and forcing myself to keep cool about it. ”Around $40k, not too bad.”

I make fun of him as he climbs into the back, utterly charmed by how he’s smiling the whole way through. It’s a good thing I drove in. I don’t have much else to impress with. It’s a good job I make up for it in other areas. I chalk up my interpretation of that to my drinking, even though I’d probably had the equivalent of just one shot up until now. I hate my brain. You gonna sit? I’ve been bold up until now but at that I pause, finish my drink, then climb in. A little more gangly than Brendon, it takes some contorting to actually get into the back, and when I settle in I calculatedly attempt to keep some distance between us - I don’t know how comfortable he is with me, even if I am very much so with him. ”I bought it after figuring out that there wouldn’t be another Young Veins record,” I say, for lack of anything better, and my smile is bittersweet. It doesn’t suck to talk about anymore, but I still have to treat my shortcomings like a joke. ”It’s my mid-life crisis purchase. Yes, 24 is mid-life for me.”

be cruel to me, ‘cause i’m a fool for you

Feelings were a phenomenon Ryan wrote about, not experienced. That may sound impossible to anyone else, but it is, for all intents and purposes, true; he read so many things before he could ever possibly live out normal events in his ‘real’ life that nothing was new. Hell, he saw words on paper first, ended up pronouncing them way wrong when the time came to speak out loud. Anyway, the gist was as follows: someone would piss him off, or depress him, or make him unbelievably happy, and it became something to narrate in his head, a complete third-person observation of his own life. Instead of being in the moment, everything was depicted in an intricate painting of words, sometimes transferred to paper if he had the opportunity, otherwise written in disappearing ink in his mind. Nothing was personal, or moving, or even captured his attention beyond the time it took him to comprehend it enough to verbalize. Everything was material, nothing more.

With Brendon, his likeness appeared so often in Ryan’s personal entries, in his professional and published writings, that it seemed there was hardly anything left of him to stay in Ryan’s head, just as with everything else. Just the opposite was true - he was so endlessly fascinating that he found his way back to the forefront regularly. He didn’t necessarily have to be around, Ryan didn’t even have to see him. Music would be playing, and he’d hear a tune he knew Brendon might like, and that thought would lead into wondering what he might be playing if he was in charge of the station, and that would lead into wondering what music he’d made in the past, so forth. He’d take steps two at a time in his house for the first time ever and realize some hours later that he’d been imitating Brendon. He’d start waking up late into the night if he wasn’t up already just for the chance to see Brendon at the same odd hour, even if he didn’t consciously make that choice.

No one, not even his old best friends, had managed to capture Ryan’s attention like that. And if he put forth the effort to understand the emotional underlay for all of these thoughts, passing or otherwise, he’d realize that Brendon had instilled actual feeling, too, for once. But Brendon and Ryan were very different people. Whereas Brendon had taken the time to come to terms with how he felt about his new housemate and what their friendship had blossomed into, Ryan understood, simply, that he enjoyed Brendon’s presence. If he were any sensible person, he’d know that that wasn’t quite an answer for what they were, and it was a pale explanation for everything he’d ever written or thought of Brendon. So maybe the idea of change was a little scary for him, and he knew if he really addressed The Brendon Problem, change would definitely come.

Now, though. Change was already in the works. Brendon wasn’t the type to act like nothing had happened... and even if he was, Ryan wasn’t so sure he’d be able to go about doing the same, even if he was definitely the type. Because it was Brendon. Thus far, he threw Ryan for a loop in pretty much every aspect of life.

So he had no choice but to actually not be avoidant, for once.

He was surprised Brendon even opened the door, but. The way he couldn’t even look up. Ryan knew he cared about him, but the amount of secondhand hurt the sight of Brendon brought him was unexpected; he’d do anything to make him feel better, he couldn’t bear to see it. The image of Ryan lifting Brendon’s chin until their gazes met, holding him close, hand cradling his head - it all passed behind his eyes in a split second, and Ryan was a little unnerved by his own hasty thought process. No was Brendon’s tiny response, and, well - at least he was honest. Ryan sat with the fact that his current state was his fault alone for a moment, feeling absolutely dreadful, and living out the emotion in first person. It was a bizarre feeling. He was here, not the narrator. It was the two of them, not two characters.

