Diamonds, Loose: Part Nine
A couple of days later, everyone’s buzzing about the Christmas Dance. It’s an annual formal for seniors, and for most of the girls lower down in the school it’s the one thing that motivates them to even get that far up high school. It’s really not that great, though; I’ve never seen the hype. When I was with Jac, she’d go on about it, how it’d be a magical night and the perfect way to end school before the break - even though it’s not even on the last day - and I would always just nod along.
But now I’m... I’m this person that is actually depended on, by someone I’d pretty much move mountains for if he wished it to be so, and it’s kind of different. I feel like I’ve got something to prove, still, after all the shit I’ve pulled.
I’m lying flat on my bed facing up, staring at the flyer in my hand, gripped tight. The font’s in red and green, and it’s advertising it as the night all your Christmas dreams come true.
Wow.
I think it’s ridiculous, right, but Brendon brought it up only yesterday, at his house. We were on the sofa, he was leaning on me, the TV was on, a Christmas advert popped up. He said, “Christmas Dance is soon, right?”
“Uh-huh,” I replied, glancing at him inquisitively.
Then he was just silent for a second, and I was back to watching the adverts but I could abstractly feel his eyes studying me. “It’s kind of over-hyped,” he said eventually, and I agreed with him, not failing to notice the flicker of disappointment rippling through him as I did so.
So, yeah, maybe he wants. Maybe he expects - or thinks he should be expecting things from me, more, but he’s not because he doesn’t trust that I’d deliver, that I’d come through for him. I’d be kind of pissed that he hasn’t said anything when he clearly wants this to happen, but it makes sense, and it’s for me that he hasn’t: he knows as well as I do that if we went to the dance together, it’d be the end of it all. Or the start. I don’t know. But it would change things, and I’ve told him over and over that I’m not ready. I’ve told him so many times that maybe he thinks I’ll never be.
I don’t want that.
God, if he wants to go, we’ll fucking go.
The thought makes my bones shake, counting up the number of beatings, the amount of gossip and weird looks and whispers behind backs and exclusion, it’s all terrifying. But.
I sigh, taking a last look at the flyer before screwing it up and throwing it carelessly across the room. I don’t care about the dance, it’s not about the dance. Crossing the room to my school bag, I rummage around for my phone and find it, slightly unsteady fingers rushing to the ‘Contacts’ screen, because the faster I do it the less likely it is that I’ll back out, let him down.
I hope I judged this right.
My mouth is dry, and he picks up on the third ring. “Hey, Ryan,” he greets, sounding pleasantly surprised like he always does when I call unannounced.
I eventually rasp out a croaky, “Hi,” and then clear my throat, shaking my head roughly.
“What’s up?”
Inhale, exhale, breathe-breathe-breathe. If I think about him and the way his face lights up, I find it’s easier to speak. “I wanted to... ask you something?”
“Shoot,” he says easily.
Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck, maybe I shouldn’t, maybe I should change it to something else, it’s not too late for that, this is a bad idea-“Will you go to the dance? The, uh, Christmas one. I mean, with... me?” I cringe, slapping a hand soundlessly to my forehead and flopping down to sit hunched-over on the edge of my bed, covering my eyes with my free hand as if to hide from the embarrassment.
“Um,” he says. Um? That’s it? I feel close to hysterical. “It’s for seniors.”
He’s stalling for some reason, he knows he could come, but still I play along and say, “Plus ones can be any age.”
Brendon sighs, and my heart is beating double-quick, so loud I swear he can hear it and that’s why he’s taking so long to say anything, and my knee is jumping nervously up and down. I lay a hand on it to stop it, end up gripping nervously. “Ryan, everyone would know.”
I bite my lip and ask impatiently, “What if I want them to?”
“Ryan,” he warns. And that’s what it is, a warning, a stop sign before I go too far and do something stupid. “You don’t,” he tells me, and he sounds so forlorn that I wish this wasn’t over the phone, so I could hold him and kiss him and make him believe in me.
I argue, “I do,” and it hits me, the stupid little epiphany that I’m being honest and I really do; it falls from wanting to please him and make him smile to just plain not caring about what they might say. His smile is still a benefit, but maybe I want, want to see the look on their faces, maybe I want to stop hiding. I’m tired of hiding. “I do, I do.” I grit my teeth. “Don’t make me beg you.”
