We'll Reinvent Love [7/10]
Title: We'll Reinvent Love [7/10]
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He can hear Keltie giggling from Ryan’s room when he goes downstairs for food at three in the morning. He can hear her giggling from the hallway as he tries to play his guitar in peace. He wants to throw her over the balcony, in a very rational and calm sort of way. It just makes more sense than having her giggling all over the place.
Ryan doesn’t come out of his room for two days. Spencer spends a lot of time sitting outside his room, reassuring him it’ll be alright and telling him to eat something.
Brendon can’t sleep. There’s something missing. There’s cool air where there should be warm soft skin and deep breathing and the smell of Ryan’s shampoo, and he feels impossibly distant, impossibly alone, without that perfect body curled against his chest.
On the third day, the day of the funeral, Ryan finally emerges from his room, and Brendon feels like he’s been punched. Ryan’s skin, always pale, is now approaching translucent, and his eyes are black holes, and he’s moving like it hurts, like he’s fighting to stay upright.
“What are you guys all dressed up for,” Ryan asks, his voice hoarse.
“We were invited too,” Spencer says.
“I don’t need you there.” Ryan’s not looking them in the eyes; instead, he’s staring at the carpet.
“Very funny. Let’s go,” Spencer says firmly, and because it’s Spencer, Ryan goes.
Brendon doesn’t hear a word of the ceremony. Ryan looks like he’s about to crumple to the ground, his eyes blank and his mouth pinched, the sunlight making his skin sickly green. Brendon can’t form coherent thoughts; it’s all a rush of panic and hurt and why can’t I make it better.
It’s still too close to the surface. It’s all there, raw and vicious, and whenever he looks at Ryan he drowns in memories, vivid flashbacks of that wide rare smile and skinsweatgasp and lazy afternoons sightseeing and, god, it’s too fucking much, he wants to crush Ryan into a hug, close enough to feel his heartbeat, and forget that any of this ever happened.
Ryan steps forward to throw the first handful of dirt into the grave, and he’s shaking but his eyes are dry. Brendon spins around and practically sprints to the car, and he only lets the tears burn their way out when he’s collapsed safely in the backseat, cheek pressed against the prickling upholstery, fingers digging into his own arms hard enough to bruise.
He’s nowhere near composed when he hears the door open.
“What’s going on, Bren,” says Spencer’s voice calmly from next to him.
“It’s a funeral. You’re supposed to cry,” Brendon says defensively, scrubbing his tears away with his jacket sleeve.
Spencer sighs and sits down next to him, staring at Brendon with those piercing blue laser-eyes. Brendon has a sudden irrational fear that Spencer knows exactly what’s going on.
“I just haven’t been to a funeral in a long time,” Brendon answers, and it’s the truth but, well, not.
Spencer doesn’t try to hug him, just nods. “Ryan’s going to the wake and he’s going to have his aunt bring him home. Want to pick up pizza on our way back?” he says, getting into the front seat, strong and capable, and Brendon’s grateful beyond words.
*****
Pete calls soon after that, a three-way call with Jon, to talk about the MTV Video Awards, where they’ve been nominated for Video Of The Year (which, what the fuck) and are scheduled to perform.
“It’s gonna be crazy, all-out. And we need to talk about your next tour, too. It’s weird, but people love the makeup and the costumes, so we’re going to have that circus you used for your video, really play it up. And Bren, can you be, like, really flamboyant with everything? Make it real showy. Stage gay.”
Brendon almost chokes on his own spit at that. Seriously, life hates him.
“So anyway, video awards. You guys have dancers and all kinds of shit that’ll be up on stage with you, so your first practice is in like a week I think, a couple days before the actual show. I’ll see you there, we’ll party. Gotta run though. Bye.”
They echo their goodbyes and Pete hangs up. And Brendon’s currently wanting to curl in a ball and die, but he notices the tiniest hint of a sparkle in Ryan’s eyes.
