The Interpretation of Dreams, part 2
Whoever’s bright idea it was to watch A Beautiful Mind on the ride to the next city, Brendon didn’t know. All he did know was that if he found out, he was going to punch them in the kidney. Repeatedly.
He couldn’t even get through the whole movie. They reached the scene of John Nash in the mental hospital and Brendon began feeling sick to his stomach.
Dr. Rosen said, “Imagine if you suddenly learned that the people, the places, the moments most important to you were not gone, not dead, but worse, had never been. What kind of hell would that be?”
At that point, the twisting, sickening feeling in his gut moved up to his chest and it felt like his whole body was going to implode.
He got up and left. Spencer flicked his eyes up but said nothing.
Brendon curled up in his bunk with all his clothes on and closed his eyes. He tried so hard to keep from dreaming and succeeded. Small victories.
* * *
“Is it like that?” Spencer asked, later.
“No,” Brendon said. “Not that bad. But it’s scary close.”
Spencer bit his lip and took a measured breath. “You’re not crazy.”
“Of course I am,” Brendon smiled. “I’m just not schizophrenic.”
Spencer rolled his eyes and the room felt like it was full of air again, not lead.
* * *
Just when he was doing such a great job at staving off the dreams, Brendon woke up one morning to the feeling of a cold sweat. He’d come to consciousness so suddenly it was as if someone had burst some dream bubble over his head.
Fully awake and still fresh from his dream, he scrubbed as his eyes in hopes the images would go away. His hands trembled and his nerves tingled.
Oh god, that dream.
A bathroom-in a dressing room, maybe?-and Ryan everywhere. Everywhere Brendon tried to reach, there Ryan was, pushing and shoving Brendon against the fake wood door. Brendon should have shoved back, but he pulled on Ryan’s belt loops until their hips collided and Ryan was making noises.
Brendon covered his face with his hands. He did embarrassing things every day, but he was pretty sure this would be the one thing to kill him, if any would.
Ryan. Noises. Kissing. Zipper. Dick. Mouth.
He convinced himself that the all-over hot feeling he was experience was a full-body blush of mortification. He wanted to hide in his bunk all day, or at least until he could handle the idea of looking other people in the eye. If he came out and everyone saw him, they would know. They just would, and he would have no good explanation.
He probably would have felt different if the roles had been switched, but it was Brendon who had knelt down and opened Ryan’s pants. It was Brendon who had sucked Ryan’s cock and liked it. Ryan had grabbed his hair and Brendon let him pull as hard as he wanted. It felt good. He wanted more.
Brendon’s brain started fizzling out. He spent the next hour staring at his fingernails and not knowing what to do with himself.
* * *
A week went by and every night he had dreams about Ryan, all getting more and more explicit. God fucking damn it.
Ryan still wore his eyeliner and painstakingly styled his hair. Brendon wanted to muss it up and smear the eyeliner in ugly trails down Ryan’s face, like maybe it would help Brendon stop looking. Like maybe it would stop Ryan from being so beautiful. But the more he thought about that, the more he thought about completely wrecking Ryan in more ways than just his make-up.
Brendon hated everything in the entire world, especially Ryan Ross and his stupid face.
* * *
“What are you hoping to get out of these therapy sessions, Brendon?” Dr. Collins asked one day.
The tour had stopped into the New York area where Dr. Collins had an office, and Brendon came in for a rare face-to-face session. Aside from their first time encounter, Brendon hadn’t spent any time with her, physically. It felt weird to be talking to a tangible person rather than a device. He had gotten used to the idea that no one was watching him as he talked.
A little stunned by her directness, Brendon fumbled to say, “Maybe I’d hoped that there was a way you could teach me to make it stop. Or maybe there’s a prescription out there that could help settle my brain down. Something.”
“In that case, I think you’ll be disappointed. Therapy isn’t about just making things just disappear. It’s a healing process. And as far as prescriptions go, I think it would benefit you in the long run to fight this with your bare hands, so to speak.”
Brendon sighed hopelessly. “I feel like I’ve gotten nowhere.”
“It generally gets harder before it gets easier,” Dr. Collins agreed. “However, that doesn’t mean you’ve gotten nowhere. You’re starting to better understand how this works. Knowing what you’re up against is the key to knowing how to deal with it.”
Brendon still didn’t feel like he had any idea what he was dealing with.
“In the case that I might want to give this Freud idea a chance, does he have any tips on how to get this stuff to go away?” Brendon said. “Hypothetically speaking.”
There was a smile in her voice when Dr. Collins said, “Freud was all about getting in touch with your unaltered self. Essentially, he would probably say that you need to act on these desires or you can crack from repressing them so long.”
“So he basically advises wives to go and cheat on their husbands,” Brendon said flatly. He sounded eerily like Ryan.
“I’m not saying he had the most ethical approach, but yes, if that wife was being constantly troubled by these dreams. And I think I can safely say that you have been very troubled by yours.”
Brendon considered this a moment. “What happens if everything goes wrong because I try to fulfill these dreams?”
“You won’t know until you try, will you?” she said, dutifully writing quick notes.
Brendon hummed noncommittally. He took a breath and said, "I think you might have been onto something."
Dr. Collins lifted her head just enough to look at Brendon from under her eyelashes. Had she been maybe fifteen years younger, Brendon might have been able to note how pretty she was without feeling weird about it. She said to him, "Go on."
"I think I figured out what it is that I want."
She put down her pen and gave Brendon her full attention. Her eyes prompted him again.
"I might have omitted a few things before."
Dr. Collins didn't look surprised or irritated, only intrigued.
"Are you ready to talk about them now?" Her smooth voice lost a touch of its normal softness like she was ready to get down to business, and Brendon kind of liked that.
He hesitated before saying, "They're still a little personal."
"It might help to talk about them. If you feel uncomfortable, though, I'm not going to push you right away."
"It's just that they're pretty…" Brendon gestured vaguely.
"Sexual?"
Brendon stared at the floor and laughed nervously.
Dr. Collins smiled softly and said, "Brendon, I'm thirty-nine years old with two children and a loving husband. I'm much more comfortable with sex than you think. And anything you tell me will be nothing I haven't heard before."
