jakob

we were always thick as thieves, you and me

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 all - 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 dumb.

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 ‘wow, can’t believe he did it’ coupled with a link to an article, and I wondered if that meant Jon knew something 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’m supposed to be moved on, 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.

It’s exactly the car I pictured you to have. As if can pull off any charm, and without complete control over my mouth, apparently, I smile and say, ”You pictured what kind of car I’d have?” 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. ”I’ll take you on a tour sometime.” 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. ”I think about you, too.” Still. He’s not totally off the hook. ”And the Tesla that’s probably in your high-security garage.” Alright. I’m not funny. I shove my hands in my pockets, shoulders sloping high.

I don’t doubt it, man. Gabe’s predictable. And a little intimidating. I actually do glance around to make sure he’s not gathering intel on us. Hey, don’t stop on my account. 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.

Nice to hear. I chew my lip momentarily before I can work up the stupidity to offer him a drink. Sure. 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 easy 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. ”What’s your poison now? Assuming a few world tours have changed your tastes.” 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. ”I guess I haven’t changed much.” The double meaning wasn’t really intended, but here we are.

we were always thick as thieves, you and me

I didn’t picture myself bailing from the spotlight so soon. In the first place, I didn’t expect my childhood role model to respond to my demos, sent to him on a fantastical whim over a now-dead website; I didn’t anticipate pulling together a band to play for him personally, or his record label, or getting signed on to a contract almost immediately. Then, I thought maybe our album wouldn’t ever end up actually coming out. We were thirty minutes away from our deadline and still trying to come up with lines to fill in songs we didn’t plan out correctly. We were a fire that took constant fanning and feeding to actually start and maintain, and we didn’t overtake the forest in glorious flames until a metric fuckton of work had been done to ignite us. Before becoming a hit, we were one bad tender away from collapse, a spark close to dying out. Stepping away from everything I worked for - it’s not what I imagined.

Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. We grow up. Perspectives change. Fame looked to me, when I was a kid holding my first guitar, something simple and easy, where everything was spoonfed to you. I still fooled myself into thinking it after my first taste of fame - I thought, maybe after the initial struggle, I’ll get there. But it never became easy. Things worsened, and my real life continued behind the scenes when I thought I’d escaped all that. We all did drugs that we swore off (though, lucky for us, mostly experimentally). I never left my house when I wasn’t touring because the anxiety was a killer. I lost my father, and on the same night, lamented my struggles with him for hundreds to hear, all singing it back to me as if they understood. Putting my thoughts and emotions on loan to the public, entrusting them to people unentitled, was all too much for me, eventually.

And, though I didn’t realize it at the time, I neglected all of my personal relationships. It’s ridiculous to think of now how often I’d start dating a girl I was only infatuated with, only to forget to keep up with her just the next day. I never checked in back home even though I knew there was support there. And, well. The obvious one. Brendon.

I didn’t admit it to myself, and I still don’t, but. He was such a massive part of my life. On the surface, we were just messing around. Experimenting, because I didn’t get to do that in high school, personally, and of course he’d grown up in a religious household - I can only guess he was making up for lost time, too. More than once, though, it was a bad night, and I was cold and alone, and I ended up in his bunk or on his designated bed in out hotel room and he didn’t shove me away. More than once, we woke up with bodies aligned, arms encircling one another, someone’s nose pressed into someone’s cheek. That, we didn’t talk about. We didn’t talk about any of it, not specifically, but that was especially off-limits. I might have loved him.

But we were just friends.

I didn’t move on, either, but there are ways of thinking about the past that aren’t just nostalgia or regret. To dwell on the past is to allow fresh context to trickle in, fill in the confusing gaps in the picture; to keep the memory alive, and not just as a caricature of itself. I desperately hold on to time as it passes, like trying to keep a grip on a rock in the middle of a river, feeling the weight of the current against my chest while others float on downstream, calling over the roar of the rapids, “Just let go - it’s okay - let go.” It’s not okay, though. He was mine, and I was his, and I don’t know why I let him disappear. But, sure, let’s say we were just friends, it hurts less that way. I yearn less that way.

The only optimistic way I can look at it is by considering Brendon’s success. There’s a possibility he’d be the same or better with all of us still there, or even just me, but he flourished the way things went - the split was undoubtedly good for him. We needed time to mature, maybe, before we met again. And maybe this isn’t the time we reconnect, maybe we never really will, I have no idea. Regardless, seeing him again, I’m happy, among other inexpressable emotions. He grew into himself. His status in the culture seems too impossible to fill in completely, and it’d be way over my head for sure, but he wears his position as a musical icon well. He’s where he’s supposed to be.

In fact, he’s grown into such a natural version of himself that it’s stunning, and it’s not like he’s doing anything particularly special. He’s dressed down, tiny in the denim jacket he’s chosen, barely as tall as my shoulders - but he exhibits an air of confidence, of charisma, of experience. He’s spectacular, gorgeous, larger than life. Or maybe that’s just the teenager in my head, still obsessed and intrigued by him.

Somehow, I’m not panicking, or I’m so distantly nervous that I don’t recognize it. There’s a part of me that still thinks he’s my lifeline and my confidant. A part that didn’t grow up, I guess, or realize that any time has passed at all. We were dumb teenagers, nothing we did ever meant anything - but everything always means something more to me, more than I let on. We were just friends, were.