They can see him pulling himself together over the next week, making a visible effort to smile and talk and not retreat to his room quite so much. Brendon would be hopeful, but he knows it’s just for the band, as always. Ryan can’t get up onstage looking like a walking skeleton. He’s almost the old Ryan by the day of their first rehearsal, except that when you look too closely, there’s a brittleness behind his laugh, a tightness in his smile, and Brendon gets the feeling he’s barely holding on. Brendon himself isn’t much better.
They pick up Jon at the airport and head over to the theater, and Brendon’s in a pretty good mood at first because Jon does that to people, but he’s ready to pass out by the end of the day. The theater is huge, and his voice keeps cracking, and the dancers keep twirling around him like gnats he wants to swat away. It’s like all his old energy just disappeared and went into Ryan; Ryan, who’s debating with the choreographer and criticizing the costumes and flitting around being involved, involved in life like he hasn’t been for weeks.
And yet, when they get home and collapse on the couch with Jon to catch up, Ryan doesn’t join them. He trudges up to his room without a backwards glance.
The next day, after rehearsal, Brendon’s being fitted for a top hat when he sees Ryan with a girl. A girl. Not just any girl, but a pretty one, if you like that sort of thing, with the fake blonde hair and the big sparkling eyes. One of the dancers. Ryan’s smiling, wide and forced, at something she’s said, and she’s touching his arm. Brendon’s stomach wraps itself in knots.
It’s not that girls don’t hit on them, like, all the time. But it’s just the first time that Ryan’s not smiling politely and walking away. Brendon can’t breathe.
*****
“I need. Warmup,” he mutters to the choreographer, who keeps accosting him and telling him to practice his stupid little dance routine. He ends up having to warm up in the bathroom.
“Bren, we’re on in five,” Jon says, poking his head through the door with a peaceful smile. Brendon can feel himself relaxing a little already. He follows Jon through the mob backstage and finds the wings. Through the blur of tech guys and creepy red backstage light, he can see Ryan, and next to him is the blonde, and Brendon’s calm goes straight out the window.
“Quiet,” somebody hisses. “Curtain in thirty. Places.”
The wings go silent, so Brendon can hear perfectly when the girl presses a kiss to Ryan’s cheek and whispers, “Good luck.”
And with that, he has to take his place onstage, and the fact that he’s about to perform in front of thousands of people, not to mention TV cameras, is completely eclipsed by thoughts of Ryan. Afterwards, he doesn’t remember all of the performance, just the bits where his voice refuses to hit the high notes and he wants to trip the blonde as she dances in front of him.
He wants to go home after that, but they actually win the fucking award, which, what?, and he has to talk in front of all those people, which so doesn’t work. He stares blankly at the thing in his hand and feels vaguely confused, and then he looks out at the crowd. They’re screaming, all these smiling faces turned up to him that he can barely see in the glare from the lights, and he’s terrified, because he didn’t do a damn thing to deserve this. It was all Ryan.
“Fuck yeah,” Pete’s crowing when they come offstage, and he bear-hugs all of them. Brendon’s still not breathing properly. “Okay, so party time now? I’ll give you guys a few to change and crap. Meet you outside.” He grins and strides bouncily away.
Brendon walks back to the dressing room in a daze, staring into the mirror without actually seeing anything. So it takes him by surprise when he turns around and the blonde girl is there, giggling to Ryan. Surprise isn’t the word, actually, it’s more of a shock akin to stepping on a land mine.
“Guys, this is Keltie,” Ryan announces. “She’s coming to Pete’s party with us.”
Brendon goes numb after that. He puts on his stage smile and decides not to feel a thing.
Time seems to fly forward to huge gulps, so the next thing he’s conscious of is walking into Pete’s hotel suite and everyone turning and toasting to them. Then there’s a girl buzzing around him, a skinny thing with pink hair, but he doesn’t know what happens to her. And then Ryan’s kissing Keltie, and Brendon grabs a drink off the table, and that’s the end of it.
