Neve

you gotta save your reputation

Their relationship was still a secret. It had started at the very end of the first leg of tour- they’d been staying in the same room thanks to Ryan’s very convincing argument that they should bunk together, and Ryan had decided to go on an impulse shopping spree for his very well-paid stylist, as if people didn’t complain that Brendon was spoiled and given special treatment already. Brendon on that day had just been lounging around the huge hotel room, ordering food with Ryan’s credit card because he knew he could get away with murder if it was up to that man. He’d been incredibly bored as Ryan had some extensive interviews scheduled today and unfortunately Brendon wasn’t required to make him look pretty for those. Not that he wasn’t pretty anyway, all the time.

Anyhow, he stayed in the room and finally hours later Ryan arrived back. The sound of the door opening and Ryan’s familiar voice attracted Brendon’s attention and he had struggled to pull one of Ryan’s hoodies over his head before he headed into the living room, because the less articles of clothing either of them had on, the more likely it was that things would deviate from professional. That said, wearing Ryan’s clothes probably wasn’t very professional either. Oh well- they were friends before Ryan was his boss, and even before that they had a clear mutual attraction that they had been dancing around ever since they met. Sometimes Brendon wished that Ryan had just taken him home and got it all out of their systems before they fell into a working relationship- but then he wanted more than just that.

And more than that was what he got when Ryan showered him in a lavish array of gifts, designer clothes and a surplus of candy and several new video games that he’d managed to find out on his shopping spree. Brendon never would have guessed it but Ryan knew exactly what he liked and conversation about jeans turned into Ryan making comments about certain physical features of Brendon’s, and then they felt comfortable enough to bring up the whole frequently avoided topic of them flirting constantly. It was a perfect lead up into a kiss, soft and sweet and eager and almost relieved, the kind that made him feel like he could fall in love.

And so their relationship began without question or second thought- but, following a conversation about what would undoubtedly be a sour reaction from Ryan’s exhausted crew, exasperated bandmates and jealous fans who would call Brendon a gold digger or something even more tasteless, they decided to keep it wrapped up. Ryan didn’t even tell Spencer. It was nice to have it to themselves, though Brendon could tell that Ryan would much rather be showing him off and talking about him all the time even without prompting. They had a brief amount of time during the break between the first and second leg of tour to fully explore the new type of relationship they had and they became quickly used to being comfortably around eachother all the time, kissing carelessly and without reason or worry, so when they went back on tour and realised they couldn’t do that anymore it was difficult.

But it was exciting, as juvenile and dumb as it sounded. They made out in the brief moments they had alone, colliding together like it was the last time they’d ever kiss or something ridiculous like that, and whenever they were lucky enough to have a hotel they made sure their room was a floor above everyone else’s. The best part about it was that Brendon could tease him and there was nothing Ryan could do about it while everyone else was around. On the softer side of things, it was wonderful to curl up together if they had a hotel room after a show, Brendon talking about how great Ryan was and making fun of how dishevelled he looked after the performance.

It was right before a show this time, just over an hour before the band were due to go on stage, and Brendon was stood behind Ryan who was sat in a chair facing the huge mirror in the dressing room. He was idly playing with his hair, trying to figure out how to style it tonight, as Ryan spoke to Spencer, who had been hanging out near the door for the past twenty minutes. Brendon swore that he knew about them and just wanted to watch them squirm.

Alright, man, let me know how you feel about it. He’d suggested impulsively changing the lineup of songs and Ryan wasn’t entirely convinced, but Brendon could tell he wasn’t really listening anyway as he kept trying to catch his eye in the mirror. Thus, his response was lacklustre. ”Sure, okay, bye.” He sounded impatient. Brendon stifled a grin and moved around to stand in front of him as Spencer left and the door behind him closed. ”Hey, can I put some eyeliner on you tonight? It’d make your eyes stand out more, and I know you won’t let me do eyeshadow, so-“ Ryan was shifting forwards in the seat and Brendon stepped back against the dressing table of the vanity. ”Ryan, not now, I have a lot to do.” He sounded exasperated but he was smiling and Ryan looked so pretty and yearning, struggling to lean forward in his seat and reaching up to curl his fingers around Brendon’s wrist, anchoring him close. Annoying fucker. ”Ryan.” He glanced nervously towards the door.

paying in naivety

They’d seen eachother already since Ryan was let out of lockup- Brendon had been waiting outside, leaning against Ryan’s car, which had been held by the cops until now, when he was... semi-free to go. He still had a court date which Brendon knew would go smoothly because the rat bastard could talk him, personally, out of anything, even though Brendon was the most stubborn piece of work in the world. He had talent there- that was probably why he was so successful in his chosen field of work. Successful as he was, though, the government could always dangle tempting bonuses in front of cops who usually couldn’t care less about bootleggers (or even wanted a little cut of the good shit for themselves), so there was always risk involved. Ryan knew that, and Brendon knew that, even if he wasn’t happy about it; he wasn’t particularly fond of watching his lover being handcuffed/restrained by someone other than him.

Ryan had been in jail before this incident and no doubt would be again, and Brendon would bail him out, no matter the rising price, because apparently there is nothing he would not do to get his boyfriend back. He’d barely been gone for a day and Brendon had already been antsy, wishing the whole bail thing would go through faster and he’d get to make fun of Ryan until he decided they could make up for lost time in other ways, however brief the lost time was. They were just gross like that. And this time it was three whole days, but then they barely had any time together because Ryan was immediately dead set on getting ‘revenge’ on the guy who ratted him out this time. Brendon was all for teaching the guy a lesson, but honestly, he was a little offended that that took priority.