Brendon tried really hard not to get inappropriate and vaguely nauseating mental images. He shook his head a little harder than necessary and mumbled, "They're about Ryan."
The smile reached Dr. Collins's eyes. "I had a hunch."
"The thing is, they feel kind of... out of place? I've never actually thought about it before the dreams started showing up. I thought it was some weird fluke at first, but then they didn't stop. They just kept getting worse."
“Have you thought about why these desires are showing up in dreams instead of conscious realizations?” she questioned. The use of the word desires made Brendon feel squirmy.
He scratched the back of his neck and scrunched up his face. “I can’t really imagine why.”
Dr. Collins tapped her fingers lightly against her chin. Slowly, she said, "Tell me a little about your family, Brendon. I haven’t heard much about them."
Brendon sat a moment and didn't speak. How to describe his family. "They're great. They've always been great. There was the little rough patch right before the band took off, but they've been everything I could ever want in a family. They love me."
"What were the views on homosexuality that they taught you?"
"My family’s Mormon, but I don’t follow it anymore. They’re views were pretty standard for that group. It's wrong, it's a sin , blah blah blah."
Dr. Collins took off her glasses, making her dark eyes look naked. "What would they think if they heard their son was gay?"
His stomach went tight like it had been caught in a vacuum cleaner. He stared at her. “My parents were never unkind directly to gay people, but they never held them in very high regard either. I think, though, it might be different. If it was me. Like they would expect me to know better or something.” He was surprised to hear how bitter that came out.
There was a tiny little end table next to Dr. Collins chair that supported an antique lamp. She slowly placed her pen and pad down next to the lamp base, and Brendon watched her carefully. The movement was too deliberate to be casual, as if she were moving slowly so not to startle him. She was setting up for something and Brendon didn’t know what.
She folded her hands in her lap and said quietly, “Do you remember telling me about the dream with the piano recital? The desperate need for your parents’ pride and approval that you described?”
At all once, Brendon’s chest ached like someone had bashed him right in the sternum. The feeling made him want to curl up on himself and protect the wound, keep it guarded. His instinctual response to say that he was fine, that it didn’t hurt at all, was overpowered by this new feeling of exhaustion. He was tired of pretending that things were okay. It was only at this moment that he realized he’d been pretending for all this time.
“I remember,” Brendon croaked. Part of him wanted to be skeptical of what she was implying, but he could imagine it. His parents were kind people, but he honestly wondered what they would do if he told them about all this. He remembered their faces when he said he didn’t believe in God anymore, how they had looked at him like a stranger. He tried to imagine talking to them about this. They would be finished with him. He wanted to collapse at just the thought.
Brendon pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers and squeezed his eyes shut, willing the swell of emotion back down. When he felt the first tear escape, he rubbed his face over with both hands. He was not going to get so worked up over this, he told himself. But when more tears slipped discreetly out, he felt less upset and more relieved, like he was releasing all the tension.
He didn’t hear any movement, but he felt the press of a hand on his shoulder. A damp eye peaked out from behind his hands and he looked up at Dr. Collins. Her understanding smile was lined and well-used, and it made Brendon think of his own mother.
“You’re going to be okay,” she said evenly. The steadiness of her voice and the gentle pressure of her hand gave Brendon the strength to wipe his eyes and say, “Yeah.”
* * *
But Brendon was not okay.
He didn’t sleep for two nights in a row, and after the show on the third night, he literally passed out in the middle of the dressing room. Just tripped over himself and blacked out.
Of course that would be the fucking time to dream, after all that work to avoid them. At least this one was tame. He was on a bus-not the bus, because the one he was seeing was much nicer and sleeker than the one they had-and he had his pinkie hooked in the pocket of Ryan’s jeans as they sat together watching stupid daytime TV. He felt so lame for how happy it made him.
When he came to, he was lain out on the bus couch with way too many people leaning over him like he was in surgery.
“Did I pass out?” he barely managed.
Jon nodded down at him.
“How long was I out?”
“Only an hour,” Spencer said. “Zack had to carry you to the bus. Girls started crying when they saw you. We’re going to get like, fifty emails tomorrow about how the internet thinks you’re dead.”
Brendon choked on his laughter, and everyone seemed relieved that at least he was well enough to enjoy a joke.
Jon patted Brendon’s shoulder fondly and said, “Don’t die on us, buddy.”
Brendon shook his head. “You still owe me a meal after I paid for your pancakes at Denny’s the other day. I refuse to die before your debt is paid. In pancakes.”
Jon was about to say something else, but Ryan cut in. “Maybe you shouldn’t be up partying all night.”
“I’m not,” Brendon protested weakly. He wanted to just close his eyes and sleep for the next decade.
“You should take better care of yourself,” Ryan added.
“Hypocrite,” Brendon rumbled. After that, he did close him eyes and shut out the world.
He still woke up later feeling one hundred years old.
* * *
“I haven’t been able to sleep well in weeks,” Brendon said jadedly. “The dreams have been taking so much out of me on the nights I actually sleep. I don’t even want to get up most mornings. Is there something, anything that can just help me sleep for a little while? Please. Once I have the strength, I’ll get right on that ‘fulfilling my repressed desires’ thing.”
Dr. Collins was quiet for a moment, considering him. She sounded disappointed when she said, “We might try you out on a sleeping aid just for a little while so it’ll help you develop better sleeping patterns. And it should give you a break from the dreams.”
Brendon wanted to cry with relief. “Thank you.”
“I’m going to prescribe you a sleeping aid, but this is only temporary, Brendon. It’s not an answer to your problems, so you’re not going to use it forever.”
“Anything will help,” he said.
* * *
The first morning after taking his little white pill, Brendon woke up with no recollection of dreams. He didn’t feel as well-rested as he did when dreams went away on their own, but it was a start.
Two Red Bulls later, he was feeling like himself again, smiling and singing and bouncing around like he was meant to do. He kept that energy up for the show, and he stepped onto the dark stage feeling giddy and ready.
The lights flashed on and the show started.