“You know I’ll go with you,” he says, slow and soft and a little patronising but I can’t find it in me to be irritated, “I just don’t want to if you’re going to regret it. And I’ll understand if you think you will, okay?”
I close my eyes. He still doesn’t trust me, still has doubts, and I don’t blame him. “I don’t care about any of it, okay, I don’t care what they do to me or how many people I lose ‘cause, like, they’re not worth it if they do that anyway, and. Fucking hell, I want to go with you, if I didn’t I wouldn’t be asking, and none of what might or might not happen is anywhere near as important as-“ I cut myself off, and his breath hitches at the other end.
He says, “Oh,” and I finish weakly with, “You.”
There’s a helpless laugh in my ear and another agonising second before he declares suddenly, “Okay, fine, okay, I’ll go with you.”
I smile, relaxing back until I’m reclining on the bed. “Awesome.”
“Man, we’re so lame,” he snickers. “A dance?”
Letting myself laugh with him, more to expel nerves than anything else, and I mumble, “Shut the fuck up,” as my cheeks burn.
“I’m joking,” he says, and I can hear the good-natured smirk, always good. “It’ll be fine.” I’m not sure whether it will be, so goddamn shaky, but his words keep me grounded and I hold on for dear life.
* * *
It goes quickly from being something in the future to be dealt with in due time, to being something that’s happening right-fucking-now, today, and I’m not ready, I’m not prepared for this. One minute I was dodging questions (“No, I don’t think I’m going, but I might, I don’t know, um, hey, is that Angelina Jolie?”) and trying not to smile so damn much around Brendon, and the next I’m, well, here. Standing in front of the full-length mirror in my cluttered room and staring at myself.
There’s a suit hanging off of me - I think it’s one of Dad’s old ones, but I push that particular thought away - and I’m not sure how it got there. This whole day has been a hazy dream, drifting through school and then relaxing with Brendon after; relaxing, yeah, until he gave me this really adorable, anticipating half-grin and said, “We should get home. We need to get ready for tonight, you know?”
And I nodded and agreed while my stomach plummeted and complete fear clawed at my insides. He whispered, “I’m really excited,” into my ear before he kissed me and went off in the direction of his house.
And, really, I am too. About the whole going-with-Brendon thing, yeah, that’s kind of perfect. And in theory I’m totally on board with dropping the facade, with showing everyone what we have, what we’ve made, but theory and practice are two very different things, and my feet are getting cold.
Not that I’d run out on Brendon.
I don’t think I’d do that.
It’s just that this, now, is going to be extremely difficult.
Running an evaluating eye over my reflection, I’m disappointed. My hair’s slightly tousled but neater than it usually is, and the black suit could do with being better-tailored. The skinny tie is black with a thin line of red all along the edge, and Brendon’s going to be wearing something red too, something similar, I think. I don’t know. My head is everywhere.
I take a deep breath and count to ten, briefly checking my hair again before touching up the eyeliner that’s deliberately smudged close around my eye and leaving my bedroom. I’ve never worn eyeliner for Brendon before. Or, well, anyone - but the point is that I hope he’ll like it.
Once I’m downstairs, patting my back pocket to double-check my phone’s in there, my mom materialises out of nowhere, making me jump. “Jesus,” I breathe, clapping a hand to my chest mock-theatrically, and she just smiles with her eyes.
“You look so lovely, darling,” she beams, and I scuff my feet uncomfortably. “Hey, I’m proud of you.”
“It’s just a stupid dance, Mom.” It’s not.
“You know what I mean,” she says mock-sternly, a definite don’t-fuck-with-me tone, and I zip my mouth shut, nodding her thank you. That’s all I plan to leave it at but she comes forward into the hallway and hugs me, smiling against my chest because I’m taller than her. “Good luck, honey,” she says, and I smile weakly.
“Thanks,” I reply, my voice a little shaky as I spin around and look at the clock on the wall. To get to Brendon’s house on time I need to be out of here in fifteen minutes. That’s fifteen minutes more of worrying and bad scenarios in my head until I’ll leave and I can’t go back, will just have to do it because of him. I’m so glad he’s here to make it necessary.
There’s a head-height mirror in the hallway, too, and I fix my hair nervously because suddenly it’s all wrong, fiddle with my collar, adjust it and then pat it down the same place it was before. It’s all pointless rigmarole, the tweaks and the effort to make everything look perfect, but at the same time it’s not. There’s a point, and I keep conveniently forgetting, like if I don’t think about it it’ll go away.