Brendon had a performance that evening anyway, and so they shared a few longing kisses goodbye, Brendon putting in a little extra effort in a vain attempt in convincing him to stay, before Ryan set out to Spencer’s. As always, he had been quick and resourceful and had set his partner in crime onto the guy who talked less than an hour after getting out of the cell- so all Ryan had to do was turn up and make sure he was taught a lesson. When his boyfriend made the grand, vengeful speech detailing all of this, Brendon had just nodded along, trying not to smile, trying to appear as though he was taking the tough guy version of Ryan seriously- of course he knew that Ryan was capable of being ruthless but he’d cuddled with him so much that it was amusing to even think about the other, less sweet and loving side of him.

So Ryan left him with a vague half-promise, and Brendon tried not to get his hopes up when he looked out across the crowd; of course, he did anyway, and was disappointed when he didn’t see Ryan standing there smiling up at him like he usually did. He went backstage and to his dressing room, standing in front of a mirror, trying to hype himself up for the performance- and suddenly he caught a pair of immediately recognisable honey eyes in the mirror, followed quickly by arms around his waist and a low voice by his ear. Miss me? Brendon exhaled, a rush of delighted breath, grinning at Ryan’s reflection. ”So much.” Sorry I’m late, darlin’, but now I think it’s my business to make you late for your performance. Oh, that little bastard. He wishes.

Brendon hesitated for barely a second, smirked and then broke out of Ryan’s embrace and turned around, quickly catching one of his wrists and walking them backwards until Ryan had his back against the closest wall. [b]”Oh, yeah? Did you miss me, Mr. Rowe?”[b] He murmured, straightened up as much as possible and yet still a good few inches shorter than Ryan. A little comical, ”That’s sweet. But you can wait, I think. Yeah, I’m gonna make you wait.” A pause, and then Brendon stole a kiss, sweet and a little desperate though he tried to remain in control, moving his hands down to hold onto Ryan’s hips. Brendon wasn’t used to playing this role, but it was fun. He opened his eyes and spoke right against his lips, eyebrows raised playfully. ”I paid a lot of cash to get your stupid ass back to me. Believe me when I say I’m going to get my money’s worth.”

i could be better but baby

It was really fucking embarrassing how, up until the moment Ryan was actually moments from stepping outside the apartment, with the door wide open, Brendon had been stubborn and defiant and unwilling to back down or admit that he was the one in the wrong. He still wasn’t quite there yet, but the idea of Ryan leaving and not coming back was terrifying, so he half-involuntarily let his feelings surge out into words, asking him to stop. And Ryan did- he didn’t expect him to. So then he had to quickly figure out what to say before Ryan changed his mind and shut the door behind him. The first thing that came to mind that he could honestly say without a doubt was ‘I love you’; and, considering Ryan’s inpatient expression before he said this, it might not have been a good idea to lead with that. But he meant it, obviously. He never wanted to hurt Ryan. So he followed it up with a kind of pathetic request for Ryan to stay.

He was mellowed, now, upon realising how serious Ryan was about the whole ‘leaving’ thing, which Brendon refused to label as ‘breaking up’ because the idea of that made him sick to his stomach. So he simply stood, anxious, unsure of what to do with himself, waiting- but then Ryan was closing the door and Brendon’s heart surged with hope. His eyes flickered down to where he dropped all of his collected belongings and once he looked back up he was startled to see that Ryan was approaching him, crowding him, almost, his hands a few inches away from his waist and Brendon’s instinct was to move towards him, into his grasp, relax. But Brendon was still nervous and slightly intimidated by the sense of purpose he could see Ryan had, so he walked backwards until his lower back hit the marble. His grasp was so weak on all the paperwork that there was no resistance when Ryan removed it and slid it across the counter- it was a miracle he hadn’t already dropped it, as he was trembling, slightly, trying desperately to hide it and keep some semblance of strength.

Brendon could barely meet Ryan’s eyes but he did anyway, looking up through his eyelashes but there was no seduction there, or playfulness, as there usually was when Ryan had him against some kind of furniture like this. Distantly he imagined what would have happened if the conversation Ryan brought up had gone smoother- maybe they’d be like this, only Ryan would be grinning and Brendon would be pressing kisses on his neck and over his pulse, before turning his head to catch Ryan in a kiss while Ryan held him secure, fingers dipping down to trace the skin of his v-line. That was what usually happened in the mornings. Instead, he was wide-eyed and felt extremely vulnerable under the scrutiny of Ryan’s careful, level gaze, not sure that any gentle kisses would get him very far in this situation.

Tell me you don’t believe I’m like Shane. Brendon... had forgotten he had said that. He felt sick. Ryan was nothing like that piece of shit and they both knew it and it was awful of him to- ”I,” He began, then cut himself off immediately, struggling to find words because he was so disgusted with himself. How did he excuse that? Shane had been abusive. Ryan wasn’t anything of the fucking sort. He was protective and sweet and wonderful and sure, sometimes he was a little uptight and could be overprotective, but he always meant well and Brendon loved him to death. He just didn’t know how to express that into words right now- some of the stupid part of his brain was still trying to get him to make things worse and refuse to accept responsibility or apologise. He had never been held accountable for anything. Tell me you’re not serious about that bullshit and I’ll think about not walking out of here.

