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thepatricktreestump · 6 years

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Reinvent Love

~ a modern day Ryden fanfiction ~

A/N: Happy Pride Month. Here’s a gift from me to you.

His face was different than I had initially remembered. It’s ridiculous to say, I mean, thousands of people have probably seen his face on billboards and on television screens and in advertisements and even commercials. He’s famous, worldwide rock singer, been on Broadway even, social media celebrity, and teenage heartthrob ever since he stepped on the scene. He was everything I could have been, and I was the one to throw it all away. He steps into the café in a button down dress shirt and that stupid smug smile on his face, cheery and handsome, going up to the counter and ordering a coffee. I didn’t expect to see him here. Ever since I had grown astray from the music business I had moved away to a small city, settled down in a simple apartment with my dogs and some friends, taken to studio work and low budget film productions, decided to find refuge and serenity in the gradual slow-down of my once ambitious and chaotic career. They had told me I had potential but I was too weak, too susceptible, too young. I had barely made it out of high school and I was doing interviews and playing shows across the country, signing my name on the possessions of kids half my age, plucking a bass guitar underneath the blinding stage lights. It was overwhelming. I’m almost glad I left.

I hide behind my newspaper and try to pry my eyes off of him. I haven’t seen him in years, well, ever since the party. Fuck Adam Levine. I watch as he taps his foot on the floor, whistling a tune as he waits for his coffee, then chatting up the barista, a brunette girl with dazzling blue eyes. I thought he already had a wife. I snort, thinking that has never stopped him. He’s always been a charmer, a flirt, a goddamn beast of a man. He has gotten quite handsome, I do admit. Refined hair and shaven face, more toned, put together, sophisticated. I wonder how it feels to be the only one left. I only stayed for two albums then bailed, went onto create my own, then abandoned that too. I hate him for so many reasons. Maybe it’s because deep down inside I know I will never be as good as him. He’s always had the better voice, better image, better stage presence -it makes me bitter to reminisce. I take a sip of my own drink and then dip my head back down into the article I had been reading. Sure enough his name’s printed on the thing, nomination for a Tony award.

He decides to sit right across from me three seats and two tables down, by the window, setting his coffee to rest and uncapping the lid, letting the steam waft up to let the drink cool. I’m careful to keep my face covered by the newspaper. Although, I doubt he would even recognize me. I’ve stopped shaving, let my hair grow out, gotten dagger earrings, and my face looks tired. I know because my ex-girlfriend had pointed all these things out to me once she dumped me, ranting on and on about how much I’ve stopped caring. She’s not wrong. I have. He takes a sip of his coffee and then pulls out his phone, swiping through what I assume is his social media feed. He has such a big ego sometimes I just want to slap him. He never used to be like this. He was quiet and shy and nervous, waiting for orders and fidgety, anxiety ridden and worry eyed, looking for direction and desperate for a chance to catch a break. He only ever wanted a way out, and he found it by joining us, abandoning his life for the road and the fame. It’s almost ironic he had stolen my dream from me, decided to take a leap of faith and slowly rise to the top. I remind myself that I’ve stopped caring. It’s easier to cope that way.

I pretend to be interested in a sport’s column when his voice startles me. “Ryan?”

I almost spill my coffee. I didn’t expect him to notice me, much less speak to me. “Uh hey,” I attempt to clear my throat, forcing a smile onto my face. It’s awkward. I’ve imagined this almost a thousand times even though I knew the likelihood of it ever happening would only be a thousand more. I guess I was wrong.

“I hope you remember me,” he chuckles, inviting himself to sit down right across from me, one seat away. It makes my stomach sick.

“How could I forget?” I try to widen my smile but it comes out misconstrued and broken. I decide to pick up my coffee cup and keep my lips occupied instead. It’s easier than having to carry on the conversation.

“It’s been a couple years,” he shrugs, taking a sip himself. He’s definitely changed. I can sense it.

“You know what they say,” I attempt to give a chuckle myself. “Time flies.”

“I guess so,” he nods.