*****
He doesn’t come out from his room much for the next few weeks. There are radio interviews and practices and that’s about it. He can hear Keltie giggling from Ryan’s room when he goes downstairs for food at three in the morning. He can hear her giggling from the hallway as he tries to play his guitar in peace. He wants to throw her over the balcony, in a very rational and calm sort of way. It just makes more sense than having her giggling all over the place.
Spencer comes into his room one day. He raises an eyebrow at the stench of molding food and dirty clothes and stale pot smoke.
“What’s going on, Bren,” he says, more of a statement than a question.
“Nothing,” Brendon says from the balcony door.
“Bullshit. Don’t fucking give me that bullshit,” Spencer snaps, his laser-eyes glaring, and Brendon’s actually kind of scared.
“Nothing. I just like playing in private these days, I’m working on some new songs.”
“You don’t like Keltie.” Again, it’s a statement, so Brendon doesn’t see the harm in nodding his head yes. Spencer’s searching his face, eyes narrowed and confused.
“He thinks she’s what he needs,” Spencer says cryptically. “Get the fuck over it.”
Brendon just shrugs, but something in Spencer’s face shifts, like he understands all of a sudden.
“Get over it. For your own good,” Spencer repeats, but kinder this time. Brendon feels like he’s in one of those nightmares where he can’t see what’s chasing him. Spencer grabs four dirty plates and takes them with him when he leaves.
But Brendon tries to takehis words to heart. It makes sense, really. He smokes a little less pot and ventures down into the living room from time to time to play video games with Jon. Luckily, Ryan’s not hard to avoid, as he’s always out with Keltie or locked in his room with Keltie. It’s fairly difficult to ignore them when they’re on their way in or out, but Brendon manages, despite Keltie’s freakish friendliness.
*****
He doesn’t want to go to Ryan’s birthday party, but Spencer kind of forces him. In the end it’s not so terrible; Keltie only flies in to New York the morning of the party, so Brendon spends three days with the band, mostly succeeding at pretending nothing’s wrong. It only gets really bad the night of the party.
There’s something sick and murderous in his stomach when Keltie pops out of the box, all taut tanned skin and and bits of black lace and too-white smile, and Brendon’s burning with how much he hates her. And at the moment he hates Ryan too, because the raw twisting anger inside him doesn’t leave room for anything else. He hates the way Ryan’s smiling, hates how good Ryan’s gotten at faking it, hates himself for wondering if maybe that smile isn’t completely false. Because who can blame him if it’s real? Who wouldn’t want a perfect blonde girl writhing and smiling all over them?
But from where Brendon’s standing, tucked against a wall, hidden in the shadows, there’s just something wrong with this picture. Keltie’s too obvious, too obnoxiously uncomplicated, to find the subtleties behind Ryan’s careful blank eyes.
“What the fuck is she wearing,” comes a voice, amused and disapproving and sympathetic from behind him, and Brendon forgot, he doesn’t hate William.
“Hey,” Brendon whispers, without turning around, without taking his eyes off the sickening sight in front of him.
“Having fun torturing yourself?” Bill asks, sliding an arm around Brendon’s shoulders.
“I’m fine,” says Brendon, in a Ryan-worthy monotone.
“C’mere,” murmurs William, and when he pulls Brendon into a hug, Brendon doesn’t resist.
William’s solid and warm and he smells like beer and cologne, and Brendon wants to melt into him and never leave. He clings pathetically to the front of William’s shirt and squeezes his eyes shut, and he had almost forgotten how good it feels to just touch someone, to hold or be held.
“Can’t let the photographers see you, Bren. We should get out of here.”
So Brendon takes one last long look at Ryan and Keltie, their smiles sparkling to match the camera flashes, and lets William guide him to the exit.
“So how are we dealing with this?” William asks, while Brendon swipes his keycard.
“Huh?”
“Chocolate. Sappy movie. Booze. Throwing things. Ice cream. Take your pick,” William says wryly, folding himself down onto a bed. Brendon collapses next to him, heavy and exhausted.
“All of the above,” Brendon decides, but it’s too late, he’s already tearing up.