The same part of me that is comforted by his presence even still believes that it can distinguish the tiniest shift in Brendon’s countenance as something telling. I look closely, and I think, maybe, he’s really unnerved by our reunion. I don’t know how I can do anything to shake him when he stands in front of arenas nightly, when he has millions of critics trying to shout louder than even his most diehard fans. So I shrug it off, because everything always means something more to me, more than I let on. It’s fuckin’ awesome. I’m smiling, and it’s real, because it’s so like him to say that. The tension in my face is easing. ”Thank you,” I say, an easy laugh overlaying my words, and I mean it. Thanks for breaking the ice.

Oh, yeah. And, I didn’t feel like flexing on anyone tonight. I almost forgot - he’s probably filthy rich. He never did it for the money. It’s Gabe’s big night, old fucker that he is. I half-smile, tilting my head at him, and I decide I quite like how he jumped right into easy banter rather than the recap I was looking for. It’s simpler. We have a longstanding streak for doing that, keeping things surface-level, only makes sense that we keep up tradition. ”Careful. He can hear mocking from a mile away.”

I identify discomfort, maybe, in Brendon’s composure as I speak, and I have no idea what I said wrong. He’s so good at hiding anything he feels that I’m not even sure if I made it up - and if I didn’t, I’m not sure how to deal with the fact that I don’t know him as well as I used to. Yes, we were just friends, but he was my best friend. I may have been hiding a lot of things, or just not confronting them myself, but I would readily admit my loyalty to him. And now I can’t even read him.

Uh- Where is he? I pause, and I’m apparently so sensitive that I feel a sort of hurt, jumping to the assumption that he’d rather see Gabe than continue talking to me. Stupid - it was one simple question, and if he does, it’s because Gabe is the subject of the occasion, come on. I look away when I speak, feeling dumb. ”I didn’t see him - I was about to text him when I ran into you, actually.” I’m looking back at him, and I don’t really mean to, but I’m memorizing his face all over again, every tiny, faint change. One thing different about me: I’m far more honest than I was. ”I’m glad you came. I thought I might see you.” I stop there, because ‘I missed you’ sounds like an understatement. I pause and study him, because I missed seeing him, too, live and in real time, and I’m afraid I might say things brought on by a lack of closure withheld for years, so. I’m already turning as I speak. ”Can I get you a drink? The bar’s just inside.”

we were always thick as thieves, you and me

Gabe’s 40th birthday is next week. I remember the first time we met, and he was one of those people you’re sure are making fun of you because they’re undoubtedly “cooler” than you but they still seem to take an interest in you, but he wasn’t, and I was a wreck. We hugged. I’m fairly sure I was a wreck most days, back then. I’m not so sure I have my shit together even now, eight years his junior but still a full-blown adult with no idea where the time has gone, no measure of my accomplishments besides historical music charts and streaming numbers. I haven’t made music in... well, I haven’t publicly made music in years. At this point I’m not sure that I will again.

But I can imagine seventeen year old me hearing that idea, the seventeen year old me who had just released a hit, who was blinded by the incoming spotlight, overcome with the idea of fame. I wish, so strongly, for an imaginary interview with this old picture of myself, an enigmatic figure who still lives in the grainy and color-warped house that I grew up in, who may well spend a lot of his day wondering where I am and what I’m doing now, like an old grandma whose kids live far away and don’t call much anymore. I didn’t see myself like this, washed up and obscure. I’m not so sure he’d like me.

My thoughts don’t always drift to these unsavory, self-deprecating places, but they do when I’m faced with the possibility of revisiting old friends like Gabe, people who remind me of where I’ve been and what I’m doing with myself now. There’s talk of a party, and Gabe’s turning fourty, everyone is coming. Everyone.

I think of him, and there’s a spark of transcendence that punctuates the flatlining banality of everyday life. It’s a healthy kind of ache - like the ache in your muscles after unrelenting exercise - that reminds you that your body exists. None of this is necessarily good. It’s just a unique strain of nausea. I think of Brendon, and I’m sick to my goddamn stomach.

It’s dread, and guilt, and I suppose to some extent shame, though I’d always thought that the whole ‘gay panic’ I experienced in the 2000’s died out by the time I hit my mid-twenties. I’m afraid of what his memory does to me, therefore I keep every reminder of him out of sight, out of mind. My old awards and records and DVDs are kept in a storage unit a 35-minute drive from my house. I don’t check the charts because he manages to stay within the top 50, top 25, top 10. I barely keep in touch with our old bandmates and it’s all polite conversation anyway. I’m safe, pretending there’s nothing there and never was. To think I could see him in person again frightens me and... excites me, beyond explanation.

It’s not like we haven’t seen each other since the split. At one point in my life, I would catch his eye and experience this surge of energy - the kind of thrill that starts in your stomach, arcs up through your lungs and flashes into a spontaneous smile - scrambling every ungrounded circuit, keeping me hooked enough to chase the feeling. The kind of thing we never talked about, of course, and definitely never made known to anyone else. Since then, I have seen him at random events, even once or twice spotted him randomly in public, and it’s. Jarring. He is the missed connection I can’t get out of my head, the one I thought had faded long ago with the split but is still somehow alive and unfinished, like an abandoned campsite whose smoldering embers still have the potential to start a forest fire. He’s got some kind of power over me, I swear.

