Letting Go and Holding On
Title: Letting Go and Holding On [s/a]
Author: fearsgottahold
Rating: R
Pairing: Brendon/Jon
POV: Jon's
Summary: Jon's in need of some help, but he doesn't want it. All Brendon wants is a friend.
Disclaimer: not true
Beta: ericasaur
Author Notes: So, I wrote this fic as part of a fanfiction competition that started in September, but I was the only one who submitted anything so I won. The plot line I used was: Character 1 and 2 meet in the middle of the school year in the waiting lounge of the school counselor when they both a deemed “In need of help” by their teachers because they are both very reclusive and almost completely silent. After being forced to wait with each other they slowly become friends and end up helping each other and falling in love. I got 51/60:D Also, I'm sorry about the distinct lack of Ryan in any way. shape or form. What can ya do? WARNING, PRETTY EXPLICIT SUICIDE ATTEMPT GUYS, IF YOU DO NOT LIKE DO NOT READ.
All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on. - Havelock Ellis.
It's kind of a funny story actually.
Well, okay, it’s not funny, but it's a story nonetheless. It begins with a boy, two boys even, and the lingering smell of doubt and defeat. Blood maybe, if one were to be picky. They aren’t normal boys, as such, but who can define the word normal when it comes to the human race anyway? Everyone has their quirks. It just seems like the two boys, young men even, have more quirks than most. It isn’t their fault. They didn’t choose the lives they lead. It just is. And here our story begins.
*
Jon’s always been quiet. He isn’t sure when he started to revert back inside himself, but he knows pretty damn well that if he tried to hunch in any further he’d probably implode. He has friends. He does, really, but his friends don’t understand him. It's not their fault, but it's annoying when they ask him what’s wrong and can't seem to understand that maybe sometimes there isn’t anything wrong. This is just how he is now.
When he was younger (and God, doesn’t that make him sound like he’s an old man), when he was younger he was always loud and open. Fuck, when he was younger he played music and the whole purpose of music is to make some noise. Everybody knows that. He didn’t care about what people thought of him. Maybe the thing is, is that when you're young; the world isn’t such a disheartening place. Or something. Jon doesn’t know. But what he does know is that he isn’t happy. Or loud. Or open like he used to be. In fact, he’s got so damn quiet he’s ended up here.
Jon didn’t think it was that bad. Sure, there was that time when he didn’t speak for literally a week, and that other time when he had a panic attack in the middle of sport because he was surrounded by too many people, but really. He’s fine.
Maybe that’s just a lie he’s been telling people so long that he almost believes it himself.
The door seems to be mocking him somehow, in the way that only inanimate objects can.
Jon snorts silently. That thought doesn’t even make sense, he reasons with himself. Jon spends a lot of time in his head these days. It happens.
The room is like any other waiting room, small, boring, with the strains of repetitive classical music that, lets face it, everyone hates but no-one puts anything better on. It's like when you're standing in an elevator, and no matter how many times you’ve been in one- literally thousands of times, that first jolt scares you. As if you're gonna fall to your death. And yet the twinkly elevator music plays on, as if that’s supposed to make you feel better about yourself, brighten up your day. Make you feel better.
Jon thinks it's just a load of bullshit.
Jon remembers a time when music was a haven for him. What does he even do anymore? There seems to be no time left in the world, yet Jon never seems to get anything accomplished. He sighs and rests his chin on his hand, elbow connecting with his thigh. Maybe this is why he’s here. Because he feels like a failure. Jon doesn’t know, or maybe he doesn’t care. Jon doesn’t seem to care about anything anymore. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t talk. He has nothing to argue for, and nothing to argue against. Everything just is, and maybe Jon doesn’t want it that way. Or maybe he does. It's hard to tell sometimes.
The handle on the door behind him creaks open and a dark coloured head peeks through, wide eyes hidden behind neon red frames. The boy looks around for a moment, and Jon studies how frail the boy seems. He’s he to see the councillor too, Jon can tell. That boy has issues. Maybe Jon doesn’t know what they are, or indeed who the boy actually is, but why else would he come into the councillor’s waiting room looking like someone’s about to kill him?
The boy swallows and his gaze focuses on Jon. Jon looks right back. He’s pretty, Jon notes, pretty in a way that boys probably shouldn’t be. Everything on his face seems to be a little too large to fit on his head but somehow it works, giving the boy a permanent wide, doe-eyed expression. His hair is brown like his eyes, a deep brown, a brown that makes his face looks even paler than Jon thinks it is. It makes the boy look otherworldly, ethereal if you like. He’s a normal human being, just like Jon. But he seems different.
Sometimes Jon can't always get his point across.
The boy isn’t as short as Jon first thought, but he’s slim, shoulders narrow and legs skinny. He’s wearing a hoodie that dwarfs his frame, ending far past his fingers, and stopping in the middle of his thighs. It's an old jumper, a ratty jumper. It doesn’t look like his own.
The boy swallows again and glances nervously at the door. He then casts his eyes back to Jon.
“Is this where we wait for Ms Colleen?” The boy asks quietly, so quiet that Jon wonders if he had imagined it. The boy clutches at his hoodie, knotting the arm holes in his fingers. Jon thinks that the boy makes himself looks even smaller by hunching his shoulders in, as if he’s expecting to get berated by someone at anytime. Jon feels a flash of shock when the first thing he feels is relief.
It's something in the expression maybe; and something in the cowering way that the boy holds himself. It reminds Jon of himself.
And yeah, okay, that might be a horrible thing to think. To wish upon someone that they feel the same way that he does. Out of control. Worthless. Numb. It's nice to know that there’s someone out there who’s feeling that their life is uncontrollable, un-ignorable, yet so damn unwanted. It's nice to know he isn’t alone, that’s all.
Jon looks at the boy, the boy with his eyes lowered, and picking at the holes in the giant sleeves and utters an equally quiet “yes.”
He looks up, staring right at Jon, and gives a small smile in return, grateful for the help.
The kid makes his way to the seat next to Jon, the only other seat in the room, hallway more like. Fingers continue to pick distractedly at the hoodie and before Jon knows it he’s reaching out, laying a gentle hand on the other boys in order to make him stop. Once he has the attention of the other he removes his hand and places it back in his lap.
Jon feels bold when he talks. “Wouldn’t want to make the hoodie waste away to nothing.” He’s pretty sure that’s the longest sentence he’s said all day, all week even.
Jon doesn’t really pay attention to what he says. He probably could, because he never says anything, but he doesn’t deem it necessary. He doesn’t really have anything interesting to say anyway, so it shouldn’t really matter to him.
The boy’s lips quirk, settle in an uneasy smile. However small the expression may be, it lights up his face and makes him look even younger than he already does.
“Thank you.” He says.
Jon’s never been the one to initiate conversation. In fact, he shies away from any kind of dialogue at all. But there’s something about this boy, something completely inexplicable; that makes him want to talk.
“I'm Jon.” He says, and holds his hand out uncomfortably.
The boy smiles and takes the hand in his own, palm smooth and warm. The tips of the other boy’s fingers are calloused, very much like Jon’s used to be. Jon wonders what he plays. Guitar? Bass? Maybe even piano. This kid just makes Jon want to know more.
“Brendon.” The boy- Brendon- replies, eyes averted, but the shy smile widening.
Jon wants to see that smile more often.
A door opens; the very same one that was winning the staring match against Jon just moments beforehand. A blonde head pokes through.
“Jon Walker?” The woman says, looking at the two of them. Suddenly Jon’s the complete centre of attention again and he doesn’t know how to act. He shrinks on himself, picking at the sleeves of his own hoodie- much in the same way that Brendon is- and stands up.
“Bye.” He mumbles in Brendon’s general direction, and feels a little lightheaded at the quiet reply he gets in return.
Inside Miss Colleen’s office are an old, battered sofa and a desk, with one of the cool swivel chairs sat behind. Miss Colleen doesn’t even acknowledge the desk just heads straight for the comfy seats and sits down, patting the space next to her. The walls of the room are covered in self help posters and inspirational quotes; all meant to make people feel better about themselves but instead make every single person cringe inwardly at how awful they are.
Jon shuts the door carefully and shuffles over to the sofa, sitting as far away from the guidance counsellor as possible. It's not that she’s ugly, or that she smells bad, in fact she’s stupidly pretty and smells vaguely like honeysuckle.
“Hi there Jon.” Ms Colleen says warmly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. Jon notes absently that she has a nice smile, but it doesn’t really do anything for him. Nothing does anything for him anymore. Except-
“- but you can call me Keltie.”
Whoops, Jon missed the whole first part of that sentence. He nods dumbly but doesn’t say anything else. Should he say anything else? He shouldn’t do anything he doesn’t want to, that what they always say right? And Jon really doesn’t want to talk right now. Or ever. Does he care?
“Now, over the course of the next six months or so, I assure you that we are going to be the very best of friends.” A bit optimistic, in his opinion. “Honestly! You’ll look forward to the time we spend together!”
Jon doesn’t say anything for the rest of the lesson.
Keltie keep asking him questions. How are you? What did you do today? How do you feel?
He feels fucking numb, that’s how he feels.
But nobody wants to know that.
When he exits the room Brendon’s still in there and he looks up to see Jon. A small smile spreads on Brendon’s face, and that little warm feeling, the one that he always gets when he sees it, burrows its way into Jon’s chest and makes Jon feel a little again.
When Brendon walks past Jon his hoodie slides up his wrist slightly and Jon can just make out tiny lines of red, layering and crisscrossing over one another.
Well.
*
When Jon walks into his next class, his teacher can't even remember his name.
*
The next time Jon sees Brendon is once again during school, a couple of days later. Jon’s walking through the shitty orchard that the school has, he wants to be alone okay, Jesus, just leave it.
He almost doesn’t notice the boy at first, because he’s wearing the damn black hoodie again, like it's the only thing he owns that will cover up his secrets. Perhaps it is. Jon doesn’t know.
Brendon’s curled up under a tree, headphones in and paper in his lap. His head is nodding along to the beat of whatever he’s listening to, and he’s in his own world and Jon doesn’t want to intrude but.
But he kind of does.
Jon slowly makes his way over to where Brendon’s sitting and drops down, sitting about two feet away from the other boy. Brendon doesn’t realise he’s there at first and when he looks up he flinches at the sight of Jon. And Jon? Well, Jon feels bad for making Brendon flinch like that, but he’s not sorry.
Brendon takes a headphone out of his ear and looks down, closing the notepad neatly and placing it by his side.
“Hi,” he says quietly, fidgeting with his hoodie once again. One of his sleeves is starting to unravel.
Jon nods back, not trusting himself to speak. He never trusts himself to speak. That's possibly his problem. Does he have a problem? Jon doesn’t know. He’s not normal.
But what exactly constitutes as normal?
“Are you okay?” Brendon asks timidly. “Do you want something?”
Jon shakes his head. Jon never wants anything. He’s ambivalent, one could say.
“O-okay.” Brendon says, and flushes, at the stutter, Jon presumes. “Why are you here then?”
The question surprises Jon, because he isn’t really sure himself. He has nothing else to do maybe, Brendon looked lonely, maybe Jon wants the overwhelming hole of nothingness strangling him inside to subside and Brendon seems to be the only one who can make it lessen, albeit only a little.
“Because I can, and you looked like you wanted a friend.” Jon answers. Brendon flushes and looks down at the pad on his lap, shuffling it around like he isn’t sure what to do now Jon’s said that.
Brendon mutters something but Jon isn’t quite sure what he says and first and asks him to repeat it. Brendon blushes even more.
“I've never had a friend before.” He says, clearer, and Jon feels pretty bad.
Jon shrugs a little, hands folded in his lap. “Well, I guess. Here I am?”