”I’m not, I’m not,” Brendon said quickly, lifting his arms hesitantly before dropping them because he wasn’t sure Ryan would take kindly to being touched right now. ”Fuck, I’m so sorry, darling. God, I’m so shit. You’re nothing like him, I can’t believe I-” He stopped. ”...You’re not going, really, are you? You were- really going to leave? Leave me?”

paying in naivety

Though he held parties a lot, Brendon rarely showed up at any of them- or got involved anyway; sometimes he could be found just sort of lingering beyond the boundary of where his distinguished (and not so distinguished) guests were allowed to roam, which was a considerably large area, even compared to the size of his estate. It was strange, because he was such a showman, a performer, born to be in the spotlight, born to be known and loved by many. Yet sometimes he preferred just to observe, and the parties he held were mostly just some kind of social experiment he was conducting anyway, studying how the highest and lowest of society mixed together and the aftermath of such a mix. That said, he was no scientist. In fact he was barely educated, or more technically didn’t thrive in a learning environment, and he didn’t pretend to be some kind of intellectual. All of this holding parties and not taking part made him seem kind of desirable and enigmatic, public property due to his fame and yet unreachable. The true fact of the matter was that he was a party animal- in the right situation. If he could be coaxed into drinking enough liquor (which wasn’t hard) he’d be in the throes of the music and chaos.

But, something in the psychology of the press and the public made Brendon’s lack of availability something desirable- therefore, when he made it public that he was holding a smaller, more intimate party, where he would be performing on stage, the press lapped it up and requested invites and Brendon did let a few in, and gave them the guest list in advance. Sure, it was a smaller affair, mainly to make sure it was classier than his usual events, but Brendon still loved the attention and felt his first performance in a while was worthy of a good audience and a lot of coverage from the press. It didn’t take much effort to distract the eyes of the nation- after all, they were all currently morbidly curious about Brendon’s relationship to the bootlegger, Ryan Rowe, who had just been released from lock-up as Brendon had paid his bail.

That was another thing; that he was gay, openly- although some people were still clueless and he was propositioned by women a lot of the time, advances he had to awkwardly reject because he didn’t have the time to deal with the reactions of disgusted homophobes when he revealed the real reason that he didn’t want to escape the party and go somewhere more private with them. It wasn’t the act of slipping away itself he was against. He’d snuck out of gatherings many times for a scandalous rendezvous somewhere more private- such as with his current lover, Ryan. He recalled their very classy encounter in the toilets at Dallon’s speakeasy often, and reminded Ryan just as much, which always made him roll his eyes as Ryan apparently prided himself with being much less easy. Brendon, his actual boyfriend, could disprove that any day.

His relationship with Ryan was a recent discovery and was the subject of heated debate amongst many, some who admired Brendon’s bravery and individualism, some who thought it was just a career move (any press is good press), and some who used it an example of the depravity of the youth today- ‘a faggot sodomizing a criminal.’ little did they know that it was not that way around, but Brendon was beyond caring enough to point that out to the people shouting slurs at him when he was just trying to perform a goddamn song. A lot of people say the 20’s are progressive, but there are always some idiots trying to put the fear of god into you, Brendon sometimes said in interviews. I don’t fear god, he’d say, but I’d sure like to ask him a few questions. Beyond the surface, Brendon didn’t talk about his relationship with Ryan at all. They didn’t deserve to know, and besides, all they thought of him as anyway was some lustful sinner. Nothing would change that. So he stuck to more open and liberal scenes, though he wasn’t afraid to perform somewhere... Less accepting of ‘new’ society. Much to Ryan’s distress, who was terrified Brendon was gonna he jumped by some brutes after a show. The possibility was there, sure, but.

Brendon felt more bad for Ryan- who would take him seriously now that he had been outed? He wasn’t too worried, though, being a little fruity didn’t affect Ryan’s ability to break kneecaps. All of this went through Brendon’s head as he prepared in the hours before stepping on stage. It was the final countdown beforehand, Brendon was fixing his hair in the dressing room mirror, dressed in a black velvet, floral patterned tuxedo and a white dress shirt, no tie. He turned, downed the remaining half a glass of what was meant to be a sipping whiskey that Ryan had given him earlier as a good luck present, and handed the glass to a stagehand, before, when given the signal, heading on stage. He was greeted by immediate applause as his name was announced over a speaker- For your pleasure and entertainment, Brendon Blake. He was sporting his naturally bright, charming smile, and immediately wrapped his hands around the mic stand, leaning forward to speak into and greet the audience- though as he did, his eyes searched for one man; Ryan, who said that he might be able to make it, he just had some business to attend to that couldn’t be left. That was Ryan, though. Fresh out of jail and back to business.

Brendon couldn’t see him but tried not to be disheartened. ”Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” He began, eyes now surveying the audience just to make eye contact with guests instead, who were all sat around on tables, unfortunately not drinking alcohol, because this was a very publicised event. Nobody wanted to be caught on camera drinking champagne. His eyes zeroed in on a man who looked like he wouldn’t mine being brought to attention for a joke. ”I hope you all enjoyed the refreshments- you look like you’ve enjoyed them too much, sir, did you slip a little something extra in your drink? Don’t worry, sport, it’s our secret.” The audience all laughed, and Brendon laughed along like it was a personal inside joke, like these were his friends. Once again he looked around for Ryan- but if he was here, he would have seen him by now. ”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.” And so, with applause punctuating the end of his brief welcome, he walked off stage and back around to his dressing room, a little bummed that Ryan wasn’t around, but very excited to sing in public again since taking a little hiatus to spend more time with his boyfriend, who even took some time off work himself. They were- an odd couple.

we were always thick as thieves, you and me

My hindsight is impeccable and when I look back on mine and Ryan’s relationship, the more-than-platonic way we interacted with one another became clear, staring me in the face, mocking me for not being able to admit it then and only realising too late that the feelings I had (have) for him did not correlate with being... just friends. When I was developing my skills as a lyricist I looked to Ryan for help; not just because he was the most superior out of all of us, like I used to tell myself, but because I valued his opinion the most. He was gentle with me, and we had complimentary personalities, and I always stole the seat next to him in whatever situation, interviews, for example, whenever I could. I held his hand even in public just to make sure he had something solid and present to hold onto, to anchor him physically and emotionally.