He ruffled Jon’s sweaty hair and grinned at him, feeling like the world was back in some natural order. And when he leaned his damp forehead against Ryan’s, his voice didn’t crack when his throat went painfully tight. Progress.
* * *
Nights and days kept passing. Colors and music and faces whizzed past him like someone had pressed the fast-forward button. He felt a little slower, a little less capable of keeping up as easily as he used to.
More caffeine would help, he thought. At least he hadn’t been dreaming.
* * *
“How have you been handling the stress of your job lately?”
“As best I can. Every once in a while, I have to go off by myself and listen to my iPod. That normally calms me down pretty well. Usually, though, I like doing what I’m doing and being around the guys,” Brendon reported. “It doesn’t seem so hard.”
“When was the last dream you had?”
Brendon rubbed his forehead thoughtfully and said, “Two weeks ago. That one about the band we’re touring with, I told you about it.”
“If I’m remembering correctly, you didn’t have very much trouble in the morning.”
“Yeah,” Brendon said. A spark of hope made his chest tingle like he’d accomplished something.
“Good. And have you been feeling drowsy during the day?” Dr. Collins continued inquiring.
“A little, but that’s normal right? And normally it goes away a few hours after I wake up.”
“That sounds great. Try going without for a few nights and tell me how you’re feeling.”
Brendon fumbled a little with the phone between his cheek and shoulder. Once he’d gotten it under control, he said brightly, “Yeah, I can do that.”
* * *
Ryan came creeping into the front lounge, careful of his footsteps and how hard he slid the bunk door closed. Brendon glanced over at him and the smile was on his face before he realized it. Everyone had gone to bed, all stuffed into their tiny bunks stacked on top of each other.
“Can’t sleep?” Brendon inquired.
“Slept in really late this morning. I think it sort of ruined my sleep schedule,” Ryan explained.
They got into a whispered debate about whether or not it would be healthier to stay up all night and reset the next evening, or to try going to sleep immediately. Their disagreement resulted in watching late night talk shows until their eyes were getting heavy.
Ryan shuffled in close on the couch. With their shoulders touching, he slowly inclined his head until it was resting tentatively on Brendon’s shoulder.
It hurt to be so close. It was like his ribcage was contracting and crushing all his insides. His lungs didn’t want to work and his heart was thudding like he’d been running a marathon. He had to move away.
“Don’t do that,” he mumbled.
Wobbling without the support, Ryan went to say something but made no sound. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut and moodily folded his arms. Ryan was never very good at being affectionate, so it was probably hard for him to do something as simple as that. Maybe he was feeling rejected. His shoulders hunched away from Brendon, glowering when Brendon spoke again.
“Sorry?” he offered.
“Whatever. If you want your space, have your space,” Ryan said flatly. He curled up tighter and watched the TV intently.
“It’s not that,” Brendon grumbled, and he thought about how much he wanted all his space taken up by Ryan. It wasn’t enough, though. Ryan wouldn’t give him all he wanted, and Brendon wouldn’t ask for it.
“It’s nothing. I don’t care,” Ryan said coolly.
Brendon scooted closer and tugged on Ryan’s elbow, receiving no reaction. He got in closer and perched his chin on Ryan’s stooped shoulder. Ryan just looked the other way.
“Ryan.”
Ryan wasn’t listening.
“Ryan.” Brendon slapped his hand on the wall next to Ryan’s head. "You don’t understand.”
Now he had Ryan’s bug-eyed attention. Brendon took a breath.
"You… you can’t do stuff like that. I don’t think I take it the way you actually mean it.”
Ryan gave him a sideways look. “What are you trying to say?”
He swallowed a basketball-sized lump in his throat. “That… I might like you. A lot.”
Ryan stared.
“That maybe I’m a little bit in love with you?”
And it felt like the whole room went deathly quiet. He couldn’t even hear the air conditioning blowing or the bustle of people moving around outside the door, like maybe they had stopped in mid-step after hearing it, too.
Ryan kept looking at him, stunned and silent. He stood up slowly, legs visibly wobbling. Brendon stood up too, afraid that Ryan might just stand and leave without saying a word.
“Ryan?” he croaked, the corners of his eyes pricking. He was afraid to move or even breathe.
Finally, Ryan broke the stalemate and brought up both hands to grab either side of Brendon’s neck. And just like Brendon had always hoped, he pulled Brendon closer and kissed him. It was off-center and a little bit awkward because Brendon didn’t exactly kiss him back, but it felt so different from all the dreams. So real.
Brendon was barely showing signs of life, lungs and limbs still not functioning properly. He kept waiting to wake up, waiting for this to be another cruel trick his mind was playing on him, but nothing happened. And when Ryan dug his fingers into the muscles of Brendon’s neck, it flipped some switch that sent Brendon’s hands flying into Ryan’s hair frantically.
“I love you,” he whispered again. He said it over and over, clinging to Ryan and kissing him between each reiteration.
He heard Ryan mumbling words under his breath, kissing too fast to make them real sentences. “Love. You too.”
Brendon’s head was spinning. And then everything in front of Brendon's eyes went blurry, like trying to see underwater. Edges smeared and details went fuzzy until suddenly he was looking blearily at the curtain to his bunk, strips of light emerging from the edges.
He was taken over by a nervous confusion for one fleeting second, and then it hit him like a wrecking ball to the stomach. It felt like his gut had opened up and spilled all his vitals on the floor, and this time, he wasn't sure he had the fortitude to pick them up and put them back inside again.
He heard the hum of the bus engine, the muffled sounds of voices behind the sliding door. There was a TV on somewhere in the bus. The sounds of real life.
There was a pulling feeling in his throat and a prickling sensation behind his eyes, and then there were tears everywhere. His face, his pillow, his hands. He rubbed them away as fast as he could, but they kept coming. The harder he tried to get a hold of himself, the more he felt himself sinking. He held his breath, the air fighting to escape his ribcage like a feral animal, and his body shook with the sobs he just wouldn't let out.
But I made the distinction, his mind screamed at him. He consciously questioned the reality of it, which never happened in his dreams, only in waking moments. And everything had felt so crisp and clear. He’d felt so fucking lucid, so sure that this was finally it.