Brendon’s smile is blinding, and he throws himself from the little space in which he sat, right onto Jon himself, scattering pieces of scribbled on paper and a pencil. Brendon hugs Jon hard for a second, then abruptly lets go, face red and hidden by a short curtain of hair. Its then that Jon realises Brendon’s mumbling “sorry, sorry,” over and over, and Jon reaches out a little, and places a friendly hand on Brendon’s knee.
“Hey, friends, remember?”
Jon doesn’t think he’s initiated a hug in well over a year, hasn’t been hugged at all in at least six months, but he thinks that maybe Brendon needs this more than Jon needs his stability and personal space. Maybe? Definitely.
He reaches over and pulls Brendon into a light hug, arms enveloping Brendon, but not so much that he could feel trapped.
Brendon returns the hug. And it's nothing more, nothing less. Just a tangle of arms wrapped round warm bodies.
It takes some of the numbness away.
Maybe, just maybe, Jon wishes it could take more than just ‘some.’
*
They spend more time together after that.
It isn’t immediate, gradual; a slow incline perhaps, but it's definitely natural. Sometimes, when before Jon would just walk alone, forgoing lunch maybe, in an attempt to clear his head, he now seeks out the boy in the badly fitting clothing, and the dark thoughts that make them both so similar.
Jon meets up with Keltie once a week still. Wednesdays, eleven fifteen until twelve. She’s not so bad. Not really, but Jon can't help but feel that she doesn’t really aid Jon in any way, she’s just there asking persistent questions that Jon doesn’t feel he can answer. Not yet. He’s not ready yet.
It's Thursday, and Jon’s with Brendon. Brendon seems happy enough. He talks to Jon now, it's like the secret codes been given, and everything that was previously locked away is now out in the open. In fact, he doesn’t seem to stop talking. Jon doesn’t mind, he’s grown to like the voice that rises and falls in pitch whenever Brendon gets excited about something. Brendon has a nice voice. Jon’s content just to listen. It works.
They’re talking music today.
“What? But Simon and Garfunkel are the best duo ever to have lived Jon! I mean, seriously, The Sounds of Silence? The harmonies in that are so beautiful.”
Jon laughs quietly.
“Yeah Bren,”- Bren. It slips so easily out. So, so easy- “I know, but they’re kind of generic, you know? Broaden your horizons.”
He doesn’t know why he said that. Jon hasn’t listened to a single song in months.
Brendon’s mouth is a round O of shock. “Jon!” He admonishes. “I won't take that! Everything about them is amazing and you can't change my opinion of them at all.”
Jon’s learned that Brendon is kind of stubborn sometimes.
“I used to listen to them all the time.” Jon admits. He doesn’t really know why he’s telling Brendon this. For all the shit that’s wrong between the two of them, they don’t talk about it. He thinks that they’re both used to suffering in silence. “I don’t anymore. I don’t really listen to anything.”
Brendon frowns. This is serious. “Why? Music helps me all the time.” Brendon says.
Jon shrugs. Default move. “Because I don’t want to.” He says. It's true.
“But. But why not? I don’t understand. I thought you used to be in a band as well?”
“I don’t know okay? I don’t know. I just can't, because it doesn’t seem tangible. Nothing’s real anymore.
“I just can't.” Jon repeats quietly.
Brendon wraps an arm loosely around Jon’s shoulders, but Jon’s too numb to feel it.
*
They don’t talk about their parents. It seems to be an ongoing acknowledged thing that Brendon’s relationship with his parents is more messed up than anything Jon has even thought about, and it's just better not to go there, okay?
Which is why Jon’s surprised when Brendon catches his hand and leans backwards, making Jon lie down with him. “My parents don’t want me.” He says. “Never have done.”
It's a brash statement, one that should be shrouded in neon lights, with loud noises blaring and large things pointing to the words and saying ‘THIS IS UNEXPECTED.” And “WOAH, THIS IS NOT NORMAL AND NEEDS TO BE TAKEN CARE OF CAUTIOUSLY.” Or whatever. That’s what life’s like now, for the stars. Right?
Jon turns until he’s facing Brendon and strokes the inside of Brendon’s palm, but not close to Brendon’s wrist. That’s another acknowledgement right there. They know what Brendon does to himself; they don’t need to shout it out to the world.
“Why do you think that?”
Brendon sighs, and rolls as well, so they’re face-to-face. It could be romantic but it's not. It’s intimate, sure, but not in that way.
“They always go on about how four is the perfect amount of children. I’m number five.” He smiles but it looks more like a grimace. “I’ve never had clothes that I can call my own, because they’re all hand-me-downs from my brothers. They know that I don’t want to follow their religion, believe what they believe, and it sucks that they think that I need to be ‘helped’ because of that one thing.”
Brendon looks right into Jon’s eyes, and it’s too much but Jon can't look away, he’s trapped in Brendon’s brown irises. “I know I don’t need help for that.” Brendon says softly. “I just need help for the things I don’t know.”
And he sounds so broken. So, so broken and messed up and confused and Jon relates.
He thinks this is why I started talking to him. Because he understands me, he knows what I'm going through. He gets me.
“I know what you mean. Sometimes people just don’t get you.”
Brendon smiles and snuggles closer to Jon. His hoodie’s sleeve rides up a little, but they don’t focus on that. “You get me Jon. You understand.”
The thank you Brendon mouths into Jon’s chest feels almost like an answer to a prayer.
*
Brendon tries to get permission to stay round Jon’s house one time. He’s crushed when his dad says no. Jon wraps Brendon in a hug and squeezes, feeling the small, bony little body hug back. Brendon is silent for a while.
“I wonder what would have happened to me if I had never started cutting.” He says finally, and woah, this is further that Brendon’s ever said about his ‘condition’ before. “I mean, would I be happier? I don’t know Jon. I think I've always been sad. Maybe I've always been a little down. But there’s times when I think that actually I don’t need it; and it just. I don’t do it.”
This is good right? Letting it out to someone. Maybe Jon isn’t the best person for this, but he’s a good listener. Fantastic even.
“Why did you start?” Jon asks tentatively. Is this right? Is that what he’s supposed to say?
Brendon says nothing for a moment, and Jon thinks that what he’s said is wrong. No.
Then he speaks. “I think I started because I felt alone. I felt like I had nothing else that I could rely on. I'm so used to not being wanted that I… I don’t know. It feels so natural. I like the blood.” Brendon says; a satirical, twisted smile on his face. It doesn’t suit him.
“When?” Jon whispers. Does he even want to know?
“The beginning of eighth grade.” Brendon shrugs. “Something like that. I don’t know, I don’t keep track of everything I did aged thirteen.”
It's been a long time since Brendon was in eighth grade. Years.
Brendon then laughs softly, but it's not a nice laugh. It's a filthy laugh, it sounds sardonic, self-deprecating.
“The only way you’d be able to tell when I started,” Brendon says, and he says it so evilly. So horribly, and it's directed at Brendon himself. “The only way you’d tell, is if you looked at the scars on my body.”
It's a revolting thought. A repulsive thought, if you like.
“But you help Jon.” Jon turns to look at the little face hidden in his shoulder, surprised.
“Really?” He says, because, really? What has he done? As far as Jon knows, he’s just sat with Brendon a couple of times, let him jabber on about random stuff, and hugged him when it seems appropriate.
Brendon smiles and nods. He looks so much happier now than he did when Jon first saw him, was it really two months ago now?
“Sure. I mean, you're the first friend I've ever had, and it’s been nice to have you around, you know? You help so much. I never realised having a person who you could share your thoughts and hug whenever you wanted was so helpful. You're amazing Jon. Really.”
Jon feels a little choked, and it isn’t because he’s upset.
“Thanks little man.” Jon says, and feels Brendon’s chuckle against his own belly. “It’s good to know I'm doing some good.”
Brendon sits up and looks him straight in the eye. “You do more than some good.” He says solemnly, eyes wide with honesty. “You're helping me realise that I don’t need to hurt myself to feel better. I think I can finally begin to heal because of you.”
Brendon snuggles back into Jon’s side. “I’m going to throw my razor away tonight,” He says quietly. “I want to get rid of it while I'm still ahead. Help me get rid of it?”
Jon nods. Of course. “Of course!” He replies.
That night, when the moon is fairly high in the sky (Brendon sneaked out of the house while Jon waited shivering outside) they go to the pond, the dingy one in near their school that everyone throws shit into. It's become a dumping ground for all things unwanted. This piece of metal is lusted for by one, hated by the other, but they’re going to get rid of it, whether Brendon still wants it or not. Jon holds Brendon’s hand while Brendon flexes his arm, and they watch the spinning arch of dulled silver leave his hand with a small splash, never to be found again.
It's quite romantic in a way really.
*
Brendon’s getting better. Jon can see it in the way that he acts around Jon, and the way he moves whilst walking amongst other people. He smiles more; Jon’s heard him laugh more than once. When they walk down the corridor, Brendon doesn’t flinch every time someone gets too close to him. It's nice to see someone slowly on the road to recovery. He’s gonna make it, some time in the future.
Jon? Well, it's harder for him. He feels like he’s got to be the father figure Brendon’s never had, the tough one, the one who has to keep it all together and make sure that the small, tiny boy doesn’t slice himself to pieces.
Maybe Jon doesn’t talk about how he feels, maybe he doesn’t talk about what he knows is gong to happen one day soon- he’s going to burst and it's all going to end badly. Jon thinks that he’s kept the lid on disaster for long enough, he can wait it out even more.
Maybe this plan gets just that little bit harder when Tom pops up in front of Jon, when he is on his way home from school. He doesn’t notice the boy in front of him at first. It's only when the snap! Of fingers in front of him suddenly pop out from right under his nose that Jon realises Tom’s been walking by him for a while.
Jon gives a little wave and steps in, moves so Tom has a chance to walk on the sidewalk next to him. Tome looks upset. It doesn’t bode well.
“You're my best friend, right?” Tom asks, looking to Jon for confirmation. Jon nods uncertainly. Where is this going? It can't be good. Negative, negative, negativity. Keltie always said to think on the positive side. Now Jon’s let her down.
“So why is it that we are two best friends, and yet I haven’t actually spoken to you since January? Three fucking months Jon! I mean, I tried at first to help you, but you pushed me, and Bill, and all the rest of us away, but fuck me, I won't stand for this. I miss you Jon.”
Jon opens his mouth to say that he sat with Tom at lunch last week, even if they didn’t say a word, but Tom cuts him off.
“Yes, Jon, I know we sit together sometimes, but you're never there. You haven’t been there in months, years even. Do you know how that makes me feel? Seeing my best friend waste away until he’s nothing but a husk who never says anything? I know you go to counselling now Jon, but Jesus; you need to put some effort in! You can't just expect it to all work out itself! Do you enjoy living like this?”
Jon doesn’t know what to say, can he speak? He doesn’t think so. He just shakes his head and looks down. Tom forces his head back up with his fingers so that his eyes meet Jon’s own.
“Then why do you fucking act like this? Going off, with your, ‘oh, woe is me’ attitude when there’s clearly nothing actually wrong in your life as a whole, you're just acting out and not doing a damn thing to save yourself. Jesus, just do something about it!”
“Shut up!” Jon yells, and pulls himself roughly out of Tom’s grasp. “You don’t have a clue how I feel, you don’t understand what I feel like day in, day out-”
“And why do you think that is?” Tom snarls. “Because you never fucking tell me anything! I've tried, over and over, to talk but you just brush me off. I don’t think you even consider me a friend anymore.
“You know what?” Tom slumps and suddenly looks about thirty years older. It's not a good look. “I give up. I can't help you. I've tried, so, so hard, but you're just hurting me more than I'm helping you. I can't do this Jon. I love you man, but I just can't do it.”
