Neve

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

Sometimes it was frustratingly hard to tell whether or not Ryan cared about Brendon as much as Brendon cared about Ryan. You see, he knew how different they were, and that this would affect how they’d communicate, but Brendon was so much more emotionally available that he often doubted. He knew he was cared about, and loved. But not to what extent and his own unstable self esteem and need to be told things often overcame the trust and closeness they had built up- because that’s what it came down to, seeing as Ryan was still closed off despite progress, faith that sentiments were returned and affection felt. This wasn’t all to say that Brendon didn’t believe him on the rare occasion that he did say what he thought, how he felt. He just struggled with holding onto it in the stretches of time where Ryan would barely even look his way.

That was just Ryan, though, expecting him to be some kind of mindreader, and despite himself Brendon loved him for it, loved him completely, a realisation he only came to relatively recently- and was already regretting saying out loud. This was the issue. Trusting him too much had meant Brendon had wished it all away, exaggerated it all in his head, had too much faith that the love would be returned how he wanted it to. The silence it had brought between them was painful, not the usual comfortable silence they sat in together. So he had left, and out of self-defence, decided to leave- he wasn’t strong enough to stick around if he didn’t feel wanted, as much as he didn’t know if he could even function without his best friend around. Brendon had closed off. Why should he believe anything Ryan said, he thought to himself, the sting of rejection still fresh- he was just lonely. He didn’t want Brendon, he’d just grown used to the company.

Brendon had stepped away after voicing this concern- Ryan just said his name in protest, and Brendon felt himself melt a little because that tiny gesture could do that, even to a heart he’d just stubbornly shut off, defending himself from any further humiliation- because he did feel humiliated, devastated, like he’d overstated his importance, overstayed welcome, and here was Ryan, not letting him just- mourn any chance of requited love in peace. Putting distance between them seemed like the best option and he moved over to sit down on the edge of his bed, hunched over like he was protecting his vital organs from further injury. Inhale, exhale- this was too much. Tunnel vision had applied itself and he just wanted to leave. Once, you told me to write about what makes me happy. Ever since, I’ve only been writing about you.

Brendon lifted his head, feeling his foolish heart beat unevenly in his chest and blinking, unsure. This was, in fact, news to him. Even living with a writer as talented as Ryan, he was not academically or literarily inclined; the nuances and deep analysis of things that Ryan showed to him were lost on him and his thoughts were always just an earnest ‘wow, this is so pretty, I love it so much, this is your best work yet’. No matter what it was. So the reveal that Ryan had been writing about him... Even thinking about the romantic aspects of his work, Brendon couldn’t see himself in that light. The pieces didn’t align and he didn’t believe him- as much as he wanted to. He opened his mouth to speak but Ryan beat him to it and Brendon looked briefly at his feet, still finding it difficult to look at him.

I miss you when you’re a floor away. That, he understood. That kind of thing was what Brendon could understand. Softening a little, but not letting his guard down, he looked up, and Ryan was smiling in a way that made it difficult not to smile back. “That’s ridiculous,” He said softly, his voice cracking a little. “You always say I’m loud and can hear me from- wherever you are.” Trailing off a little, Brendon pulled a hand through his hair, swallowing. Sometimes I’ll change a story just because I think you’ll like a different ending. I counted down the days until you came back from the city. I’d forgotten what it’s like without you around. Not great, by the way.

Considering this, Brendon thought about how it would be if he did leave, left Ryan alone in his empty mansion, moved back to NYC and move into a slightly bigger apartment using the money from his more-than-reasonable paycheck, maybe get a new job, talk to Ryan every once in a while to check how he’s doing. It sounded absolutely awful and being told that he was missed made his heart leap- as much as he appreciated Ryan was not bursting with affection, this is all he wanted to hear. “That’s all you ever have to say to me, you know,” Brendon said gently. watching him as he sat down on his bed, feeling warm. “That you miss me. That you want me around. But that’s- what I feel, Ry, it’s more than that, I- I can’t stay here if you don’t...” A surge of hope from Ryan’s words quickly faded away and he shifted where he sat, searching his face for some kind of solution.

I’m in love with you.

Initially, Brendon didn’t react, just stared, as if he was waiting for Ryan to laugh, take it back, shake his head in amusement, but it didn’t happen. And Ryan wasn’t a liar, wouldn’t fake something so profound, he was too pretentious to do that, Brendon thought, vaguely amused by it even though his mind was racing, elated, petrified by this reveal even though he’d said it himself not ten minutes ago. His lips were parted as he searched for words, but all he could do was stare blankly at him, arms folded across his chest protectively, waiting for his cue.

“I- why couldn’t you- why couldn’t you have just said,” He murmured quietly, not breaking eye contact. “Not hearing that back, it. It really hurt. You- are you serious? You’re not just...” This was certainly not the confession he’d imagined- he’d read too many of Ryan’s recent writing, and- oh. Well, that certainly made much more sense. Brendon grinned, still nervous, but unable to keep up any suspicion with conviction. “You asshole,” He breathed. “God, I’m going to kill you.”

i wandered through the sunshine

Letting myself indulge in memories of the past is a dangerous game. I remember the sensation of loving someone so absolutely that it felt like I was invincible; that as long as the two of us were together then nothing would ever get in our way, we were soulmates. I still feel that magnetic pull for him beneath my skin, as much as I try to ignore it, and often turn over the idea that the idea of invincibility has never been disproven. If we had stayed together, maybe we’d both be better off. I was the one who ruined it, brought him aside one day and taken his hands in mine, bringing them up to my lips as I bought time trying to think of how to properly break it off with somebody who is even a fraction as in love with you as you are with them. He’d been confused, I remember, but not suspicious at all, that was the heartbreaking part- I forced myself to meet his eyes when I told him what I wanted, watched him sort of fall apart, watched cracks appear in his control, saw him at his most vulnerable.