“What are you doing here?” I finally ask, cutting to the chase. There’s no way he could be playing a show or doing an interview. This town is too small for that. I thought I had escaped him.

“Looking for you,” he says it so casually you’d think he was speaking about the weather. I almost choke when I realize what he’s said. He’s playing me like a fiddle, I know it. It’s another one of his gimmicks. There’s no way he could’ve actually taken the time to track me down, pretend like he’s seeking me out. He would’ve called, would’ve sent a message, a text, something. Not this. This isn’t like him at all.

“Right…” I draw out the word, nodding along. “And why might that be?”

“I wanted to talk,” he replies.

“Brendon,” just saying his name hurts. “You didn’t have to come all the way here to do that.”

He makes eye contact with me and my stomach turns into knots. “We both know why I didn’t send a text,” he whispers in a low voice. Bad memories flood my mind. Fame had always left a sour aftertaste in my mouth. The over obsessive fans and catfish traps were only a reminder of my consequences of leaving. I wish I could erase my past.

“Do you need someone for bass?” I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you found Nicole.”

“You stay updated,” his lips curl up in a smile, surprised.

“Word gets around,” I begin to play with the coffee stirrer poking out the top of my cup.

“No, I don’t need a bassist,” he shakes his head. “But um, I do need you.”

“Me?” I try to suppress a smile of my own. Why the hell would he be crawling back to me after all these years? And for what? I try to repress my excitement in order to curb the inevitable disappointment. It’s a technique I’ve been using for years in order to protect myself.

He downs the rest of his coffee and then sighs, looking out the window for a moment, and then reattaching his gaze on me. “Mind taking this back to your place? I think it would be more preferable for us to discuss this matter elsewhere. Less open,” he decides.

“Y-yeah,” I agree. I would hate for someone to see us here, together, sharing coffee, exchanging smiles. Rumors start without even a whisper, I can’t imagine a paparazzi photo or social media snapshot. It would be the end for me. For us.

“Perfect,” he gets out of his seat, pushing the chair back as I do the same, then taking a moment to drink in my presence when I stand up. I don’t know what to think. “You know, I’ve missed you.”

I pause, taking a breath, looking back at him. “Yeah,” I swallow hard. “I’ve missed you too.”

(continued...)

Elwood and Dottie are eager to see a guest at the door when we enter. I almost have to practically pry them off of Brendon they’re so excited to meet him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them this active before. Especially Elwood.

“What are you doing hanging around that asshole of a director Daniel Adams?” is the first thing he asks when we sit down on the couch at my apartment.

“I don’t know,” I narrow my eyes. “What are you doing hanging around that douchebag of a security guard Zack Cloud Hall?”

“Touché,” he respectfully complies. “Guess we both have a tendency to follow dickheads.”

“Like Shane?” I can’t help but bring up the past. It’s impossible around Brendon.

“Yeah,” he gives a bitter laugh. “Like that motherfucker Shane.”

“Hey, why would you meet me at the coffee shop like that?” I ask. “Someone could’ve seen us. There would’ve been drama.”

“There’s always drama,” he sighs.

“Not for me anymore,” I shake my head. “I’ve tried to escape it.”

“It’s inevitable,” he stares around the room. “Nice place. You live alone?”

“I have the dogs,” I reply. “They keep me company.”

“Me too,” Brendon smiles.

“Penny Lane and Bogart,” I point out.

“You stay updated,” he repeats. I don’t respond. “Nice to know I’m not the only one.”

“What about Sarah?” I snort. “That Katy Perry lookalike wife of yours.”

“Ah,” he gives a nod before leaning back into the couch cushions. “Yes, Sarah.”

“Yes Sarah?” I cock an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“Divorce would be bad for publicity,” he simply shrugs. “We decided to keep things low. She moved out a while ago.”

“You wrote a whole fucking song for her dude,” I retort. “You fell in love with her. And you just let her walk out on you like that?”

“She found someone else I guess,” he mutters.

“Don’t we all,” I groan. “My girlfriend did the same.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he says.