Jon’s breath hitches. They’ve been best friends forever; it can't end like this. Can it? He doesn’t want it all to end this way. Does he?
“I'm sorry Jon.” Tom utters, almost inaudibly. Tears leak down his face. Whose face? “Come back to me when you're ready to be fixed.”
When Tom walks off, it's the stumble of a man defeated.
Jon didn’t even know he’d won anything.
*
That night, Jon’s at home, in his room, like always. Through his mind are words, one word in particular. It starts with an S, ends in Y, and has the letters ORR in the middle. He’s so sorry. Sorry for what? Sorry for nothing. Sorry for everything, sorry for not being anything. Sorry, sorry, sorry. The word loses meaning after a while doesn’t it? No-body cares about the word ‘sorry’ anymore. It means fuck all.
It's kind of funny really. Well, it's not funny, not in the least. Jon’s tried so hard to keep himself together for Brendon, for his parents, for Tom- so bittersweet and angry and painful and regret- but now he thinks that if he were a scarf, he’s been so moth-bitten and shredded and unravelled that there isn’t anything left.
Yeah, no. it’s not funny at all. It's quite tragic really.
He’s at home. What's different from usual is that he can hear raised voices. His parents are unusually relaxed about most things, like that time when Jon pulled an all-nighter and got stupidly drunk at somebody’s house (he was fourteen and irrational, okay) and then faked sick the next day. They knew he wasn’t ill, but they went along with it anyway.
This? This isn’t normal.
Jon pulls himself out of his bed and shuffles to the door, opening it quietly and stepping into the hallway so he can hear his parents more clearly.
“He’s tearing us apart, can't you see that? All we do is worry about him and he just sits there in his room and doesn’t care about how much effort we put into helping him!”
Oh. Not so much butterflies as giant concrete bricks, churning in his stomach and blocking his throat.
“But he’s just-”
“Don’t tell me he’s just going through a phase!” His mother shouts and Jon flinches even though there’s an entire wall, with plaster and peeling paint between the two of them. “It's been nearly two years now, and I can't take seeing him like this anymore! He needs to do something with his life or swear to God, just. Argh!”
Frustration. Jon’s never heard it in his mother’s voice before, and it's painful to hear. There’s also pain and anger and worry and so many other negative emotions and it's all because of him. He can't even pretend that it’s not about him, because no-one else in this household stays in their room all day and is a total nuisance.
Next thing he knows he’s in the bathroom, water running in the bath, a razor in between his thumb and forefinger. He’s never done this before. If Jon’s honest, when people asked him what he wanted to be when he was older, the word ‘dead’ never really crossed his mind. But here we are.
Jon doesn’t think he’s really been thinking for the past fifteen minutes. It probably should be a good idea to do so, but he isn’t.
When Jon makes the first incision he laughs, because it's funny that this is the most he’s felt in months. It's horrifying and painful, but it's so poetically beautiful, feeling, and watching the water blossom from clear to crimson.
He makes another line, and another, switching hands, doing the same to the other side until he can feel, he can feel and its better this way, it really is. Mom won't need to worry anymore. Mom and dad won’t argue. Tom won’t need to worry about him anymore. Brendon is getting better; he can do the rest of it by himself. Everything will be okay. Everything will be so, so much better with Jon out of the picture.
Everything is always better without Jon.
The sharp shocks are fading now, and Jon wants to feel the burn again but he can't quite seem to move his arms. He can't seem to move anything at all, and it's kind of scary for a moment but then everything fades around the edges and Jon isn’t there to be scared anymore.
*
Lets just pause here for a moment.
Sometimes, people do things that are irrational to others. To themselves, it seems like a perfectly legitimate idea, perhaps the only idea they can go ahead with. It's not right, but that’s how some people feel. Some people are logical, some aren’t. Some deal well in bad situations. Others don’t.
Some feel it necessary to kill themselves to get out of the way of others.
No, it's not necessary, or a good idea, but some don’t see that. They feel like failures, they can't think of anything else that would work better than to pretend they never were there in the first place. Scrape, and then they don’t have to think anymore. It happens to more people than one would think, which is a horrible concept.
There’s always another option, but Jon just couldn’t see it. It happens.
For your information, the character Jon doesn’t die. That would be a rather horrible end to a story of two people who are fighting together for happiness in this world. The two of them have much more to look forward to in this life, so much love and gentle words and the kind of romance only novelists can come up with. This story hasn’t ended yet.
Shall we continue?
*
Jon’s first thought when he wakes up is ouch followed by Brendon, followed by shit. Perhaps not the most eloquent of thinking sequences, but Jon’s a little too drugged up and tired to be articulate right now. As he blinks his eyes open, wincing in the harsh light, he sees the frail body curled up in a chair. Brendon looks exhausted, even whilst he’s sleeping. One of the sleeves of his hoodie has ridden up, exposing half-healed cuts. But no new ones.
Thank god.
Jon’s in a hospital bed; and his arms are down by his sides, covered to the elbow in white bandages. Jon’s left hand has an IV sticking out of it, the fluid leaking in from a bag hanging near his head on a stand. His skin is so pallid the strips of gauze are almost the same colour as his body. It's kind of hideous.
Jon’s also parched; his throat’s dry and his tongue is stuck to the top of his mouth. He looks around for some water, and spots a water jug and paper cup on the flimsy wooden table next to him.
Without wanting to wake up Brendon- Brendon, who looks so tired, so delicate, so beautiful- Jon painfully sits up and reaches for the jug. As he goes to lift it up however, his fingers seem to be unable to work, and the jug drops slow motion to the floor.
Smash, and then Brendon’s startled awake.
“Sorry! Sorry.” Jon apologises, voice creaky with disuse. There’s water pooling underneath Jon’s bed. Brendon doesn’t seem to notice, he’s too busy staring at Jon with an expression that seems almost intrusive.
“Um.” Is all Jon can say before Brendon’s throwing himself across the space of the small room and hugging Jon so hard he’s pretty sure his ribs are gonna crack.
“Jon. Jon.” Brendon repeats incessantly, and he finds himself pawing at Brendon’s back, not sure what else to do.
“Jon.” Brendon repeats in a broken tone one last time, and then he sits back, still holding lightly onto Jon’s upper arms.
He’s crying, silently. Small drips fall quickly as if they aren’t even touching his skin, but the glistening trails left behind tell a different story.
“Jon.” He says one last time, before he slaps the boy in question across the face.
It doesn’t hurt, not really, but it still makes his head rock to the side and a stinging sensation erupts from the right side of his face.
“Don’t you ever do something like that again!” Brendon bursts out, before sniffing, and burrowing back into Jon’s arms, mindful of his wrists.
“I was so scared Jon.” Brendon whimpers- actually fucking whimpers- “they said they’d found you in the bathroom and they didn’t know what to do, and nobody told me until you were here! I've stayed here since you arrived. So, so scared.”
Jon presses his face against Brendon’s hair and feels terrible.
“I'm so sorry Brendon. I didn’t mean to make you worried, I just-” Jon stops. What had he even been trying to do? How would killing yourself solve anything? “How long have I been here?” He asks instead. He can't think about anything else right now, everything feels like it's underwater.
“Three days. They had to give you an emergency blood transfusion, but it didn’t work, as you’d lost so much blood, so they kept you under longer so they could give you more. They thought your kidneys were gonna fail for a while.” Brendon says quietly, and Jon feels so bad.
“I'm so sorry Brendon.” He speaks into the younger boy’s hair. It's greasy. “I swear, I didn’t mean to make you worry I was just. Fuck I don’t know. I just felt I needed to be out of the picture, completely. I felt like I was just hurting everyone. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t think. I was so messed up at that moment and I needed t do something but I wasn’t thinking, I'm so sorry.”
Brendon sighs. He looks so desperate, as if he can't get anything out fast enough. “I'm so glad you're still here. I love you Jon.”
Jon doesn’t know what to say. What do you say? His head’s still fuzzy.
“I love you too.” He says carefully.
Brendon pulls back a little, so he can look Jon in the eye.
“No Jon. I love you.” He says, stronger than Jon’s ever heard him. It's like something snapped. Once Brendon’s said it once, he can't stop. It spills out, ‘I love you’ mixed in with ‘please don’t leave me again’ and all the little things that Brendon can't say, like ‘you're the only one that’s helped me for the better.’
“I love you too.” Jon says again and then he can't help it. He drifts off into unconsciousness once more, Brendon snug in his arms and muttering sweet nothings that somehow mean everything.
The water jug is still smashed on the floor.
*
The next time Jon wakes up he’s alone, but not for very long.
A male nurse comes bustling in, staring at Jon in a fond way that makes Jon wonder if he’s seen this guy before.
“Hi!” The man says, coming over to the side of the bed and opening the curtains above Jon’s head. “You're awake. Good morning! I'm Spencer; I've been looking after you.”
He’s bright, bubbly, with a wide face and an awesome beard that makes Jon slightly jealous. Although he’s nearly eighteen Jon still can't produce much more than a lot of baby fluff. It's getting better.
“How are you feeling?” Spencer asks, as he checks the IV levels, before tugging lightly on Jon’s left arm. Jon lifts it up willingly, and Spencer starts to unravel the bandages wrapped tightly around his arm.
“Good. I'm… yeah, good.” Jon says, and feels shocked to know that it's true.
He feels, and what's more, he feels okay. It feels amazing. Brendon.
“I feel great.” Jon smiles up at Spencer, who looks up from where he’s exposing Jon’s arm and he smiles.
“That’s great.” He replies, and Jon feels the sincerity rolling off the chirpy man in waves. “Oh hey look!” Spencer says, and Jon does as told, seeing the neatly stitched up lines crossing from his wrist near to his elbow.
There are seven of them in total, on his left arm. From the aches Jon can tell that his right arm doesn’t have as many. It's scary because Jon doesn’t really remember making them, well, there are murky thoughts of red and scared, and pain, but that appears to be it. But no-one else who could have done it. No-one else but him.
“They are looking so much better now.” Spencer says admirably, grabbing a fresh roll of gauze and begins to neatly wrap it back over Jon’s arm. “No sign of infection there! You might be allowed to go soon, if the Doc says so.”
Jon smiles. A small, unobtrusive smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Wow, really?”
“Sure! I mean, we’ll have to enrol you in therapy and stuff, keep you here a while longer to make sure that everything’s alright but you seem okay at the moment. Would you like some breakfast?”
Jon startles at the abrupt change in conversation, but nods slowly. “Thank you. Could I have some water as well please?” He asks, and Spencer nods eagerly.
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” He says and scrabbles for a paper cup and water, sitting on a trolley that also holds some toast and unidentifiable spreadable solid, as well as bandages and pills and other assorted medical aids. “Can you hold the cup?”
Jon thinks back to the smashed jug, but the difference in weight between a jug and a glass is pretty drastic, and Jon doesn’t feel as tired anymore. “Yeah, I think so.”
The plastic trembles in his grip, but he manages to take a long drink without it spilling. The cool liquid feels like heaven on his throat and Jon sighs with contentment, barely acknowledging Spencer’s answering chuckle.
“Well, here’s your breakfast,” Spencer says, laying out the food, on a moving table, that swings until it's situated in Jon’s lap. “I’ll come and collect the dirty plates in a while. And visitors are allowed in half an hour so enjoy!”
Then he’s gone. A flash of blue uniform and brown hair.
The bread is stale, and only just lukewarm, but Jon doesn’t really mind. If he remembers correctly this is his fourth day without food, so he’s pretty hungry. The condiment is vaguely apricot flavoured, but Jon isn’t too sure. It doesn’t taste bad, exactly. Just odd.
True to his word, his parents arrive forty five minutes later, looking harassed and worried. When Jon’s mother sees that he’s awake she rushes forward and pulls him into his arms, more roughly than Brendon did. It makes his arms ache a little, but Jon dutifully wraps his arms around her.