He’s gotten better, in the last month. He really has. It’s not so immediate any more, not so urgent, just a dull constant hatred in the pit of his stomach, a choking paralyzing thing that makes him want to scream whenever someone gets too close. But the only way he can keep functioning is to ignore it, to push everything away and pretend nothing happened. And now that William’s in it, refusing to ignore his sadness, pulling open scabs, poking and prodding and confronting, Brendon can’t help it; he’s crying.
Somehow, because it’s Bill, he doesn’t mind too much. He lets go, sobs ripping through his stomach and burning his throat on the way out.
“Shhh,” croons William, and he curls himself around Brendon like a cocoon.
He’s incapable of explaining, can’t find words for how he feels. William just pulls him closer and lets him cry. Brendon isn’t thinking about Ryan, isn’t thinking about anything at all, but the tears keep coming, rolling endlessly across the bridge of his nose and onto the pillow, while William strokes his hair gently.
He feels brittle when it stops, empty and too light, like he’ll float away without all that anger trapped inside him.
William pulls away for a second, and Brendon makes an embarrassingly needy noise in the back of his throat, but Bill smiles and says, “I’m just telling Gabe I’m not coming back to his place tonight.” When he’s done tapping at keys, he settles back against the bed and pulls Brendon close again.
William’s never been one to force conversation, so it’s silent, and Brendon just is. It’s weird, getting used to contentment after the months of numb unhappiness.
“Thanks,” Brendon whispers into William’s neck, and William opens his eyes to smile down at him, and it’s only natural that their lips should meet.
It’s not the end-of-the-world, rip-out-my-heart-through-my-mouth feeling of kissing Ryan. It’s lazy and comforting, kissing for the sake of kissing, for the sake of being close to someone. At some point, they strip down to their boxers matter-of-factly, just so it’ll be more comfortable when they sleep, and Bill twists around to flip the light switch.
“Thank you,” Brendon repeats, and William doesn’t respond, just presses his mouth to Brendon’s cheek. They kiss, lips barely parted, tongues darting out lightly, until they drift off.
Brendon sleeps through the night, finally. And for the first time in months, he smiles as he opens his eyes in the morning.
“Morning, Bilvy,” he says softly. And then laughs a little, because seriously, William has the best bed-head he’s ever seen; it’s somewhere between Medusa and Pete’s old dreadlocks.
William stretches, tongue poking out of his mouth as he yawns, and Brendon laughs again and says, “You’re a cat.”
William raises an expressive eyebrow. “I’ve heard pussy before, but never cat. What the fuck?”
“Never mind.”
“’Kay. So I’ve gotta run, Gabe’s probably drowning in the toilet bowl as we speak. But do I get to make morning-after innuendos?” He grins cheekily, pulling on his jeans. Brendon just rolls his eyes and mutters, “Can I stop you?”
That’s when they hear someone knocking.
“Come in,” Brendon calls without thinking. His heart does this funny thing when Ryan appears at the door, like it can’t decide whether to leap or crash through the carpet.
“Spence, d’you have any Advil?” Ryan mutters, and he’s too busy scrubbing his eyes with his fists to notice William.
“Spencer isn’t here,” Brendon says in a small voice. Ryan finally looks up. His eyes flicker dazedly between astonishment and surprise and what Brendon would swear is betrayal before finding their default emptiness again.
“Oh,” is all he says, his voice thin and strained.
“Hi, Ryan,” says William pointedly.
“Hi,” he whispers.
William turns back to Brendon, and he’s grinning wickedly, so Brendon guesses what’s going to happen a half-second before William says, “You were great, by the way.” He swishes his way past Ryan and out of the room.
Ryan leans against the doorframe, hunched and pale, his eyes burning.
“Oh,” he says again, barely a puff of air, but it’s pathetically wounded and longing. He steps out and closes the door behind him.
Brendon’s frozen for a moment, shocked into stillness, and then he smiles and thinks, God bless William Beckett.