You know when your playlist is on shuffle, and you hear the first few notes to a song you haven’t heard in a while but was and will always be so dear to you, and you feel an emotion you haven’t felt in years, an emotion you completely forgot about? Brendon must have learned that opening riff. I see him, and I’m a teenager again, confused and leading some painful double life.

I think of the fleeting moments where we forgot to be guarded, and we’d smile at some shared secret, some inside joke, and what we had was the most intimate thing I’ve ever had in my life. I’m telling Gabe that I can be there before I can truly consider every possible outcome of my attendance.

I was just confused - I had girlfriends who didn’t satisfy me, emotionally or otherwise. I thought he was beautiful, and different, and I appreciated him too much to be a friend, but it was easier to say we were just friends. It was easier to keep things under wraps, and Brendon never made me talk about it, as I suppose he didn’t know how to, either. That was a big plus. It felt like he understood. But - we didn’t understand each other. I still don’t think I know what he felt, what he wanted, if anything, and there’s a huge open door in my life, taunting me. This is why I cannot think about it, because we could have amounted to something, or we couldn’t have. He could have been the best thing that ever happened to me - or I let the best thing that ever happened to me go.

I wear a white button-up, a long black coat, black pants. It’s definitely not casual, but if I do see him, I don’t want to seem like I’m dressing up for him. Maybe this is overthinking it. Maybe I should be drinking, but I don’t.

When I walk through the door and see an already sizeable gathering of unfamiliar faces, with no Gabe in sight, I automatically turn to go back out where I can use my phone in peace, and. There he is. For some reason, I don’t expect to see him as he looks now. My instinct is to see him as I knew him in his youth, this burned-in image of an amateur makeup-stained face, drawn-on Converse, horrendous haircuts superimposed on an adult with a multimillion dollar net worth. The memory of him is still developing in my emotional darkroom, but this close up, the illusion is broken, the door open and the reality exposed.

I forgot how good of a performer he is. There’s a flash of real emotion on his face, like I’m peeking backstage through a gap in the curtains, watching stagehands holding their ropes at the ready, actors in costume mouthing their lines, fragments of bizarre sets waiting for some other production. And then he has it under wraps, and we don’t know each other again, and he’s talking while my whole conscious has lost composure. Hey! Dude, was that your fucking car outside? It’s dope. I’m staring at him like he just spoke Russian to me. Really, we should’ve had a ‘previously on...’ recap moment, because I’d forgotten exactly how important he was to me, but apparently we were going to talk about everything mundane.

”It’s the Trans Am, yeah,” I say, stunned, and glance past him through the doorway at it if only to break eye contact for a moment. The only movement out there is a car at the curb, the telltale glowing Uber sign in their windshield, only just pulling away. ”Looks like you took an Uber. Planning on drinking tonight?” I smile bittersweetly, because I still do know him well, I think. I stupidly wonder if he’s nervous about the same thing - but, yeah, of course he is. We both hate crowds like this, though, so I pretend that’s the main thing that has us both on edge. ”Maybe I should join you. Knowing Gabe, he’s invited, like, 400 people. Not great.”

glitter dancing on the skin

Yeah, the roles were usually reversed, and Ryan usually didn’t have a problem with it. Brendon was, most of the time, pretty entertaining when he was intoxicated. He wasn’t usually messy, with the stereotypical ‘drooling and dry heaving’ theatrics people always put on, but that’s just ‘cause he was used to drinking by now. Getting well and truly wasted took him a while. When he was far gone enough to be practically nonfunctional, though, Ryan was his caretaker, and he’d become an expert at it. First order of business was cutting Brendon off from the alcohol, which was hard to do if you were anyone but Ryan (he’d learned that all it took was a little aimless seduction). The rest was easy; Brendon weighed about as much as a basketball and was 5’8 at the absolute best, so he could basically be toted around to whereever he needed to be. And, as a bonus, drunk Brendon was usually charmed by Ryan carrying him.

His behavior in itself was almost predictable. He was just... Brendon, amped up to one thousand. Aries without limitations. Most of the pyrotechnics ideas from his show originated from drunk e-mails he managed to sneak to his stage manager without Ryan noticing (and he tended to bring the fire out of his shows, too, annoyingly enough, when Ryan had to confiscate three lighters from a probably-flammable Brendon). Sober Brendon might be thirsty, but drunk Brendon was thirsty, full of innuendos and wise suggestions as to what he and Ryan should do when they get home, or right there in public, ‘cause fuck it. Ryan decided to take it as a strange form of flattery, really. He was honored; that’s all he could tell Brendon whenever he ended up tucking him into bed - literally - and turning down all the invitations to extend the night. Wasn’t gonna take any risks with the guy who had a trash can for potential sick next to his bed.

Anyway. Ryan was decidedly much worse at handling his alcohol. He felt like death risen, and every touch on his skin was simultaneously too much to bear and not enough to fulfill his sudden need to be comforted. Not even water, darlin’? I bet you have a fuckin’ killer headache. As if it’d been reminded, Ryan’s head throbbed, the way it had throughout the night. He closed his eyes as Brendon’s hand ran through his hair, breathing out softly. ”If water will fix me...” He cut himself off with the longest and somehow still least satisfying stretch of his life, coming away with his eyes red from rubbing them dry afterward. Fuck it - he was doomed to be this uncomfortable forever. Ryan gave in to what was evidently God’s will, for him to stay in bed all day unmoving, and curled up to Brendon, pitiful.