Obviously, our relationship went further than just holding hands, something that started maybe a year into meeting eachother, a little less, perhaps. We weren’t even drunk- we’d had a drink each, at the point where we simply had increased confidence, and I’d playfully insulted him, and he’d said ‘suck my dick’, and I’d said ‘sure’; and it was so funny, so funny that I burst out laughing and got onto my knees and he was laughing too, and I unzipped his jeans much more surely than I probably should have but at that point it was just a funny joke. Then some kind of barrier dissolved, our laughter faded away, I looked up into his eyes and it wasn’t funny anymore. Afterwards, I felt much less awkward than I had expected to feel. We just joked about it, laughing, saying ‘imagine if we were actually gay’, and it was supposed to be a one time thing but then the next evening we were alone again and he kissed me. Things just kind of went in from there indefinitely.

It’s bizarre how much I remember, how apparently significant that memory is to me. Here we are, ten years later, and we’re both being playful, like the decade we have experienced completely apart is void, and we’re toeing the line at flirting just as we did so many times all around the world on tour buses and in dressing rooms and and hotel suites. Just like back then, we don’t dare at ask ‘hey, what’s going on here’? I don’t want to ask any real questions. I want to enjoy his company, the company I knew I missed but the absence of which I only now realise affected me so fucking much. I don’t miss him like a friend should- even a best friend. He smiles at me and I melt a little, time of no consequence, the only thing mattering that he is here and so am I and we are together again and what the fuck is anybody going to do about it?

Sure. We’ll see if it’s all you imagined. I want to laugh at that, shoot back a smart comment, but the weight behind his words... I don’t know if I’m reading into it too much, so I say nothing instead and just smile faintly, wistfully. If only. We are nothing like I imagined, so I’m expecting to be wrong.

You’re predictable, too. I bet you haven’t driven it more than a few miles. The accuracy of that judgement is startling and I pout a little, caught out, nudging him in the shoulder playfully. ”I don’t even leave my house, Ry, so you’re damn right.” Get your own, Blake. I knew you were after my car this whole time. ”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 pause. ”Seriously, come over anytime, guarantee I’ll be in.” Crazy how we live in the same state, convenient.

I know people want to talk to me but I don’t particularly care. Surely they understand the significance of me and Ryan being together- the idea that people might be whispering about exactly that both terrifies and excites me. I believe it. When we went platinum you were still drinking Capri-sun. You’ve always been pretty humble. ”Well, yeah. I was a good boy.” A pause, and I’m about to say something like ‘I was underage, I had to drink something’, but instead I make a comment more open to interpretation. ”You know that better than anyone.” He’s saying my name but the music is being cranked up and people’s voices rise in excitement, and suddenly his hand is behind my lower back and he’s leading is back out of the front door. C’mon. I promised you a tour. He did. And because I am stupid, I let it happen.

His car really is gorgeous and I admire it as we walk closer, brushing my hand along the hood and then laughing as Ryan makes a grand gesture about opening the door and presenting the interior to me. I know. I’m very cool. ”You are. Hey, how much was this thing?” I ask, walking around to stand too close to him and peer inside, my eyebrows drawing together, impressed. You can have a seat if you’d like. Without waiting for him to change his mind, I immediately climb into the back, settling against the leather seats, still grinning. 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. Should’ve expected that, really. Ten years on and he’s still bullying me about my driving. Nothing had changed. ”It’s a good job I make up for it in other areas. You gonna sit?”

we were always thick as thieves, you and me

I’m sure Ryan and I remember the months before and after his dad’s death very differently, for obvious reasons. It was during the height of our sudden explosion in success and we were a significant part of the mainstream non-mainstream music scene. It was crazy, and we were all so young, and often Ryan was so swept up by the popularity and unexpected good fortune that it took his mind off his dad’s health issues for significant amounts of time. Though- I can’t speak for him. I could read him very well but he refused to talk about it- probably because he didn’t want pity or anyone to have their happiness ruined by his difficult family life. Plus, I don’t think he believed that anybody cared- not because of the fault of others, who obviously did care, but because he went through a phase of hating the world about it all and refusing to accept help. Looking back, I think I was the only one who he properly let in, who he actively sought when he was struggling, and I was always there to help- otherwise, what were friends for? Even if I couldn’t do anything, I’d just. Hold him. And hope he even felt a little better.

That said, I didn’t enjoy it- who enjoyed seeing their favourite person break down and cry? And it was Ryan, who never cried, at least in front of anyone, so it was even more jarring. But it was never about I was affected, I was there, just like always was for me. No, I didn’t enjoy it, I instead enjoyed things more along the lines of having secret inside jokes and the same sense of humour, therefore laughing until our sides hurt; performing together on stage (particularly when we harmonized, which we did so well) and writing music together (though admittedly this was one of things I missed the least as we often butted heads and couldn’t compromise creatively- not having to compromise was one of the major pluses of running this whole thing by myself).