I look kind of sophisticated, I suppose, if you look from the right angle; it’s like something you could wear to something elegant. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I slip it out enough to look down at it, aware of my mom being so close, and it’s from Brendon. imaginin u in 1 of those stupid suits. bet u look so hot,wont b able2 resist jumpin u lol.x
I actually laugh out loud, because yeah, okay, we’re far from elegant. We’re anything but, and I love it. I don’t know what to reply so I just pocket it and smile to myself because he could have said something all supportive and meaningful and I’m-there-for-you-Ryan-we-can-do-this-together, but he didn’t, just did something to lighten the mood even though he’s not here to know it needs lightening.
Dad drags himself out from the living room behind me, and I meet his eyes in the mirror. “Where’d you say you were going?”
“A dance,” I deadpan, “at school.”
“Right, right,” he slurs, trying to focus. I tighten my tie, loosen it again. “Going with Jac, are you?”
“No.” I turn around, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not with Jac anymore, I told you that already.” I never told him the rest.
“On your own, then?” he scoffs, his lip curling a little. “Why bother?"
“I’m not going on my own,” I snap, suddenly losing it. “I’m going with someone I actually care about. His name is Brendon, okay, Dad, and.” I forget what I was going to say because shit, shit, what am I doing, why did I-shit, his eyes are on fire, his face is colouring and I’m frozen to the spot. My mom’s lingering, watching with bated breath.
“Brendon,” he repeats, slowly and with a wrinkled brow. I keep my chin held high even though I want to run or hide or both, and he says, “You’re friends. You’re going as friends.”
I shake my head, swallow the scared lump in my throat. “He makes me happy.”
“What,” he mumbles, trying to understand, and I can see the moment where it clicks, where he realises I’m not fucking around and this is real and his son is a personification of every bad word that he lives by. “No,” he says coldly, advancing on me. My hand clutches at my phone in my pocket, like a security blanket. “No, no son of mine-“ he starts, his voice getting louder with pure, untainted fury, but I step smartly around him and go for the door, wrenching it open.
“Shut up, George,” my mother says, physically pushing him out of the way as he looks positively outraged, and she comes to the door too. “Have a good night, honey. Good luck,” she adds, the second time she’s said it, but I smile anyway.
The walk to Brendon’s - I still haven’t gotten round to driving lessons, but he laughed when I brought it up and said walking was cool, and I worry too much - leaves me too much time to think, so I distract myself with other things in my mind. Mainly involving Brendon, if I’m honest, but he just takes up so much space these days. I don’t think about what just happened, how angry he was, don’t think about what it might be like when I get home later because there are more significant things. He’ll get over it. I don’t fucking care.
I knock on Brendon’s door kind of hesitantly, quieter than I would normally, and it takes a while to work up to it. I’m blushing a little because if someone inside happened to be looking out the window in the past minute and a half they would have seen my floundering, and I rub at the back of my neck awkwardly, looking at the floor. Footsteps on the other side and then the door opens and I look up quickly, my mouth dropping open without permission.
Brendon looks amazing. Of course he would, he has the innate ability to always look good, but this is something else. He’s breathtaking, literally stealing my breath away with his fitted suit just the right side of tight, the glossy hair that he still hasn’t managed to get out of his eyes, although no doubt he’s tried. His tie is checkered red and black, matching, and you’d think it would look dumb, but. “Oh, hey,” he smirks, looking me up and down as he leans one shoulder on the doorframe, “I totally predicted right.”
I miss the reference at first, then remember the text and smile slyly, stepping up to kiss his mouth. “Thanks,” I say belatedly, still distracted by how good he looks. I feel the need to inform him, say, “You look really fucking great,” into his ear, and he grins slightly nervously.
Ducking his head back inside, he yells out, “Mom? I’m going!” and I hear her distantly call back to him, tell him to have a good time. When he looks back at me, his eyes are bright and wide, and he says, “Come on, let’s get this over with,” with a charming smile. He catches my hand after he closes the door, and I’m still not used to that, and so on edge already, so I flinch away.
It makes him give me a funny look as we walk down his street, frowning at me, and I ask, “What?” like everything’s normal.
“Okay?” he murmurs, and there’s something in the one little word that makes it encouraging. “It’s alright if you’re scared. Like, we can still not go, or-“
“I’m not scared,” I cut in curtly, and it’s his turn to flinch, glancing away from me.