I don’t really know what I expected his response to be. The crueler, more self-centred part of me wanted tears, wanted him to beg me to stay so I felt good about myself in the face of breaking someone’s heart. That isn’t Ryan, though; he just stared at me for a while, first in disbelief, his expression between desperation and nervous amusement, like the idea of me leaving him was so ridiculous that he was going to laugh. It wasn’t a joke, though, watching him sit back, pull his hands away, stare at me like I’d- well. Like I’d just done what I’d done. He’d asked me why and I’d struggled to answer, because there was no reason, there was just a part of me that screamed all the time I had committed to someone way too young, we were just emotionally dependent, there was more for the both of us out there. It was selfish and, as I realised long afterwards, untrue, but by that point it was too late. I wasn’t cruel enough to come back into his life and ask for him to take me back like I hadn’t disregarded every love song we’d ever written for one another, every word we’d ever said. Would he even want me back? I’m not so sure. I imagine he’s built up some walls since we finished.

So I just soldiered on, pretending I still believed in what I said with conviction, but made no actual indication that I was moving on- didn’t date, didn’t even try, hadn’t even had some silly rebound fling that I thought I would have. There was, therefore, nothing to fuel any songs from my new record other than him, as I stupidly decided to write songs about passion from a relationship that had gone cold- Hurricane was almost an insult, but it wasn’t meant to be. I wonder what he thought of that one and cringe. It was cruel. Other songs, though, were apologetic. The whole fucking thing was for him, just an extended apology, with a touch or two of arrogance to keep me from embarrassing myself. Hearing Ryan’s song put me in his shoes, had me imagining his reaction to my anthology of half hearted and unconvincing breakup songs. ‘I’m over you’, they said, taunting him, with very little conviction; they were desperate, bitter, translucent. ‘I still love you’, they said in a smaller voice; ‘I’m sorry’.

Part of the reason for wanting to talk to him is wanting to know exactly what he thought about my songs. He was clearly more mature and controlled than I am, able to listen (I know he listened) and not send me some cryptic message, confront me about my lyrics. We don’t address the obvious at first, though, we are being as civil as we can be. Impatient as I am, I want to call him, hear his voice, let him hear mine, pretend we’re both okay but know we aren’t. Back against the headboard of this stupid bed where we spent so much wasted time, I exhale, staring at my last message, waiting to see if he’ll call. None of the time was wasted. I took it all for granted. Didn’t realise what I had, or did, and didn’t value it like I should. Pride allowing, I want to apologise. Maybe then we can move on.

Startled by my phone ringing out of my wistful daze, I immediately and clumsily answer, bringing it up to my ear with a hurried inhale. My mouth is open and I’m about to speak but he beats me to it. Thank you. For what? Brow furrowing in confusion and a little bit of self hatred, I search through memories for anything I have done recently that would be deserving of his gratitude. Nothing. In reflection of our relationship, he always deserved better than me. I was nervous about it. The song. A pause as I close my eyes, play it through my head briefly. You taught me not to fear the dark. Even after I’d ruined us, he thought highly of me. Reaching out in the night for you, baby. I suck in through my teeth as quietly as possible. Thank you for listening. “Of course,” Is the first thing I say, blurt it out. “Of course, always.”

I think of how I dressed up the story of our relationship in Memories as a tale of a religious defector and some young girl that fell apart when they misjudged the strength that young love held. In many ways it’s nothing like us at all, but the chorus kind of speaks for itself. How I miss yesterday. I purse my lips and sigh. I heard your album, too. It was indescribable, Brendon. I don’t think I told you that. He sounds quiet, and somehow, even though I knew he had, the confirmation rattles me to my core. He heard Always, a song I wrote before I was even thinking of breaking us up. The idea makes me shudder. “I plead the fifth on all of it,” I say lightly, a hint of laughter, running my hand through my hair. Another goddamn song reference, but it’s a bonus track. Wonder if he heard those too.

“Is ‘indescribable’ a good thing?” I ask, letting my body slide down the headboard of the bed as I settle more into the sheets. Biting my lip, I remember my goal of apologising. ”I’m sorry.” My voice is soft and wavering. “For- well. For a lot of things. For writing about you so much.” All I can do is be honest, and I turn on my side, staring at the door to the bedroom. “Hey, Ryan. Guess where I am.” I’m smiling, despite it all. Like this is some inside joke.

well i never really thought that you’d come tonight

He had been hesitant, I could tell. His hand was in his hair, and he looked away- just for a second. I don’t know what he was looking at. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was just avoiding my eyes, as I stared up at him, eager, like he had hung the stars in the sky, grinning so wide my face was starting to ache. At the time I didn’t think he really noticed how ecstatic I was to be with him but this moment now plays in my head on repeat- his quick glance to the side, the way they darted back to mine and I felt a swell in my chest, a sort of inflammation in the way that it made my blood rush, warm and vital, my pulse quickening like it was the final stretch of a race that I had put my entire existence into winning. He is who I have chased this entire time I have drifted through life, through fame, success, wealth. Or maybe a better analogy would be that he is a missed connection on a journey with no destination. Ryan Rowe has not ruled my thoughts for the past ten years, not even close. But he was there. Safe and hidden in the memories of hotel rooms and bus bunks, dressing rooms and lit-up stages. And then he was in front of me, and then we were outside, and then I was in his car, and then he was sat next to me, and then there had been a silence, full of things we never said, things we didn’t think we’d ever have the opportunity to say.

So, like an idiot, I had leaned in, but not fully, not committing to this ridiculous dream, pausing a few inches away from his face, my eyes searching, giving him the chance to process what I was doing and reject me if he wanted to. The next three seconds had been the most suffocating of my life but then he mirrored me, leaning in and meeting me halfway, and- it didn’t feel right. Kissing eachother after ten years of near silence felt like pretending we still had the right to feel like this, to act this way, when we’d grown up and moved on, and it was also like kissing a stranger I’d just met at some party. We parted after a few moments and stared at eachother, and I could almost hear his pulse, glad that this made him as nervous and dizzy as it made me. “I’m sorry,” I rushed out, my voice hoarse, “I shouldn’t have done that.” Terrified I’d ruined any chance at rekindling a friendship, I looked down, swallowing. “I felt like that would fix everything.”