Brendon looked up to meet his gaze, and though that’d been what he wanted, Ryan almost backed out and looked away himself. He braved it, listened to him instead, expression almost pained. No. Ryan doubted it. No. I’m angry at myself. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry for ruining things. He could literally feel his heart drop. Ryan was already shaking his head in protest, at a loss for words, not knowing how to express himself or if wanting to embrace him so badly was too little too late or - if he’d missed his opportunity to do anything already. I think I’m going to leave. Ryan spoke up immediately, in a tone that surprised even himself, it was that unfamiliar. ”No, please–“ He stopped, pursing his lips, beyond anxious. ”Please don’t leave.” Not just for the first time since he’d known Brendon, but for the first time ever, he felt stupidly, incredibly vulnerable, and he was hardly sure his voice was his own. It was all so alien to him.

The way it felt picturing life without Brendon suddenly... maybe he was in love with him. He was silent for a few moments, letting that realization dawn and settle in, and. ‘Maybe’ was becoming much more ‘definitely’ by the second. But, at the moments where it mattered most, Ryan was not a wordsmith. ”You didn’t ruin anything. You... you make my life better every day. I need you around.” He wanted to say it, really. He did. But it was becoming apparent that confessing was scary as hell, even though Brendon had already done it, and obviously Brendon was the bravest motherfucker alive, and. Now that he realized where he was... knowing that Brendon felt the same was a million times more wonderful. Ryan wasn’t used to this compulsion, but he wanted so desperately to grab him, kiss him breathless. ”I’m glad you told me. Please- you’re not going to leave, are you?”

paying in naivety

Jail was interesting. Technically, Ryan was hardly even there, and he was lucky for that; he’d been in lockup before, but his partners in crime weren’t his boyfriend - they only bailed him out after they were done being amused by his misfortune. Review the process: Ryan gets booked, he’s processed and questioned, makes a phone call, sits in a jail cell ‘til bail is posted. Then, outside those jail walls, his friends are sitting at home talking shit for a whole 72 hours until they finally fork over the $10k, or whatever - the price always raises, since Ryan’s clearly a risky case to the judge. Brendon, though, sweet, loving, and filthy rich, was in court as soon as that gavel landed. Crazy fucker had the cash on him already. Ryan was pretty sure he was in love with him before that, but this kind of just set things in stone. Anyway, jail was a holding cell. All he had to do was sleep there, two other guys chilling at the other end, drunk off their asses on hooch he definitely didn’t sell to them. Not directly, anyway.

Usually, Ryan just didn’t show up, and instead pissed away his friends’ money and lived with a warrant for his arrest out. Dirty cops were all over the place, stationed outside of regular dealing spots as if they were waiting to catch him or someone like him, but the fact of the matter was that all they needed was a small cut of his supply in order to stay out of his way. Most of the force was corrupt like that, made life easy; that is, until enough of a bonus was dangled for them to actually catch someone. Then they jumped into action. Anyway, this time around, Ryan wasn’t going to dodge the court date. He’d show up on time like a good boy, get Brendon’s money back to him, inevitably come home ‘not guilty’ because he was his own attorney and he could sweet talk the house down when he wanted to. Evidence was hard to find, because he wasn’t messy, and witnesses came even more rarely. There was no one in town who wanted him to go down, and if they did, they were guilty of something themselves. Ryan was, ultimately, untouchable.

For now, he was a free man. And he had a boyfriend to catch up with.

After thirteen hours of cuffs, getting them off was beyond just a relief; Ryan had a second to stand and massage his wrists before everything confiscated from his pockets was returned to him. He flashed a suspicious glance at his money clip, considering... but they probably wouldn’t dare. You’d think he’d have some catchy tagline to leave everyone at the station with as he went through the double-doors a semi-free man, but he had places to be, a ridiculously beautiful man to shower with attention. And said man would be considerably offended by his currently outworn costuming if he showed up like he was now, in a regular Joe suit, nothing elegant or outstanding about it, so Ryan had very little time to get home before he was unfashionably late.