He couldn't do this anymore. If he had to wake up another morning to the realization that everything he’d just felt wasn’t real, he was not going to be able to keep himself together. He already felt like he was falling apart.
He sat up and quickly pushed himself out of his bunk. Once he’d made it to the bathroom, he locked the door and stood there in front of the mirror for some time, regarding himself. Maybe his reflection would talk to him like all those movies. Maybe he would be able to see something off, something unusual about his face, like maybe someone else was in his head. If only he had a way to externalize this problem.
Nothing happened. All he could see was a scared, ruddy-faced boy. Who needed a shower.
* * *
“But I questioned it!” Brendon kept saying, again and again. “That doesn’t happen in the dreams. And everything about it seemed perfectly real. I would have actually bet my first born child that it wasn’t a dream.”
“That was probably the withdrawal symptoms,” Dr. Collins said a little wearily.
Brendon stopped. “What?” he snapped.
“Most sleeping aids have slight withdrawals, and some of those affect dreams. Usually they’re just bizarre, nonsensical dreams. However, I probably should have anticipated that you would be different. The withdrawal doesn’t normally last long, though,” she said, as if that made anything better.
He wanted throw the phone against the wall and watch it break. He wanted to yell, It’s your fucking fault! Instead, he rubbed a hand over his face and groaned into his palm.
“So I’m still exactly where I started.”
“I wouldn’t look at it that way if I were you,” Dr. Collins encouraged him, but he wasn’t listening.
He was stuck with this.
* * *
The afternoon sun was blazing high and bright in the sky like it was trying to fry every living thing on the concrete below. Brendon had barely stepped out of the air-conditioned venue for three seconds before he started to sweat. It was worth it to get away from people for a minute or two. They didn’t deserve his misdirected frustration.
He was still fuming. Fucking Dr. Collins and her fucking prescription. Fucking stupid brain.
It was times like this that Brendon wished he smoked cigarettes. Something to do with his twitchy hands would have been nice. Plus, the nicotine would probably help the angry jitters that skittered up and down his body like crazed spiders.
“What’s your issue?”
Brendon jumped. Spencer appeared around the corner with his arms folded and his hip tilted easily.
“My issue?” Brendon said.
“You walked off by yourself like you were trying to find a nice quiet place to sulk. It’s unhealthy to fester, so I’m here asking what’s wrong so you can stop this ridiculousness,” Spencer said.
Brendon didn’t smile, but he relaxed. “Same old, same old.”
“What happened this time?”
Brendon wiped at the sweat on his forehead, pushing his clinging bangs up and out of the way. “Just wanting more of what I can’t have.”
Spencer didn’t press, and Brendon was grateful. He just said, “You going to do something about it yet?”
Brendon gave an exasperated groan. “Why is that the only fucking thing anyone can tell me to do? It’s not that easy!”
Brendon gesticulated and Spencer watched with a flat expression. He waited for Brendon to finished venting about the whole world being unfair and obviously rooting for his insanity. By the end of it, Brendon was red-faced and out of breath.
“Are you finished?” Spencer said patiently.
Brendon took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I sound stupid.”
“A little bit,” Spencer admitted. “But not because you don’t have a reason to be upset. It’s because you won’t even try to listen to me and everyone else who’s apparently been saying that you should do something instead of sitting around and complaining about it.”
The sweat dribbled down the back of Brendon’s neck and he wiped at it fruitlessly. He said softly, “I just want something real. Something that won’t go away in the morning. ”
“And exactly how is going for what you want a bad idea?” Spencer inquired.
“Because it involves someone else. Like, romantically.” Brendon looked helplessly up at Spencer. “And just going for it doesn’t mean I’m insured a happy ending.
Spencer’s eyes went wide. “Dude, if this is your way of easing into the conversation that you-”
“It’s not you, jackass.” Brendon rolled his eyes. Spencer’s face slipped into a relieved grin.
Brendon squinted up at the sky, a clear and cloudless blue. The sheer size of it made him feel tiny and insignificant. “And the other thing is that I feel like I have no place to ask for more than I have. I’m in a band, touring all over the world with my friends, putting our music out there and doing what we love doing. I feel selfish for wanting more.”
Spencer made a low, frustrated noise. “Don’t think like that. Yeah, you have something special. We’re doing something that not a lot of people get to do, but what we’re talking about here is the universal need for human companionship. There’s nothing wrong with wanting that.”
Brendon smiled at Spencer and said, “I know that, but…”
Spencer gave him a prompting look.
Brendon held his breath for a moment, wondering if it would be a good idea to even tell Spencer. Maybe he should keep it to himself. But right when his brain had decided to say nothing, he blurted out anyway, “I think I like Ryan.
Spencer stood there, expressionless. “Well, duh.”
“Hey!” Brendon squeaked. “This is a sensitive subject here.”
“Brendon, my god, everyone and their fucking mother knows you’ve got it so bad for Ryan. Like, the first week you met him, you gave him your phone number ‘in case of band emergencies’. What the fuck was that, anyway?”
Brendon just laughed. Laughed hard and loud until he was clutching at his stomach and trying to make it stop. Spencer laughed with him, pushing the hair out of his face and beaming a huge smile in Brendon’s direction.
“Oh my god, I’ve been fucking in love with Ryan since the very beginning. Goddamn, why didn’t you tell me?” Brendon choked out.
Spencer wiped his eyes and said, “As obvious as you were, I thought you would be the first to know.”
“So, what did Ryan think?” Brendon said, not even trying to hide his curiosity. “Did he know too?”
“You could ask him,” Spencer suggested.
“Or you could make my life easier and just tell me.” Brendon pouted his bottom lip out and tried to look pitiable.
“Nope,” Spencer said with a smug grin. “That’s not how I do things.”
“I hate you,” Brendon declared. “If my mind powers were actually useful, I would set you on fire.”
“How do you know they’d be fire mind powers?” Spencer asked.
“Then how about this: If I had a lighter right now, I would set you on fire anyway.”
Spencer laughed and waved his hand dismissively. “I think this sun might char me first. We should get back inside.”
* * *
A meet and greet was always either a great time or the most awkward event ever. It depended on all the boys’ moods and what kinds of shenanigans the fans were sure to start.