Not quite. Though I am an angel. So you could be in heaven. Clearly Ryan must still be feeling the effects, because he had enough affection in his hungover state to grin and reply, ”My angel.” Brendon kissed his cheek and Ryan turned his head, kissed his lips as if it were a response to the tiny gesture. ”Everything’s how I imagined it’d be in heaven... except I feel like actual shit.” Like he was genuinely disappointed in what the afterlife was, Ryan buried his face away in Brendon’s shoulder for a moment, recuperating. What do you remember? Ryan hesitated. ”Zack telling me to go away, the fucker. And then... the cab ride. That’s it.” Zack telling him to go away because he was distracting Brendon, or whatever. Still couldn’t believe it. Guess it backfired on him later.

Helpless, Ryan slumped even further into him, demanding to be taken care of. Gladly, Ryan, But. Ryan waited, realized he sounded serious, and lifted his head slightly until he could meet Brendon’s gaze. We need to talk about last night, uh. Worried, Ryan reluctantly sat back up at his prompting, wincing. You said some really inappropriate shit about me during the ride from the bar back to the hotel. Oh. Ryan’s confused look didn’t waver at all. Zack and the driver were there. You didn’t recognise me as me, or whatever, and started talking about, uh. Ryan squinted, lost, because what could he have done even vaguely ‘inappropriate’ - what’d that mean? But Brendon seemed almost- hurt, or something, so his expression was nothing short of grave concern. ”What- what? Was I mean? What happened?” He was automatically reaching for Brendon’s hand, assumptions jumping to the worst.

glitter dancing on the skin

Ryan wasn’t much of a drinker. Sometimes, and mostly for appearances in these instances, he’d order a red with dinner - but then he never ended up finishing it himself unless the wine was ridiculously sweet (at least Brendon always ended up getting the remnants). Occasionally, when Brendon would have a beer at home or the odd whiskey while he was streaming or lounging around, Ryan joined in himself, albeit at a much slower pace. At parties, at festivals, anywhere where drinking was ‘expected,’ sure, he’d go for something fairly low content, just because he limited himself from going beyond the level of ‘tipsy’ around other people. In general, he wasn’t fond of the taste, wasn’t fond of the aftermath, just didn’t understand the hype, even if he’d give in to participation once in a while.

Because he so rarely partook in the popular habit, Ryan wasn’t very familiar with his drunk self. Most people understood, at least vaguely, what became of them when they drank, or even whether their behavior was influenced by the type of drink they chose - some were happy drunks, some were angry, some became sleepy after a white wine and had to leave the bar early. Ryan had no clue. Probably the drunkest he’d ever been was when he turned twenty-one and everyone around him had convinced him that tonight was the night to get trashed (though, of course, no one abided by the drinking age before then anyway). He’d gone with it, but wasn’t dedicated enough to make it past a few shots, couldn’t bring himself to like any alcohol without it being 80% mixer. Ah, adolescence.

Last night it became apparent that his tastes had matured, because he had no problem going past the point of no return then. In fairness, his point was probably far easier to reach than others, given the fact that he was so unused to the substance. Regardless - Brendon had never seen him this way, either, not just drunk but acting vaguely sexual at all outside of private moments, and he was in for a complete shock once he peeled Ryan off the side of the road. Kind of literally. Yes, it was all truthful, every ridiculously embarrassing thing coming out of Ryan’s mouth was brutal honesty, the boldness only someone with a BAC of .17 could manage. Sober Ryan stored all of that thirst in the back of his head, didn’t even think any of it to himself usually because he’d get all wistful, but apparently drunk Ryan had no such filter.

It was a mystery how Ryan got home - at least, to him it was. ‘twas probably seared into Zack’s and Brendon’s memory. Regardless he was in bed, light from the almost-noon sun keeping his skin ineffably warm, his arms encircling the pillow he’d probably dribbled on at some point. That didn’t keep someone from inching closer, fitting easily along his side, face buried over his shoulder. Not even awake and feeling like death already, Ryan naturally moved in his 99% asleep state to accomodate Brendon, turning his own head and smushing his face into Brendon’s hair comfortably. He registered, vaguely, the sensation of Brendon cuddling even closer, and he wormed his arm out from his pillow, from between them, until he could wrap it around Brendon loosely. Still not awake enough to actually hold on, but evidently haphazardly throwing a dead arm over your boyfriend was a romantic gesture in the sleeping-hungover world.

Baby? At the sound of his voice, Ryan stirred for real this time, more conscious. And he realized he felt like shit. He hummed almost inaudibly, the limp arm hanging over Brendon suddenly stiffening to hold him close as if he were a comfort pillow. Unfortunately, that wasn’t much of a hangover cure. You alive, Ry? Only just? Ryan chanced leaning his head back a little until he could actually see, blinking very dry eyes open to squint at Brendon. No, he was pretty sure he was dead, and he couldn’t even tell Brendon as much, on account of him being dead. Idiot. Wake up, your incredibly sexy boyfriend is here. Drink me in. Ryan groaned almost immediately, rolling his face into the pillow miserably. ”I don’t want to drink anything, ever,” he replied in a wrecked voice, muffled in the cushions.