See, this stuff didn’t used to matter, but Ryan was now ‘classically’ fruity ever since being outed officially. No, it didn’t bother him. In fact, he thought it gave him an edge. He’d been daring more competitors to challenge him for months, things were getting too easy, and now they all had something to say. So, naturally, Ryan was conducting hits on assholes a lot more often these days, whether it be carried out by his own hands or by his crew. It seemed like the new trend made Brendon seem just as beyond danger as he was, invicible by relation, so the ‘out’ situation was objectively good.

At home, Ryan cleaned himself up and pulled on a red velvet suit, still laying out over his mattress since Brendon had gifted it to him. Seemed only appropriate. For good measure, he slipped a small, semi-automatic pistol into his vest pocket, ‘cause today was evidently a casual one. No big deal. ‘Out on bail’ wasn’t the safest way to be.

He’d left Brendon with the vague promise that he might be there, just after some other business dealings. He was running out of time but he’d already sent Spencer on a goose chase to find the fucker who ratted him out; Ryan met him at his apartment with a bat in hand. What are you gonna do, kill ‘im? Ryan almost laughed. ”I’m no murderer, and this isn’t the Mafia, Spence.” Spencer led them to his dining room, nearly twisted the door handle to reveal his hostage, but Ryan stopped him. ”I don’t got time for this, neither, so you’re gonna clean this mess up for me.” Spencer immediately looked affronted. Are you kiddin’ me? I already got the guy... ”Yea, and now you’re gonna break somethin’, send him off with a warning. I’m a nice guy that way.” Ryan smiled pleasantly, tossed the bat up and caught it by the end, offering the handle to a forlorn Spencer. Spencer took it regardless, his eyes rolled to the ceiling. Fuck off outta my place. ”When you’re done, toss ‘im. Second offense, he’s dead. See ya.” Ryan clapped him on the shoulder on his way out.

Ryan was late, but only just. He stepped from his blackout-windowed taxi and into the venue just in time to catch Brendon’s final address: Anyhow, thank you for coming. I’ll be performing very soon, but for now, please enjoy the pleasure of each other’s company rather than mine. Hidden beside a side entryway, Ryan smiled and kept his hands clasped in front of him as a round of applause followed, enamoured. There was enough press here that the serving of drinks wasn’t entirely obvious, but Ryan approached a server and knew to ask discreetly for his own whiskey, two glasses. He went backstage with one in either hand, coming up behind Brendon as he stood before a dressing room mirror, arms encircling him and chin hooking over his shoulder. Ryan reached out to set the drinks down in front of them, replacing his hands over Brendon’s at his waist, swaying them slightly, watching their reflection. ”Miss me?” he murmured close to his ear, just catching his earlobe to punctuate. ”Sorry I’m late, darlin’, but now I think it’s my business to make you late for your performance.”

we were always thick as thieves, you and me

When we met, I didn’t anticipate the impact Brendon would have on my life. Jon knew him from high school and had dragged him to practice one day, unbeknownst to me, because of course if he had the brilliant idea to audition a singer for a band I was already the vocals for, they weren’t going to tell me about it. But when I heard his voice, it didn’t upset me, not at all. This was not an amazing, radical moment; it wasn’t like the two simple words, ‘I’m Brendon,’ were definitively the start of something great. He was just another person filing in, assuming we were going to do a few gigs, play for a few years before most of us went to regular, reliable jobs, maybe one went on to bigger and better things in the way of music.

I did know, however, that when Brendon sang one of our very few demos, he was the answer. This was what completed our band, whether we stayed a lame high school dream or not. I knew that even if we didn’t go very far at all, he was going to be doing something. Something. You can’t predict what greatness will develop into. I certainly had no idea that Brendon would be where he is now.

Needless to say, I’d resigned my post as lead vocalist a good minute into Brendon’s audition.

I’d never let myself accept the fact that I thought anyone not-a-girl was attractive, but then, they were never anyone I spent hours in practice with, then days on tour with, once we’d reached that point. Brendon was the difference. And maybe it was a little cliché; he was charming and charismatic and outgoing, maybe too hyperactive for his own good in those days, and I was shy and introverted and reserved even when it was just the four of us hanging out. I think it was the fact that he was everything I wasn’t that drew me to him. I’m confident that even before our ‘thing’ started, he must’ve caught the odd looks I threw his way, or picked up on the way I looked to him for input before anyone else, or noticed how I always chose a spot closer to him. It wasn’t until I got to look at all of this in retrospect that I realized I behaved a little like a clingy puppy around him - if I’d known, I’d be beyond embarrassed, because I was the kind of kid to think that even hugging a guy friend was ‘totally gay.’ Ridiculous. Especially considering how we ended up.