Brendon was in a fantastic mood largely due to his off-the-charts caffeine intake. He felt like his very bones were vibrating.
When it came time for the picture, the little group of fans huddled around them awkwardly, the boys in the lot not wanting to be too close and the girls not wanting to be too far. It felt like one of those embarrassing club pictures from a high school where everyone pretended to be anything but as uncomfortable as they were. It was supposed to look relaxed and natural, but no one ever felt that way.
Brendon thought of high school yearbook pictures, which took his brain to prom pictures, which had him shuffling in close to Ryan, his chest touching Ryan’s back.
“Personal space, dude?” Ryan said.
“I never went to prom,” he whispered. “Think like we’re taking a prom picture.”
He was a little surprised when Ryan went along with it, tilting his head back and resting against Brendon’s temple. The camera flashed and Ryan laughed.
“I can’t believe I just did that,” he shook his head.
“It was a magical moment. Sorry that I forgot to get you a corsage for the occasion,” Brendon teased. Ryan shoved at Brendon’s shoulder and smiled.
Brendon thought, I love him, and felt okay.
* * *
A group went out together that night, drinking and having fun, and Brendon joined to let off some steam. To his credit, he was pretty manageably drunk when he made it back to the bus and Ryan was sitting alone outside it, texting on his sidekick.
“What are you doing out here?” Brendon asked, flopping down beside him.
“The weather is nice here. Not too hot. I was trying to enjoy it,” Ryan told him.
“Yeah, I like the cooler weather.”
Ryan nodded. He looked up at the sky, black and overcast, and said, “Did you have fun tonight?”
Brendon recognized that as Ryan subtly expressing disapproval, no matter how casual he sounded. “I didn’t have very much. To drink, I mean.”
“Do whatever you want, it’s your life,” Ryan said. He kept looking at the sky.
Brendon was feeling too light and too intrepid from the alcohol to be bothered. He looked up with Ryan, not speaking and not feeling the need to. It felt like a thinking moment, not a talking one.
Brendon thought about Ryan. He thought about this dream business and Ryan’s narrow hips. He thought about how much he liked Ryan’s ugly-ass sense of fashion and how much he just wanted to bury his hands in Ryan’s hair.
He chanced a look in Ryan’s direction. Ryan looked uninviting with his arms around his knees and his elbows jutting out, but he smelled like soap from this shower that night and Brendon want to lean in and smell it on him. He wanted to move in close and stop him from looking so dour. When Ryan got lost in thought, he always looked so unhappy. Brendon scooted closer and pressed their shoulders together, carefully avoiding all the sharp edges. Ryan even seemed to relax a little, but he still had a sour look on his face. His lips were pressed tightly together, and Brendon wanted to kiss it away.
As soon as the thought entered his head, Brendon said, “What would you do if I kissed you right now?” He meant it jokingly, hoping to coax a little laughing out of Ryan, but then his mind started going off on that tangent for a few seconds. He wanted to lean in and find out just what would happen.
Ryan jerked his head and gave Brendon a calculating look. “Where the hell did that come from?”
“From my mouth, obviously,” which seemed like a perfectly intelligent thing to say at the time.
Ryan chuckled. “You know you get so witty when you drink.”
Brendon burrowed closer and pressed his nose to Ryan’s hair. Ryan said, “Brendon,” like a warning, but it didn’t succeed in warding Brendon off.
“You smell nice,” Brendon noted.
“Personal hygiene is to thank for that,” Ryan said uncomfortably. “You smell like beer.”
Brendon took a slow inhale and closed his eyes. He liked how warm Ryan felt and how soft his hair was against Brendon’s face. “I like you, Ryan Ross,” he murmured easily. “You don’t know it, but I do.”
Ryan squirmed away laughing and Brendon followed, pressing along Ryan’s side and grabbing a handful of his shirt. Then everything just started spilling out like a hole had been poked in his brain-to-mouth filter.
“I dream about you all the time and I can’t stop,” he went on, draping himself over Ryan even more until Brendon inelegantly knocked them both to the ground. He stroked a finger over Ryan’s neck and watched the muscles go taut. “I have this thing, a condition or something, where I only dream about the things I want the most, and lately, it’s been you. It’s fucking always you.” He laughed and twirled his fingers in Ryan’s hair.
Ryan kept very still, almost freakishly so. His voice came out fragile when he said, “Really, Brendon, we should get back in. We should both get some sleep.”
Ryan wasn’t getting it, Brendon thought. He kissed the sharp corner of Ryan’s jaw and said, “Are you hearing what I’m saying?”
“I’m hearing a lot of drunk babble,” Ryan said, scrambling to his feet and brushing himself off.
With only slight difficulty, Brendon stood up and grabbed Ryan’s arm. “You’re not listening.” When Ryan tried to move around him and make it to the bus door, Brendon yanked on Ryan’s arm and said, “Everyone tells me I’m in love with you. I think it might be true.”
Brendon crowded in close and Ryan backed up against the cool metal of the bus, stone still and staring at him with disbelieving eyes. Brendon waited for him to move or speak, but the silence stretched on like miles of dead road. The sound of buzzing and chirping insects almost echoed the silence.
Brendon waited for Ryan to surge in to kiss him. He waited for the dramatic, satisfying ending that was supposed to come when he did something brave and significant. He waited, and Ryan just stared.
“You need to go to bed,” was what Ryan finally said. And that was his answer.
Brendon sobered up all of a sudden, all the fearlessness and affection flushing away. His heart sank and sank until it seemed to fall out his body, and then he couldn't seem to feel at all. He moved away and walked onto the bus robotically. Ryan didn’t follow.
That's that, Brendon supposed dazedly. His eyes stayed dry and his legs didn't shake the whole way up the steps and back to the quiet bus.
The entire night, he sat in the back lounge with a laptop on his knees and watched his favorite comedy sketches. None of them could make him laugh. He couldn’t even feel upset. There was nothing. Just numbness.
* * *
Brendon did everything he could to pretend nothing was wrong. He’d said stupid things when he was drunk before, but they were always easy to laugh off later. He didn’t want to laugh it off now. He didn't ignore Ryan or avoid eye contact, but he thought later that maybe he should have. Every word or touch or acknowledgement seemed sharp-edged.