Unable to feel bad right now about detaching from Brendon in the rare instance that he wanted to actually cuddle, Ryan lifted himself up off of his stomach slowly until he was sitting criss-cross, facing the headboard tiredly. He scrubbed his hands over his face, then through his hair, then over his face again, pressing his fingers into his eyes insistently. And then, almost perfectly mimicking a cat, he stretched out languidly, reaching for the ceiling as theatrically as possible. ”Is this life after death...? Am I in a coma?” He was speaking to the wall, but then he looked at Brendon again, helpless. And it occurred to him in that moment that any position other than horizontal was asking for pure discomfort, so he dramatically collapsed forward, returning similar to his original position but engaging more with Brendon, urging close to him for what he hoped to be pity treatment. ”I can’t remember anything after, like, eight. And I’m dead. Or dying. Take care of me,” he mumbled into Brendon’s shoulder, utterly useless.

i could be better but baby

I don’t understand. Of course he didn’t. And Ryan almost- pitied him for it, as bad as it sounded. Ryan was forcing this whole ‘taking responsibility’ move on him pretty fast, hardly explaining what was wrong to someone who couldn’t possibly detect a fault within himself. That’s just how it was; change took time, and Ryan had given him none of it, but apparently this kind of treatment was punishment enough. judging how small and defeated Ryan’s usually proud and bold boyfriend was at the moment. Yeah, he was fucking pissed about his efforts to help being jumped on, plus the whole comparison to Shane, but Brendon would sincerely believe he was innocent no matter what. That was his upbringing, no repercussions.

I don’t want this. Ryan watched him fight for composure, looking guarded himself. But you haven’t really given us a chance, here. Ryan considered every second where he wasn’t walking out the door a ‘chance,’ but of course, Brendon having no idea where he’d gone wrong was sort of throwing a wrench into his plans of receiving a genuine, sincere apology. It was hard to not start convincing himself that maybe it really didn’t matter all that much, maybe he was playing all this up in his head and Brendon could go off the hook... actually, it wasn’t just hard, Ryan was already sort of doing it. Like- he really didn’t want to desert Brendon for however long it took to make up for this, if he made nice at all. He sorta liked him. And he was spineless.

But he was walking out anyway, because he was sick of the role he’d had to play in this relationship, and. If Brendon cared enough to stop him, then... Wait. They were such a cliché that Ryan was almost tempted to just ignore it to preserve their dignity. Alas, he turned at the waist, looking at Brendon impatiently when he couldn’t meet Ryan’s gaze. I love you. His broken voice wasn’t entirely convicing, and Ryan almost smiled, endeared- he was dating the most inexperienced guy in the world, no clue how to navigate a real relationship. Lucky him. Please- don’t. Ryan studied him for a moment, considering. God, Brendon was an idiot, but so was he.

Because he was such a massive, unrelenting idiot, Ryan let the door fall shut. He dropped all his belongings he’d gathered up in one pile - easy enough to pick back up in a heartbeat should things go awry - and approached Brendon, hands hovering over his waist while he walked them backward a few steps back to the counter island their argument had started in the first place. He took back the paperwork shoved hastily in his arms and slid it across the marble, then regarded Brendon more carefully, deciding he’d make this much clearer. ”Tell me you don’t believe I’m like Shane. Tell me you’re not serious about that bullshit and I’ll think about not walking out of here.” Okay, so he was definitely being mean, but. Big difference, still. And, yeah, this hardly addressed his initial issue, but that was one he could actively help control at another time.

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

Ryan tried not to play up what connection he felt he and Brendon had. He tried not to romanticize things, the way he always did on paper; Brendon found his way into his writing regardless, and it was hard not to sound enamoured with him. Ryan wrote about the way he could feel his presence, how he could detect him rooms away, how he could predict what new curiosity inspired Brendon to explore the estate to fulfill it. He wrote about his accent, and how sometimes if he’d been listening to Ryan for too long, he emulated Ryan’s flatter tone instead, unconsciously, or how his voice sounded rough and unused in the mornings while he sipped at an oversweetened coffee. He wrote about how he sang, how, when he thought Ryan was far enough away, he got carried away in piano keys. He wrote about his passions, his opinions, his ideas, the way he expressed all of them.

So much for not romanticizing.

It wasn’t a ‘page after page’ deal - he didn’t fill notebooks entirely with ‘Brendon, Brendon, Brendon.’ But, if one was to look through his work and all of his unproductive musings chronologically, it was pretty obvious who had entered his life and become a central part of it. Ryan had run out of interest for anything before Brendon arrived, this odd, confused-looking kid on his porch, and now... everything had life. Brendon may have come into his life fairly hopeless and defeated by everything going on in his own, but he still held such a peculiar, lively quality; he illuminated the home Ryan had grown bored of. The garden Brendon was so fascinated by, once just another piece of the property that Ryan didn’t visit and let dwindle, was something for which he began regular upkeep again. Things started to matter, basically. He had someone to care about.

Out of fear, probably, Ryan didn’t dwell much into what that meant. Sure, he’d paint an intricate picture of who Brendon was and the changes that came about as a result of him being there - but never once did he write out, exactly, his own feelings for him. Of course, there were probably implications. Lucky for Ryan, there were no critics, no literary analysts - not even himself - to read into his personal journals. He and his evidently indefinite guest just existed beside one another, and Ryan registered that he was fond of him, so much so that he really, really didn’t want him to go, unless Brendon specifically wanted to leave. Beyond that, not much else occurred to him, because he didn’t let it. Here was someone he understood, who understood him. There was no point in change.