He never said anything about it, though. That was another thing. He was completely nonjudgmental, and I’d never encountered anyone quite the same way. Even when I’d proved myself a complete hypocrite and began pursuing him in different ways, he didn’t turn his nose up at me, make fun of the double life I led. He wasn’t that kind of person. Apparently, he still wasn’t - Brendon had every right to turn tail and run from me, no doubt a reminder of an awkward, uncertain period of our lives, as soon as he saw me, but he didn’t. I really have missed him.

I mean, you’re predictable, that’s all. Don’t flatter yourself. I smile, and it’d probably hit harder if he didn’t look almost sheepish. Oh yeah? Show me the leather seats? I can feel myself looking slightly more serious, because I didn’t realize we were being this playful. I definitely started it. There are so many inappropriate responses to give to that, but I take in a breath, purse my lips before deciding on the most boring reply possible. ”Sure. We’ll see if it’s all you imagined.” ...okay, maybe that’s a little suggestive too, but my train of thought in regards to Brendon is no longer so limited to ‘absolutely no gay wonderings’ as it was when we knew each other. There’s been a lot of time to let my mind wander, and I know realistically we probably won’t reconnect beyond catching up for the next few minutes, so. Playing out everything I wish we’d been is far too easy right now.

Brendon seems almost surprised by my admission. I do think about him. We’re real people with separate lives, so of course, I haven’t thought about him every single day for the last almost-decade - not even every single week, or every single month, but he crosses my mind a stupid amount for someone I don’t even speak to regularly. And it’s a whole range of thoughts: not just the nights spent together, or caught moments in a dressing room, or the dubious moments onstage just for an act, but also every drawn-out, sentimental conversation, every played out in-joke, every minute we wasted in a recording studio fucking around with songs that never made it to release. It’s not like missing a best friend. I know how that feels, because I hardly speak to Jon or Spencer, either, and how I miss them is a completely different realm of feeling. Missing Brendon, it’s like missing a boyfriend, except worse because I never got to call him that. I never got to tell him it’d be nice to call him that, or publicly act that way with him. We never got that chance.

That’s sweet. It’s my turn to smile sheepishly, keep every thought in my head to myself. I duck to look at my feet for a second, no reason at all.

Oh my god, no fucking kidding, dude, I have a Tesla. That’s super creepy, man. I’m laughing, and this is all somehow so normal, easy. ”You’re predictable, too. I bet you haven’t driven it more than a few miles.” As we enter a more crowded area, music thumping, I slow, letting myself be closer to him now that I have a good excuse. D’ya wanna trade cars? Yours is actually cooler. ”Get your own, Blake. I knew you were after my car this whole time,” I say with another laugh, turning to grin at him as he’s teased. A moment later and I’m pouring us both drinks, handing him his delicately, guarding our little space against the bar from other partygoers. I’ve realized, judging from passing glances, that there are definitely people who want to talk to him, probably one of the biggest names here - so I decide to hog him all for myself.

You may not believe it, but me neither. I pause, considering this over a sip from my glass. ”I believe it. When we went platinum you were still drinking Capri-sun. You’ve always been pretty humble.” I smile fondly, because thinking about us in ‘06 is still endlessly amusing. ”Brendon -“ I start, then stop, because the song has changed over the speakers, and apparently it’s a hit because almost everyone around us has started cheering and moving more enthusiastically, and the place is too loud to be heard in. I pause before looking brazen, reaching over the counter and grabbing the entire bottle I’d just poured from to take with us. ”C’mon. I promised you a tour.” Bottleneck in one hand and a full glass of whiskey in the other, I’m comfortable enough this time to hold the hand with the glass behind Brendon’s back, guiding him with me back to the curb.