Ryan was as careful as he could possibly be about another person's feelings, which was not very careful at all. Brendon kind of figured that he shouldn't blame him because it surely wasn't intentional.
"Why so glum, my boy?" Jon said in a horrid but charming attempt at a British accent.
Brendon cracked a smile just long enough to tell Jon that he was sad about tour ending.
"There'll be other tours," Ryan said.
Brendon looked over at Ryan, who was listlessly flipping through magazines that he'd read ten times already. The old magazine was more interesting than Brendon, apparently. Ryan didn't even look up when Brendon said purposefully, "But I liked this tour. A lot of things were special about this tour that I don't think I'll see on any other one."
At that, Ryan deigned to glance up. "Well you better hope that the next one comes soon,” he said listlessly.
Brendon's muscles tightened like they were readying themselves to leap up and swing at Ryan. He waited until the feeling passed before he said belatedly, “This tour made me happy.”
Ryan looked up again, opening his mouth to say something but stopping before anything came out. In realization, his face fell into a scowl and he shifted his focus back to the magazine.
Later, Brendon vengefully drank all of Ryan’s green tea.
* * *
That night on stage, Brendon sashayed over to Ryan like normal. Feigning tenderness, he swiped his thumb over Ryan’s cheek, smearing the meticulously painted curls of red and black. He smirked and Ryan jerked his head away.
Ryan’s glare didn’t feel like enough. It didn’t feel like a real reaction. Even when Brendon pushed in too close, so close that Ryan got irritated, it wasn’t enough for Brendon that Ryan just ducked away. He waited for the shove, the fist, the shout. Anything.
He got nothing.
* * *
"It drives me insane, him being there," Brendon said into the phone. He kept his voice low and the phone pressed against his cheek protectively. The separators between the bus sections weren't exactly soundproof.
"What about his behavior bothers you?" Dr. Collins asked.
"That he can just walk around like nothing happened. He's not even awkward about it! At least if he was uncomfortable, I would feel like he understood how big of a deal it was for me to tell him all that. But I feel like he's responding so... flippantly." Brendon flailed his free hand wildly, glad that no one was actually watching. He looked kind of ridiculous, curled up in the back lounge and flapping his arm like a madman.
"You seem to have less than remarkable communication with Ryan. Maybe you need to open up a conversation so you can explain yourself. Even if he doesn't act or respond any different, it may help you feel like your feelings have been properly conveyed."
Brendon laughed harshly. "Ryan doesn't talk about his feelings, and he sure as hell doesn't want to hear someone else talk about theirs."
* * *
"I want soda," Brendon said at a gas stop. "I'm going to get some."
"Get some root beer while you're in there," Ryan called.
"Fucking get it yourself," Brendon snarled and slammed the bus door behind him.
The quick pounding of feet on concrete grew louder until Spencer was walking next to Brendon.
"You need something?" Brendon asked, his agitation only marginally quelled.
"I'm getting root beer for Ryan," Spencer said simply, unfazed by the heat in Brendon’s voice.
Brendon took a deep breath, meaning to sooth the warmth flaring in his fingertips like hot needles. "How have you managed to handle him for so long? Why are you not crazy from his bullshit, yet?"
"Personality types, maybe," Spencer mused seriously. "That, and I stopped paying attention to certain things, after a while. Ryan has a pattern to his bullshit. It's easier to deal with them you know it's coming."
Brendon hadn't actually expected Spencer to answer, mostly because he thought there was no logical answer. "It would bother me knowing that it never ends," he said.
They stepped into the station and followed the wall to the soda bottles. Brendon grabbed a two liter of Coke, and Spencer followed behind him to pick up a smaller bottle of root beer. Brendon made a face of severe disapproval at the plastic bottle and all it stood for. Spencer caught him and laughed.
"Stop that," he said. "You're not doing yourself any good."
"I'm not doing it to benefit myself," Brendon muttered. His nerves felt raw, and even the tiniest bristle felt like rusty nails against his patience.
"Shut up," Spencer said simply. "You've been a moody asshole for like, a week. Isn't your period almost over?"
Brendon glared. “Ha ha.”
They stood at the back of the small queue lined up before the register, neither looking at each other.
"Just so you know, I'm not trying to defend him, whatever it is he did," Spencer said.
"What, he didn't tell you?" Brendon watched the hotdogs slowly turn under the heat lamps at the main counter just for something to focus on.
"From all your carping, I didn't need him to," said Spencer.
"Well then you can imagine why I'm pissed," Brendon said.
Spencer snorted. "You're being a bitch about all this," he said bluntly. "Which is funny, because I imagined you'd be a little wounded puppy. I think Ryan did too. You always come off like this sweet, weird dude."
"If you're coming onto me, then I'd say I'm not ready for a rebound yet," Brendon said. He let a smirk chase away his scowl. Spencer broke into a laugh and Brendon felt some of the frustration scrape away, leaving him a little less heavy.
"What I mean is, I have my own theories on why things went the way they did, and your perpetual bitch fit is an ironic turn of events," Spencer said. Something about the way he said it, something about how he was Spencer, Brendon's mouth loosened enough to let a real smile through. He really had been throwing a bitch fit.
Brendon wanted to apologize but knew he didn’t mean it yet. So he said, “I didn’t think I’d be like this.”
Spencer gave an accepting nod. They reached the counter and Brendon offered up his soda and money.
“So,” he said, pocketing the change, “you have theories?”
Spencer smiled and raised his eyebrow. Spencer handed two crumpled singles over the counter and said, “Yeah, but nothing solid. He’s never said anything, but there was a time when he would look at you different. Pick on you more.”
“Are you fucking saying that was pigtail pulling?” Brendon wanted to laugh.
“Not exactly,” Spencer shrugged. He thanked the cashier and they walked out together. “He’s always had to try before. People never flocked to him.”
Brendon thought, I can’t imagine why, and wasn’t sure if he meant it sincerely or sarcastically.