Jon had forgotten what she smelt like until now, it’s been so long. She smells like home, a little piece of familiarity and comfort. It's been too long since he’s felt those arms around him. Too long, too long.
“You scared me so much honey, I never realised- oh gosh, please I never want to go through that again Jon. Please don’t make me. I love you Jon. I love you so much, and I don’t ever want to lose you. You're my baby. Don’t take yourself away from me.”
Jon feels tears prickling at his eyelids. Stop. “I'm sorry, I just heard you two arguing and I’d had a really bad day and it just seemed like the only option and-”
“Don’t say that! I was arguing because I was worried!” In the background, Jon’s dad nods his head in agreement. “We love you and we never want you to go away.”
“I’m sorry, I love you, I love both of you. I don’t want to kill myself anymore. I want to get better, I do.” He does, he really does.
He doesn’t think it's wrong that the main reason why he wants to get better is because of Brendon.
*
Jon’s released five days later, when the doctor is sure that there is no infection and Jon is apparently mentally stable enough to be okay back at home. He doesn’t mind waiting so long to return, not really, but he’s glad to finally shower because sponge baths just don’t do the job. His hair feels horrible.
Brendon drops by after Jon’s been home for about four hours or so. He greets Jon’s parents as if he’s met them before, and then Jon realises that they must have met whilst he was unconscious.
When Brendon meets Jon’s eyes, he blushes, smiles daintily and goes sits down next to Jon on the sofa, snuggling in close. Jon’s parents say nothing, but Jon can feel their pleased smiles.
“How are you feeling?” Brendon asks happily as Jon slings an arm carefully around Brendon’s shoulders.
“I'm feeling good.” Jon replies; and then smiles. He feels. He feels. “I feel.” He says wonderingly and Brendon cranes his neck up to peck Jon on the chin, right on the border where face becomes neck.
“It’s a nice feeling, isn’t it?” Brendon says quietly, so that Jon’s parents can't hear them.
And yeah, it kind of is.
Jon hums in agreement, and takes a hold of Brendon’s hand.
When they both make their way upstairs- slowly, because Jon still feels embarrassingly weak- Brendon collapses on Jon’s bed without saying anything. He makes cute little grabby hands at Jon, but Jon resists the pout for a moment.
Pottering around for a few more moments, Jon finally manages to get his speakers to work; and Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘The Sounds of Silence’ begins to play quietly in the background.
Brendon tugs Jon until they’re spooning, Jon the little one for once.
“Music helps you all the time.” Jon quotes Brendon quietly, and Brendon nods against Jon’s shoulder.
“Does it seem more tangible to you now?” Brendon asks lightly, but the question is so loaded, it weighs in the air like one hundred tons, ready to drop and crush them both.
“Yeah.” Jon replies. “Yeah it does.” And then the weights are lifted and both of them are safe.
“I love you.” Brendon murmurs, and Jon sleepily returns the sentiment.
Whispered, in the sounds of silence.
*
Three days after that, Jon goes back to school. Everyone knows by now what he did to himself, and he has people staring at him, talking about him when they think he’s not listening. They latch onto the bandages when his sleeve rides up. It's oppressive.
They haven’t made it official yet, but they’re acting so much like boyfriends that Jon doesn’t think anything of it. The first day Brendon comes and finds Jon, shrinking away from the looks and the prying faces.
“Don’t worry about them.” Brendon says, but leads him away to a slightly more sheltered spot anyway. “I don’t care about them, or what they think of me anymore, and neither should you.”
It shouldn’t really help, that line, but Jon feels like it’s easier to breathe, after that.
They sit there for the rest of the lunch, hands folded in each others, laughing over Jon’s brother’s terrible date from the other night. Towards the end of lunch hour Tom comes and finds them. Jon hasn’t spoken to him since the suicide attempt. God was it really only a week ago?
“Hey.” Tom says awkwardly, hands shoved in pockets and blond hair covering one eye. He looks shifty, like he doesn’t know what to do now that he’s here. In the background, there’s William, who’s obviously spurred Tom on. Jon feels kind of stupid when he realises how much he’s been a dick to his friends the past couple of years.
After a look at Brendon, Jon releases their hands and steps off the bench they were sitting on. He wraps Tom up in a hug, and the boy returns it gladly, clinging on as if he’s dying. They aren’t dying, neither of them. Jon’s over that now.
“I'm sorry Jonny.” Tom mumbles over and over, and goddamn, Jon’s sick of that word now. Everyone’s sorry. He’s sorry. He knows this.
“I didn’t mean for you to do that.” Tom says.
“I didn’t want you to do that.” Tom says.
“Please never scare me again like that.” Tom says.
“I won't, I promise. I love you too.” Jon says.
Jon looks up to see Brendon staring at him, still perched on top of the wooden table. There’s tears in his eyes, but Jon knows it's not because of jealousy, or unhappiness. It's like Brendon’s unconsciously saying “look who you would have impacted if it had worked. It’s not just your family, or me.”
Tom’s crying too but it's manlier than any tears Brendon or Jon have ever shed. When they pull back Jon wipes delicately, tenderly under Tom’s eyes and they both smile at each other. It's a watery smile, but it means more to the two of them than anything they have ever exchanged before in their lives.
This is all the layers taken off. This is who they really are. With the armour shed, and the foul words discarded, they are nothing more than two boys who are so scared of each other, but they care so much about the other that the terrible things are immediately trumped by the good. They are best friends, and best friends stick together.
They’ve spent too long apart. Much like the rest of Jon’s life, it is time to start anew.
Afresh, once again, so that this time, Jon can get something right. He’s made his mistakes, now is the time to learn from them.
“I'm sorry too.” Jon says and Tom rests their foreheads together.
“Best friends?” Tom says quietly, and Jon says “always.”
They release each other and Jon goes over to William. The lanky boy thumps him soundly on the back, almost knocking him over to the other’s amusement. Once Tom’s stopped snorting, they all crowd around the table, Brendon’s hand warm in his again.
Tom raises his eyebrows in a way that looks vaguely paedophiliac to Jon, but Jon just smiles warmly back, and raises Brendon’s hand lightly, kissing the back of it. Brendon doesn’t stop talking to William about the ‘awesome chord progressions’ in Bowie’s music, but the corner of his lips lift too much to remain undetected.
The four of them spend much more time together, after that.
*
The first time he has an appointment with Keltie after his attempted suicide Jon sits there in silence for twenty minutes of the allotted forty-five. Then, realising that this was exactly what he had done beforehand- and he really doesn’t want to end up like that again- he spills.
He tells her everything. The overwhelming loneliness that he felt before, even when surrounded by people who he had known since he was five. He tells her about how he pushed himself inside so that no-one would want to befriend him, digging himself a never-ending hole.
He tells her of how numb he felt, how he didn’t know how to escape the feeling of nothing that he felt. If that even makes sense.
“It was weird.” He cries, mumbling into one of the pillows on Keltie’s couch. “it was weird, because I didn’t even notice how I was blocking everyone out at first. How I was retreating into my mind so much that I couldn’t get out, and it was too scary in there to do anything but pretend I was okay. And by that time that I did notice what I had done, I didn’t know what to do anymore. I’d pretty much given up.”
He's shaking by the time he’s finished, tears are dripping down his face. Reaching out, Keltie takes his hands in hers and allows him to cry without making comment. She subtly hands Jon tissues and he takes then gratefully, wiping tears and snot away before crumpling them haphazardly in his hands. Keltie gives him a bin to put them into without saying anything.
It’s then that Jon realises that Keltie is actually kind of awesome. He wishes he’s known that before.
When he stops crying, he tells Keltie of how he’s befriended Brendon, how he thinks that Brendon is helping him, how he thinks that Brendon is more than just a friend and Brendon feels the same way.
Keltie listens attentively. “Brendon is definitely a positive influence on you.” She says, “As you are on him. You're his idol. Did you know that? He cares about you very much.”
Jon feels that he doesn’t really need the reassurance, but it's welcome nonetheless.
Keltie tells him that hurting oneself is never the solution to a problem, and that if he does it again he needs to tell somebody, but somehow Jon doesn’t think he’s gonna have much of a problem. Sure he’s gonna have down days. Maybe he might feel suicidal again. But he has Brendon now, and Brendon’s going to help him get back together again.
When Jon leaves the room, Brendon’s sitting in the room outside, where they first met, and Brendon smiles at him, just like he did before.
The kiss he gives Jon, right on the lips, is new though. Jon isn’t ashamed to say he loves it.
*
It's a give take relationship.
When one needs help, the other will come. Same for the other way round.
Four months after Jon’s suicide attempt Brendon calls Jon saying that he’s been kicked out of his house and he’s just gone to a public toilet and wants to cut himself.
Jon leaves the family mid meal, without saying goodbye or where he’s going. It's late January, fucking freezing, snowing because it’s Chicago, and Jon runs out the door without a jumper on. It's also seven at night, and almost completely dark, except for the streetlights.
When he gets to the toilets Brendon told him he was in he finds the small figure crumpled on the floor, head on the dirty, musty smelling tiles. A sliver of glass is clenched in his grip. Unsanitary. Terrifying. Surrounding him appears to be all his possessions, namely two hastily packed bags and a rucksack filled to the brim with detritus.
“Oh baby.” Jon says gently, placing a light arm on Brendon’s shoulder. The boy is shaking, sobbing, shivering from cold. It’s a pitiful sight.
They stay like that one the filthy floor, until Jon’s fingers have turned from a bright red to a bluish white colour. Jon can't really feel much in his fingers anymore, but that’s okay, because they’ll be inside in the warmth of Jon’s house soon. He carefully helps the- now silent and shocked- boy back to his house. Brendon walks as if he is mindless.
When they get to Jon’s house, Jon begs his parents to say nothing with his eyes, before gently placing Brendon’s belongings on the ground. He leads the boy upstairs into his room, where he strips Brendon down to his boxers and bundles him in the masses of blankets and duvet on his bed. Jon does the same to himself and crawls in as well, wrapping his arms around the skinny body and nuzzling his face into the sweet-smelling dark hair.
“It’s not your fault.” He murmurs, lips catching on the lobe of Brendon’s ear. “you have done nothing wrong. You're perfect, okay? This isn’t your fault. I love you Brendon. I love you so fucking much.”
One would think that just words wouldn’t help. But words are powerful. Jon knows this. As does Brendon.
Brendon relaxes, pushing back into Jon’s grasp, and then the tears come. It’s like a flood, once Brendon’s started, he can't seem to stop. But Jon doesn’t mind at all, because this is what they do for each other. Give, take.
“I love you Brendon.” Jon says, right in the boy’s ear. Over and over, still whispering it lightly when Brendon’s body has gone lax, breathing even and tears drying on his face.
When they wake up the next morning, Brendon still looks exhausted, exhausted like Jon feels, but he has a small smile on his face.
This is what they do for each other.
*
Here the story ends.
Our story, if you wanted to put it like that. For although many may read it, you are the one reading it right now, and you are most important of all.
But still, here the story ends.
That isn’t to say that this particular story stops here, and that it falls to pieces. The story in question carries on. It spans two entire lifetimes.
Maybe they stay together. Maybe they don’t. Maybe they get married, maybe they don’t. Maybe Jon comes home one day to find Brendon sitting on his couch, after they haven’t seen each other in a while, due to university and school and stress, and Jon picks him up and twirls him round, kissing him breathlessly, and making them both laugh.
Maybe Jon still has down days where he doesn’t speak at all and even Brendon can't draw him out of it. Maybe Jon still has days where sometimes music can't help him at all. Maybe Brendon still has days where he catches sight of the razor in the bathroom and thinks what if?
Just because you can't see the rest of the story, doesn’t mean it never happened.