I got a good spot arriving as early as I did (and apparently there are very few other designated drivers in attendance), so it’s barely a minute’s walk from where we were until I’m at the passenger side of the ‘76 Pontiac Firebird, setting the bottle on the hood so I can open the door for Brendon. I make a grand, sweeping gesture at the vintage interior, ridiculously mismatched from the other cars lining the street, and grin back at him. ”I know. I’m very cool.” I lean against the door, taking another drink. ”You can have a seat if you’d like. I’d invite you to take it for a test drive, but if memory serves, you’re kind of an awful driver, and I haven’t updated my will.”

it's a lovely chemistry

Ryan wasn’t a nervous guy. He wasn’t awkward or at all unsure of himself; he was assertive and forward, was so confident that sometimes his attitude bordered on arrogance. This was just typical of most athletes - when you’re brought up praised for greatness by all your coaches, it tends to happen. He did, however, have a fairly significant weakness for guys he found attractive. He was so career-focused and driven that he didn’t get the chance to notice them very often, thankfully, and anyway most of his teammates could not even come close to fitting his ‘type,’ considering he usually took interest in those smaller than him. The ‘pretty boy’ cliché. Yeah, Ryan lost composure around that kind of thing. He forgot how to hold a conversation, couldn’t maintain eye contact, held himself in a shy manner rather than his usual strong, sturdy stance. It was... beyond frustrating.

This was definitely the case with Brendon. He was so little, almost compact, funnily enough, and it immediately endeared him to Ryan. He had this signature pout that transformed easily into a wide, strikingly white smile, so genuine you could see it up to his eyes where they crinkled in the corners. Brendon simply had this softness about him that Ryan was completely unused to, and that was all only physical. It said nothing of his personality and abilities, and maybe Ryan didn’t know him all that well, but he liked what he did know. Brendon was easy to talk to, sociable, had this mellow quality that complimented Ryan’s newfound timidness. Not just in a way that journalists had to be, he was sweet and charming, something that obviously just came to him naturally. Needless to say, he’d made a good first impression.

I have a scar, too, on my eyebrow. Well, Ryan knew that already. He’d practically memorized the guy’s face. He looked at it automatically, a sheepish smile crossing his lips. Not as cool a story behind it, though. Smacked my head on the curb when I was a kid. Ryan cringed for his sake, mouthing a sympathetic ‘ow.’ ”No, I think that’s about as cool as me getting shoved into the rink’s Plexiglas.” He grinned, his gaze wandering over Brendon’s scar again, thinking that it sort of matured him. It was out of place, what with the gentleness of the rest of him. That said, it was definitely hot. Identical trains of thought, the two of them. The difference was that Ryan was the type who felt the need to exert his confidence (even when it’d been watered down), not as mellow as Brendon, so of course- he was saying it. ”It’s sexy.” He was totally lame. Regardless, Ryan was grinning as if he was the most self-assured person alive.

Maybe it helped that Brendon had this incredibly calming air about him. Well - in reality it was a little mixed; he was so disarming that Ryan felt pressured to be his best self, but at the same time he seemed so at ease it was hard not to match his energy. God, Ryan was liking him more and more so quickly. Hell yeah, might help us out a little. Ryan grinned, finishing off his glass while they awaited the server.
For a moment, reminiscing on the interview, Ryan let slip his shock about everything happening, totally forgetting he was supposed to be remarkably sure. He pursed his lips immediately, quieting for a beat. You should be proud of yourself. I mean, I’m sure you are. ”Yeah,” Ryan said slowly, watching the way Brendon’s eyes lit up as he smiled, the way his whole face changed. Shit, he was stunning. Ryan barely even knew what he’d agreed with, totally on autopilot by now.

I always do that much. Ryan made a mental note to look up more of Brendon’s work... like some fanboy watching all the movies of his favorite actor. He was so ridiculous. I don’t just turn up and think up questions on the spot, y’know. Although- if turning up to interviews and getting dates with handsome men like yourself was a daily thing, I think I’d be a happier man. Probably moving too quickly, Ryan automatically went for his wine glass, knocking some back to avoid looking sheepish in front of Brendon. Again. ”I- that’s. You’re sweet.” He exhaled on a smile, setting down the glass and curling his fingers round the stem protectively. ”I’m surprised it doesn’t happen all the time, I mean, you’re...” He was speechless for a moment, gesturing lamely at Brendon after deciding there was no good descriptor for how hot he was. ”How long have you been a journalist? How’d you get into it?”