“So what are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“I know,” he apologizes. “I’m sorry about that. You’re right, I should’ve at least called or something.”

“Nobody shows up around these parts. That’s why I decided to live here.”

“I need you.”

“You’ve said that before. For what?”

“I’m caught in a slump, alright? Things have been tough. Ever since you and Jon left, really. Dallon helped me get by for the time being, but now he’s gone too. I’m working on this new album and the lyrics aren’t coming out right. I don’t know how you did it, Ry. I can’t seem to come up with anything.”

“How the hell did you make Vices and Virtues then?”

“I was just trying to copy what you did. Hell, I even took the entirety of Nearly Witches and threw it on there.”

“I saw that.”

“Come on. The Young Veins haven’t done anything in years.”

“I still have gigs,” I argue.

“What? Playing for your ex’s prom concert and acting as a corpse in a music video? Yeah, that’s a gig alright.”

“Shut up. I left for a reason.”

“Look, I need you. At least look over what I have, maybe give me some suggestions.”

“I’m not rejoining the fucking band. This was your choice, your position, your situation, Bren. Not mine. I don’t owe anything to you. Dig some shit up from my old live journals if you’re really that desperate.”

“I wouldn’t have come here if I wasn’t desperate.”

“Obviously.”

“Look,” Brendon takes a deep breath. “I haven’t seen you in years. I miss you. We used to work so well together. Sure, we had our moments, but look at what we had accomplished. We hit double platinum on an album we made fresh out of high school.”

“That was in 2005.”

“Come on. Help me out here.”

“I don’t want to go back into the limelight. I’m off that shit. No more social media stuff, no more internet, no more fame.”

“And you don’t need to have that. This can just be you and me.”

“What do I get out of this? I already have a job.”

“What? Composing singles you’ll never produce and starring in short films that only work off a low budget? Come on Ryan, I know you’re hurting too.”

His words are caustic. “I’m fine with it,” I insist. “I’m happy where I am. I don’t need you.”

“You don’t need me,” Brendon shakes his head. “Yeah. That’s why you left the band.”

“You were the one who left me,” I remind. “You left me for Sarah and because of that I left you, then Dallon left you, and then even Sarah herself left you. Everyone left you Brendon. For a good reason, too.”

“I still have Spencer,” Brendon tries to redeem himself, keep his head up high, save whatever dignity he might have left. “And Jake.”

“Right, and you’re the only one left in the band,” I can’t help but laugh. “Goddammit Brendon, I’m not going to help you and your stupid pity party excuse of a music career.”

“I’m the stupid pity party excuse of a music career,” he rolls his eyes. “Right, not you. Not at all you. It’s not like I made Broadway or top charts or Grammy nominations or anything.”

“I’ll have you know I actually went to one of your sparkly gay Broadway shows, yeah. I saw you on stage in your underwear and those sparkly red thigh high boots singing your ass off. You know who I didn’t see there, though? Your fucking wife,” I spit. “Or Spencer or Jake for that matter.”

“I sing better than you ever will and I make music better than you could ever imagine,” he argues. The tension in the room is unbearable. I want to punch him in the face.

“There’s that goddamn awful ego of yours again,” I growl. “Just can never seem to control it, can you?”

“Fucking forget I ever said anything,” Brendon shakes his head, getting up from the couch.

“Oh I’ll never forget the day you came crawling back to me when everyone in your life finally abandoned you,” I give a bitter laugh. “Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

“Ten percent,” he offers before he heads to the door. “Take it or leave it.” He rests his hand on the doorknob when I stop him.

“Make it twenty,” I argue.

“Deal,” he nods, turning back around with a smile. “I’ll be back for a beer tonight and we’ll discuss details.”

“Where are you going now, dumbass?” I ask, confused.

He’s out the door before I can get a response. Fuck him. Fuck Brendon Urie.