This started with two boys, and ends with two boys in love.
Author: fearsgottahold
Rating: R
Pairing: Brendon/Jon
POV: Jon's
Summary: Jon's in need of some help, but he doesn't want it. All Brendon wants is a friend.
Disclaimer: not true
Beta: ericasaur
Author Notes: So, I wrote this fic as part of a fanfiction competition that started in September, but I was the only one who submitted anything so I won. The plot line I used was: Character 1 and 2 meet in the middle of the school year in the waiting lounge of the school counselor when they both a deemed “In need of help” by their teachers because they are both very reclusive and almost completely silent. After being forced to wait with each other they slowly become friends and end up helping each other and falling in love. I got 51/60:D Also, I'm sorry about the distinct lack of Ryan in any way. shape or form. What can ya do? WARNING, PRETTY EXPLICIT SUICIDE ATTEMPT GUYS, IF YOU DO NOT LIKE DO NOT READ.
All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on. - Havelock Ellis.
It's kind of a funny story actually.
Well, okay, it’s not funny, but it's a story nonetheless. It begins with a boy, two boys even, and the lingering smell of doubt and defeat. Blood maybe, if one were to be picky. They aren’t normal boys, as such, but who can define the word normal when it comes to the human race anyway? Everyone has their quirks. It just seems like the two boys, young men even, have more quirks than most. It isn’t their fault. They didn’t choose the lives they lead. It just is. And here our story begins.
*
Jon’s always been quiet. He isn’t sure when he started to revert back inside himself, but he knows pretty damn well that if he tried to hunch in any further he’d probably implode. He has friends. He does, really, but his friends don’t understand him. It's not their fault, but it's annoying when they ask him what’s wrong and can't seem to understand that maybe sometimes there isn’t anything wrong. This is just how he is now.
When he was younger (and God, doesn’t that make him sound like he’s an old man), when he was younger he was always loud and open. Fuck, when he was younger he played music and the whole purpose of music is to make some noise. Everybody knows that. He didn’t care about what people thought of him. Maybe the thing is, is that when you're young; the world isn’t such a disheartening place. Or something. Jon doesn’t know. But what he does know is that he isn’t happy. Or loud. Or open like he used to be. In fact, he’s got so damn quiet he’s ended up here.
Jon didn’t think it was that bad. Sure, there was that time when he didn’t speak for literally a week, and that other time when he had a panic attack in the middle of sport because he was surrounded by too many people, but really. He’s fine.
Maybe that’s just a lie he’s been telling people so long that he almost believes it himself.
The door seems to be mocking him somehow, in the way that only inanimate objects can.
Jon snorts silently. That thought doesn’t even make sense, he reasons with himself. Jon spends a lot of time in his head these days. It happens.
The room is like any other waiting room, small, boring, with the strains of repetitive classical music that, lets face it, everyone hates but no-one puts anything better on. It's like when you're standing in an elevator, and no matter how many times you’ve been in one- literally thousands of times, that first jolt scares you. As if you're gonna fall to your death. And yet the twinkly elevator music plays on, as if that’s supposed to make you feel better about yourself, brighten up your day. Make you feel better.
Jon thinks it's just a load of bullshit.
Jon remembers a time when music was a haven for him. What does he even do anymore? There seems to be no time left in the world, yet Jon never seems to get anything accomplished. He sighs and rests his chin on his hand, elbow connecting with his thigh. Maybe this is why he’s here. Because he feels like a failure. Jon doesn’t know, or maybe he doesn’t care. Jon doesn’t seem to care about anything anymore. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t talk. He has nothing to argue for, and nothing to argue against. Everything just is, and maybe Jon doesn’t want it that way. Or maybe he does. It's hard to tell sometimes.
The handle on the door behind him creaks open and a dark coloured head peeks through, wide eyes hidden behind neon red frames. The boy looks around for a moment, and Jon studies how frail the boy seems. He’s he to see the councillor too, Jon can tell. That boy has issues. Maybe Jon doesn’t know what they are, or indeed who the boy actually is, but why else would he come into the councillor’s waiting room looking like someone’s about to kill him?
The boy swallows and his gaze focuses on Jon. Jon looks right back. He’s pretty, Jon notes, pretty in a way that boys probably shouldn’t be. Everything on his face seems to be a little too large to fit on his head but somehow it works, giving the boy a permanent wide, doe-eyed expression. His hair is brown like his eyes, a deep brown, a brown that makes his face looks even paler than Jon thinks it is. It makes the boy look otherworldly, ethereal if you like. He’s a normal human being, just like Jon. But he seems different.
Sometimes Jon can't always get his point across.
The boy isn’t as short as Jon first thought, but he’s slim, shoulders narrow and legs skinny. He’s wearing a hoodie that dwarfs his frame, ending far past his fingers, and stopping in the middle of his thighs. It's an old jumper, a ratty jumper. It doesn’t look like his own.
The boy swallows again and glances nervously at the door. He then casts his eyes back to Jon.
“Is this where we wait for Ms Colleen?” The boy asks quietly, so quiet that Jon wonders if he had imagined it. The boy clutches at his hoodie, knotting the arm holes in his fingers. Jon thinks that the boy makes himself looks even smaller by hunching his shoulders in, as if he’s expecting to get berated by someone at anytime. Jon feels a flash of shock when the first thing he feels is relief.
It's something in the expression maybe; and something in the cowering way that the boy holds himself. It reminds Jon of himself.
And yeah, okay, that might be a horrible thing to think. To wish upon someone that they feel the same way that he does. Out of control. Worthless. Numb. It's nice to know that there’s someone out there who’s feeling that their life is uncontrollable, un-ignorable, yet so damn unwanted. It's nice to know he isn’t alone, that’s all.
Jon looks at the boy, the boy with his eyes lowered, and picking at the holes in the giant sleeves and utters an equally quiet “yes.”
He looks up, staring right at Jon, and gives a small smile in return, grateful for the help.
The kid makes his way to the seat next to Jon, the only other seat in the room, hallway more like. Fingers continue to pick distractedly at the hoodie and before Jon knows it he’s reaching out, laying a gentle hand on the other boys in order to make him stop. Once he has the attention of the other he removes his hand and places it back in his lap.
Jon feels bold when he talks. “Wouldn’t want to make the hoodie waste away to nothing.” He’s pretty sure that’s the longest sentence he’s said all day, all week even.
Jon doesn’t really pay attention to what he says. He probably could, because he never says anything, but he doesn’t deem it necessary. He doesn’t really have anything interesting to say anyway, so it shouldn’t really matter to him.
The boy’s lips quirk, settle in an uneasy smile. However small the expression may be, it lights up his face and makes him look even younger than he already does.
“Thank you.” He says.
Jon’s never been the one to initiate conversation. In fact, he shies away from any kind of dialogue at all. But there’s something about this boy, something completely inexplicable; that makes him want to talk.
“I'm Jon.” He says, and holds his hand out uncomfortably.
The boy smiles and takes the hand in his own, palm smooth and warm. The tips of the other boy’s fingers are calloused, very much like Jon’s used to be. Jon wonders what he plays. Guitar? Bass? Maybe even piano. This kid just makes Jon want to know more.
“Brendon.” The boy- Brendon- replies, eyes averted, but the shy smile widening.
Jon wants to see that smile more often.
A door opens; the very same one that was winning the staring match against Jon just moments beforehand. A blonde head pokes through.
“Jon Walker?” The woman says, looking at the two of them. Suddenly Jon’s the complete centre of attention again and he doesn’t know how to act. He shrinks on himself, picking at the sleeves of his own hoodie- much in the same way that Brendon is- and stands up.
“Bye.” He mumbles in Brendon’s general direction, and feels a little lightheaded at the quiet reply he gets in return.
Inside Miss Colleen’s office are an old, battered sofa and a desk, with one of the cool swivel chairs sat behind. Miss Colleen doesn’t even acknowledge the desk just heads straight for the comfy seats and sits down, patting the space next to her. The walls of the room are covered in self help posters and inspirational quotes; all meant to make people feel better about themselves but instead make every single person cringe inwardly at how awful they are.
Jon shuts the door carefully and shuffles over to the sofa, sitting as far away from the guidance counsellor as possible. It's not that she’s ugly, or that she smells bad, in fact she’s stupidly pretty and smells vaguely like honeysuckle.
“Hi there Jon.” Ms Colleen says warmly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. Jon notes absently that she has a nice smile, but it doesn’t really do anything for him. Nothing does anything for him anymore. Except-
“- but you can call me Keltie.”
Whoops, Jon missed the whole first part of that sentence. He nods dumbly but doesn’t say anything else. Should he say anything else? He shouldn’t do anything he doesn’t want to, that what they always say right? And Jon really doesn’t want to talk right now. Or ever. Does he care?
“Now, over the course of the next six months or so, I assure you that we are going to be the very best of friends.” A bit optimistic, in his opinion. “Honestly! You’ll look forward to the time we spend together!”
Jon doesn’t say anything for the rest of the lesson.
Keltie keep asking him questions. How are you? What did you do today? How do you feel?
He feels fucking numb, that’s how he feels.
But nobody wants to know that.
When he exits the room Brendon’s still in there and he looks up to see Jon. A small smile spreads on Brendon’s face, and that little warm feeling, the one that he always gets when he sees it, burrows its way into Jon’s chest and makes Jon feel a little again.
When Brendon walks past Jon his hoodie slides up his wrist slightly and Jon can just make out tiny lines of red, layering and crisscrossing over one another.
Well.
*
When Jon walks into his next class, his teacher can't even remember his name.
*
The next time Jon sees Brendon is once again during school, a couple of days later. Jon’s walking through the shitty orchard that the school has, he wants to be alone okay, Jesus, just leave it.
He almost doesn’t notice the boy at first, because he’s wearing the damn black hoodie again, like it's the only thing he owns that will cover up his secrets. Perhaps it is. Jon doesn’t know.
Brendon’s curled up under a tree, headphones in and paper in his lap. His head is nodding along to the beat of whatever he’s listening to, and he’s in his own world and Jon doesn’t want to intrude but.
But he kind of does.
Jon slowly makes his way over to where Brendon’s sitting and drops down, sitting about two feet away from the other boy. Brendon doesn’t realise he’s there at first and when he looks up he flinches at the sight of Jon. And Jon? Well, Jon feels bad for making Brendon flinch like that, but he’s not sorry.
Brendon takes a headphone out of his ear and looks down, closing the notepad neatly and placing it by his side.
“Hi,” he says quietly, fidgeting with his hoodie once again. One of his sleeves is starting to unravel.
Jon nods back, not trusting himself to speak. He never trusts himself to speak. That's possibly his problem. Does he have a problem? Jon doesn’t know. He’s not normal.
But what exactly constitutes as normal?
“Are you okay?” Brendon asks timidly. “Do you want something?”
Jon shakes his head. Jon never wants anything. He’s ambivalent, one could say.
“O-okay.” Brendon says, and flushes, at the stutter, Jon presumes. “Why are you here then?”
The question surprises Jon, because he isn’t really sure himself. He has nothing else to do maybe, Brendon looked lonely, maybe Jon wants the overwhelming hole of nothingness strangling him inside to subside and Brendon seems to be the only one who can make it lessen, albeit only a little.
“Because I can, and you looked like you wanted a friend.” Jon answers. Brendon flushes and looks down at the pad on his lap, shuffling it around like he isn’t sure what to do now Jon’s said that.
Brendon mutters something but Jon isn’t quite sure what he says and first and asks him to repeat it. Brendon blushes even more.
“I've never had a friend before.” He says, clearer, and Jon feels pretty bad.
Jon shrugs a little, hands folded in his lap. “Well, I guess. Here I am?”