Then there was- well, the other side of our relationship... It wasn’t an arrangement, we didn’t plan anything- like, I didn’t saunter up to Ryan and go ‘Hey, when Jon and Spence go out later, do you wanna fuck’, it all just kind of happened when we were alone. Not all the time- but a lot of the time. Though I try desperately not to let it happen, sometimes memories of what we used to get up to on our lonesome emerge in my brain and to this day it makes me all hot and flustered like some dumb teenager, because I suppose our relationship never matured beyond the point of adolescence, really. Even in our early twenties we were still just kids, to be honest. Is it still me that makes you sweat. Looking at him now, maybe he is. God, he’s gorgeous. I thank the fact we are in public and therefore I am kept from saying something fucking stupid.

Public. I’m nervous, I look around, god knows what people would think if they saw us conversing like this when everyone knows we haven’t spoken in years. There were rumours back in the day already, for fuck’s sake. I steady myself and look back at him, and he’s smiling. So I smile. It’s really that simple. You pictured what kind of car I’d have? Usually I’m very quick on the draw with retorts to provocative comments like that, from anyone, but suddenly I feel a wave of embarrassment because I’ve just exposed that I think about him. In enough depth that I imagined the type of vehicle he’d own. There’s no escaping that kind of shame, so I just shrug and grin sheepishly and stutter through an excuse, ”I mean, you’re predictable, that’s all. Don’t flatter yourself.” Deflective, but lighthearted. The best I can do. I’ll take you on a tour sometime.

I’ll take you on a... Holy shit, is he hitting on me? Unsure, I meet his eyes and gauge his expression, and suddenly I’m very interested in this apparent tour, even though I know I shouldn’t be entertaining him and playing along will not end well. However, since I’m a stupid slut, I play along. ”Oh yeah?” I murmur, raising my eyebrows, ”Show me the leather seats?”

I think about you, too. I choke, on absolutely nothing, because even if I had a suspicion it has floored me to hear Ryan say that he thinks about me. Not past tense. Thinks. As in, regularly at least, for a decade. We’re fucking stupid. Why did I ever let him go, again? I rack my brain searching for answers but nothing relevant is being dragged up, Just career things, lame shots in the dark at shit like ‘people grow apart’ and ‘it just wasn’t meant to be’. In my eyes, that’s giving up.

When did I become such a believer in that?

”That’s sweet.”

And the Tesla that’s probably in your high-security garage. I don’t know if he’s a stalker or a mind reader or he just knows me that well, but... ”Oh my god, no fucking kidding, dude, I have a Tesla. That’s super creepy, man.” I pause as I start following Ryan to where the bar apparently is, ignoring the common sense part of me that’s telling me to stop being such a sentimental thot. ”D’ya wanna trade cars? Yours is actually cooler.”

We’re at the bar, and he’s pouring himself a drink, honey whiskey, I don’t want that because the taste will just bring back so many associated memories, Ryan’s 21st a big one on that list. That said, with Ryan right by me, there’s no use in attempting to forget. So I give in and I tell him ‘same as you’ before he can even finish asking me what I want. He’s right, world tours have changed my tastes, but I’ve always been and always will be a bourbon man. An Old Fashioned, on the rocks- that’s my poison. I settle for straight whiskey, though, so to not be complicated. I guess I haven’t changed much. ”You may not believe it, but me neither.”

we were always thick as thieves, you and me

We have so much history and yet here I am, talking to him like we’re only sort of friends, the kind that can talk pretty easily but never actively organise to do anything together. He was my best friend- we were polar energies who fulfilled the cliche of ‘opposites attract’; I was always more extroverted, energetic, boundless- he was more withdrawn, though not without his moments of confidence and stubbornness. Oh, and we both hate crowds. Two, in my humble opinion, is not a crowd- and it wasn’t for me back then, either, as I recalled him crawling into wherever I was designated to sleep and wrapping his arms around me for some sort of comfort and I obliged him by not shoving him away as I often playfully did otherwise. I could tell at those times that he needed me to just be and though I overhear very fast and find it very hard to stay still, I always stayed with him.

We went through a lot as eachother’s anchor- when Ryan lost his dad, I made it my personal mission to always be available in case he needed to talk about it. Even then, when he knew full well he could trust me to listen, he barely talked about his father. I knew their relationship had been complicated, and he often tried to pretend it didn’t affect him as much as it did, but. I was there in that interview where he was getting texts about his dad’s deteriorating condition, the interview where his phone was subsequently confiscated and I offered my hand to him to hold just so he had something solid to focus on, to calm down. And afterwards- none of his went with him to the hospital (I offered but he refused and I didn’t want to argue with him)- I waited outside, anxiously waiting to pick him up. I vividly remember that he walked straight past me and into the bus and he didn’t say a word to any of us the entire evening- but that night, probably around midnight, once we had all retired to our hotel rooms for the breaks between shows, he knocked at my door and I let him in and I just. Held him.

Because what else was I there for? We were one another’s shoulder to cry on, partner in crime, and. All of this flashed through my head in seconds and I have to remind myself, yet again, that we were never more than friends. Anything we did or said in the moment where we were just being thirsty assholes didn’t mean anything, there was no substance to that side of things. It happened, we didn’t talk about it. We kissed, usually only in premise to other things, but- there were times that he just kissed me and that was all I needed.

Of course, we never spoke about it. To be honest, none of us in the band ever really spoke in depth about emotions or anything like that- we were under the heterosexual and frighteningly masculine impression that talking about feelings and worries and whatnot was reserved for romantic partners only. I smile cruelly to myself as I meet Ryan’s eyes, scorning my own wistful thoughts. Romantic partners. What if.. Oh, shut up, Brendon. Well, I did pregame. It’s just the alcohol talking, I convince myself, and blink furiously as if trying to physical dispel the thoughts away.