“When you came around, he didn’t even have to do anything. You were just so… unconditional about how you were towards him,” Spencer continued. “I think he didn’t quite know how to respond.”
“And so he acts like an asshole to me,” Brendon concluded.
Spencer tilted his head like he was thinking. “Sometimes I think he has this unreasonable compulsion to fuck things up.”
Brendon laughed at the truth in that statement. “Sucks to be me, I guess.”
“I never said that Ryan was right in any of this, or even made sense,” Spencer disclaimed. “But maybe you could help the situation a little more, too.”
Brendon nodded, and actually listened.
* * *
He spent another day wallowing until he reasoned that maybe he was being ridiculous. He decided to make the effort to right things, at least gradually. If Ryan just wanted them to act like everything was normal, he could try that.
In a search for food one afternoon, he found Ryan hunched over a notebook at the fold-out table. Brendon said, “What are you writing?”
“Working on songs,” Ryan said flatly. He had that tone that meant he didn’t want further inquiry, but Brendon ignored it like usual.
“Can I see them?”
Ryan looked up at him briefly and then snorted softly.
“What was that for?” said Brendon. He could feel himself failing in his attempts already.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t bullshit me, dude.” Brendon seethed. A selfish part of him had wanted this from the start, an explosion.
Ryan looked pointedly down at his notebook and doodled in the margins like he was bored. The silence just made Brendon angrier.
“Your lyrics too good for me?” Brendon said. “I didn’t do anything that should make you pissed at me. I don’t deserve this.”
“Whatever.”
“You don’t even have anything to defend yourself with!” Brendon said, feeling childishly triumphant.
Ryan looked at him with the most condescending gaze he could conjure up and said, “I’m not stooping to this.”
“You’ll stoop to passive aggression but you won’t actually work this out with me?” Brendon said. “Real mature.”
That’s when Ryan cracked, just a little. “What was your problem with me to begin with?”
“Um, you were being a douche bag? Or were you not just here five seconds ago?” Brendon snapped. He wanted a fight, now. He wanted to feel justified in hating Ryan, and this was the first rise he’d gotten out of him.
Ryan’s eyes narrowed but didn’t take Brendon’s bait. He just said, “Before that. You started this with your own little passive aggression.”
Brendon folded his arms and looked away this time. “When you knocked me on my ass, you mean?”
“I didn’t even say anything!” Ryan said, finally rising to a shout.
“You said nothing right after I fucking told you everything!”
“You were drunk.”
“And that makes it less honest?”
“I wasn’t sure you were going to even remember it,” Ryan said. Then, lower, “You’ve forgotten plenty of things while you were drunk.”
“But not this time.”
“What did you fucking expect me to say?” Ryan snarled.
Brendon opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. What had he expected, anyway? That Ryan would fall into his arms? That things would just come together? Inebriated or not, he should have known better. This was real life, not a dream.
“You know what? This is stupid,” Brendon finally said, more to himself than Ryan. He turned to leave.
“Whatever, fine,” Ryan said. “You were the one who was talking about working this out or some shit, not me.”
Brendon stopped, his back facing Ryan and his blood boiling. “Where would it have gotten me, anyway? You don’t care.”
Ryan didn’t stop Brendon when he stormed out.
* * *
Ryan came to him later carrying a Red Bull like a peace offering.
“I have one,” Brendon said, picking up the almost-empty can next to him and wiggled it, sloshing the liquids around in it noisily. His anger had quickly dissipated, but he was still brooding a little, more because of his own actions than Ryan’s.
Ryan only seemed slightly put out, but he didn’t retreat.
Brendon looked up from his iPod and said, “What do you want?”
“You’re being a child,” Ryan said.
Brendon glared at him. “If you came here to criticize me some more, then I’ll be leaving.” He slipped his iPod into his hoodie pocket and picked up his drink can with full intentions of escaping.
Ryan’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. “Wait.”
Brendon jerked away but didn’t make another move to leave. He put down the Red Bull and crossed his arms expectantly.
Ryan took a breath like he was trying to find the patience-or the guts-to say what he wanted to. The voice that spoke was surprisingly gentle, even tender. “Why couldn’t things just be the way they’ve always been?”
Brendon hadn’t been expecting that.
“I liked things the way they were when you would read my lyrics and always like them, even if they were totally shitty. I liked when you stayed up late to talk to me, or when you would laugh at all my stupid jokes.” Ryan’s hair fell over his eyes and he rubbed his nose. He was hiding his face, Brendon realized.
Brendon felt something solid and sharp in his chest melt into warm fluid. He said, “Yeah. I liked things being like that.”
Ryan swallowed audibly and said, “Why can’t we just go back to that?”
“You’re the one who’s making that so difficult,” Brendon whispered.
“Come on, Bren, don’t be angry with me still,” said Ryan.
Brendon shook his head, knowing Ryan didn’t get it. “That’s not what I mean. You want me to go back to loving you without asking anything, and it’s just not that simple,” he murmured. “The dreams.”
He was so tired. The dreams weren’t stopping, only leaving a worse taste in his mouth afterwards. That candle flame of hope that made the dreams enjoyable before was extinguished, leaving him feeling more empty than he’d ever felt. The dreams really did turn into nightmares. He felt like someone, somewhere, was laughing cruelly at him in this torture.
Ryan sat up straighter. “You were serious.”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you were just being drunk,” Ryan murmured. He looked away.
“I didn’t… it wasn’t supposed to go like that. It came out kind of wrong. But everything I said was true. I can’t get the dreams to stop,” he said. Then his voice dropped to almost a whisper. “They make me hate you.”
Ryan’s face went hard. “Hate me?”
“Because it’s easier.” Than admitting I still love you.
Ryan nodded slowly, eyes gone soft with something like empathy.
“So I’m sorry,” Brendon forced out. “I’m sorry that I made this stupid and complicated. I didn’t mean to. But if you knew what it’s like…”
Ryan sighed. “What’s this deal with your dreams? This condition, or whatever.”
For the first time, Brendon didn’t stumble over his words when he explained it. He told Ryan everything. He talked about the temporary happiness that was always burned away by profound disappointment. He mentioned his parents, the band, Jon, “And you.”