Brendon’s smile is blinding, and he throws himself from the little space in which he sat, right onto Jon himself, scattering pieces of scribbled on paper and a pencil. Brendon hugs Jon hard for a second, then abruptly lets go, face red and hidden by a short curtain of hair. Its then that Jon realises Brendon’s mumbling “sorry, sorry,” over and over, and Jon reaches out a little, and places a friendly hand on Brendon’s knee.
“Hey, friends, remember?”
Jon doesn’t think he’s initiated a hug in well over a year, hasn’t been hugged at all in at least six months, but he thinks that maybe Brendon needs this more than Jon needs his stability and personal space. Maybe? Definitely.
He reaches over and pulls Brendon into a light hug, arms enveloping Brendon, but not so much that he could feel trapped.
Brendon returns the hug. And it's nothing more, nothing less. Just a tangle of arms wrapped round warm bodies.
It takes some of the numbness away.
Maybe, just maybe, Jon wishes it could take more than just ‘some.’
*
They spend more time together after that.
It isn’t immediate, gradual; a slow incline perhaps, but it's definitely natural. Sometimes, when before Jon would just walk alone, forgoing lunch maybe, in an attempt to clear his head, he now seeks out the boy in the badly fitting clothing, and the dark thoughts that make them both so similar.
Jon meets up with Keltie once a week still. Wednesdays, eleven fifteen until twelve. She’s not so bad. Not really, but Jon can't help but feel that she doesn’t really aid Jon in any way, she’s just there asking persistent questions that Jon doesn’t feel he can answer. Not yet. He’s not ready yet.
It's Thursday, and Jon’s with Brendon. Brendon seems happy enough. He talks to Jon now, it's like the secret codes been given, and everything that was previously locked away is now out in the open. In fact, he doesn’t seem to stop talking. Jon doesn’t mind, he’s grown to like the voice that rises and falls in pitch whenever Brendon gets excited about something. Brendon has a nice voice. Jon’s content just to listen. It works.
They’re talking music today.
“What? But Simon and Garfunkel are the best duo ever to have lived Jon! I mean, seriously, The Sounds of Silence? The harmonies in that are so beautiful.”
Jon laughs quietly.
“Yeah Bren,”- Bren. It slips so easily out. So, so easy- “I know, but they’re kind of generic, you know? Broaden your horizons.”
He doesn’t know why he said that. Jon hasn’t listened to a single song in months.
Brendon’s mouth is a round O of shock. “Jon!” He admonishes. “I won't take that! Everything about them is amazing and you can't change my opinion of them at all.”
Jon’s learned that Brendon is kind of stubborn sometimes.
“I used to listen to them all the time.” Jon admits. He doesn’t really know why he’s telling Brendon this. For all the shit that’s wrong between the two of them, they don’t talk about it. He thinks that they’re both used to suffering in silence. “I don’t anymore. I don’t really listen to anything.”
Brendon frowns. This is serious. “Why? Music helps me all the time.” Brendon says.
Jon shrugs. Default move. “Because I don’t want to.” He says. It's true.
“But. But why not? I don’t understand. I thought you used to be in a band as well?”
“I don’t know okay? I don’t know. I just can't, because it doesn’t seem tangible. Nothing’s real anymore.
“I just can't.” Jon repeats quietly.
Brendon wraps an arm loosely around Jon’s shoulders, but Jon’s too numb to feel it.
*
They don’t talk about their parents. It seems to be an ongoing acknowledged thing that Brendon’s relationship with his parents is more messed up than anything Jon has even thought about, and it's just better not to go there, okay?
Which is why Jon’s surprised when Brendon catches his hand and leans backwards, making Jon lie down with him. “My parents don’t want me.” He says. “Never have done.”
It's a brash statement, one that should be shrouded in neon lights, with loud noises blaring and large things pointing to the words and saying ‘THIS IS UNEXPECTED.” And “WOAH, THIS IS NOT NORMAL AND NEEDS TO BE TAKEN CARE OF CAUTIOUSLY.” Or whatever. That’s what life’s like now, for the stars. Right?
Jon turns until he’s facing Brendon and strokes the inside of Brendon’s palm, but not close to Brendon’s wrist. That’s another acknowledgement right there. They know what Brendon does to himself; they don’t need to shout it out to the world.
“Why do you think that?”
Brendon sighs, and rolls as well, so they’re face-to-face. It could be romantic but it's not. It’s intimate, sure, but not in that way.
“They always go on about how four is the perfect amount of children. I’m number five.” He smiles but it looks more like a grimace. “I’ve never had clothes that I can call my own, because they’re all hand-me-downs from my brothers. They know that I don’t want to follow their religion, believe what they believe, and it sucks that they think that I need to be ‘helped’ because of that one thing.”
Brendon looks right into Jon’s eyes, and it’s too much but Jon can't look away, he’s trapped in Brendon’s brown irises. “I know I don’t need help for that.” Brendon says softly. “I just need help for the things I don’t know.”
And he sounds so broken. So, so broken and messed up and confused and Jon relates.
He thinks this is why I started talking to him. Because he understands me, he knows what I'm going through. He gets me.
“I know what you mean. Sometimes people just don’t get you.”
Brendon smiles and snuggles closer to Jon. His hoodie’s sleeve rides up a little, but they don’t focus on that. “You get me Jon. You understand.”
The thank you Brendon mouths into Jon’s chest feels almost like an answer to a prayer.
*
Brendon tries to get permission to stay round Jon’s house one time. He’s crushed when his dad says no. Jon wraps Brendon in a hug and squeezes, feeling the small, bony little body hug back. Brendon is silent for a while.
“I wonder what would have happened to me if I had never started cutting.” He says finally, and woah, this is further that Brendon’s ever said about his ‘condition’ before. “I mean, would I be happier? I don’t know Jon. I think I've always been sad. Maybe I've always been a little down. But there’s times when I think that actually I don’t need it; and it just. I don’t do it.”
This is good right? Letting it out to someone. Maybe Jon isn’t the best person for this, but he’s a good listener. Fantastic even.
“Why did you start?” Jon asks tentatively. Is this right? Is that what he’s supposed to say?
Brendon says nothing for a moment, and Jon thinks that what he’s said is wrong. No.
Then he speaks. “I think I started because I felt alone. I felt like I had nothing else that I could rely on. I'm so used to not being wanted that I… I don’t know. It feels so natural. I like the blood.” Brendon says; a satirical, twisted smile on his face. It doesn’t suit him.
“When?” Jon whispers. Does he even want to know?
“The beginning of eighth grade.” Brendon shrugs. “Something like that. I don’t know, I don’t keep track of everything I did aged thirteen.”
It's been a long time since Brendon was in eighth grade. Years.
Brendon then laughs softly, but it's not a nice laugh. It's a filthy laugh, it sounds sardonic, self-deprecating.
“The only way you’d be able to tell when I started,” Brendon says, and he says it so evilly. So horribly, and it's directed at Brendon himself. “The only way you’d tell, is if you looked at the scars on my body.”
It's a revolting thought. A repulsive thought, if you like.
“But you help Jon.” Jon turns to look at the little face hidden in his shoulder, surprised.
“Really?” He says, because, really? What has he done? As far as Jon knows, he’s just sat with Brendon a couple of times, let him jabber on about random stuff, and hugged him when it seems appropriate.
Brendon smiles and nods. He looks so much happier now than he did when Jon first saw him, was it really two months ago now?
“Sure. I mean, you're the first friend I've ever had, and it’s been nice to have you around, you know? You help so much. I never realised having a person who you could share your thoughts and hug whenever you wanted was so helpful. You're amazing Jon. Really.”
Jon feels a little choked, and it isn’t because he’s upset.
“Thanks little man.” Jon says, and feels Brendon’s chuckle against his own belly. “It’s good to know I'm doing some good.”
Brendon sits up and looks him straight in the eye. “You do more than some good.” He says solemnly, eyes wide with honesty. “You're helping me realise that I don’t need to hurt myself to feel better. I think I can finally begin to heal because of you.”
Brendon snuggles back into Jon’s side. “I’m going to throw my razor away tonight,” He says quietly. “I want to get rid of it while I'm still ahead. Help me get rid of it?”
Jon nods. Of course. “Of course!” He replies.
That night, when the moon is fairly high in the sky (Brendon sneaked out of the house while Jon waited shivering outside) they go to the pond, the dingy one in near their school that everyone throws shit into. It's become a dumping ground for all things unwanted. This piece of metal is lusted for by one, hated by the other, but they’re going to get rid of it, whether Brendon still wants it or not. Jon holds Brendon’s hand while Brendon flexes his arm, and they watch the spinning arch of dulled silver leave his hand with a small splash, never to be found again.
It's quite romantic in a way really.
*
Brendon’s getting better. Jon can see it in the way that he acts around Jon, and the way he moves whilst walking amongst other people. He smiles more; Jon’s heard him laugh more than once. When they walk down the corridor, Brendon doesn’t flinch every time someone gets too close to him. It's nice to see someone slowly on the road to recovery. He’s gonna make it, some time in the future.
Jon? Well, it's harder for him. He feels like he’s got to be the father figure Brendon’s never had, the tough one, the one who has to keep it all together and make sure that the small, tiny boy doesn’t slice himself to pieces.
Maybe Jon doesn’t talk about how he feels, maybe he doesn’t talk about what he knows is gong to happen one day soon- he’s going to burst and it's all going to end badly. Jon thinks that he’s kept the lid on disaster for long enough, he can wait it out even more.
Maybe this plan gets just that little bit harder when Tom pops up in front of Jon, when he is on his way home from school. He doesn’t notice the boy in front of him at first. It's only when the snap! Of fingers in front of him suddenly pop out from right under his nose that Jon realises Tom’s been walking by him for a while.
Jon gives a little wave and steps in, moves so Tom has a chance to walk on the sidewalk next to him. Tome looks upset. It doesn’t bode well.
“You're my best friend, right?” Tom asks, looking to Jon for confirmation. Jon nods uncertainly. Where is this going? It can't be good. Negative, negative, negativity. Keltie always said to think on the positive side. Now Jon’s let her down.
“So why is it that we are two best friends, and yet I haven’t actually spoken to you since January? Three fucking months Jon! I mean, I tried at first to help you, but you pushed me, and Bill, and all the rest of us away, but fuck me, I won't stand for this. I miss you Jon.”
Jon opens his mouth to say that he sat with Tom at lunch last week, even if they didn’t say a word, but Tom cuts him off.
“Yes, Jon, I know we sit together sometimes, but you're never there. You haven’t been there in months, years even. Do you know how that makes me feel? Seeing my best friend waste away until he’s nothing but a husk who never says anything? I know you go to counselling now Jon, but Jesus; you need to put some effort in! You can't just expect it to all work out itself! Do you enjoy living like this?”
Jon doesn’t know what to say, can he speak? He doesn’t think so. He just shakes his head and looks down. Tom forces his head back up with his fingers so that his eyes meet Jon’s own.
“Then why do you fucking act like this? Going off, with your, ‘oh, woe is me’ attitude when there’s clearly nothing actually wrong in your life as a whole, you're just acting out and not doing a damn thing to save yourself. Jesus, just do something about it!”
“Shut up!” Jon yells, and pulls himself roughly out of Tom’s grasp. “You don’t have a clue how I feel, you don’t understand what I feel like day in, day out-”
“And why do you think that is?” Tom snarls. “Because you never fucking tell me anything! I've tried, over and over, to talk but you just brush me off. I don’t think you even consider me a friend anymore.
“You know what?” Tom slumps and suddenly looks about thirty years older. It's not a good look. “I give up. I can't help you. I've tried, so, so hard, but you're just hurting me more than I'm helping you. I can't do this Jon. I love you man, but I just can't do it.”
Jon’s breath hitches. They’ve been best friends forever; it can't end like this. Can it? He doesn’t want it all to end this way. Does he?