Elwood and Dottie are staring at me as the silence fills the room. I have no idea what the fuck I’ve signed up for but it sounds like a nightmare. I contemplate withdrawing my offer. Like I said before, I don’t owe him shit. But I do miss him. A lot. I wonder how he’s doing, truly. Dottie hops up on my lap and nuzzles her head underneath my hand, begging for a good scratch. It must hurt, having everyone leave you behind, being lost, being scared. I secretly wonder who his wife left him for. I wonder why it took Dallon so long to leave. I wonder how the hell he even made it out alive.

It’s a couple hours after he leaves when I decide to fix up a sandwich and turn on a rerun of a horror movie on the television while checking my emails and texts. There’s a couple offers, mostly small film projects and a couple asks for help around the studio, playing bass on a single for an upcoming album, some friends reaching out, potential tickets for a hockey game, animal shelters asking for donations. The usual. As much as I hate to admit it, Brendon was right. This was my life now, I was stuck within it, and things weren’t going to get much better than this unless I did something drastic about it. Adopting another dog or coming up with an annual elaborate Halloween costume wasn’t going to solve my problem this time. I had to get my life back together for real.

I take a bite of my sandwich and look over my schedule. I have a couple shows to play, a business trip or two, and even a road trip with some friends. There’s filming dates and music video shootings, some Skype interviews, volunteer hours, but that’s all. I glance up at the gory scene on the screen, a monster chasing a bloody girl down a dark alley. I need a thrill in my life once again, a new taste, a little bit of a change up. Perhaps this could be good for me. After all, twenty percent is a lot of money, money that I need to pay the bills and keep up with my life. Probably enough and more.

Unwillingly, I find myself going to my bookshelf and pulling out old notebooks and journals, searching for fragments of song lyrics and poetry. I find at least three spiral bound, two leather bound, and folders full of graphite scribbled loose leaf with refrains and choruses scrawled upon the lines. These dated back to when I had still been with Panic! and the boys, then The Young Veins, and even some projects I worked on with others. Most of them had never been used, much less seen by others. I always picked and chose what I wanted. Lyrics had always been a personal ordeal for me, speaking about mental health or alcoholism or sexual experiences or even marriage. Most of them weren’t meant for sharing.

I find myself opening up to a page and my breath hitches. “If all our life is but a dream…” I whisper the beginning of the words and I can already feel the tears starting to form in my eyes. I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss what we once had. Northern Downpour was one of my favorite songs I had ever written, a time of my life where I could almost take the moment and put it in a picture frame, the haze of smoke still setting the stage, his lips so soft against mine, the band on break and reveling in our success of the past tour, everything almost perfect. It was bittersweet, and that was what that song had been for me, a bittersweet moment, the flavor of nostalgia, a vintage dream now turned old. I closed the notebooks around me and pushed them back on the shelf. This was no time to revisit the past. Things would never be the same as they had once been. I was a fool to ever think so.

I’m in the middle of a shower when there’s a knock on my door and I curse. It’s probably him. “Coming!” I shout, but of course, that does me no good. He just keeps pounding on the door like the entitled asshole he is. I groan, trying to quickly dry off my hair before wrapping the towel around my waist and rushing to the door. I open it, and he’s there, sporting a leather jacket and ripped jeans, holding a couple beers.

“Oh,” he’s surprised at my presence, and an uncomfortable silence blankets over us.

“I uh, just got out of a shower, give me a second,” I stammer, trying to collect myself. I’m clinging onto the towel for dear life as I gesture him towards the sofa and then make my way back to the bathroom. Probably not the best way to present yourself to your old new business partner. I tell myself that there had never been any professional aspect here, that what we had always done was much more intimate, comfortable, casual. I shake my head and stare in the mirror as I slip a shirt over my body. Things weren’t like that anymore. This was a new beginning. What was done was done.

I walk out fully clothed and pick up a beer as I sit beside him, popping it open and taking a sip, watching as Elwood plops down across the room from us and decides to take a nap. “I suppose you wouldn’t be so keen to moving out to Los Angeles again,” he clears his throat. “You’re much more comfortable working from here.”