I don’t feel any shame any more, like I used to, because I came to accept my own sexuality years ago- a few years too late, I think, staring at him; He’s so tall, tall enough that the top of my head reaches his shoulders, just, his hair is thick and dark and swept back somewhat and I desperately want to touch it, he’s smiling, god I missed that smile, and now I am here I start to realise exactly how bad of an idea it was to not just brush past him and pretend I didn’t see him. Thank you. ”It’s exactly the car I pictured you to have.” Oh, fuck, that makes it sound like I think about him a lot, and that’s mortifying, but I do, and oh, god, what if he does? I’d like that. I find myself hoping desperately that he thinks of me half as much as I think of him.

Careful. He can hear mocking from a mile away. Ryan and I always tended to keep the same company and even now we have many of the same connections, though the band itself seemed to have split down the middle, Ryan and Jon on one side and Spencer and I on the other. Gabe is one such person that we both remained relatively close to- but then again, that’s just Gabe. ”I don’t doubt it, man.”

Speaking of. It’s typical of him to be absent at his own party, but suddenly I am uncomfortably aware that this is Ryan Rowe I am talking to and maybe I should escape elsewhere. I didn’t see him- I was about to text him when I ran into you, actually. I feel him looking at me and feel small. ”Hey, don’t stop on my account.”

I’m glad you came. I thought I might see you. Now, I’m not usually one lost for words, but it makes me unspeakably nervous and ecstatic that he tells me, to my face, that he is glad I came. And, by consequence, glad that he ran into me. So, instead of saying something smart or humorous or intelligent to deflect the weight of that confession, I just make some kind of choked noise in my throat and feel suddenly like a teenager again with a stupid crush that I can’t wait to tell my best friend about. Only this time, Ryan is the crush, not the best friend. ”Nice to hear,” I manage, only because I cannot manage anything else. Can I get you a drink? The bar’s just inside. No, I’ve spent too long with you already. ”Sure.” Fucking idiot.

we were always thick as thieves, you and me

I remember us all being seventeen, eighteen years old and fantasising about how famous and rich and successful we’d be my the time we were all thirty. The success of our first album thrust us all, just kids, into the spotlight, long before we were prepared; we said and did dumb shit as our egos tripled in size and came dangerously close to becoming entitled brats. Now, I’m over thirty, and I look back on that dream of mine and it is nothing like I imagined now I am here. It’s everything I could ask for, it’s a best case scenario that I am able to continue to make music and earn money and have millions hear my songs, but it’s not what I imagined.

Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I expected to be, like, fed grapes and fanned with huge palm leaves, I looked up to people who were entitled assholes and I just didn’t know it because I only saw their public persona. Privacy isn’t really a thing I have anymore and sometimes I wish that I’d done the same as Ryan and just withdrawn myself into a shell, living off royalties and whatnot, but then I realise that is selfish when I have so much. We started as a foursome and now I am the soul survivor from the original lineup, but I don’t feel any guilt for that.

I used to. But panic is mine, I played a major part in making it as successful as it was and I continue to make it even more popular even when I am on my own and the only official member. I no longer feel like I have at the wheel of a ship that I had nothing to do with building- at the front is where I belong and I don’t regret anything when it comes to the split or how I have handled it.

Well. There are regrets I have, but they aren’t to do with the band. Rather, the members. Spencer I am still friends with, which is awesome, but Jon and Ryan I haven’t spoken to in years and part of me is always seething that I didn’t make more of an effort to maintain the connection and the close relationships we always had as a band- after all, it was a relatively amicable split, nothing personal, just musical; I have no reason for having let the bonds between us all wear away so fast, but then. That’s life. People grow apart. I try not to let my regrets cling onto me too much because then I would be living in a world of ghosts, constantly yearning for what could have been and not settling for what truly is.

I wish I was as good at moving on as I tried to tell myself. If I had properly moved on, seeing Ryan stood in the hallway wouldn’t hit me like a kick in the gut, wash over me like icy water and leave me in shock for what felt like years but was probably only a half second after I which a response tumbled out of my mouth, trying desperately to pretend that this was completely casual and that encountering Ryan did nothing to me at all. He was just another guest at a party.

Just another goddamn guest out of how many? I thank Gabe for a second, in my head, for having undoubtedly invited more people than I would ever be able to speak to in one night, because it would make it easier to blend in and not see Ryan again for the rest of the night. That said- as my thoughts work a mile a minute and I come out almost immediately with some comment about his car- I find myself wondering if I really wanted to lose him in a crowd again, as I have past lost him in the crowd of life.

He meant so much to me and seeing him now, tall and handsome, so different in his manner and appearance yet much the same skinny introvert I knew as a younger man, is more than I can cope with. But I try, because how mortifying would it be if I turned around and left after speaking to him so casually? I keep eye contact because I simply cannot look away from him, and I register that he is as shocked as I am, and trying to come up with something to say.

And he’s beautiful. Always was, though I never let myself think that too much because I was adamant that I was straight back then and what we did was just physical and superficial, but since I have not seen him in person in so long it is jarring to see him, long legs and honey eyes and thick dark hair and- he has an earring in one ear, his hands are adorned with rings, I notice this all in the split seconds I have before we undoubtedly make our excuses and try and avoid eachother for the rest of the evening. I shouldn’t have come.

No, no, I can deal with this. It’s been eight years, Brendon, I think, sealing the rawness and reality that comes with seeing Ryan again behind bright eyes and a charming smile, and then I am ready, my mask is on. This is no big deal- and if I pretend it isn’t, as much as I can, eventually, it will become true. He’s just another guy I haven’t seen in years. We were dumb teenagers, nothing we did ever meant anything. We were friends. Were.