They’d been on the steps to the house, the ones still overgrown with ivy and fragile moss, flowers peering through on occasion. The sky was at that stage of purple-red-indigo that occurred only rarely, close to dusk, and the moon was out early despite the light, and Ryan had long since stopped gazing up at it to curl over a step and start absentmindedly freeing tiny white flowers from the greenery that crept over his home. And Brendon, well. He told Ryan he was in love with him.

Ryan didn’t even straighten up, just lifted his head to stare at Brendon, his mind, for once, completely blank. He wasn’t sure that it was even surprising - unexpected, yes, and confusing, but somehow, Ryan didn’t feel that overwhelming sense of ‘how’ or ‘I had no idea,’ etc. Moreover, he had no idea how to take it, and the pressure made him nervous, absolutely no response prepared for him. Of course, anyone sane would just fucking say it back. But everything in Ryan’s life was practiced. He had a routine. He knew, generally, what was going to happen on any given day, and how to navigate it. This, though, was completely new, and he was dead fucking silent for the most awkward thirty seconds of his life until Brendon was suddenly scrambling to get away. Of course he was. It was truly awful to not have a sentiment like that returned but for Ryan to not say a word...

Ryan let him go, mostly because he was frozen himself, and remained very still on that step for a while, his gaze dropping to the ground below. He tried to process this, wondered what he could say to make that shitshow any better, if he’d be lying by saying it back. Was he in love with Brendon? Just asking it made his mind go empty again, like a mental block on his own stupid emotions. Alright, then let’s start simpler: did he love Brendon? Absolutely, without a doubt, it’d be idiotic to claim that the person he’d welcomed into his very private life for almost a year was anything but someone he cherished and loved. ‘In love’ seemed like a much more intricate idea.

Five minutes of complete quiet and, without conscious thought, Ryan was on his way to Brendon’s room. He considered everything. How he felt when they played music together, the way his chest was tight when he watched Brendon read his words. How happy he was when he stumbled into Brendon at three in the morning, doing god knows what. How he had started laughing more than ever when they met - or how Brendon’s laughter sounded. Or, perhaps most importantly, how it felt hearing Brendon say he was in love with him. Standing outside of his room, reliving that in his head, Ryan had never felt so wonderful, so nervous, so anticipatory in his life. So... maybe.

He didn’t think before he leaned his forehead against the door and rapped his knuckles over the wood, realizing only after the fact that he had no fucking clue what he was going to say. He had a few seconds to panic about that before the door opened, and there was Brendon, unable to even look at him, and. In a towel. Ryan looked him over, a little taken aback, before blinking, gaze lifting to his downturned face. Yeah? The sound of his voice broke Ryan’s fucking heart, and - what he could see from the look on his face, god. His eyes looked red, and Ryan felt the unfamiliar urge to hold him close and never let go. He paused for a long moment, speechless, frozen. ”Are you okay?” he asked stupidly, knowing full well Brendon wasn’t. His voice became quieter, genuinely curious. ”Are you mad at me?” Well. Ryan would probably be mad at the guy he bore his heart to who said nothing in return, so. Reasonable curiosity.

i could be better but baby

You brought it up first. Ryan wondered what went on in Brendon’s head, here. This was as serious as they’d ever been during a fight, sure, so maybe it was all a jumble and he was just staggering through arguments at random - but what direction was he going, if any? Did he want to win something? It was starting to sound like it, and Ryan gave him an exasperated look, almost in disbelief if not for the fact that this was kind of believable Brendon behavior anyway. Still - he was one in a million. Okay, Ryan brought up leaving. He’d been expecting some refuting. In fact, he’d given Brendon the second option of apologising, and yet there didn’t even seem to be a pause of consideration for it. It was almost funny the way Brendon was navigating this all; Ryan knew he was stubborn and self-assured, he just apparently hadn’t known the extent to which before this.

He waited again for Brendon to back down, because surely when he was under the impression that things were ending between them, he’d simmer and try to see things from Ryan’s angle. Apparently that was expecting too much. Ryan studied him, the absent way he stuffed away the keys as soon as he got them, how he barely acknowledged the documents handed his way. If anything, Ryan figured the premise of having to deal with this stuff or find someone else to do so would scare Brendon into reconsidering, but he said nothing. Instead, he just made way for Ryan, and Ryan stepped forward confidently, afraid his own persistence might run out in favor of turning around and giving Brendon an easy way out of this. Is that it, then? Are you- we’re breaking up? ‘We don’t have to be, idiot,’ Ryan wanted to snap at him; it was that simple, ‘just apologise or at least take it back.’ But it didn’t seem like he was backing down.

He stopped in the doorway, close to him, turning a tired face to Brendon and studying him. He supposed that was how Brendon was, anyway, and this wasn’t a reflection on how much value he placed in their relationship - if it was, then hell, all of this was nothing. But in reality Brendon hadn’t had to truly fight for anything in his life. He’d fight in general, sure, he’d argue and start conflict for the fuck of it and bite back at sometimes the most ridiculous of provocations, ‘cause he was... y’know... like that. When it counted, though, he wasn’t conditioned to raise a finger. To be fair to him - Ryan wasn’t much of a fighter, either; he was sort of spineless at best, and more often than not, he bent to Brendon’s will (and not without being annoying about it). Right now, though, he was deadset on not letting this one slide, sparking a change to their frustrating status quo. Given how firm Brendon was on his side, it looked like this was becoming a risky game to play.