“Of course,” I narrow my eyes. “I still have other projects and responsibilities. I can’t abandon what I’ve already obligated myself to.”

“I understand,” he nods. “I figured we could work through phone calls and emails. They are just lyrics after all.”

“Just lyrics?” I poke fun at him. “Lyrics you can’t seem to come up with.”

“Come on,” he sighs. “We both know you’re the poetic one out of the two of us. You always come up with such good little sayings and clever satirical spin offs. Don’t you remember all our old song titles and references? It was brilliant.”

“I’ll give you my email,” I decide, opening up my laptop and scrolling through my browser. “I’m not on my phone that often.”

“We have about a year until they’ll be itching for me to drop an album,” he informs. “I’m finishing up my tour now so responses might be slow, but after that, I’m down for meetings and revisions. If you want twenty percent like you say, I’m serious about this. You deserve credit as much as I do if you’re going to put in the work.”

“I don’t want my name on anything,” I reassure. “I only want my cut.”

“They’re going to know I’m not the one who wrote it,” Brendon insists. “You have a special signature when it comes to these kinds of things.”

“I don’t want credit, I just want cash,” I restate. “That’s my offer.”

“Alright,” he takes a swig of his beer and nods.

“So how do you plan on going about all of this?” I laugh.

“What do you mean?”

“All of a sudden your songs go from being filled with catchy choruses about partying all night and living on top of the world to poetic tragedies and metaphoric romances?”

“I’ll say I took a different approach with this album, tried to go back to my old roots.”

“Right…” I rest the beer bottle on my leg and stare at my open laptop, possibilities floating through my mind. This was the last thing I had expected to happen today, or tomorrow, or for the rest of my life for that matter. I wasn’t exactly counting on Brendon showing his face around here, or speaking to me, much less wanting to collaborate once again. I’m almost excited.

“So where do you want to start?” he wonders, and I can’t help but smile.

It feels so good to talk to him again. To sit on the couch and crack open some beers and just be able to relax. I write and type out ideas and he grabs one of my guitars and starts strumming out melodies, tapping drum beats out on the coffee table, whistling possible interludes and introductions. It feels like old times, minus the marijuana. I ask him if he still smokes, and he says he does, and I tell him maybe he should bring some next time. We decide to make this next album a concept album, one that clashes together our differences, the quiet drawn back simplicity of my life and the boisterous chaotic business of his. It tells a story, these songs, outlining the idea of two worlds once pulled apart now combined, rediscovering the other, intertwining their different assets. Maybe I’ve had too many beers, but it seems a lot like a simile for our situation. I secretly wonder if he notices this too.

Before we know it, it’s four in the morning and we’ve already outlined a concept for the album as well as a couple good lyric fragments for what could possibility be the first couple of singles. They’re mostly about the pain of rejection, and we share stories about the women we had once loved leaving us, telling us how we were never good enough for them, and using that to build off of. We actually have a lot in common, for how much we’ve both changed. I really have missed him. When we’ve finished all our beers and our voices have gone hoarse, my computer now dead and his fingers callused from playing the guitar strings, we doze off on the couch. It really is like it used to be, stuck on the tour bus with open computers and notebooks, in the early hours of the night, drunken and high, conceptualizing the next big idea. I can’t wait to see what he does with this.

When I wake up, I’m startled to feel somebody beside me. Then I remember it’s him. He’s taken to sleeping on my legs, which are now definitely asleep. I have to stifle a laugh, his lips parted and messy hair proving quite adorable. I slowly inch my legs up off from his sleeping body and crawl out from the sofa, stretching and yawning. He doesn’t look like he’s going to be up anytime soon. I make my way to the kitchen, sunlight already filtering through the blinds, and decide to make breakfast. I turn up the heat on the griddle and break out some sausages and eggs, start up some toast, and brew fresh coffee. Dottie’s at my heels begging for a bit of bacon and of course I give in. I hear a groggy muffle of noise and poke my head into the living room and laugh at the sight of Brendon dragging himself up off of the couch. “Good morning,” I call out. “I made some breakfast. You can help yourself.”