But it’s not long before he mumbles, “I know you are, you can’t hide from me,” and I sigh, exhausted, grab his hand blindly. He looks surprised at that but I hold on and he doesn’t comment. I can’t make myself let go until the school looms on the horizon, a massive grey beacon of what’s to come, and he squeezes on my fingers. It switches from us walking side-by-side to him having to pull me a little, and I wish I could match his pace but I can’t, my feet are dragging.
Before we get too close, he stops us, places a hand on my chest and kisses me roughly, just the right amount of force and bite and he whispers fiercely, “Tell me now if you’re not going to do this.”
And I look at him, for a long, long moment. He doesn’t look pissed off or annoyed or tired of me, he’s just waiting for an answer - like he always is and always has been throughout this whole ordeal, and I tell him evenly, “Let’s go.”
It seems like we’re at the doors before I can blink, and we’re a little late so no one’s around here, they’ll all be in the school hall. Brendon glances down at our linked hands, like he expects me to pull away, but I stay and he opens the door. Stepping into this building still joined to him like this is weird enough in itself, makes it all seem so unreal, and I can’t even imagine what it’ll be like going in there.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath, anxious as we walk down the corridors, but Brendon’s there, he’s right there so it must be okay.
“You’ll be fine,” he murmurs, super quiet, “we’ll be fine,” and then, fuck, we’re at the main entrance to the big hall. Music thumps inside and it’s muffled but still legible through the great oak doors, and peering discreetly through the little windows in them, all I can see is people. We’ve paused, and he’s looking at me cautiously, like an animal that’s going to spook. “You wanna let go, or...?” he asks, and I shake my head, feeling faint.
“No, that-that kind of skips over the point, doesn’t it, you know, we might as well, like, go in like that, first thing,” I ramble disjointedly, and he puts a quick finger to my lips to stop it. I look at him gratefully and I take my hand away, only to wipe it quickly on my pants before smiling briefly and nervously at him and tucking it into his again. Brendon’s the one who reaches forward to push at the doors, and he’s the one who steps in first. I just follow, and I’m so thankful.
The doors open onto a kind of semi-platform and there are steps down into the actual hall and the dancefloor and everything. Everyone always says it’s perfect for formals, allows every couple to make an entrance, but right now it single-handedly creates the worst moment of my life. My hand is like a vice on Brendon’s, if I hold any looser then I’ll be forced to let go because every single head has turned our way.
Glancing at Brendon, I see him gulp warily, looking out over the shocked faces, and I tug him forward to the top of the stairs, start to descend. Every eye is on us, every mouth has stopped babbling; if there was no music playing, the room would be quiet enough to hear a pin drop. I will my cheeks not to flame up, alternating between looking at the floor and defiantly out at the mass of people.
Once we’re at the bottom I’m unsure what to do, can’t just slip in and mingle and join in the dancing because it’s all come to a standstill and we are the cause. Casting around almost desperately, I almost collapse with relief when I catch sight of Spencer, off to one side with Haley and looking completely shocked. His eyes lock with mine, though, and he mumbles something into her ear before he crosses to me, to us, squeezing through people and unceremoniously shoving one guy who was making crude, not-so-quiet remarks out of the way.
“Um,” he says, over the music, “what’s going on?”
I shrug, trying not to look around at the majority of people who are still glued to us. “We’re, ah. Me and Brendon, we’re kind of a... thing?”
“Jeez,” Spencer breathes with a half-laugh, “I mean, I knew you weren’t telling me some stuff, but. Jesus.”
“Don’t hate me,” I plead, terrified, because everyone else can think what they will, but I cannot lose Spencer.
Spencer’s eyebrows shoot up his face, and he looks thoroughly offended. “Ry, I couldn’t. I don’t fucking care who you’re with, oh my god,” he says incredulously. “Dude, okay, I’m shocked ‘cause you never said anything, and ‘cause you always went along with Pete when he... but you’re still you, man, it doesn’t change it.”
Brendon draws soothing circles on my hand with his thumb, and I could possibly pass out from relief. “Oh,” I stumble, “I thought-“
“Wrong,” Spencer finishes simply. “But, like, wait. I thought you hated each other?” he asks, confused, gesturing between the two of us.
“We do, sometimes,” Brendon puts in, grinning nervously, and I nod weakly.