But what really needed fixing? Nothing ever broke, just wore away like peeling paint. No explosive argument, just troubles with the band and then the drifting that happened naturally because neither of us attempted to save our friendship. Or maybe we had just been scared to have this connection, because the excuse to our closeness before had been the band and commitments and constant proximity. I remember feeling nauseous, not daring to look at him as he moved in the corner of my eye, his arm extending as he reached his hand under my chin and gently tilted my head up towards him. It’s okay, He had said quietly, in his low voice, and it comforted me enough to lift my head and meet his eyes again. I know what you mean. I think it’s just- we barely know eachother now, it’s so...

This had not been comforting, and my throat had closed up, but he wasn’t finished. I don’t know. I wanted to kiss you. I was wondering how it would- I don’t know, whether it would be the same, or. A long silence. We never directly referenced our old behaviour. Even after ten years it felt like Ryan had committed a crime just by mentioning it out loud, even though it had just been the two of us, in his car, in the dark, watched by the moon and stars. It wasn’t the same. But not in a bad way.

After that, I had made my excuses and left, nervously, rejoining the party, leaving him in his car, but. Not before giving him both my phone number and my address. I told him come over anytime and I meant it. There is so much more we needed to talk about.

Not a week later, I get a text from him. I saved his name in my phone as ‘Ryan Rowe’ then change it to ‘Ryan’, but I know more than one ‘Ryan’ so I change it to ‘Ry’ like a fucking fool. Hi, Brendon, sorry for not texting sooner. I’ve been- well, not busy, I don’t do anything these days. But I was wondering if you wanted to maybe come over sometime. I’d love to properly catch up after you left kind of abruptly. A few minutes later another text came through. Which I completely get, by the way. Sorry, I don’t know how to do this anymore. At least he was honest. I had closed my eyes tight but replied almost right away. ‘Why don’t we just go for a drive? I owe you that, I think.’

In your Tesla, rich boy? No thanks. I’ll just pick you up tomorrow, okay? I agreed, but he didn’t ask for a time, so. Here I am. Sitting in my living room, a whiskey in hand, my muscles tense, jaw clenched, every part of my body wired and pent up like I’m waiting some kind of physical and emotional release, resting all my hopes for unwinding on the chance that Ryan might show up any second, make it all dissipate because despite the awkwardness last time, I had still felt amazingly comfortable with him. Like I could be myself and he wouldn’t judge me for it. And yet, the kiss still felt wrong. Flexing my fingers, I steal a glance at the clock on the wall even though he didn’t give me a time and it’s 5pm and I wonder if he’s just forgotten because surely he’d have texted me when by now. ‘I’m on my way’ or ‘is 8 okay’ or something along those lines, but, nothing. I stare at his name in my phone and change it back to ‘Ryan Rowe’, fearing the effect of the affectionate nickname staring me in the face. My eyes close. I’m so fucking stupid.

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

When they first met- Brendon didn’t really have anything to lose. Becoming this pretentious author guy’s ‘fact check’ or whatever was a job he’d put the remainder of his money into, he was that desperate. A friend who knew Ryan had told him about it and he spent all of his money on the trip out of New York City to the fucking middle of nowhere mansion that this guy had, and by the end of the journey he was exhausted, broke, irritated, needing a cigarette- and there was this guy, this stupid fucking guy, ridiculously tall and lanky, dressed in all black like some kind of social reject, messy hair, smoking on his porch at like 11 o’clock in the morning. He looked pretentious and tired and when they spoke, he came across as arrogant, irritable, and Brendon wasn’t much better. They butted heads a little but Brendon decided for the both of them that he got the job. Ryan didn’t seem to mind that much, and they quickly warmed up a little bit more. He got his own room. This one. Lavender and cream, neutral and fresh, larger than his entire apartment back in the city.

It was funny. Brendon thought back to his old place, the one Spencer had long vacated since getting clean and getting a job, at first supported by Brendon’s very generous paycheck from this job that was barely a job, and it was all fuzzy, like a dream, indistinguishable, barely reality. He’d been living with Ryan for coming up on a whole year, and this now felt like home. His host- or rather, his housemate, had long since finished the book he’d been working on that was set in his home City. It was being published very soon. He’d moved onto another- too soon, Brendon thought, but. It seemed he had inspiration; and thought Brendon didn’t credit himself much, he liked to think a conversation they had about Ryan’s writing kind of helped.

I feel like writing about this heavy shit ain’t helping you anymore, you know? He’d said quietly, reading through a particularly dark passage that Ryan had very tentatively given him to read. It’s just what’s expected off you. You’re just reliving things through showing other people your pain and not actually- tackling it. He’d paused as Ryan looked at him, expression carefully blank. Just write what makes you happy. God fuckin’ knows you don’t need any more money.

The pages he was presented with nowadays were happier. Rich and vibrant, flush with different colours and textures hidden within ink and paper, natural greens and warm oranges and earthy reds, filled with life, as it seemed that the flowers that wrapped around Ryan’s house greedily finally found a way into his head. It was so fascinating to watch him lift out of dwelling on darkness because that was what sold well, write about things he’d never touched on before, like love and romance.