I have a playlist for this story now!
Chapter Eight
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He can hear Keltie giggling from Ryan’s room when he goes downstairs for food at three in the morning. He can hear her giggling from the hallway as he tries to play his guitar in peace. He wants to throw her over the balcony, in a very rational and calm sort of way. It just makes more sense than having her giggling all over the place.
Ryan doesn’t come out of his room for two days. Spencer spends a lot of time sitting outside his room, reassuring him it’ll be alright and telling him to eat something.
Brendon can’t sleep. There’s something missing. There’s cool air where there should be warm soft skin and deep breathing and the smell of Ryan’s shampoo, and he feels impossibly distant, impossibly alone, without that perfect body curled against his chest.
On the third day, the day of the funeral, Ryan finally emerges from his room, and Brendon feels like he’s been punched. Ryan’s skin, always pale, is now approaching translucent, and his eyes are black holes, and he’s moving like it hurts, like he’s fighting to stay upright.
“What are you guys all dressed up for,” Ryan asks, his voice hoarse.
“We were invited too,” Spencer says.
“I don’t need you there.” Ryan’s not looking them in the eyes; instead, he’s staring at the carpet.
“Very funny. Let’s go,” Spencer says firmly, and because it’s Spencer, Ryan goes.
Brendon doesn’t hear a word of the ceremony. Ryan looks like he’s about to crumple to the ground, his eyes blank and his mouth pinched, the sunlight making his skin sickly green. Brendon can’t form coherent thoughts; it’s all a rush of panic and hurt and why can’t I make it better.
It’s still too close to the surface. It’s all there, raw and vicious, and whenever he looks at Ryan he drowns in memories, vivid flashbacks of that wide rare smile and skinsweatgasp and lazy afternoons sightseeing and, god, it’s too fucking much, he wants to crush Ryan into a hug, close enough to feel his heartbeat, and forget that any of this ever happened.
Ryan steps forward to throw the first handful of dirt into the grave, and he’s shaking but his eyes are dry. Brendon spins around and practically sprints to the car, and he only lets the tears burn their way out when he’s collapsed safely in the backseat, cheek pressed against the prickling upholstery, fingers digging into his own arms hard enough to bruise.
He’s nowhere near composed when he hears the door open.
“What’s going on, Bren,” says Spencer’s voice calmly from next to him.
“It’s a funeral. You’re supposed to cry,” Brendon says defensively, scrubbing his tears away with his jacket sleeve.
Spencer sighs and sits down next to him, staring at Brendon with those piercing blue laser-eyes. Brendon has a sudden irrational fear that Spencer knows exactly what’s going on.
“I just haven’t been to a funeral in a long time,” Brendon answers, and it’s the truth but, well, not.
Spencer doesn’t try to hug him, just nods. “Ryan’s going to the wake and he’s going to have his aunt bring him home. Want to pick up pizza on our way back?” he says, getting into the front seat, strong and capable, and Brendon’s grateful beyond words.
*****
Pete calls soon after that, a three-way call with Jon, to talk about the MTV Video Awards, where they’ve been nominated for Video Of The Year (which, what the fuck) and are scheduled to perform.
“It’s gonna be crazy, all-out. And we need to talk about your next tour, too. It’s weird, but people love the makeup and the costumes, so we’re going to have that circus you used for your video, really play it up. And Bren, can you be, like, really flamboyant with everything? Make it real showy. Stage gay.”
Brendon almost chokes on his own spit at that. Seriously, life hates him.
“So anyway, video awards. You guys have dancers and all kinds of shit that’ll be up on stage with you, so your first practice is in like a week I think, a couple days before the actual show. I’ll see you there, we’ll party. Gotta run though. Bye.”
They echo their goodbyes and Pete hangs up. And Brendon’s currently wanting to curl in a ball and die, but he notices the tiniest hint of a sparkle in Ryan’s eyes.