“But sometimes, it’s.” I pause, shaking my head. “I don’t even know, so I sure as fuck can’t explain it to you. Just, I’m happy, Spence,” I add quietly, and he smiles, steps forward and pulls me into an impromptu hug, Brendon dropping my hand so I can hug him back properly.
“Happy you’re happy,” he mumbles, and I clap him on the back.
“Thanks, man,” I say, meaning it, and he looks off to the side, stutters something about having to go. Once he’s left, Brendon presses up close to my side, hand tangling with mine again, reassurance. People have returned to talking and laughing and dancing, but they all keep glancing over, they’re so aware, and it puts me on edge.
“Punch?” Brendon suggests, and I roll my eyes and nod, let myself be pulled over to the refreshments table, and all the while people are talking, talking. Brendon reaches out to pour his own punch but I bat his hand away, take his red cup and do it for him as he smirks approvingly, muttering something about what a gentleman he’s turned me into. I scoff and shove his filled cup at him roughly, but he insists, “It’s my good influence, honestly.” I laugh and bring my own cup to my lips before raising my eyes to beyond Brendon’s shoulder and choking on the mouthful.
Gabe and Bill are both standing there, Gabe looking suspiciously like he drank something other than punch before he came and Bill trying to simultaneously support his weight and push him off of him. Mostly, though, they’re both looking kind of hugely confused, and then Brendon spins around too, stepping backwards as he does so that he’s even more into my space. It’s so obvious, we’re so obvious.
“Hey, Ryan,” Bill says slowly, eyes dancing between us. “Some gentlemen were saying some... egregious things, so we came to see if there was any truth there, because we said there wasn’t, but, ah.” I blink. I don’t even know what ‘egregious’ means: he’s like a fucking thesaurus.
“We’re,” I start, words catching in my throat as they look on expectantly, waiting for explanation. “We came together. I’m with Brendon.” Brendon nods, and Gabe frowns.
“I didn’t know you liked dick,” he slurs, making Brendon snort with laughter, and William hushes Gabe.
“No one did, dear,” he soothes boredly, and turns back to me. “This,” he says, pointing at us, “was a brave thing to do.” I shrug awkwardly and Brendon smiles wide, nudging me. William asks me, “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I reply, and William concedes.
“Uh,” Gabe pipes up, clearly concentrating, “you punched him. Fairly hard. In the face.”
I hang my head and don’t know what to say, but Brendon slips an arm around my waist and pulls me into his warmth, saying, “He’s promised to be good.” I don’t remember promising any such thing, but I just cock an eyebrow at him and he smirks right back.
“Listen, you look good together,” William remarks honestly. “Like a proper couple, you know?”
Chuckling disbelievingly, nerves fluttering around inside still, I ask him, “Who did you come with, anyway?”
“Oh, me?” Bill says. “Gabriel. But not, like, together together. Not like you-and-him together. Neither of us had dates, so we’re just here as two extremely dapper male friends, hanging out.”
“It’s a bro-date,” Gabe cuts in, and William rolls his eyes.
“Listen, Ryan, we’ll catch you later, okay? Congratulations on your emerging from the metaphorical closet,” he says with a wink, and then Gabe pulls him away, rambling about suggesting various different songs to the DJ.
Brendon sets a hand on my shoulder, turns me to face him properly, and his eyes are concerned. “Doing okay?” he says, and I nod robotically. I am, it’s been remarkably fine so far, but I can’t shake the feeling that it won’t last.
“I feel like it’s gonna get worse,” I tell him eventually, and he glances either side of him before leaning in and kissing my cheek, a whisper’s breadth away from my mouth.
“I’m here,” he offers, and I smile gratefully at him because I know he is, whatever the fuck happens tonight or tomorrow, he is.
There’s a lot of people on the dancefloor, and a lot of the attention’s directed away from us now but I still feel so conspicuous. He sees me looking and cranes his neck to do so too, take in the amount of people.
Extending a hand towards me, Brendon asks, “May I have this dance?” in a put-on, overly posh voice, one that clashes with the pounding bass line and techno sound of the song that’s playing right now. I close my eyes briefly but when I open them he’s still there, a challenging look on his face, and I sigh loudly, glare at him a little as I take his hand.
“You’re such a dork,” I hiss, and he cackles in reply.
“And you’re a miserable ass,” he says brightly, smirking at me, “what’s new?"