And that brought Brendon back out of his own thoughts. His impact was tangible but he hadn’t gotten even close to how far into Ryan’s heart he really wanted to reach, and understand him. Everything new he learned, he adored. What started as some stupid crush, helplessly attracted to this tall, dark and handsome stereotype and his 100 or whatever fuckin’ cigarettes a day bad habit, has blossomed into a genuine affection, love for his closest friend, and then finally Brendon realised he was in love with Ryan after he accepted him into a hug after a trip back to NYC and standing so close to him, breathing in against his chest, made his heart swell up and his chest tighten. The strength of the feeling led him to believe there was no way it couldn’t be returned with equal intensity. He did try to convince himself otherwise, he did, and the evidence wasn’t hard to find- Ryan not returning sentiments like ‘I miss you’. His blunt attitude and way of talking that hadn’t really softened that much. His completely stony expression whenever Brendon even jokingly flirted with him. But the wishful part of his head brushed it all aside- said that he knew Ryan missed him; that was just his personality; he was sheepish, that was just how he was. Brendon was in denial and that’s what lead him to this impulsive confession as they sat side by side, ruining everything with just a few simple, stupid words.

Because words were just words, at the end of the day. As much as Ryan made entire worlds come alive with just words, simply saying something didn’t make it so or guarantee any reciprocation. Brendon sat on his bed, damp, a towel around his waist, and shivered, feeling the overwhelming sense of mortification of being rejected. And Ryan was at the door. He counted to ten in his head, wiped his face with his hands and stood up, heading over to the door and opening it, holding his breath. Ryan asked him if he was mad at him, and really, he wasn’t. It wasn’t Ryan’s fault. He just felt like his heart had been ripped open, so- he told Ryan he’d be leaving, because he wasn’t sure if he could cope with this.

No, please- Startled by his urgency, Brendon looked up to meet his eyes. Please don’t leave. Unable to believe what he was hearing, Brendon blinked, confused. Ryan was asking him to stay, and he sounded so vulnerable, his voice so raw and careful. Brendon’s eyes widened, having never seen him like that before, so tentative and nervous. You didn’t ruin anything. Except maybe an entire friendship. Brendon stepped backwards, his heart sinking. You... you make my life better every day. Looking at his feet, he smiled cynically, because the bar wasn’t too high. Ryan was just lonely, that’s all. It wasn’t about Brendon himself. He just feared being by himself after so long, that’s what it was, he convinced himself. It was safer to believe that. I need you around. “Why?” He asked suddenly. “Are you sure? Or do you just need- someone. Because I only need you.”

I’m glad you told me. Please- you’re not going to leave, are you? He sounded desperate, but Brendon was in full defence mode, shielding himself from further pain. “I wish I didn’t. I wish I just- lived not knowing rather than finding out you don’t feel the same. I can’t stay, it’s too- it’s too much.” He turned away, unable to look at him, making sure his towel was still secure briefly before reaching up to run his hands restlessly through his hair, swallowing the lump in his throat. He turned around again, then sat on his bed. “I’m leaving. As soon as- as soon as I’m ready.”

i wandered through the sunshine

I’d never- mock him. What was there to mock? I was madly and ridiculously in love with him. He could do no wrong. I’d meet his eyes, rich and sparkling in some ridiculous Disney Prince way that I swore I never exaggerated for a second, across the room and everything would just feel okay, like it was going to work out, because why wouldn’t it? What reason did we have to think otherwise, that we’d end up this way, living separately in what our past selves would consider a waking nightmare? We were so good together- affectionate, maybe somewhat clingy but it didn’t matter because there was no possessiveness there, just a deep-set trust, a connection that wasn’t debatable. Certainty. Commitment. The word, ‘forever’. This is what used to run through my head when we smiled at eachother, his smile reserved and mine wide and unfettered, until his matched it in intensity. His smile was my favourite thing in the world. His happiness is all that ever mattered.

Our love was contagious and as such it took root and festered within the music we made until the album we made up in the cabin was just an anthology of love songs, back and forth confessions, secrets slipped into metaphors, switched pronouns and euphemisms, references to sunshine and moonlight. Imagery of nature and beauty and love and complex constructs that we had built to house our romance made the album so obvious but we didn’t care; we weren’t hiding it, just chose not to officially acknowledge it, though I often entertained the idea, wondered about the potential backlash. Rumours surrounded us already and continue to to this day; the nature of the split was so vague and unconvincing that all sorts of theories arose, the most ironic being some kind of love triangle, that I slept with his non-existent girlfriend or vice versa. When asked about it, I just laugh along. Like there’s no bad blood, there’s nothing there to be serious about. ‘We’re still friends’, I’d say, singing his praise as neutrally as I can about the man I am- was- in love with, but it’s hard to convince the media that this is true when I took his words and warped them almost beyond recognition.

Like I said, it wasn’t meant to mock him, but the ‘As a boy’ was just too in-your-face, changing the pronouns I thought would give us cover, but then. The chorus I had no excuse for. I was just crafting my desperation into a song when I really didn’t have the right because I ended it. I Had to watch him struggle with the concept and grasp to understand my reasoning as I broke his heart, and I wish I was being dramatic and self important about my role in his life, but I knew him. I’d known him and loved him for years. Knowing exactly how he feels about me isn’t hard when I feel the same way about him and letting him go was one of the hardest decisions I ever made. Other songs were more spiteful or desperate or lonely or sad or passionate but the fact I’d used his words made that specific song so much more meaningful.

At the time of writing down all of my own internal struggles, I sort of forgot that they’d all been on an album released for the whole world to hear, and more significantly I forgot that Ryan was part of the world, would hear the songs, would pull my lyrics apart at the seams because he’s like that, genius ENGLISH dropout he is; always analysing. Looking back on his soundcloud release, it hits me that maybe he never intended for me to hear it. He’d have sent it to me. We are probably still experts in communicating in the most obvious and simultaneously cryptic way on the planet. Regardless of his intentions, I heard it anyway and let it unravel me, and Ryan had certainly gotten his point across. He is still in love and he misses me and he is hurting. So, to face my own conflicting emotions about this whole mess I have made of us, I am back at the cabin, our cabin, sat on my old bed where we shared so much, confessions, kisses, heat, love. He’s just Ryan Rowe in my phone and a million words flash through my head as I read it- baby, darling, ryan, sweetheart, babe, Ry.