They can see him pulling himself together over the next week, making a visible effort to smile and talk and not retreat to his room quite so much. Brendon would be hopeful, but he knows it’s just for the band, as always. Ryan can’t get up onstage looking like a walking skeleton. He’s almost the old Ryan by the day of their first rehearsal, except that when you look too closely, there’s a brittleness behind his laugh, a tightness in his smile, and Brendon gets the feeling he’s barely holding on. Brendon himself isn’t much better.
They pick up Jon at the airport and head over to the theater, and Brendon’s in a pretty good mood at first because Jon does that to people, but he’s ready to pass out by the end of the day. The theater is huge, and his voice keeps cracking, and the dancers keep twirling around him like gnats he wants to swat away. It’s like all his old energy just disappeared and went into Ryan; Ryan, who’s debating with the choreographer and criticizing the costumes and flitting around being involved, involved in life like he hasn’t been for weeks.
And yet, when they get home and collapse on the couch with Jon to catch up, Ryan doesn’t join them. He trudges up to his room without a backwards glance.
The next day, after rehearsal, Brendon’s being fitted for a top hat when he sees Ryan with a girl. A girl. Not just any girl, but a pretty one, if you like that sort of thing, with the fake blonde hair and the big sparkling eyes. One of the dancers. Ryan’s smiling, wide and forced, at something she’s said, and she’s touching his arm. Brendon’s stomach wraps itself in knots.
It’s not that girls don’t hit on them, like, all the time. But it’s just the first time that Ryan’s not smiling politely and walking away. Brendon can’t breathe.
*****
“I need. Warmup,” he mutters to the choreographer, who keeps accosting him and telling him to practice his stupid little dance routine. He ends up having to warm up in the bathroom.
“Bren, we’re on in five,” Jon says, poking his head through the door with a peaceful smile. Brendon can feel himself relaxing a little already. He follows Jon through the mob backstage and finds the wings. Through the blur of tech guys and creepy red backstage light, he can see Ryan, and next to him is the blonde, and Brendon’s calm goes straight out the window.
“Quiet,” somebody hisses. “Curtain in thirty. Places.”
The wings go silent, so Brendon can hear perfectly when the girl presses a kiss to Ryan’s cheek and whispers, “Good luck.”
And with that, he has to take his place onstage, and the fact that he’s about to perform in front of thousands of people, not to mention TV cameras, is completely eclipsed by thoughts of Ryan. Afterwards, he doesn’t remember all of the performance, just the bits where his voice refuses to hit the high notes and he wants to trip the blonde as she dances in front of him.
He wants to go home after that, but they actually win the fucking award, which, what?, and he has to talk in front of all those people, which so doesn’t work. He stares blankly at the thing in his hand and feels vaguely confused, and then he looks out at the crowd. They’re screaming, all these smiling faces turned up to him that he can barely see in the glare from the lights, and he’s terrified, because he didn’t do a damn thing to deserve this. It was all Ryan.
“Fuck yeah,” Pete’s crowing when they come offstage, and he bear-hugs all of them. Brendon’s still not breathing properly. “Okay, so party time now? I’ll give you guys a few to change and crap. Meet you outside.” He grins and strides bouncily away.
Brendon walks back to the dressing room in a daze, staring into the mirror without actually seeing anything. So it takes him by surprise when he turns around and the blonde girl is there, giggling to Ryan. Surprise isn’t the word, actually, it’s more of a shock akin to stepping on a land mine.
“Guys, this is Keltie,” Ryan announces. “She’s coming to Pete’s party with us.”
Brendon goes numb after that. He puts on his stage smile and decides not to feel a thing.
Time seems to fly forward to huge gulps, so the next thing he’s conscious of is walking into Pete’s hotel suite and everyone turning and toasting to them. Then there’s a girl buzzing around him, a skinny thing with pink hair, but he doesn’t know what happens to her. And then Ryan’s kissing Keltie, and Brendon grabs a drink off the table, and that’s the end of it.