It’s the Trans Am, yeah. All of my facial muscles strain to keep my smile wide, and it is hard, unless you look close enough, to tell that I am coming loose at the seams (though I have only said a few words to him). Brendon Blake and Ryan Rowe, exchanging the first words in a decade, and we’re talking about his motherfucking car- which, by the way, is exactly the kind of car I always expected him to own. Still. His car. When I know I have so much to say. Funny- now I am here with him my mind cannot dispel the clouds that have formed enough to structure a meaningful sentence. So I say; ”It’s fuckin’ awesome.”

Looks like you took an Uber. Planning on drinking tonight? No, I want to say scornfully, I’m going to face one of the ghosts of my past completely sober and just hope I don’t have a full-on anxiety attack at Gabe Saporta’s birthday party. Instead, darkly, I laugh, and glance back out of the door, watching the Uber drive away. ”Oh, yeah. And, I didn’t feel like flexing on anyone tonight. It’s Gabe’s big night, old fucker that he is.” This whole scenario is bizarre and I view in from a third person perspective, like I am detached from my own body and I am looking down on this interaction from somewhere else. My voice is clearly distinguishable but I don’t feel it come out of my own mouth. It’s surreal, Is he even real, should I really have taken those meds last minute before I left- I want to reach out and make sure this man in front of me is really in front of me because it’s beginning to feel like I imagined him all along.

Maybe I should join you. Knowing Gabe, he’s invited, like, 400 people. Not great. By the time he is finished speaking I have zoned out, and I see his mouth moving but my focus has been lost already. All I heard was maybe I should join you and my muscles are seized with panic, and I know I started this by acting like there was nothing off between us, like that decade never happened, but now I regret it. Something did happen. I cannot ignore that.

But I try.

”Uh- Where is he?”

we were always thick as thieves, you and me

Gabe’s 40th birthday is next week. Fucking hell, we’re all getting old- I’m 32, yeah, but thinking about Gabe Saporta hitting his midlife crisis (actually, to be fair he’s probably already hit it several times before hitting the big 4-zero) really threw me for a loop when he sent me a text, clearly sent to dozens upon dozens of others, that invited me to his birthday party. ‘Birthday party’, like we’re all 14, when in reality, the youngest of us (when I say ‘us’, there’s no specific group in mind- perhaps, people big in the music industry in the 2000’s) is probably around my age, early thirties. Well, I haven’t matured other than physically a day over 18 since I hit that age, so. Does it really count? Thinking about it, neither has Gabe. Either way, I considered it for only a second before I sent a quick text in response confirming my attendance. Only immediately after pressing ‘send’ did I start feeling some kind of dread- it’s a big milestone, lots of people will be there, no doubt, which usually wouldn’t be a problem.

The real problem this time was who is likely to attend and when my thoughts strayed in that direction I suddenly felt slightly sick and typed out an entire text to backtrack and apologise but then deleted it, attempting to pull myself together. You’re a grown man, I had thought, throwing my phone down onto my bed, it’s been almost a fucking decade since you’ve seen him, it’ll be fine. It’ll be nice, reuniting.

Ryan Rowe; ex-member of my band, the band in which I am now the only member, my ex-best friend, my almost, my perhaps, my what-if. During the first few years after the split we kept in touch, but. We drifted, as was probably inevitable. And I haven’t spoken to him at all in at least eight years. Seen him, sure, relatively often at events, and it always makes my heartrate increase, but. We’ve never said a word. I remember locking eyes with him one time accidentally and thinking about it for much longer than I should have, wondering whether he was looking at me or straight through me like I just wasn’t there.

Famously reclusive and fame-shy Ryan Rowe meant more to me than I’ll ever be able to explain. I don’t know how he felt about me, exactly. I don’t even know properly how I felt about him. We never talked about it. Though I try to sabotage the memory, I can recall nights alone in the tour bus where we would act without thinking and do things that the just friends he described in his stupid livejournal didn’t fucking do- and yet, he’d always go, we never spoke about it, he’d go back to some girl. I was his dirty little secret. Well, that’s unfair. He was mine too. But then again, we always thought, it doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t make us gay, or mean we have feelings for eachother. It’s just doing stuff, we thought. No big deal.

We were stupid teenagers, he was just being a dickhead and experimenting like people our age in that time tended to do. Ryan Rowe is not the kind of man that sets out to break hearts or even fall in love in the first place- love, a concept we both would have and probably still did laugh at. I don’t know much about Ryan’s romantic life following the split, but he’s never been too successful. I hate myself for getting so attached to him and letting fond memories of him paralyze me for last decade or more. I hate myself for not saying anything to him while I had the chance and clearing it all up- though in hindsight, I don’t know what I’d say because I don’t know what it was that I was feeling.

Even hearing his name, the name I used to say like a prayer, is enough to make me visibly uncomfortable, as seen in interviews and otherwise. That’s why the thought of this event is stressing me out more than a birthday party should. Here I am, getting dressed, improvising because Gabe never gave me a dress code- so I go black skinny jeans and a tucked-in grey short-sleeved shirt- and I’m seriously considering for the first time in forever breaking into the medication I was prescribed forever ago for anxiety and some symptoms of adhd so I don’t come off too weird or strong with anyone. Thinking about it, I remind myself why I don’t take that stuff, and shrug on an oversized denim jacket before ordering an Uber, because if I want to enjoy myself tonight I’ll have to drink and if I drink I won’t be able to drive myself home.