“Shit, I have a show tonight,” he groans, running a hand through his hair and staggering to the kitchen. “I’ve got to get a plane to Texas in the next couple hours.”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s still before noon,” I reassure. “You’ve got time.”

“Alright. And hey, uh… Sorry, I think I slept on top of you last night,” he apologizes awkwardly. “Totally unintentional, I probably had way too many beers.”

“Not a problem at all,” I laugh it off. “Just like old times, right?”

The broken smile he chisels out from between his teeth makes my heart hurt. “Yeah,” he nods, only making my heartstrings ache even more. “Just like old times.”

We sit down and share coffee, working our way through plates of breakfast. He talks about how the tour’s been going and such, how he picks up interviews whenever he can, how long and boring the endless hours of traveling and waiting can be. “More time for you to email me and work on the new songs then,” I point out. He grins.

Both of us promise to make this our secret. We’re not telling anyone, not his managers, not my friends, nobody. If word gets out, it would be a craze, rumors of a reunion, fans blowing it up into new conspiracies, and TMZ would probably be bursting through our doors to try and get some footage. We would keep our collaboration on the downlow, and if anyone would ask, we would simply deny. I give him a ride to the airport after breakfast and tell him to have a good trip and play a great show. We exchange numbers and then he says goodbye.

The next couple of days are empty. He doesn’t respond to my email, or my three missed calls. I assume he must be busy and try not to take it personal. After all, he actually has a life. Unlike me. I take to going out for lunches and watching sports, playing video games on the couch or falling asleep to old reruns, walking the dogs or sending emails back and forth with my director. Brendon’s right about Daniel being a dick. Over the span of this week I truly realize just how much he treats the girls like shit, uses basically everybody, and couldn’t give a rat’s ass about fair payment. I make a mental promise to ditch him as soon as the money from this new project starts piling in and I’m able to support myself.

My phone rings one day when I’m sifting through the letters that have come in through the mail and I can barely answer it fast enough. I pick it up and of course, it’s not who I hoped it would be. It’s Jeremy Burke, one of my friends. I groan. I was stupid to think it would actually be him. “How’s it going jackass?” I greet him when I pick up the call.

“Hey,” he laughs at my greeting. “Doing anything tonight, loser?”

“Not that I know of,” I respond. “Was probably going to watch a couple Game of Thrones episodes while I work through the scripts Daniel sent me. How come?”

“Burgers at that new bar downtown?” he offers. “My treat.”

“Count me in,” I grin. “What time?”

“Nine,” he states.

“See you then,” I hang up and lean back into the couch cushions. Getting out of the house would be good for me.

I roll up at the bar a little late that night, but knowing Jeremy, he won’t mind one bit. I stroll in with my usual jacket, striped shirt, and ripped jeans. I give a sly smile to a girl who winks at me as I enter and then slide into a booth across from Jeremy. “Look who finally showed up,” he raises his eyebrows. “And already reeling in the ladies also.”

“Whatever,” I shake my head, laughing. “Anyways, what have you been up to these days?”

“Well I got back from a festival last week, recovering from the trip. Saw some pretty cool shows, it was a great line up. How about you? I heard you’re still working on that film thing,” he says, snapping at the waiter to fetch us some drinks.

“Yeah,” I sigh. “The usual.”

“How about you take to the road with me? Only a couple of tour dates,” he offers. “You can be a roadie or someshit, get a little breath of fresh air. Come on, Ryan. You need a bit of excitement in your life again.”

“I’m getting there,” I reassure. He’d flip if I ever told him about what was going on with Brendon. “I just need some time.”

“Whatever,” he rolls his eyes. “Anyways, that chick’s been staring at you since you entered. Mind if I wave her over?”

“Not at all,” I chuckle. “In fact, I don’t think I’d mind taking home a date tonight.”

“Really?” Jeremy wonders. “And you say you need some time.” He scoffs and I give him a playful slug on the shoulder, taking a sip of my drink.