*****
He doesn’t come out from his room much for the next few weeks. There are radio interviews and practices and that’s about it. He can hear Keltie giggling from Ryan’s room when he goes downstairs for food at three in the morning. He can hear her giggling from the hallway as he tries to play his guitar in peace. He wants to throw her over the balcony, in a very rational and calm sort of way. It just makes more sense than having her giggling all over the place.
Spencer comes into his room one day. He raises an eyebrow at the stench of molding food and dirty clothes and stale pot smoke.
“What’s going on, Bren,” he says, more of a statement than a question.
“Nothing,” Brendon says from the balcony door.
“Bullshit. Don’t fucking give me that bullshit,” Spencer snaps, his laser-eyes glaring, and Brendon’s actually kind of scared.
“Nothing. I just like playing in private these days, I’m working on some new songs.”
“You don’t like Keltie.” Again, it’s a statement, so Brendon doesn’t see the harm in nodding his head yes. Spencer’s searching his face, eyes narrowed and confused.
“He thinks she’s what he needs,” Spencer says cryptically. “Get the fuck over it.”
Brendon just shrugs, but something in Spencer’s face shifts, like he understands all of a sudden.
“Get over it. For your own good,” Spencer repeats, but kinder this time. Brendon feels like he’s in one of those nightmares where he can’t see what’s chasing him. Spencer grabs four dirty plates and takes them with him when he leaves.
But Brendon tries to takehis words to heart. It makes sense, really. He smokes a little less pot and ventures down into the living room from time to time to play video games with Jon. Luckily, Ryan’s not hard to avoid, as he’s always out with Keltie or locked in his room with Keltie. It’s fairly difficult to ignore them when they’re on their way in or out, but Brendon manages, despite Keltie’s freakish friendliness.
*****
He doesn’t want to go to Ryan’s birthday party, but Spencer kind of forces him. In the end it’s not so terrible; Keltie only flies in to New York the morning of the party, so Brendon spends three days with the band, mostly succeeding at pretending nothing’s wrong. It only gets really bad the night of the party.
There’s something sick and murderous in his stomach when Keltie pops out of the box, all taut tanned skin and and bits of black lace and too-white smile, and Brendon’s burning with how much he hates her. And at the moment he hates Ryan too, because the raw twisting anger inside him doesn’t leave room for anything else. He hates the way Ryan’s smiling, hates how good Ryan’s gotten at faking it, hates himself for wondering if maybe that smile isn’t completely false. Because who can blame him if it’s real? Who wouldn’t want a perfect blonde girl writhing and smiling all over them?
But from where Brendon’s standing, tucked against a wall, hidden in the shadows, there’s just something wrong with this picture. Keltie’s too obvious, too obnoxiously uncomplicated, to find the subtleties behind Ryan’s careful blank eyes.
“What the fuck is she wearing,” comes a voice, amused and disapproving and sympathetic from behind him, and Brendon forgot, he doesn’t hate William.
“Hey,” Brendon whispers, without turning around, without taking his eyes off the sickening sight in front of him.
“Having fun torturing yourself?” Bill asks, sliding an arm around Brendon’s shoulders.
“I’m fine,” says Brendon, in a Ryan-worthy monotone.
“C’mere,” murmurs William, and when he pulls Brendon into a hug, Brendon doesn’t resist.
William’s solid and warm and he smells like beer and cologne, and Brendon wants to melt into him and never leave. He clings pathetically to the front of William’s shirt and squeezes his eyes shut, and he had almost forgotten how good it feels to just touch someone, to hold or be held.
“Can’t let the photographers see you, Bren. We should get out of here.”
So Brendon takes one last long look at Ryan and Keltie, their smiles sparkling to match the camera flashes, and lets William guide him to the exit.
“So how are we dealing with this?” William asks, while Brendon swipes his keycard.
“Huh?”
“Chocolate. Sappy movie. Booze. Throwing things. Ice cream. Take your pick,” William says wryly, folding himself down onto a bed. Brendon collapses next to him, heavy and exhausted.
“All of the above,” Brendon decides, but it’s too late, he’s already tearing up.