I text him, not knowing what to expect, but I know already that I will stay here until he acknowledges my message. It’s a promise I have made to myself. There’s a few minutes that pass by of nothing, and I wonder if he’s read it, too scared to check, if he’s left it on open, if he hasn’t seen it at all, if he’s going to block my number or reply or call or. I wouldn’t mind him calling. It might be nice to hear his voice. But- before I can properly get ready to have some form of communication with him, the first in a while, he’s replied. Thanks! Maybe one day I’ll have your vocal skills. Memories flash through my head. Singing rough versions of his songs back to him, singing to him in the evening or even to sleep. My voice is the reason I got to be with him in the first place. I’ll never take my voice for granted. My eyes roll at my own absurd drama.

Another text- How’d you find it? SoundCloud isn’t quite like the radio. A frown forms on my face. To be honest; I wish I’d never heard it. I try not to be self destructive and seeking him out like that would be a death sentence on any attempt to get over him. I feel awful for trying to because he sounds so breezy, nonchalant. I know he is hurting. I am too, I want to tell him, but I don’t think he’d appreciate the empty sentiment. I’m just honest with him, because what else can I really be? Some fans decided to send the link to me, like, hundreds of them. Just as well, really, not like you would have shown me.

I’m sat on my old bed, back against the wall, legs folded, and I blink at my phone, taking my bottom lip between my teeth because I am nervous. Realising my last message sounded way too passive aggressive for this to be a normal, not out of the ordinary catchup between exes, I follow it up, pressing send before I have w chance to think it through. I’m sure my hands are shaking, though. Call me? You know I hate texting.

carved on a tree || wade & joey

I thought her standards were much higher. Wade was obviously about to argue. In fact, he had formulated an entire argument in a second flat, covering things Joey would be mad at him for like ‘Isabela looked like shit compared to you’, and things Joey would be exasperated by, like ‘What do you mean, I was even fucking sexier back then’. Which wasn’t even strictly true. If anything, Wade at the age he was looked the best he ever had. Maybe. He’s ask Joey to confirm or deny that for him, but he was biased. Besides, he thought the same about Joey, of course, but then he saw Joseph as literally the most handsome man alive despite never admitting it unless through some kind of sarcastic medium. For a moment, regardless, he entertained the idea of ending up with Joey’s sister instead. It wasn’t as funny as he thought it would be- just very unsettling when he imagined Joey as his brother in law.

You really missed an opportunity there. “Don’t sound too disappointed for her. If I hadn’t have turned her down, she’d be Mrs Isabela Walcott, and you would probably currently be having very unfulfilling sex with whatever girlfriend you’d have. You’re welcome for making sure that isn’t the case!” Wade was grinning. He was anticipating some kind of rebuttal of his confidence there.
Of course, such talk was unappreciated by Joey- who still behaved like a professor around students and scolded Wade when he strayed too far out of PG territory, ignoring the fact that they were two grown men in a committed relationship. He was growing out of this habit, though, steadily, cursing more and unwinding himself gradually, but hadn’t quite unlearned censorship from his teaching days. He didn’t seem to think it was down to that, though; I’m a Capricorn. ”And I’m a Libra. Or am I a Scorpio? Which makes more sense, anyway? Scorpio? I mean- Be honest, Joseph, am I a whore?” He stood before him, eyes wide, arms folded as if waiting for judgement.

No, fuck off, that’s my thing. Wade raised his eyebrows and said in a matter-of-fact, jovial tone: ”Well, Joey, I’m glad you have the bravery to admit that you have a problem.” A pause. ”It’s not even alcohol. It’s thinking that being Italian is a personality trait.” He didn’t even laugh, didn’t have to; they were just at this point now. And Wade new that he’d find it funny. Get your own. ”I have a thing! It’s hating Brandon, or whatever his name is.” Upon intentionally butchering Joey’s surrogate son’s name, his voice increased in pitch, as it often did when he was messing around- which was literally fucking always. It was funny, because Joey could take literally everything on the chin, even actively insulted Wade, giving as good as he got, but when Wade made digs at Brendon, he sulked, because apparently the sun shone out of that kid’s ass.

Probably some kind of bonding-over-a-serious-shared-problem thing, Wade mused- but all of this, even in his head, was in jest. He loved Brendon- just because Joey did, and he’d do anything for that man. Wade screwed up his face. Ew. He tried to steer himself away from that soppiness but then he was turning Joey towards the mirror, manoeuvring him with relative ease because he was taller and a little stronger, and wrapping his arms around his waist, holding on tight enough to be irritating and crowding into his space by kissing his neck, barely, because he was grinning throughout. Then he let go, because they were already running late. As much as Wade would love to just spend the evening rummaging through their wardrobes and dressing up in whatever ridiculous shit they could find.

All right, well, we need to actually get to the date first. Wade stepped back, arms folded across his chest, staring down Joey like this was some homoerotic western. He grinned at his own joke. Yet again. ”I’m not the one stopping us from heading out, Bruno. I’m dressed. I’m ready. Look at me, I’m a god. Carved from marble-“ He spread his arms out by his sides, presenting himself proudly to his boyfriend, who- wasn’t even looking where he was indicating. Instead, he was looking somewhere else. He cleared his throat at the same time as saying, ”Pervert.” After a moment of silence, Joey reverted to damage control. No, I insist. Keep yourself covered, bud. ”Oh, you insist, do you? Fine. I’ll remained covered for the rest of our relationship.”