“Hey beautiful,” I call out, waving over the cherry haired girl with the bright green eyes. “Mind keeping us company?”

“Not at all,” she blushes, grabbing her clutch and hopping off the bar stool, strutting towards us in her stilettos and short skirt. She’s not really my type, but I’ve got to hand it to her, she’s hot.

“She’s a looker,” Jeremy murmurs as she slides into the booth beside me, planting a kiss on my cheek. She’s too easy. I’m not complaining though.

“What are you boys up to?” she wonders, picking up my drink and taking a sip herself. Cocky.

“Grabbing some burgers, having some guy talk,” Jeremy shrugs. “How about you? What’s a lady like you doing all alone?”

“Waiting for someone like him to come along,” she winks, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. Super desperate. I can tell. Me and Brendon used to meet girls like this on the road all the time. Overconfident and overexposed, willing to do anything and everything for their five seconds of pleasure, then off to the next eye candy boy toy.

“Well you’re in luck,” I smirk. I know how to play the game.

“How about you get this pretty little lady a drink, hmm?” Jeremy waves over the waiter. “Margarita suit you fine?”

“Tequila,” she corrects with a smile. “Something strong.”

I’m about to lean in for a kiss when I feel something in my pocket buzz, and I turn rigid. “One second,” I apologize, fishing for my phone. When I pull it out, Brendon’s contact pops up on the screen and it’s like nothing else matters. “This is important.” I say the words faster than I can comprehend and before I know it, I’m shoving the girl out from the booth and racing towards the exit, picking up the call and out the door, then standing by the umbrella tables outside, barely able to catch my breath.

“Ryan?” his voice laughs on the other end of the line. “You alright, buddy?”

“Yeah, just caught me at a bad time,” I reply. “But it’s good, it’s good.”

“Uh, I can call you back if you want,” he suggests but I shake my head.

“No, no, no it’s good. I can talk,” I quickly reassure. He laughs again. God, I could get drunk off of that sound, the thought of his smile, the memory of his laughter. I miss him so much already. I close my eyes. I’m thinking absolute nonsense. I have to get my head on straight. “So, what’s up?”

“Sorry I couldn’t call back, I’ve been busy with tour and everything,” he explains. “But if you want to start emailing back and forth some ideas, I’m totally down. I’ve been thinking, these two characters we’ve created, the simplicity and chaos, maybe we could create a song based upon that concept. An entirety of slow and graceful and classic towards intensity met with hurriedness and adrenaline, you know? Almost like a dance between the two, an exchange of some sort?” He pauses. “I don’t know, it’s stupid, forget it.”

“No-” I quickly inject. “I love it. I think that’s great. It would make a perfect introduction to the album, setting the stage if you will.”

“You think?”

“Of course!”

Before I know it we’re talking on the phone for fifteen minutes, rambling on and on about this song, how we’re going to totally blow them away, how this is the coolest thing we’ve done since A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out, how this is going to absolutely knock the socks off the critics when there’s someone shaking my shoulders. “Get off the fucking phone, Ry!” I blink and realize Jeremy’s shouting at me.

“I g-got to go,” I apologize. “Sorry.” I instantly hang up and slip my phone in my pocket and Jeremy’s still shaking my shoulders.

“What the hell?” he stares at me. “What was that?”

“I had a business call,” I argue, shoving him off of me.

“You had one hell of a date tonight, that’s what you had,” he spits. “I could only keep her for so long. She walked out on me, I mean, you. She walked out on you.”

“I couldn’t care less,” I narrow my eyes.

“I could!” he argues. “She was smoking hot, dude! If you didn’t want her you could’ve at least told me!” He grumbles. “God, since when did that douchebag director of yours become so important anyways?”

“Get lost,” I shake my head, storming off.

“Fine!” Jeremy shouts at me. “I’m going to enjoy my burger and drinks and hot chicks alone at this bar tonight! Have fun with your stupid Game of Thrones episodes and stinky dogs!”

“Go fuck yourself,” I flip him off as I walk away.