Actually, he was a little worried. Ryan was probably easily replaced for someone like Brendon, and. If he really believed they were breaking up, and really couldn’t admit he was in the wrong for Ryan not to stick to his guns and walk away... A flash of doubt shone through his features, and Ryan’s gaze flickered from Brendon’s momentarily, uncertain. ”I- I don’t want to talk to you when you’re treating me like shit. So think about what you want between us. I’m not making things easy for you anymore, I’m done with that.” He avoided the question, really, because god it scared him to think about breaking up. Brendon had become such an integral part of his life, someone he looked forward to seeing every day, in fact- the first thing he thought about when he woke up, last thing when he fell asleep. And, with what started all of this, how would Brendon cope healthily? Compromising and losing his new self-assuredness sounded nicer by the minute.

He remembered this morning, too, his nose buried in Brendon’s hair, fingers dancing over his waist, while he left a garden of kisses along Ryan’s chest. Sure, Ryan had been dreading the conversation in the first place, but being worried and holding Brendon in his arms was better than this, feeling worlds apart. I- get out. Ryan swore he could hear his own heartbeat, like his ribcage was too tight, and he looked at Brendon, looking so out of place and out of his element holding everything Ryan had shoved his way. For a moment he suffocated in the feeling of being at fault; if he’d kept his mouth shut they’d probably be on the balcony laughing at nothing, soaing up the sun. He pushed that guilt away. Feeling sick, he complied, taking a tiny step back through the bedroom door and towards the front door. Any more words at this point and he was just stalling, but - Ryan was terrified. He stopped briefly against his better judgment, pursing his lips. ”Bren, I’m serious. If you don’t fix this, I’m done. Just think it through.” He shook his head to himself, genuinely exhausted, and finally approached the front door, giving up on trying to convince him.

i could be better but baby

I dunno, that stick in your ass never seems to fucking come out. Ryan was hardly listening, more reflective than anything. He and Brendon, they were something of a duo; they rarely actually argued although they could disagree plenty, given the right situations and a good amount of stress. Well. That was probably being too fair. They could disagree over the tiniest things, too, like some personal take on a movie they’re otherwise cuddled up watching, or over who took the last cup from the coffee pot, or what they were going to do for date night. And, hey, maybe to a ‘normal’ couple, this discussion could be a civil one, where person A voiced a concern lightheartedly and person B realized they could be right, but Ryan wasn’t exactly an expert at saying these things the right way and Brendon wasn’t the kind of person to admit defeat.

It’d turned into something much bigger, and Ryan knew Brendon couldn’t really help this kind of thing, the words flooded out of him, but his patience could only run for so long. At this point he couldn’t find it within him to place an equal amount of blame on himself for how things had turned out, like he’d usually be able to; his position felt totally unfair. It was no longer about what Brendon got up to and how often, though Ryan definitely still cared- moreso he was pissed about what Brendon could make up about Ryan to make him look bad on the spot. It was almost a talent how much he could mar an image for someone he obviously did like and just said stupid things about in the heat of the moment. Yeah, Ryan was aware that he didn’t really believe these things, but he’d be damned if he sat around and pretended that it was okay.

There was no ‘he wasn’t raised any other way,’ ‘I understand he didn’t mean that and I’ll ignore it,’ ‘he doesn’t know better.’ Really, Brendon did know better - he’s a grown man. But, more than that, he was stubborn as hell. Just like everyone else who gets this fucking close to me. You told me I should be more trusting and here you are, trying to change me- but you don’t care really, do you, as long as you get to fuck me, like Shane. Ryan offhandedly wondered if Brendon really thought anyone trying to help was the same as ‘changing’ him, but he supposed that was right in a sense, anyway. When you’ve got an unhealthy habit, you change it for the better. Bad things, Ryan knew, were not a fundamental part of Brendon’s character, and he never aimed to change him as a person. Was he going to say anything else to defend himself now, though, when the conversation was obviously not gonna be based on sense? No. So he kept all that to himself.

(And he had no idea where the part about him only caring about sex came from, considering out of the two of them he was much less ‘on’ all the time, but he supposed it was more heat of the moment nonsense. Anything to make him seem more like Shane, or something. In whatever case, Ryan struggled not to almost laugh, the idea that he could do all of this out of thirst alone hilarious to him.)

He gave in. Up close, Ryan could catch the flash of uncertainty in Brendon’s countenance, something utterly rare for him but so distinct when it happened. Ryan was dead serious, though, so he turned away, began gathering his things wordlessly, his pace easy. Wh- What, are you breaking up with me? Ryan glanced over his shoulder, at the vulnerable picture of Brendon too small for his hoodie, arms circling himself not as the winner of a war like he might usually but as someone actually nervous. Ryan could be easily charmed, generally, except the comparison to a neglectful ex was still fresh on his mind, so. He raised his eyebrows at Brendon impatiently. Am I not- good enough for you? Apparently not a saint, Ryan actually responded. ”You told me to leave. I don’t wanna come back ‘til you’re ready to suck up your pride. I’m sick of being the one to compromise.” He tapered another jacket over his arm, his collection of belongings starting to bulk up.