Ryan said nothing, but Brendon wished he would.
“I’ve dreamed about you for a while but… it wasn’t always like this. Or maybe it was and I just never realized it.”
“How long?”
Brendon shrugged like it was nothing. “Almost from the start, I guess.”
Ryan took his head in his hands and sighed. “So you’ve always felt this way.”
“I didn’t know it the whole time,” Brendon added. “But I guess you could say it like that, yeah.”
The silence overtook the room again, making Brendon antsy and desperately wanting to make noise. He couldn’t deal with this kind of silence.
Without explanation, Ryan got up and was out of the lounge in three quick strides. Brendon was left annoyed and even more confused.
He looked up at the ceiling and whispered disparagingly, “You won’t let me win, will you?”
* * *
More shows and more smiling faces. More music and more dreams. Not enough rest. Never enough Ryan.
* * *
Everyone else was up front watching TV and laughing, loud familiar voices that sounded like home. Brendon had gone back to his suitcase to find sweatpants, because there was only so long a guy could handle tight jeans in a day. Right as he was stuffing his dirty jeans into the corner of his suitcase, light shone through the doorway and Ryan was sliding the door closed again.
Brendon acknowledged him and then moved to leave. Ryan stayed put. The narrow space between the bunks didn’t permit much extra space, so Brendon was stuck.
“Something you want to say?” Brendon asked. He edged to one side and waited for Ryan to move, but Ryan wouldn’t budge.
“We can… try,” Ryan forced out. The effort it took him to say it made Brendon’s hands ball up.
Brendon squinted his eyes in the dim light. “Try?”
“This thing. Us.” Ryan motioned between the two of them.
Brendon’s eyes hardened and his stomach squirmed with suspicions. Something didn’t sit right with him about this. Then it hit him. “You don’t want me; you’re afraid for the band. You’re trying to fix things for the sake of Panic.”
Ryan seemed startled. “Why would you think that?”
Brendon gave a bitter laugh. “The only thing that you genuinely care about is this band.”
“That’s not true,” Ryan ground out.
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious!”
“Then show me!” Brendon demanded. “Show it’s not just so I won’t go storming off and leave you without a singer.”
Ryan’s face flashed with anger and he grabbed Brendon by the shoulders. Oh god, he’s going to kiss me, Brendon thought. However, the kiss didn’t come. Ryan stood there with his hands gripping Brendon’s shoulders like he was afraid Brendon might walk out any moment. When he looked at Brendon, he didn’t look desperate or frustrated, just tired.
“I watch your diet for you,” Ryan said. Brendon gave him a look. “I do your make-up. I let you lean on me while we watch TV, and I let you play with my hair. When people give me weird looks after they see you with me, I give them the finger. I worry about you. You’re fucking annoying and loud and awkward, but you make me want to let you get away with everything. For fuck’s sake, I asked you to sing my songs. I show you all the fucking time.”
For one glorious moment, the pride and carefully managed illusion of self-confidence that Ryan always worked so hard at peeled back to reveal this shining speck of raw honesty.
“So yeah, I’m fucking scared of you running out on us like you tried when we were recording,” Ryan said. “And maybe I’m scared this is a bad idea because, at the end of the day, I feel like I need you a whole lot more than you need me. And not just because you can sing.”
Brendon was struck speechless. He stood there with his mouth agape and his eyes going in and out of focus. “You need me.”
Ryan let go of him and rubbed uncomfortably at the back of his neck. He cleared his throat and said, “Do you even remember kissing me at all?”
Brendon’s stomach lurched. “What?”
“Weeks ago. You went out partying and I came to find you. And you just… went for it.”
Brendon had fuzzy recollections of a dream. That first dream of kissing Ryan. “Oh my god.”
“You were practically falling over when I found you, and you didn’t look at me any differently the next day. So I ignored it. I thought that’s what you wanted me to do,” Ryan said.
Brendon’s head was spinning. He wanted to tell Ryan to stop talking for a minute so he could collect himself, but he wanted to hear more. “All this time?”
Ryan shrugged. “So I want to try. Maybe this is what I was looking for from you all along. It wouldn’t be terribly different from how things were before, right?”
Brendon shifted his shoulders. “It would be different.”
Ryan looked up from under his angular bangs and tentatively leaned closer. He lifted his chin at an angle and Brendon didn’t realize what was happening until Ryan’s lips were touching his. It felt like the awkward sort of first kiss you have in middle school when neither party is sure what they’re getting into. When Brendon reciprocated, Ryan exhaled through his nose like a relieved sigh and it was perfect. They slowly parted and stared at each other for another impossibly long stretch of time.
“I could stand to do that again,” Ryan said. He almost seemed surprised to hear himself say it.
Brendon smiled dizzily and knew he agreed. However, he said, “I think everyone is waiting for us to start the next episode.” He slipped a hand around Ryan’s elbow and guided him out to watch TV. Brendon rested his head on Ryan’s shoulder like he always did, and Ryan crossed his arms and told Zack they needed to get some milk when they stopped for gas.
“I need more Cocoa Puffs,” Brendon added.
Ryan gave him a look and said, “You shouldn’t be eating cereal, you’re not supposed to be having dairy. We’ll get you Pop-tarts instead.”
Brendon’s face melted into a grin.
* * *
The next morning, he woke up feeling like he’d finally reached springtime after a winter of hibernation. Even the too-bright sun peaking through the bus windows was a pleasant sight. The couch had left a slight pain in his lower back, but that didn’t bother him either.
For the first time in weeks, he hadn’t dreamed of Ryan.
Fucking finally, he thought.
He shifted on the couch, he felt a rush of cool air hit his side and remembered, hey, someone was there. He bumped Ryan’s shoulder and Ryan groaned irritably.
“What?” he croaked.
“Bring me Pop-tarts,” Brendon said.
“Get them yourself, asshole.” Ryan threw an arm over his eyes.
Brendon crawled up over Ryan and hovered there until Ryan took a moment to look.
“Also, good morning,” Brendon said. He kissed Ryan’s forehead and watched a tiny, secret smile turn up the edges of Ryan’s mouth. “But no, really, Pop-tarts.”
The End