He reels me in, right into the crowds and the clumps of people until I feel lost in the best kind of way, like no one could find me if they were looking, and it’s good. It’s more than good, dancing close to him, bodies moving only a little restrictedly to the beat of the music. Occasionally his hand lands on my hip or my neck, draws me in closer, and I let him do it, just like I let him share that smile with me and like I let him laugh openly at my dance moves.
After a couple of songs, though, there’s a hand grabbing at the scruff of my neck and spinning me around, and there’s Pete. He’s got a girl on his arm, Ashlee someone: tight, skimpy dress and bright red hair, hanging off of him like he’s golden. And he looks mildly terrifying. His face is like thunder, and he’s that angry side of menacing, his hands already curled into fists. My heart leaps into my mouth and Brendon’s hand falls to my wrist from behind me.
“Pete,” I acknowledge him coolly.
“Ross, what the fuck is going on?!” he demands, jerking his head towards Brendon, and before I know what I’m doing I’m stepping to the side enough to shield Brendon from his sight, like he’s something that needs to be kept and protected, and I’ve sure as hell never felt that about anyone else. “Baby, I gotta talk to this kid, I’ll be back in two seconds, alright?” he says sweetly to the girl, and then he’s pushing, shoving me away from that spot and away from Brendon, to a different part of the floor where she can’t see him lose it.
“Stop it,” I say, exasperation covering up the worry, the anxiety of not having Brendon by me. “I’m not gonna fight you or whatever, so you can just stop.”
“No, I can’t,” he explodes, right in my face. “What the hell, man, I thought you were cool! I thought we could be friends, but you’re nothing but a-“
“Peter,” a lightly accented voice cuts in loudly, and Gabe appears behind it, weirdly a lot more sober than he was before. “Finish that sentence wrong, I dare you.”
“What,” Pete says, furious, “are you gonna tell me you’re one too?”
“No,” Gabe says calmly, “but I’m not an asshole. I have been, but not anymore.”
“Gabe, you don’t have to-“ I start, but he shakes his head and adds, “Ryan can date whoever he wants, and so can anyone else. You’re gonna start falling out with people if you can’t see that.”
“Fuck you,” Pete spits, “I’ve got tons of people.”
“Yeah?” another voice joins in, William’s this time, waltzing up to stand the other side of Gabe to me and flashing me a small smile. “We’ll see.”
“Pete,” I address him, “we were friends before, we can be cool now.”
“Shit,” is all he says to that, “shit,” clapping a hand to his forehead as if in devastation, “now everyone’s going to know I was friends with a faggot, oh my fucking god.” Brendon sidles up at that moment, looking mortified on my behalf while the word I’d been fearing punches me in the gut. He doesn’t say anything, just leans into me the slightest bit, a wall of stability up my left side. Pete raised his voice quite a lot and now most people are looking this way, second-time shocked faces.
“Lay off him, Pete,” a different, drawling voice says, and a second later Jon squeezes politely between two people to come and stand with us, a pretty blonde girl who I know as Cassie holding his hand and Spencer and Haley in tow. “Hey, Ryan, congrats on the out,” he lazily throws my way. “I kind of guessed.”
“Oh God,” Pete says with disgust, “it’s like you’re all gay.”
“Okay, listen,” Gabe declares, and all heads turn to him. “No one wants to hear what you have to say. Maybe after months and months of grovelling, we’ll consider forgiving you for being such a baboso, but right now I think you should go home.” There are mutual nods of agreement and an extremely dark look passes over Pete’s face, but after some agonising seconds he storms off, grabbing Ashlee on the way and grumbling as she totters after him in her high heels.
“Jesus,” Brendon breathes, pressing his face into my neck without thinking, “that was awful, I’m sorry.”
I frown. “It wasn’t so bad. Why’re you sorry?”
“Because it’s my fault.”
“None of it is,” I correct him immediately. “You make it easier, for the most part.” I catch Gabe’s eye and he wiggles his eyebrows at me, at my arms around Brendon. There’s still the uneasy feeling, the nag that this is wrong, that I shouldn’t be doing this here of all places, that I’m being stupid and I’m going to be found out and the world’s going to come crashing down around me, but I ignore it and it fades some.
At that moment, a typical slow-paced song trickles through the sound system, and the DJ’s voice booms over the mic. “Okay, we’re gonna slow it down in here now. So, guys, grab that special girl and ask her to dance.”