Alright, then. Fine. Give me your key. Ryan knew he hadn’t grabbed every last piece of himself from the place - honestly, it’d take a good half hour to really scavenge the entire space, given it took up an entire floor - but he didn’t care, just quit his path, stood up straight and met Brendon’s gaze then. He was even more proud than Ryan thought. Well, he was past arguing by now, so he turned to the nightstand to retrieve his keyring before he approached Brendon in the doorway, disconnecting the key to the apartment mechanically and handing it over. An afterthought, he handed over his own work, every detail of managing Brendon’s livelihood crammed under his arm, forfeiting it to Brendon himself. ”Is that all?” he said expectantly, not about to shove past him to get through the doorway despite his temper, making the obvious motion to leave.

i could be better but baby

In contrast to his new and possibly most significant partner thus far in his life, Ryan did not come from privilege. He wasn’t poor, either; he was the classmate who had to move house in 2008 and maybe had to subsist off of a free lunch once in a while when Dad forgot to stock up his lunch account. He was the kid who wore already-dirty cleats in the beginning of the season, but they were perfectly functioning regardless. He came home to frozen meals and sometimes takeout, went to bed with a full stomach, never had to wonder whether he was going to go hungry - because even if his father was passed out at five in the evening, there was at least something microwaveable. So, he was middle class, and the middle class wasn’t all about financial income; there were also values that went with his upbringing, which, even if they weren’t quite delivered via family, he picked up on them some way, somehow.

It wasn’t anything perfect. He could be spoiled, and callous and hateful and too full of himself, you name it - but he was realistic at most times. He was humble, knew that when there was a crowd, he was part of it, not the leader or anyone special to stand out. It was funny; Brendon didn’t receive any attention when he was younger, and neither did Ryan, not quite. In Brendon, it fueled a destructive streak, hurting himself without calling it what it was, making people wonder about him and fret or watch in wonderment as he wrecked himself and his life. It fueled a neverending chase after contentment, after things that only made him happy for the briefest of moments. In Ryan, it left him uninspired to find anything beyond not getting attention - he didn’t want to explore the possibilities, never hungered after more unless things got very desperate and he became self-victimizing. His ‘destructive habits’ were curiosities explored occasionally, most things in moderation except for a reclusive streak.

If Ryan was more self-aware, thought about his side of the story, he’d wonder where that difference came in, wonder what separated them when they could potentially be so similar. But he wasn’t totally insightful, and he tried not to overanalyze Brendon’s upbringing anymore when he realized he turned so dreadfully patronizing after a minute of it. So, it got left alone.

Questioning it, though, might guarantee an answer to why Brendon was fighting him so much right now, why he thought he was so starkly in the right, here. Still, Ryan stuck to not delving. He had to dumb it down to ‘Brendon’s being a fucking asshole’ to avoid turning into more of an asshole himself (though maybe he was being part of the problem, too, by simply accepting things the way they were). You sure as hell implied it. ”Then let me be clear. You’re not an alcoholic, and I’m not stupid enough to think so.” He was probably being too stern, but Ryan’s probable worst fear was looking anything close to unintelligent, so. He had to argue. Stupidly. You’re a hypocrite, dude. Ryan looked at him critically, challengingly. ”Explain to me how. Do I chainsmoke, binge drink, do a line every night? Tell me what I don’t do in moderation.” Arguing again. Yeah, Ryan had never had to approach this before... ironically.

Don’t fucking baby me, you manipulative freak. This is the point at which Ryan quieted, now on unsteady ground when he realized exactly how unreasonable Brendon could be - apparently, when he particularly wanted to be. ”Manipulative,” Ryan repeated, his voice low, kind of smirking at Brendon disbelievingly. Okay, maybe in another situation he could be construed as manipulative, in an unintentional way. He had a habit of being like that, obviously never meaning to. But right now, it definitely didn’t apply. He stared at Brendon, waiting for him to take it back, or something, and then he didn’t. Didn’t even look like he wanted to undo what he was saying. Ryan looked away, his lips pursed and his jaw tight.

It could get worse, though, and it did. Ryan gave him another chance to fix it, comparing him to Shane of all things, and he still wouldn’t change a word. I’m good. Brendon’s heated gaze met his, cold and resigned, and somehow nothing catastrophic happened between them despite the differences and how pissed Ryan was. He watched Brendon’s hands trail down his face then creep into his hair, almost vicious with his frustration, and usually Ryan would be sympathetic to how he felt, really, but right now he couldn’t muster up anything. It served him right. My health is my fucking business. Not yours. You’re so entitled to me. ”I’m allowed to show concern for you without it being entitlement. Recognise the difference.” He shook his head, looking down at the counter tiredly, rubbing his fingers over his forehead. Ryan didn’t know how else to get the point across how serious he was: he gave him an ultimatum.

Get the fuck out, then. You know where the door is. Ryan stared at him again, incredulous, before it became apparent that he wasn’t kidding. Ryan stood abruptly, unfolding to his full height and circling the counter to come close to Brendon, careful not to touch him but placing a hand on the surface closest to him, a warning. ”Just let me get my things so I don’t have to come back.” He wasn’t going to be the one to compromise this time, like he always tended to bend over backwards to do. Ryan stepped away, holding his gaze steadily, almost calm, before he turned, headed directly to all the files keeping Brendon’s life together sitting on his coffee table, stooping to gather them without any concern for organization. Clearly he wasn’t good enough for him if he was just like Shane but mostly he wanted an apology, and Brendon wasn’t an idiot, so this was how to get one, he figured. Ryan tucked his paperwork under his arm and made a confident path to Brendon’s room, picking up every random hoodie he’d left behind, a toothbrush he’d bought just to keep here.