Growing up is hard. It's been said so many times, and each time it's still true. It's that awkward, painful stage in your life where you want to pretend you don't give a fuck, but you crave so badly the acceptance of others. But then there are those people who never do grow up. Youthful forever. They may be dressed in a suit, working their nine-to-five job, but they're thinking of those summer nights, curled up on a porch swing, grasping for fireflies in the dark, the heat of another person body. People say that growing up is finding yourself. When you find yourself, you'll be content. Right? For some people though, it's the not knowing who you are, that thrills them. That's what they live for. Live for the simplicity that comes with youth. The live-in-the-moment moments. The second where you reach for someones hand, meeting their eyes, filled with just happiness, and jump.
It had been one hour and twenty three minutes, since Brendon had arrived at the party. He knew because he checked his Rolex about every thirty seconds. He sighed, surveying the crowd of seniors--or ex-seniors, which was why this party was being held. Tucked into a drab, gray couch in the corner of a living room, Brendon could watch the amusing antics of eighteen year old kids, trying to be the one to toss back the most Jell-O shots, or grind the dirtiest. Brendon on the other hand, couldn't care less about any of that. He came to the party because it felt right to do so. The last party that everyone would be at. The last time he would see the boys and girls he'd known since kindergarten in the same room. But now he was slumped in the back, per usual, watching everyone else dance, and laugh, and be alive for one more night. No worries about college or their futures. Just this moment where everything was perfect. He felt the couch dip, and glanced over to see a slim figure seated next to him. He was looking out into the crowd of people, a thoughtful expression gracing his delicate features. William turned to him, smiling softly.
"Having fun?" he inquired sarcastically.
"Oh yeah." Brendon nodded. "Loads."
William chuckled quietly, and Brendon could tell he was tipsy.
"You should have a beer. Or two," William commented, as if he could read his mind.
"Um, my parents would kill me."
He rolled his eyes. "You just graduated! I think you deserve one beer tonight. They'd understand anyways, I bet."
Brendon was tempted to argue that, no, his parents most definitely would not understand. But William had already stood up gracefully, and hurried off. Brendon slumped back, a little disappointed he was alone again, but a second later William returned. This time he had a bottle of Smirnoff clutched in his spidery fingers. He thrust it at Brendon, who took it incredulously.
"Drink up, Bren. Don't worry, it tastes good. Like. . .soda or something."
And he was gone again, melting into the pounding house. Brendon considered the bottle, smelling it inconspicuously. He could detect the faint odor of vodka, and it made his stomach churn a little. He caught some guy he didn't know watching him a little challengingly, and he hastily took a sip. The cold drink fizzed up in his mouth; sweet, but a little sour with alcohol. It tasted good though, and a cheesy part of his mind popped up with Tastes like freedom. Years later, Brendon would look back and realize that if he had never taken that first sip, so, so much would have been different. Sometimes late at night, he wondered what he would have been doing now, if he had never finished that bottle of raspberry Smirnoff.
By the last of the first bottle, Brendon was tipsy, as well. Every time he turned his head, it seemed too fast, too spinning. He stumbled to his feet, joints creaking in protest. He pushed his way through everyone, until he reached the kitchen, where the drinks, and what used to be food, were. There was an open, blue cooler filled with alco-pops; Smirnoff, Mikes Hard, and Sparks. He grabbed the two other drinks, leaning against the counter, and cracking open the lemonade. It tasted like the first drink, and he finished it quickly. William came in then, his face lighting up when he saw the drunk Brendon.
"Hey, Will!" he slurred, lunging forward to hug William.
"Hey, Bren." William hugged him back, patting his head.
"T-thanks for the drink," giggled Brendon.
"Looks like you're enjoying it." William smirked, eyes glazed, and tiny body vibrating.
There was shout from the living room of 'Five minutes!'
"'Till whaaat?" questioned Brendon, stumbling in place, and hopping extremely ungracefully up onto the counter.
"Um, midnight! Like New Years," laughed William, shaking his head, and slipping away again.
Brendon dropped back onto the ground, falling to the floor. He sat there for a second, before hoisting himself up, and stumbling outside. The cool air sharpened his sense slightly, but he still felt so light, and his body parts weren't working correctly. He wandered vaguely to the backyard, collapsing to the grass, staring up at the glinting specks, billions of miles away. He wasn't sure how long he lay there, but pretty soon there was a cry of midnight, and lots of screaming. He smiled to himself. He had made it through twelve years of school. He was alive.
"Can I join you?"
Brendon craned his neck backwards to see the owner of the soft voice. He could see dark hair falling into an angular face, but that was it.
"Sure thing."
The guy settled into the grass next to him, scooching close, until their elbows were knocking against each other.
"M' Ryan."
It took him a second to get that was his name.
"Brendon," he replied, guessing that it was Ryan Ross.
He could recall a boy as skinny as William, hunched over, scribbling in a book during band. He came and sat in class sometimes, listening to them play, while he talked about music theory or some other shit with the band teacher.
"We did it," Brendon told him.
Ryan laughed softly, arms rubbing against Brendon's, and he propped himself up.
"We did indeed."
Brendon sat up, cross-legged, and stared at the other boy. His hazel eyes reflected the lit-up house, and his lips were upturned slightly. Pretty.
Ryan leaned in, lips bumping awkwardly against Brendon's chin, until they found his lips, and then Brendon was floating again. It was a soft chaste kiss. At first. Ryan's lips were warm and didn't taste like cheap alcohol, unlike Brendon's. Ryan's velvety tongue swiped at Brendon's bottom lip, and he hesitantly opened his mouth, letting Ryan explore it. He tasted like warmth and cigarettes, and mystery. Secrets. Ryan Ross tasted like secrets. Brendon could feel rough hands on his hips, pulling him closer. He scrambled almost into Ryan's lap, wrapping his arms around his neck, crushing their mouths closer.
"Ryan," someone sighed.
They broke apart, and Brendon was too sober now. Spencer Smith was standing there, hands on hips, expression weary. Ryan gave him a sheepish, small smile. He gently pushed Brendon off him, rising to his feet. Spencer wrapped an arm around Ryan's shoulder, leading him away. He shot Brendon a sympathetic look, knowing he was just another one. Brendon only had eyes for the lanky figure clad in a loose, blue v-neck, and skintight jeans. Ryan Ross. The name felt like heartbreak.