Then Joey was laughing at Wade’s dick joke. I mean... You should be. I’m packing. Wade kept a straight face successfully, all serious and concerned, eyes wide. ”Or maybe I just have a big mouth.” He’d definitely get some kind of furious protest there, prude that his beloved Joseph was- who immediately brought up being a Capricorn again, which Wade rolled his eyes at, watching Joey with a smile regardless as he buttoned the shirt he’d made Wade wear. He then stood back and Wade ran a hand through his own hair, turning towards the mirror and raising his eyebrows. ”Well, fuck. How does it feel to be with the most attractive Canadian- man- alive?” A'ight, usually I don't ask this, but will you put some fucking pants on? Oh, Joseph, at least you’re honest, Wade thought, but mercifully didn’t respond, just smirked at him as he kept rambling on about Wade wearing pants. In any case, he smoothed down the shirt Joey had given him and then reached into the wardrobe and pulled out the first pair of ironed trousers he could find, examining them for a second before shrugging and carrying them over to the bed, sitting down and then looking up at Joey as he finally lost his towel toga and actually put on some underwear. ”Don’t look at me, I’m shy.”

smile even though you're sad || b&r

We’re alright. Ryan was clearly lying, and Brendon was almost angry at him for it- but then again, why would he tell the truth? Of course he wasn’t okay. Neither of them were, really. They were two people in love that for whatever reasons hadn’t seen or even spoken to eachother in almost two months. Yes, in love. Regardless of the bitterness Brendon felt towards Ryan, seeing him after such a long period of time was like standing on the seashore and being hit with a huge wave- sharp, cold and shocking, and powerful enough that he just let himself be swept away helplessly. The bittersweetness of it was an irony not lost on him. So, finding it in himself to be understanding of Ryan’s blatant lie, he just looked exasperated. ”Good.” He watched with a guarded expression as Ryan sat down on the carpet and played with a very excited Bogart, who was pretty much a living metaphor for Brendon’s heart right now, rapid and energetic and overwhelmed- adoring, even. Because this was his husband. He was so handsome. That said, there were clear signs in his appearance that he’d been having a rough month or so. Brendon was secretly glad it wasn’t just him suffering because of their ‘space’.

In his head, though, he had this idea of Ryan having just finally reached his limit and no longer being willing to put up with Brendon’s issues, deciding it was too much work for too little reward. The picture of a defeated and timid Ryan in front of him directly contradicted that, but- it was hard. The moment Ryan had suggested they took time apart was both terrifyingly vivid and disguised by a drunken blur- he remembered, accurately or not, Ryan breaking up with him, citing his illness as the reason. The memory made Brendon shiver. That version of the story was what he told to Joey, as it was what he fully believed happened- and that explained why Joey hated Ryan so much. It was personal for him too. Joey understood much more than Ryan did in the sense that he could relate and knew how to deal with it, however heartbreaking that was for Joey himself, but what Joey didn’t understand was why Brendon got so upset sometimes, missed Ryan so much. More than he was angry, he was hurt. And jarred. If Ryan wasn’t able to cope with Brendon’s fluctuating and unpredictable health, well. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do- or didn’t want to face it.

She misses you. A euphemism. “I miss her, too,” He murmured, smiling fondly. It was a shame the two dogs were separated but they both needed their individual companions, he supposed, or they’d go crazy with the loneliness. “I think Bogart does, as well. He clearly misses you.” A pause. He was moments away from saying that he missed him too, but decided against it in case this was a visit meant to seal the deal and break up for good, or something. You look good. This was immediately met with raised eyebrows- Brendon had seen himself in the mirror, and though he definitely looked better, he was far from looking good. “You too. I love your hair being that long.” His voice was low, genuine, wavering, and trailed off with embarrassment towards the end of his sentence. He was being honest, though- clearly it was the result of Ryan neglecting himself, but it was still cute. Fucking hell, he was useless.

Listen, if... if that means you're doing better here, then I just - I want you to stay as long as you need to. Okay? Even if that means you won't be back for a while, or. Or what? Brendon blinked, not sure how to feel about Ryan pretty much saying he’d be fine with them breaking up permanently. It was from good intentions but there was nothing Brendon hated the idea of more. This time apart had been good for them- he thought so anyway, as he’d gained a lot of perspective on their relationship and knew exactly what had to change- in both of them. That sounded too certain, though. Five minutes ago Brendon hadn’t even believed that Ryan would make an attempt to visit him first. Anywhere where it's easier for you to get better. I understand if it's not with me - I mean, I know I'm kind of shit at this. Brendon returned his smile. He really was, but saying it proved that- and this was Ryan’s problem- he was self centred in a strangely selfless way; he thought everything came back to him and felt that his behaviour entirely dictated how Brendon coped with his illness. Unwilling to interrupt him, though, He stayed quiet.

You're my priority, Bren. I never wanted to... to desert you, the way I made it seem. I just want you to be whereever you're happiest, and, and... well, based on how I handled things, I don't think that with me was the happiest place to be. “You are my husband.” Brendon said, hesitating, because- no, they were still married. Of course. Unless Ryan had brought along divorce papers of some kind. “You are my happy place. But Ryan- you are not a doctor. It isn’t within your ability to- cure me. You being here or not makes very little impact on my illness and I hope you understand that- being willing to take the blame for this doesn’t equate to apologising for- for leaving me.” He paused. “And I haven’t forgiven you for that. You left me while I needed that kind of love and support the most.” Brendon smiled, sadly, because he didn’t really know what else to say.

This was endlessly cathartic. Brendon, in probably the clearest state of mind he’d been in for months, felt capable of at least explaining himself to Ryan on a basic level, and with all of this lifting from his chest, he felt light and free and almost happy because above all he was ecstatic he was seeing his husband again, as much as he tried to suppress it. Sorry, I know I won't shut up, just. What I'm trying to say is, I'm sorry for being so unhelpful through all of this, and I want you to take as long as you need, okay? There was a lot more Brendon had to explain to Ryan. And maybe it was on him for not making his role in all of this clear earlier on, but he stayed quiet because he was sick of the sound of his own voice and more than anything he just wanted a fucking hug, so he stared, hoping Ryan would get the hint; they tended to communicate somewhat telepathically anyway.