I’ve pregamed, too, to calm my nerves, and all I can do is convince myself to chill out and loosen up. Despite my outwardly outgoing and extroverted nature, I struggle with crowds, but I’m a good actor and can behave otherwise. Trying to relax my muscles in the back of the car is futile; but if I drink enough, nobody will be able to tell that I’m nervous. And I’m used to hiding my real emotions anyway. I’m a performer. The performance begins when I walk into Gabe Saporta’s house, and he’s there, Ryan, right away, in the hallway. He must’ve arrived just before me. He’s turning around. I freeze. I missed him, I missed him. He’s right there in front of me.

”Hey! Dude, was that your fucking car outside? It’s dope.”

i am always yours

Just before I blink open my eyes, I instinctually reach out for him because I sense that I am not tangled up with him, skin against skin warmed up in the morning sun, as I usually prefer to wake up- but my hands close around empty space, then, as I grumble to myself about his absence, the crumpled sheets that he left in his wake. Disappointed, I struggle into a sitting position with my back against the headboard and jerk my head once each way, left and right, feeling the stiff joints crack loudly in the quiet lull of our bedroom. Though, I don’t know why I’m disappointed. He’s always awake before me, and I know just where he’ll be- in the living room, or the kitchen, making breakfast or reading or something or other and when I walk into either room and he sees me, his gorgeous eyes will light up, he’ll smile at me like I hung the stars in the sky, and I’ll fall in love with him again, but. That all sounds silly, really. I can think all kinds of grand things about love and destiny but there’s no point talking about the fine scruples of fate and fortune seeing as I have everything I need all in the form of one man.

We don’t need to make grand declarations of love every day. I find fantasy in the domestic and ordinary though there is nothing ordinary about us, about him. I know when I walk into the kitchen today, he will greet me with his soft, low, sleep-rough voice, and maybe we’ll kiss briefly and chastely, or I’ll squeeze his hand, or press my palm against his back as I try and inch past him to get somewhere else. We don’t even need to tell eachother ‘I love you’- it’s just a habit, automatic. But even if it wasn’t. We know. That’s the beauty of this domesticity. It’s comforting, warm, it settles the fire in my chest, and I couldn’t ask for anything more than what I have when he is by my side.

Shut up, Brendon, I think, as I shift forwards and then stand up, heading towards my wardrobe. It’s fucking- what time is it- I check my watch- it’s 9am. You’re having grand thoughts about not being grand. Calm down. As I move, Bogart and Dottie are disturbed from their positions lying on the foot of the bed and they jump down and head downstairs, evidently where Elwood is, too. Groggily, I fumble for the handle on the cupboard and pull it open, blindly pulling out the first hoodie I see and pulling it over my head, registering distantly that it is technically Ryan’s, but then. I only really own a couple of hoodies. I walk into the en suite, glance in the mirror, check out what I’m dealing with today- okay, my hair is kinda greasy, but what’s new; shrugging to myself, I turn and leave, heading downstairs and then into the kitchen. And there Ryan is, just like I predicted- he’s pouring coffee, two mugs, I notice, he must’ve heard me moving about upstairs. The dogs are moving around his feet, vying for his attention; but as I walk in, they all start wagging their tails and turn to me. I pull up the hood to hide the greasiness of my hair and I wander up behind him, bending down on my way there briefly to pet the dogs. I stand up again, and my forehead presses against his back as I wrap my arms tenderly around his waist, gently enough so as not to surprise him. I feel his muscles tense for a split second under my arms but then they relax and I smile against the fabric of his shirt.

”Hi.” My voice sounds unused and a little raspy and for the first time since waking up I realise that there is a tingle in my throat, a slight soreness. Great. Not like I have a show soon, or anything. Whatever- not like a bug ever stopped me before. I clear my throat and stand on my tiptoes to kiss Ryan’s cheek before I drop my arms to my sides and move to stand by the counter. ”Sleep well?” Yeah, He replies after a second, and I shift back a little to let him put the kettle down. Then, he turns to face me, a mug in each hand, and hands me one, smiling back at me. Only when he looks at me like this do I ever somewhat believe that he loves me to the immeasurable amount that I love him.

Wrapping both hands around the coffee and bringing it to my lips to take a sip, I keep my eyes on him as he does the same, leaning with his back against the counter. Did you? I, in turn, lean against the counter island in the middle of the kitchen and nod after mulling it over briefly. ”I did. Soundly. Even after that- what did we watch last night? I don’t fuckin’ remember but it was freaky,” I say, knitting my eyebrows together as I try to remember- but it was just some cliché b-list horror movie. Neither of us get scared particularly easily, we usually just lounge around and laugh at how many tropes there are, how cringey the films are. Or we fall asleep. My thoughts briefly wander to the amusing idea of making Ryan watch a rom-com. He’s more of an artsy indie film guy, and you could probably tell that from looking at him.

What? B, that was awful. The acting was terrible. Like, atrocious. And I don’t say that a lot. I scoff, raising an eyebrow at him and taking another sip from my coffee. ”Yes, you do.” He’s about to protest but then clearly thinks better of it because he knows I’m right. Instead, he shrugs and smiles again, hiding it behind his mug. God, he’s so perfect, I think distantly, and, with this infatuated thought now in my head, I set my mug onto the counter island and move forwards, letting my hands rest at his waist and standing up on my toes to kiss him, gently, trapping his bottom lip between mine and then grinning against his jaw as I drop back down onto my feet. ”I luh’you,” I say, and, yeah, he already knows. But. It feels good to remind him sometimes.