“I'm sorry Jon.” Tom utters, almost inaudibly. Tears leak down his face. Whose face? “Come back to me when you're ready to be fixed.”
When Tom walks off, it's the stumble of a man defeated.
Jon didn’t even know he’d won anything.
*
That night, Jon’s at home, in his room, like always. Through his mind are words, one word in particular. It starts with an S, ends in Y, and has the letters ORR in the middle. He’s so sorry. Sorry for what? Sorry for nothing. Sorry for everything, sorry for not being anything. Sorry, sorry, sorry. The word loses meaning after a while doesn’t it? No-body cares about the word ‘sorry’ anymore. It means fuck all.
It's kind of funny really. Well, it's not funny, not in the least. Jon’s tried so hard to keep himself together for Brendon, for his parents, for Tom- so bittersweet and angry and painful and regret- but now he thinks that if he were a scarf, he’s been so moth-bitten and shredded and unravelled that there isn’t anything left.
Yeah, no. it’s not funny at all. It's quite tragic really.
He’s at home. What's different from usual is that he can hear raised voices. His parents are unusually relaxed about most things, like that time when Jon pulled an all-nighter and got stupidly drunk at somebody’s house (he was fourteen and irrational, okay) and then faked sick the next day. They knew he wasn’t ill, but they went along with it anyway.
This? This isn’t normal.
Jon pulls himself out of his bed and shuffles to the door, opening it quietly and stepping into the hallway so he can hear his parents more clearly.
“He’s tearing us apart, can't you see that? All we do is worry about him and he just sits there in his room and doesn’t care about how much effort we put into helping him!”
Oh. Not so much butterflies as giant concrete bricks, churning in his stomach and blocking his throat.
“But he’s just-”
“Don’t tell me he’s just going through a phase!” His mother shouts and Jon flinches even though there’s an entire wall, with plaster and peeling paint between the two of them. “It's been nearly two years now, and I can't take seeing him like this anymore! He needs to do something with his life or swear to God, just. Argh!”
Frustration. Jon’s never heard it in his mother’s voice before, and it's painful to hear. There’s also pain and anger and worry and so many other negative emotions and it's all because of him. He can't even pretend that it’s not about him, because no-one else in this household stays in their room all day and is a total nuisance.
Next thing he knows he’s in the bathroom, water running in the bath, a razor in between his thumb and forefinger. He’s never done this before. If Jon’s honest, when people asked him what he wanted to be when he was older, the word ‘dead’ never really crossed his mind. But here we are.
Jon doesn’t think he’s really been thinking for the past fifteen minutes. It probably should be a good idea to do so, but he isn’t.
When Jon makes the first incision he laughs, because it's funny that this is the most he’s felt in months. It's horrifying and painful, but it's so poetically beautiful, feeling, and watching the water blossom from clear to crimson.
He makes another line, and another, switching hands, doing the same to the other side until he can feel, he can feel and its better this way, it really is. Mom won't need to worry anymore. Mom and dad won’t argue. Tom won’t need to worry about him anymore. Brendon is getting better; he can do the rest of it by himself. Everything will be okay. Everything will be so, so much better with Jon out of the picture.
Everything is always better without Jon.
The sharp shocks are fading now, and Jon wants to feel the burn again but he can't quite seem to move his arms. He can't seem to move anything at all, and it's kind of scary for a moment but then everything fades around the edges and Jon isn’t there to be scared anymore.
*
Lets just pause here for a moment.
Sometimes, people do things that are irrational to others. To themselves, it seems like a perfectly legitimate idea, perhaps the only idea they can go ahead with. It's not right, but that’s how some people feel. Some people are logical, some aren’t. Some deal well in bad situations. Others don’t.
Some feel it necessary to kill themselves to get out of the way of others.
No, it's not necessary, or a good idea, but some don’t see that. They feel like failures, they can't think of anything else that would work better than to pretend they never were there in the first place. Scrape, and then they don’t have to think anymore. It happens to more people than one would think, which is a horrible concept.
There’s always another option, but Jon just couldn’t see it. It happens.
For your information, the character Jon doesn’t die. That would be a rather horrible end to a story of two people who are fighting together for happiness in this world. The two of them have much more to look forward to in this life, so much love and gentle words and the kind of romance only novelists can come up with. This story hasn’t ended yet.
Shall we continue?
*
Jon’s first thought when he wakes up is ouch followed by Brendon, followed by shit. Perhaps not the most eloquent of thinking sequences, but Jon’s a little too drugged up and tired to be articulate right now. As he blinks his eyes open, wincing in the harsh light, he sees the frail body curled up in a chair. Brendon looks exhausted, even whilst he’s sleeping. One of the sleeves of his hoodie has ridden up, exposing half-healed cuts. But no new ones.
Thank god.
Jon’s in a hospital bed; and his arms are down by his sides, covered to the elbow in white bandages. Jon’s left hand has an IV sticking out of it, the fluid leaking in from a bag hanging near his head on a stand. His skin is so pallid the strips of gauze are almost the same colour as his body. It's kind of hideous.
Jon’s also parched; his throat’s dry and his tongue is stuck to the top of his mouth. He looks around for some water, and spots a water jug and paper cup on the flimsy wooden table next to him.
Without wanting to wake up Brendon- Brendon, who looks so tired, so delicate, so beautiful- Jon painfully sits up and reaches for the jug. As he goes to lift it up however, his fingers seem to be unable to work, and the jug drops slow motion to the floor.
Smash, and then Brendon’s startled awake.
“Sorry! Sorry.” Jon apologises, voice creaky with disuse. There’s water pooling underneath Jon’s bed. Brendon doesn’t seem to notice, he’s too busy staring at Jon with an expression that seems almost intrusive.
“Um.” Is all Jon can say before Brendon’s throwing himself across the space of the small room and hugging Jon so hard he’s pretty sure his ribs are gonna crack.
“Jon. Jon.” Brendon repeats incessantly, and he finds himself pawing at Brendon’s back, not sure what else to do.
“Jon.” Brendon repeats in a broken tone one last time, and then he sits back, still holding lightly onto Jon’s upper arms.
He’s crying, silently. Small drips fall quickly as if they aren’t even touching his skin, but the glistening trails left behind tell a different story.
“Jon.” He says one last time, before he slaps the boy in question across the face.
It doesn’t hurt, not really, but it still makes his head rock to the side and a stinging sensation erupts from the right side of his face.
“Don’t you ever do something like that again!” Brendon bursts out, before sniffing, and burrowing back into Jon’s arms, mindful of his wrists.
“I was so scared Jon.” Brendon whimpers- actually fucking whimpers- “they said they’d found you in the bathroom and they didn’t know what to do, and nobody told me until you were here! I've stayed here since you arrived. So, so scared.”
Jon presses his face against Brendon’s hair and feels terrible.
“I'm so sorry Brendon. I didn’t mean to make you worried, I just-” Jon stops. What had he even been trying to do? How would killing yourself solve anything? “How long have I been here?” He asks instead. He can't think about anything else right now, everything feels like it's underwater.
“Three days. They had to give you an emergency blood transfusion, but it didn’t work, as you’d lost so much blood, so they kept you under longer so they could give you more. They thought your kidneys were gonna fail for a while.” Brendon says quietly, and Jon feels so bad.
“I'm so sorry Brendon.” He speaks into the younger boy’s hair. It's greasy. “I swear, I didn’t mean to make you worry I was just. Fuck I don’t know. I just felt I needed to be out of the picture, completely. I felt like I was just hurting everyone. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t think. I was so messed up at that moment and I needed t do something but I wasn’t thinking, I'm so sorry.”
Brendon sighs. He looks so desperate, as if he can't get anything out fast enough. “I'm so glad you're still here. I love you Jon.”
Jon doesn’t know what to say. What do you say? His head’s still fuzzy.
“I love you too.” He says carefully.
Brendon pulls back a little, so he can look Jon in the eye.
“No Jon. I love you.” He says, stronger than Jon’s ever heard him. It's like something snapped. Once Brendon’s said it once, he can't stop. It spills out, ‘I love you’ mixed in with ‘please don’t leave me again’ and all the little things that Brendon can't say, like ‘you're the only one that’s helped me for the better.’
“I love you too.” Jon says again and then he can't help it. He drifts off into unconsciousness once more, Brendon snug in his arms and muttering sweet nothings that somehow mean everything.
The water jug is still smashed on the floor.
*
The next time Jon wakes up he’s alone, but not for very long.
A male nurse comes bustling in, staring at Jon in a fond way that makes Jon wonder if he’s seen this guy before.
“Hi!” The man says, coming over to the side of the bed and opening the curtains above Jon’s head. “You're awake. Good morning! I'm Spencer; I've been looking after you.”
He’s bright, bubbly, with a wide face and an awesome beard that makes Jon slightly jealous. Although he’s nearly eighteen Jon still can't produce much more than a lot of baby fluff. It's getting better.
“How are you feeling?” Spencer asks, as he checks the IV levels, before tugging lightly on Jon’s left arm. Jon lifts it up willingly, and Spencer starts to unravel the bandages wrapped tightly around his arm.
“Good. I'm… yeah, good.” Jon says, and feels shocked to know that it's true.
He feels, and what's more, he feels okay. It feels amazing. Brendon.
“I feel great.” Jon smiles up at Spencer, who looks up from where he’s exposing Jon’s arm and he smiles.
“That’s great.” He replies, and Jon feels the sincerity rolling off the chirpy man in waves. “Oh hey look!” Spencer says, and Jon does as told, seeing the neatly stitched up lines crossing from his wrist near to his elbow.
There are seven of them in total, on his left arm. From the aches Jon can tell that his right arm doesn’t have as many. It's scary because Jon doesn’t really remember making them, well, there are murky thoughts of red and scared, and pain, but that appears to be it. But no-one else who could have done it. No-one else but him.
“They are looking so much better now.” Spencer says admirably, grabbing a fresh roll of gauze and begins to neatly wrap it back over Jon’s arm. “No sign of infection there! You might be allowed to go soon, if the Doc says so.”
Jon smiles. A small, unobtrusive smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Wow, really?”
“Sure! I mean, we’ll have to enrol you in therapy and stuff, keep you here a while longer to make sure that everything’s alright but you seem okay at the moment. Would you like some breakfast?”
Jon startles at the abrupt change in conversation, but nods slowly. “Thank you. Could I have some water as well please?” He asks, and Spencer nods eagerly.
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” He says and scrabbles for a paper cup and water, sitting on a trolley that also holds some toast and unidentifiable spreadable solid, as well as bandages and pills and other assorted medical aids. “Can you hold the cup?”
Jon thinks back to the smashed jug, but the difference in weight between a jug and a glass is pretty drastic, and Jon doesn’t feel as tired anymore. “Yeah, I think so.”
The plastic trembles in his grip, but he manages to take a long drink without it spilling. The cool liquid feels like heaven on his throat and Jon sighs with contentment, barely acknowledging Spencer’s answering chuckle.
“Well, here’s your breakfast,” Spencer says, laying out the food, on a moving table, that swings until it's situated in Jon’s lap. “I’ll come and collect the dirty plates in a while. And visitors are allowed in half an hour so enjoy!”
Then he’s gone. A flash of blue uniform and brown hair.
The bread is stale, and only just lukewarm, but Jon doesn’t really mind. If he remembers correctly this is his fourth day without food, so he’s pretty hungry. The condiment is vaguely apricot flavoured, but Jon isn’t too sure. It doesn’t taste bad, exactly. Just odd.
True to his word, his parents arrive forty five minutes later, looking harassed and worried. When Jon’s mother sees that he’s awake she rushes forward and pulls him into his arms, more roughly than Brendon did. It makes his arms ache a little, but Jon dutifully wraps his arms around her.