I’m so glad you look better. Brendon smiled, softly, losing all the snappiness and biting sarcasm- seeing Ryan look so small and vulnerable, mumbling more to Bogart than to him, was adorable. Brendon loved him so much, but- he felt so awkward when he thought about telling him, not sure if that was acceptable yet. He wondered if they should go somewhere else so this felt more like a a conversation between lovers who’d been apart from some time rather than an ex coming over to collect belongings. A restaurant, or something. He smiled at the idea of them going on a date as if they had only just met, politeness and gentlemanly gestures that Ryan would no doubt go overboard on to make up for his absence. He wasn’t sure if his confidence in being in places like that was quite there, yet, though- he hadn’t left the house in a long time, and never really without Joey. He let his fantasy come to a stop. “I feel better, too, but. I feel like this is some kind of hospice visit. Or you’re coming to finalise a divorce.” His eyes were glittering and he flashed Ryan a grin- but he was only kind of joking.

nothing on my mind but you

I tour, a lot, every time a new album comes out or when management decide that we’re going to play at some festival, all over the world, Europe, Asia, the states. Plane journeys are second nature, eight hours in a tour bus a regular weekday- collapsing into bed at one and waking up at six in the morning is just routine, and when I stir it’s immediately we need to be there in an hour, then I am boarding a nine hour flight and then I’m landing halfway across the world and getting onto a tour bus again, crammed against the cushions, neglecting the vocal exercises that my coach demands that I do at least half an hour of every day. Of course, it’s not just me by myself. Touring members, security, management, stage crew- I am constantly surrounded by people that I get on well with, I can laugh with, we can drink a beer and get drunk and talk about absolute bullshit but they don’t matter.

Ryan matters, though. I miss him all over the world. He is busy doing his own thing often- writing, composing his own music, generally being incredibly talented and wonderful. While I stride across stages drenched in neon lights and delight in the thousands of purple-blue-green-lit faces that stare back at me, he is writing me love letters that I will only see when I return home, he’s writing out lyrics for me, my songwriter, my fucking genius, he’s writing me love songs. Love songs that are screamed back at me when the best ones make it to the studio. If I had it my way, they all would be.

It’s a thrilling feeling, having the words you or your husband wrote sung back to you, it never gets old, I always feel dizzy from the euphoria but it is nothing compared to the feeling I get when I see my husband waiting for me at the airport as I walk in, and I always see him before he sees me, and he’s straining to spot me and he’s smiling slightly and it’s like he’s holding it back and then we make eye contact and it turns into this spectacular grin that I mirror instantly. This one man looking at me with such adoration means more than the thousands who chant my name during every show that I perform. They don’t even come close.

And so I always weave between people, push through the crowd, a moth to a flame. We meet in the middle because he is too impatient to wait and I drop my suitcase by my feet and it’s so corny but his hands go to my waist and my arms around his neck and I kiss him, because it will have been months without contact and I don’t know how I ever bear it because in his arms is the safest and loveliest place to be in the world. He holds me and I never want to leave but I do, because I love my job and I am grateful and it is fantastic and I know Ryan loves his, too, and I know he enjoys being alone sometimes, having the house to himself- it gives him time to actually write without me, the human hurricane, distracting him every five seconds. So it’s okay. We can be apart. We don’t need eachother to survive- but my god does he make this whole goddamn existence worth it.

We are apart now. I am in a hotel room in Rome, he is in LA. I am lying on my back on the bed with my phone on speaker, and he is probably sat at his desk or something because I am on speaker and I can hear him rustling things around. Idiot only writes freehand first drafts.

”I miss you,” I say, softly, as I always do- there have been a few beats of comfortable silence and I’m staring at the white plastered ceiling. It’s late evening- golden hour. My hand is rested comfortably in my hair and when I close my eyes I can imagine it is Ryan’s doing. ”I’m glad there’s only a week left. Just think, a week. A week and I’m home.”

It’s hard, it’s so hard, it’s much harder than I ever thought it would be but he is worth it. Having to be away from the person you love the most for a significant period of time is a cruel joke from God. It’s intermittent long distance that leaves me aching and lonely but just makes the coming home so much sweeter. He is worth it. ”What have you done today?”

we were always thick as thieves, you and me

I imagine him coming over- maybe getting to the point where he doesn’t even have to knock, he just comes in, having parked his fancy ass car in my garage, we laugh and play music and I crucify him at video games, eat snacks, talk, make out a little. That last part, Shit. I really shouldn’t be having those kind of thoughts seeing as I haven’t seen him in almost a decade. And we have only been reunited for under an hour. He’s just so... he’s the same, his gorgeous eyes and his uncertain, boyish smile take me back to ten years ago when we were crammed into one bunk laughing, but cautious because we were the kind of kids to think even touching a guy friend was ‘gay’. A lifetime in the critical spotlight plus a journey of self discovery over the years lead me to the conclusion that I was just that. Gay. Or, at least partially. My exact label is up for debate. Thinking about that, I consider Ryan- and I wonder whether it’s appropriate to ask. Everything feels comfortable, but. It’s a leading question. I file it away for when i have consumed more alcohol.

Maybe I will. A surge of earnest hopefulness and joy shoots through my body and I crack a smile, faint, praying to the god I don’t believe in that he isn’t just saying that in a jokey way because I would give anything to see him again after we have reunited. It feels like coming home. It’s not like throughout the past decade I have felt empty or even lacking- but here Ryan is, tall and beautiful and smart and funny and suddenly I yearn for what could have been- and now, what could be. ”I’m serious,” I say, just to make sure he doesn’t think he’s just playing along with a joke. ”Come over sometime. Whenever.” No going back from that, I muse distantly- it’s an invitation and it was not open to interpretation. It was a direct offer. Somehow, beyond my better judgment, I don’t regret it.