Some catcalls and giggles erupt and Brendon leans back from me, looks me up and down. “I feel like I’ll get punched if I make any kind of remark about you being a special girl,” he says.
I laugh, mutter back, “Just ask me.”
“How about you ask me?” he challenges, eyes bright.
“How about we just dance?”
Grinning, he nods, clutching my hand for the billionth time tonight and pulling me to the centre of the dance floor where everyone can see. “That counts, you know,” he informs me.
“Counts as what?”
He smiles coyly. “You asking me.”
“No it doesn’t, what-“
“It does,” he corrects simply, and I roll my eyes.
“Shut up and dance,” I mumble, so he does. There’s a dumb, cheap-ass disco ball suspended from the ceiling and it’s right above our heads as he slips his arms over my shoulders and clasps his hands loosely behind my neck.
Before this happened, before we even got here, I was wondering about what I should do; how I could prove myself to him, make him see I’m not just fucking around. I thought about grabbing the mic on stage or at the DJ’s booth, literally telling the world exactly how I feel about him, but the thought made me feel nauseous and as much as I’d like to be, I’ll never be that guy. But this, right now, holding him closer than close as he rests his head on my shoulder, it feels like more proof than anything.
I don’t know the song but I don’t care, wholly focused on the way his body moves with mine, the light touch of his fingers at the nape of my neck. My hands are settled at the small of his back, not daring to go lower here no matter how much I’d love to, and our hips press together in the most innocent sense. It doesn’t feel like us, not what I’d defined us to be; rough, angry, fuelled by red lust and lust alone. It’s not us, it’s better.
My hips sway a little out of time, and he muffles a laugh in my neck. “What?” I ask, and he pulls back enough to murmur gleefully, “You really can’t dance.”
I get a little embarrassed but manage to tamp it down and say, “’M trying.”
Another soft laugh, and his grip tightens, pressing on the back of my neck so that our lips brush. That’s when he whispers, “Ryan Ross, I think I love you,” and the world stops turning. Holy shit.
In the past, I’ve said that and not meant it. It’s been a meaningless reply, a go-to. A reason for being bad and a reason for being forgiven. I’ve said it too soon and I’ve said it too late, and it all adds up to the fact that I don’t want to say it again. It ruins things. God, it’s ruined so many.
We’re still dancing, but if I was stiff before I’m made of fucking stone now, so tense, every nerve ending screaming at me to run. “Ryan?” he says, confused, and the song’s almost coming to an end, and I’m panicking, alarm bells ringing. Because I think I-I might, I think I might, but how can I say that, how can I risk that-“Ryan,” he says again, and his eyes are boring into mine.
The last notes play out, some female singer holding out a last, sweet note, and I tilt his head and kiss him, hard and thorough and sweeping my tongue along his, trying to convey everything that way instead of words. It’s worked before, especially with him, but when he pulls back he looks even more puzzled and just the wrong side of annoyed, and his hands hold on tighter.
It’s too tight, I can’t. My arms fall from where they were looped around his waist, and it’s hard to breathe when I’m this close to him, pressed so I can feel him everywhere, and he’s peering at me, trying to work me out as a different song plays, another slow one.
Physically lifting his hands from my neck, I step back, bumping into more people, and those three little words have made everything so much more frighteningly real. I’m a coward, I know, but I still turn and frantically start searching over kids’ heads until I spot a green sign over a door. I head for it, pushing out of my mind the image of what Brendon’s face might look like now, just keep pushing and squeezing until I get to it and barge it open, stepping out of the fire exit.
Fresh air hits me, and I close the door after me, leaning on the cool wall outside it, hidden in shadows. I try to breathe. Jesus Christ. He loves me. Well that’s just fucking fantastic, isn’t it? Great. Wonderful.
I fumble in the inside pocket of this stupid jacket, fingers shaking only partly from the cold night air, and eventually I find a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. It’s Brendon’s. I swear at it and quickly spark a flame, waves of relief overcoming me as the smoke calms my lungs down. It’s not often I need it like this, but.
I’m not sure exactly how much time passes, but just as I’m stubbing it out the door bursts open and Brendon’s silhouette is starkly obvious, the lights of the disco ball behind his head.
“What the hell was that?” he barks, and fuck, he sounds pissed off. “You’re just leaving me in there, with all of them?”
I sigh heavily, not making eye contact as he slams the door pointedly behind him and stands with his arms loosely crossed. “No, I. I was just coming back, alright?”