Jon had forgotten what she smelt like until now, it’s been so long. She smells like home, a little piece of familiarity and comfort. It's been too long since he’s felt those arms around him. Too long, too long.
“You scared me so much honey, I never realised- oh gosh, please I never want to go through that again Jon. Please don’t make me. I love you Jon. I love you so much, and I don’t ever want to lose you. You're my baby. Don’t take yourself away from me.”
Jon feels tears prickling at his eyelids. Stop. “I'm sorry, I just heard you two arguing and I’d had a really bad day and it just seemed like the only option and-”
“Don’t say that! I was arguing because I was worried!” In the background, Jon’s dad nods his head in agreement. “We love you and we never want you to go away.”
“I’m sorry, I love you, I love both of you. I don’t want to kill myself anymore. I want to get better, I do.” He does, he really does.
He doesn’t think it's wrong that the main reason why he wants to get better is because of Brendon.
*
Jon’s released five days later, when the doctor is sure that there is no infection and Jon is apparently mentally stable enough to be okay back at home. He doesn’t mind waiting so long to return, not really, but he’s glad to finally shower because sponge baths just don’t do the job. His hair feels horrible.
Brendon drops by after Jon’s been home for about four hours or so. He greets Jon’s parents as if he’s met them before, and then Jon realises that they must have met whilst he was unconscious.
When Brendon meets Jon’s eyes, he blushes, smiles daintily and goes sits down next to Jon on the sofa, snuggling in close. Jon’s parents say nothing, but Jon can feel their pleased smiles.
“How are you feeling?” Brendon asks happily as Jon slings an arm carefully around Brendon’s shoulders.
“I'm feeling good.” Jon replies; and then smiles. He feels. He feels. “I feel.” He says wonderingly and Brendon cranes his neck up to peck Jon on the chin, right on the border where face becomes neck.
“It’s a nice feeling, isn’t it?” Brendon says quietly, so that Jon’s parents can't hear them.
And yeah, it kind of is.
Jon hums in agreement, and takes a hold of Brendon’s hand.
When they both make their way upstairs- slowly, because Jon still feels embarrassingly weak- Brendon collapses on Jon’s bed without saying anything. He makes cute little grabby hands at Jon, but Jon resists the pout for a moment.
Pottering around for a few more moments, Jon finally manages to get his speakers to work; and Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘The Sounds of Silence’ begins to play quietly in the background.
Brendon tugs Jon until they’re spooning, Jon the little one for once.
“Music helps you all the time.” Jon quotes Brendon quietly, and Brendon nods against Jon’s shoulder.
“Does it seem more tangible to you now?” Brendon asks lightly, but the question is so loaded, it weighs in the air like one hundred tons, ready to drop and crush them both.
“Yeah.” Jon replies. “Yeah it does.” And then the weights are lifted and both of them are safe.
“I love you.” Brendon murmurs, and Jon sleepily returns the sentiment.
Whispered, in the sounds of silence.
*
Three days after that, Jon goes back to school. Everyone knows by now what he did to himself, and he has people staring at him, talking about him when they think he’s not listening. They latch onto the bandages when his sleeve rides up. It's oppressive.
They haven’t made it official yet, but they’re acting so much like boyfriends that Jon doesn’t think anything of it. The first day Brendon comes and finds Jon, shrinking away from the looks and the prying faces.
“Don’t worry about them.” Brendon says, but leads him away to a slightly more sheltered spot anyway. “I don’t care about them, or what they think of me anymore, and neither should you.”
It shouldn’t really help, that line, but Jon feels like it’s easier to breathe, after that.
They sit there for the rest of the lunch, hands folded in each others, laughing over Jon’s brother’s terrible date from the other night. Towards the end of lunch hour Tom comes and finds them. Jon hasn’t spoken to him since the suicide attempt. God was it really only a week ago?
“Hey.” Tom says awkwardly, hands shoved in pockets and blond hair covering one eye. He looks shifty, like he doesn’t know what to do now that he’s here. In the background, there’s William, who’s obviously spurred Tom on. Jon feels kind of stupid when he realises how much he’s been a dick to his friends the past couple of years.
After a look at Brendon, Jon releases their hands and steps off the bench they were sitting on. He wraps Tom up in a hug, and the boy returns it gladly, clinging on as if he’s dying. They aren’t dying, neither of them. Jon’s over that now.
“I'm sorry Jonny.” Tom mumbles over and over, and goddamn, Jon’s sick of that word now. Everyone’s sorry. He’s sorry. He knows this.
“I didn’t mean for you to do that.” Tom says.
“I didn’t want you to do that.” Tom says.
“Please never scare me again like that.” Tom says.
“I won't, I promise. I love you too.” Jon says.
Jon looks up to see Brendon staring at him, still perched on top of the wooden table. There’s tears in his eyes, but Jon knows it's not because of jealousy, or unhappiness. It's like Brendon’s unconsciously saying “look who you would have impacted if it had worked. It’s not just your family, or me.”
Tom’s crying too but it's manlier than any tears Brendon or Jon have ever shed. When they pull back Jon wipes delicately, tenderly under Tom’s eyes and they both smile at each other. It's a watery smile, but it means more to the two of them than anything they have ever exchanged before in their lives.
This is all the layers taken off. This is who they really are. With the armour shed, and the foul words discarded, they are nothing more than two boys who are so scared of each other, but they care so much about the other that the terrible things are immediately trumped by the good. They are best friends, and best friends stick together.
They’ve spent too long apart. Much like the rest of Jon’s life, it is time to start anew.
Afresh, once again, so that this time, Jon can get something right. He’s made his mistakes, now is the time to learn from them.
“I'm sorry too.” Jon says and Tom rests their foreheads together.
“Best friends?” Tom says quietly, and Jon says “always.”
They release each other and Jon goes over to William. The lanky boy thumps him soundly on the back, almost knocking him over to the other’s amusement. Once Tom’s stopped snorting, they all crowd around the table, Brendon’s hand warm in his again.
Tom raises his eyebrows in a way that looks vaguely paedophiliac to Jon, but Jon just smiles warmly back, and raises Brendon’s hand lightly, kissing the back of it. Brendon doesn’t stop talking to William about the ‘awesome chord progressions’ in Bowie’s music, but the corner of his lips lift too much to remain undetected.
The four of them spend much more time together, after that.
*
The first time he has an appointment with Keltie after his attempted suicide Jon sits there in silence for twenty minutes of the allotted forty-five. Then, realising that this was exactly what he had done beforehand- and he really doesn’t want to end up like that again- he spills.
He tells her everything. The overwhelming loneliness that he felt before, even when surrounded by people who he had known since he was five. He tells her about how he pushed himself inside so that no-one would want to befriend him, digging himself a never-ending hole.
He tells her of how numb he felt, how he didn’t know how to escape the feeling of nothing that he felt. If that even makes sense.
“It was weird.” He cries, mumbling into one of the pillows on Keltie’s couch. “it was weird, because I didn’t even notice how I was blocking everyone out at first. How I was retreating into my mind so much that I couldn’t get out, and it was too scary in there to do anything but pretend I was okay. And by that time that I did notice what I had done, I didn’t know what to do anymore. I’d pretty much given up.”
He's shaking by the time he’s finished, tears are dripping down his face. Reaching out, Keltie takes his hands in hers and allows him to cry without making comment. She subtly hands Jon tissues and he takes then gratefully, wiping tears and snot away before crumpling them haphazardly in his hands. Keltie gives him a bin to put them into without saying anything.
It’s then that Jon realises that Keltie is actually kind of awesome. He wishes he’s known that before.
When he stops crying, he tells Keltie of how he’s befriended Brendon, how he thinks that Brendon is helping him, how he thinks that Brendon is more than just a friend and Brendon feels the same way.
Keltie listens attentively. “Brendon is definitely a positive influence on you.” She says, “As you are on him. You're his idol. Did you know that? He cares about you very much.”
Jon feels that he doesn’t really need the reassurance, but it's welcome nonetheless.
Keltie tells him that hurting oneself is never the solution to a problem, and that if he does it again he needs to tell somebody, but somehow Jon doesn’t think he’s gonna have much of a problem. Sure he’s gonna have down days. Maybe he might feel suicidal again. But he has Brendon now, and Brendon’s going to help him get back together again.
When Jon leaves the room, Brendon’s sitting in the room outside, where they first met, and Brendon smiles at him, just like he did before.
The kiss he gives Jon, right on the lips, is new though. Jon isn’t ashamed to say he loves it.
*
It's a give take relationship.
When one needs help, the other will come. Same for the other way round.
Four months after Jon’s suicide attempt Brendon calls Jon saying that he’s been kicked out of his house and he’s just gone to a public toilet and wants to cut himself.
Jon leaves the family mid meal, without saying goodbye or where he’s going. It's late January, fucking freezing, snowing because it’s Chicago, and Jon runs out the door without a jumper on. It's also seven at night, and almost completely dark, except for the streetlights.
When he gets to the toilets Brendon told him he was in he finds the small figure crumpled on the floor, head on the dirty, musty smelling tiles. A sliver of glass is clenched in his grip. Unsanitary. Terrifying. Surrounding him appears to be all his possessions, namely two hastily packed bags and a rucksack filled to the brim with detritus.
“Oh baby.” Jon says gently, placing a light arm on Brendon’s shoulder. The boy is shaking, sobbing, shivering from cold. It’s a pitiful sight.
They stay like that one the filthy floor, until Jon’s fingers have turned from a bright red to a bluish white colour. Jon can't really feel much in his fingers anymore, but that’s okay, because they’ll be inside in the warmth of Jon’s house soon. He carefully helps the- now silent and shocked- boy back to his house. Brendon walks as if he is mindless.
When they get to Jon’s house, Jon begs his parents to say nothing with his eyes, before gently placing Brendon’s belongings on the ground. He leads the boy upstairs into his room, where he strips Brendon down to his boxers and bundles him in the masses of blankets and duvet on his bed. Jon does the same to himself and crawls in as well, wrapping his arms around the skinny body and nuzzling his face into the sweet-smelling dark hair.
“It’s not your fault.” He murmurs, lips catching on the lobe of Brendon’s ear. “you have done nothing wrong. You're perfect, okay? This isn’t your fault. I love you Brendon. I love you so fucking much.”
One would think that just words wouldn’t help. But words are powerful. Jon knows this. As does Brendon.
Brendon relaxes, pushing back into Jon’s grasp, and then the tears come. It’s like a flood, once Brendon’s started, he can't seem to stop. But Jon doesn’t mind at all, because this is what they do for each other. Give, take.
“I love you Brendon.” Jon says, right in the boy’s ear. Over and over, still whispering it lightly when Brendon’s body has gone lax, breathing even and tears drying on his face.
When they wake up the next morning, Brendon still looks exhausted, exhausted like Jon feels, but he has a small smile on his face.
This is what they do for each other.
*
Here the story ends.
Our story, if you wanted to put it like that. For although many may read it, you are the one reading it right now, and you are most important of all.
But still, here the story ends.
That isn’t to say that this particular story stops here, and that it falls to pieces. The story in question carries on. It spans two entire lifetimes.
Maybe they stay together. Maybe they don’t. Maybe they get married, maybe they don’t. Maybe Jon comes home one day to find Brendon sitting on his couch, after they haven’t seen each other in a while, due to university and school and stress, and Jon picks him up and twirls him round, kissing him breathlessly, and making them both laugh.
Maybe Jon still has down days where he doesn’t speak at all and even Brendon can't draw him out of it. Maybe Jon still has days where sometimes music can't help him at all. Maybe Brendon still has days where he catches sight of the razor in the bathroom and thinks what if?
Just because you can't see the rest of the story, doesn’t mean it never happened.
This started with two boys, and ends with two boys in love.