I am wondering whether ‘I want to see if you taste like I remember’ is acceptable grounds for kissing someone when Ryan responds to the question I forgot I asked right after asking it, mostly because I’m not even a big car person and I don’t really care how much the car is. It’s pretty, the interior is gorgeous, it’s just the kind of car someone like Ryan should have. I remember to listen to him instead of just staring. Hasn’t anyone told you it’s rude to ask that? Don’t know why, but people say so. ”Those people have six foot poles up their asses, don’t listen to people who have a weird thing about cars. They fuck the exhaust pipes when nobody is looking,” I reply, matter-of-factly, flashing Ryan a grin. Around $40k, not too bad. Not too bad- that’s a bargain, in my opinion. But then I don’t know much about cars. Thankfully. I have a goddamn Tesla, for fuck’s sake. ”That’s alright- and worth it, it’s fuckin... sexy.” The alcohol had gone to my head already- or at least that’s the excuse I’m using. ”...The car, that is. Although.”

I’m inside the car leaning against one of the windows and Ryan climbs in, folding up because he’s so tall and gangly in order to fit properly. He stops short of moving any closer than pretty much the edge of the car seat, and I notice, my gaze flicking down to the space between us as I wonder exactly why he won’t move closer. Because he doesn’t want to? Because he thinks I wouldn’t want him to? I’m reading too far into this, I realise- like this is a silly high school crush. I bought it after figuring out that there wouldn’t be another Young Veins record. ...Take a Vacation. Vivid memories of listening to that album when it first came out rush through my head like some kind of montage- I remember sitting and obsessing over the lyrics like a lovesick fool. Not that I have ever been in love. ”I love that record,” I say plainly, smiling at Ryan. ”It’s a real shame you stopped with just the one.”

It’s my mid-life crisis purchase. Yes, 24 is mid-life for me. ”Well, It’s not the worst mid-life crisis buy I’ve ever seen. It’s dope. And shut up, you’re still young and hot.” Still grinning, I down the glass in my hand that I’ve been carefully balancing and then I shift closer to Ryan. ”You know.” It’s meant to be the opening of a comment but it sounds more like a flat statement. ”It’s really good to see you again.” We’re closer now, and suddenly I feel that the most sensible course of action is to cut myself off there and make excuses to leave. Instead, my eyes linger stupidly on his mouth, so I take initiative and move a little further away to save myself any embarrassment. ”Everything feels the same.”

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

Brendon had put a lot of thought into how he felt about Ryan and what their relationship was. They never really talked about it, which, for two people otherwise so close, was a real issue, because. Shit like this could happen- brendon would realise he had fallen in love and because he had never experienced that emotion before, he came to the conclusion that it simply had to be returned because the feeling was just that intense and euphoric. Well, those might not be the right words- they came closer to describing physically intimacy, something Brendon hadn’t experienced in a long time, actually- the emotion was more mellow, felt warm and sickly sweet and assured and safe and delightful. It had felt that way, at least, until he had ruined the tranquility of the evening by telling Ryan that he was in love with him. The two of them had been looking at the gorgeous night sky and just enjoying each other’s company on the back porch facing the garden, as they often did on mild nights like this, and Brendon, usually enthralled with the colours and the romance of an evening sky, had been more focused on Ryan who was sat beside him, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

He had said it, it had tumbled out of his mouth without a thought. It was one thing being in love- it was another thing to tell the person, and Brendon’s heart had immediately stopped, but he felt hopeful. Vulnerable and earnest, he had stared at Ryan from under his eyelashes nervously, until that anxiety sharpened into shock and regret and humiliation when he realised Ryan was not going to say it back. Once Brendon came to terms with that he shot up from where he sat, scrambling to escape without a word and leaving Ryan in the garden while he blindly made his way to his room, tunnel vision kicking into gear until he had his fingers around the door handle and then he was inside his room, safe, protected, the door a barrier between himself and the mistake he just made.

But then he was alone with his thoughts, and he couldn’t bear it so he made the decision to shower, partially so he couldn’t tell if he was crying or not because that would be pathetic, juvenile, crying over rejection like some teenager. So he had that shower, had leaned against the tile wall and closed his eyes tight, let the water run down his face. It wasn’t a long one because Brendon felt the urge to just crawl into bed and never leave. It had been ten minutes, if that, and he was out, a towel around his waist, and he was ready to get into bed but- a knock at the door. And it could only be one person, obviously. Someone he really didn’t want to see. God knows what Ryan wanted- it wasn’t to say ‘I love you’, clearly, as much as Brendon fantasised in that moment about Ryan taking him in his arms, kissing him, telling him he felt the same way. Maybe it was to apologise... but for what? For not loving him back? He couldn’t help it. Maybe it was just to ask if he was okay.

Brendon let all these thoughts rush through his head in the moments it took for him to decide to let Ryan in. He could’ve come in anyway, there wasn’t a lock or anything, but Ryan wasn’t the kind of guy to invade someone’s space no matter the situation. Inhaling and exhaling and feeling the nervous tremor in each breath, Brendon opened his bedroom door, his eyes dropping to his feet immediately because he could not look Ryan in the eyes. Are you okay? The stupidity of that question made anger surge through him, and it was as if he was going through several stages of grief in thirty seconds- denial that Ryan didn’t feel the same way, then a rush of anger, blaming Ryan for leading him on and allowing Brendon to fall in love when he had done nothing of the sort. He hadn’t quite stooped to bargaining yet. ”No,” Brendon said in a quiet voice, so unlike him.

But Ryan probably knew that, he was asking because he didn’t know what else to say. Not like he could lie and say that he loved him when he didn’t- but part of Brendon wished that he would so he could just pretend, entertain the idea that they were both in love with eachother. Reality was bitter and sharp, though, when he finally looked up to meet Ryan’s eyes. Are you angry at me? ”No,” He said again, though a part of him unfairly was. ”No. I’m angry at myself. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry for ruining things.” A pause. ”I think I’m going to leave.”