“It’s not alright, Ryan!” he bursts out, upset. His voice shakes a little and his eyes are fiery. “The whole point of tonight was to go in there and to do this together! What, you think you’re the only one this is hard for?!”
“Look, I’m sorry, I-“
He interrupts, cuts me off sharply with words underlined in hysteria, “No. No, this can’t be happening, you can’t be doing this now because I just told you I love you, I told you I love you and you can’t even say it back?!”
“No, hey, it’s not-“
“Fuck you,” he shouts, throwing his arms up like people do when they don’t know what else, “no, you don’t... If you don’t care about any of it then why haven’t you just ditched me by now? Why can’t you just end it and stop doing this to me all the goddamn time?!”
Tears are brimming in his eyes, glistening in the moonlight, and that’s it, he trusted me in there but as soon as I walked out I broke it again. But he’s still here, because he loves me. Shit. My own vision is blurring and I push myself away from the wall I was still leaning on and words burst out before he can carry on, a simple, yelled out and choked-up, “Because I love you too much, Brendon!”
It comes out before I think, and the second his jaw drops is the moment I know it’s true. It’s real, this time, not just an excuse or a white lie to make things that much sweeter; it’s the stupid reason I’ve been so scared, and the realisation hits me hard. I swallow and step towards him, and he says, “What, I. Don’t just say that.”
“I’m not,” I insist, pushing closer to him, cupping his face gently with both hands and angling so the moonlight spills over his features, sparkles in his wide eyes. I speak in hushed tones, barely able to believe I’m saying what I am. “Listen, I’m scared, Brendon, I’m so fucking scared. It terrifies me, okay, so I-I do stupid things like running out on you or hurting you even though if anyone else did it I’d kill them, I.” I pause to breathe, and he’s biting his lip, the ghost of a smile holding back. “But. I always feel so dumb after, like I’ve lost something really fucking amazing, but... I’m trying. Baby, I’m trying. I love you too much to give up.”
Reaching for me, he almost makes grabby hands but not quite, and I move closer until his arms can circle around my neck again; but he’s restless, hands tracing my cheekbone and my neck and then sliding down to my chest or gripping my waist and then back up again, like he’s trying to establish that I’m real. Finally, he leans his forehead on mine, closing his eyes. “I’m scared, too,” he mumbles. “I’ve never. Like this before, I’ve never.”
“Shh,” I breathe, “I know.”
“I need you to be sure.” He pulls back, looks me dead in the eye.
“I am, Bren, please believe me, I swear I am.” The conviction in my voice surprises me still, and his deadpan expression kind of crumbles, dissolves into something softer and effortlessly beautiful, happiness etched in the lines that appear as he smiles so wide his eyes crinkle up.
“God,” he says, “you’re so gorgeous when you say pretty things,” and he laughs, and I laugh with him, running a hand through my once perfectly-styled hair. “I do believe you, dickhead,” he adds with a small smile, and golden light floods through me, lifts me up. Because he does. Of course he does.
“So, not gorgeous all the time?” I joke coyly, and he rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, okay, all the time. Stop ruining the moment,” he smirks, and oh my god, I’m so fucking happy. Snaking my arms tight around his middle, I pull him closer, closer, until his arms settle around my waist too, and I hug him. My nose is pressed into his hair and his face buried in my neck, and he holds on, warm and secure.
And it’s the first time I’ve hugged him. I’ve kissed him, I’ve blown him, I’ve fucked him, but I’ve never held him like this, never dove head-first into the intimacy that claws at a person’s very heartstrings. I wonder dimly if I knew what I was missing out on.
Surprisingly, it’s Brendon who pulls back first, and both our hands linger longer than necessary.
“Back inside?” I suggest, smiling - can’t stop doing that - and jerking my thumb in the direction of the door behind us. I raise an eyebrow and extend a hand to him, de ja vu.
“Yeah,” he says slowly, a grin blooming on his face, and he takes my hand only to grip hard, pull me close and spin us around so that he’s the one with his back to the door. I’m kind of confused, disorientated, and he sticks out his own hand. “It’s my turn to ask,” he explains with a shrug, and I chuckle helplessly, tuck my hand into his.
He shoves the door open and we return hand-in-hand into the music and the ridiculous lighting, that sun-kissed picture of two lovers on the end page of a storybook, and we dance our happily ever after away.
* * *
Part Ten