He’s gotten better, in the last month. He really has. It’s not so immediate any more, not so urgent, just a dull constant hatred in the pit of his stomach, a choking paralyzing thing that makes him want to scream whenever someone gets too close. But the only way he can keep functioning is to ignore it, to push everything away and pretend nothing happened. And now that William’s in it, refusing to ignore his sadness, pulling open scabs, poking and prodding and confronting, Brendon can’t help it; he’s crying.
Somehow, because it’s Bill, he doesn’t mind too much. He lets go, sobs ripping through his stomach and burning his throat on the way out.
“Shhh,” croons William, and he curls himself around Brendon like a cocoon.
He’s incapable of explaining, can’t find words for how he feels. William just pulls him closer and lets him cry. Brendon isn’t thinking about Ryan, isn’t thinking about anything at all, but the tears keep coming, rolling endlessly across the bridge of his nose and onto the pillow, while William strokes his hair gently.
He feels brittle when it stops, empty and too light, like he’ll float away without all that anger trapped inside him.
William pulls away for a second, and Brendon makes an embarrassingly needy noise in the back of his throat, but Bill smiles and says, “I’m just telling Gabe I’m not coming back to his place tonight.” When he’s done tapping at keys, he settles back against the bed and pulls Brendon close again.
William’s never been one to force conversation, so it’s silent, and Brendon just is. It’s weird, getting used to contentment after the months of numb unhappiness.
“Thanks,” Brendon whispers into William’s neck, and William opens his eyes to smile down at him, and it’s only natural that their lips should meet.
It’s not the end-of-the-world, rip-out-my-heart-through-my-mouth feeling of kissing Ryan. It’s lazy and comforting, kissing for the sake of kissing, for the sake of being close to someone. At some point, they strip down to their boxers matter-of-factly, just so it’ll be more comfortable when they sleep, and Bill twists around to flip the light switch.
“Thank you,” Brendon repeats, and William doesn’t respond, just presses his mouth to Brendon’s cheek. They kiss, lips barely parted, tongues darting out lightly, until they drift off.
Brendon sleeps through the night, finally. And for the first time in months, he smiles as he opens his eyes in the morning.
“Morning, Bilvy,” he says softly. And then laughs a little, because seriously, William has the best bed-head he’s ever seen; it’s somewhere between Medusa and Pete’s old dreadlocks.
William stretches, tongue poking out of his mouth as he yawns, and Brendon laughs again and says, “You’re a cat.”
William raises an expressive eyebrow. “I’ve heard pussy before, but never cat. What the fuck?”
“Never mind.”
“’Kay. So I’ve gotta run, Gabe’s probably drowning in the toilet bowl as we speak. But do I get to make morning-after innuendos?” He grins cheekily, pulling on his jeans. Brendon just rolls his eyes and mutters, “Can I stop you?”
That’s when they hear someone knocking.
“Come in,” Brendon calls without thinking. His heart does this funny thing when Ryan appears at the door, like it can’t decide whether to leap or crash through the carpet.
“Spence, d’you have any Advil?” Ryan mutters, and he’s too busy scrubbing his eyes with his fists to notice William.
“Spencer isn’t here,” Brendon says in a small voice. Ryan finally looks up. His eyes flicker dazedly between astonishment and surprise and what Brendon would swear is betrayal before finding their default emptiness again.
“Oh,” is all he says, his voice thin and strained.
“Hi, Ryan,” says William pointedly.
“Hi,” he whispers.
William turns back to Brendon, and he’s grinning wickedly, so Brendon guesses what’s going to happen a half-second before William says, “You were great, by the way.” He swishes his way past Ryan and out of the room.
Ryan leans against the doorframe, hunched and pale, his eyes burning.
“Oh,” he says again, barely a puff of air, but it’s pathetically wounded and longing. He steps out and closes the door behind him.
Brendon’s frozen for a moment, shocked into stillness, and then he smiles and thinks, God bless William Beckett.
I have a playlist for this story now!
Chapter Eight