“Go to hell, Ross,” he hollers back.

I smirk. All my friends are assholes. I kind of like it that way. It makes me fit right in.

The rest of my night is spent emailing back and forth with Brendon, and I couldn’t have wanted it to go any other way. I made a cup of coffee and ignore my missed calls from Jeremy, and instead begin to come up with new ideas. Although, most of our emails aren’t about lyrics. It’s all catching up. Brendon tell me stories about tour, the new cities and crazy fans, ranting about Kenny throwing popcorn in his face and Zach being a dickhead. I tell him about my experience at the bar and Jeremy, as well as some films I’m working on and an update on my dogs, plus some old stories about volunteering at an animal shelter. It feels like we might be good again, like we’re friends again, that this could work. It’s about six in the morning when I think he falls asleep on me, and I laugh, waiting on him for a couple minutes before falling asleep on my own. I close my computer and finish up the rest of my coffee, then head to my bed and watch as Dottie curls up at my feet. I can’t remember the last time I got a night of sleep that good.

I spend the following weeks in a daze up to my show. I’m sending strings of emails back and forth, filling up notebooks with revisions and edits, excited more than ever for this project. I promise myself that from now on, I was putting my best foot forward, and I was going to do everything in my power to make this album rise to the top. I didn’t even give a shit that my name wouldn’t be on it, that I had already vowed to take zero credit, or that I would even get any profit. I just wanted to be able to make music with my best friend again. That’s all I could ever ask for. Before I know it, I’m half drunk and on stage, playing a show with Zee Zerizer in Los Angeles, looking into a crowd of smiling teenagers and a sea of phone flashlights. I know that somewhere, in some city in America, he’s doing the same thing right now, and that only makes me smile more.

After the show I go out for drinks with the gang, get even more drunk, and proceed to pass out in a hotel room bathtub half naked, but I couldn’t care less. The hangover the next morning is miserable, but judging from the twitter feed, it was a night that nobody would forget. I take a cab back home and then spend the rest of the day sleeping, too lazy to open up my laptop and too tired to get anything to eat. I ignore the buzzing of my phone and even the later knocking on my door. Nobody can interrupt this, the serene calm happiness that blankets over me, the sweetness of knowing that everything is going to be okay.

I’m eating lunch on the couch the next evening when I’m scrolling through my Instagram and a certain name catches my eye. It’s Brendon, livestreaming. I remember back in 2014 when he would Periscope almost every week, making margaritas with Sarah in the kitchen or going skateboarding throughout the city, talking to fans and answering their questions. It was good to see his face again, nice to know how he was doing. As much animosity and grudges I was holding against him at the time, I still wanted to know that he was okay. Now, I was relaxing on my sofa and pulling up his feed, rolling my eyes at the sight of him dancing in his studio to some stupid Drake song. He had always been a character. He takes a drink of some beer, ends up rolling a joint, and talks about some wild tour stories he’s already shared with me. He seems happy, relaxed, one of his own dogs sitting on his lap, the glow of the studio light framing his face. I want to see him again. I need to.

It’s been about a month since we saw each other last, since the phone call of the night of the burger bar bail, and throughout the course of the next couple emails, we decide to meet each other again. This time, halfway, in a city right between mine and his, in a small hotel room near the outskirts of downtown, where we hope and pray that fingers crossed, nobody will see or find us. It’s a three day weekend, just me and him, and we’re going to hopefully start putting the words to music. He’s sent me a couple different samples he likes, as well as audio recordings of him playing around with the lyrics, but we both know that until we actually sit on a couch and piece it all together, we won’t know for sure if it clicks or not.

“There he is!” he gives a goofy smile as I enter the hotel room, and I can’t help but let one surface on my face as well.

“Good to see you,” I reply, surprised when he gets up from the couch and envelops me in an embrace. It feels so nice, I almost don’t want it to end when he takes a step back and retreats to the couch.

��I brought all sorts of stuff,” he gestures to the table where a variety of weed is displayed along with several drinks. “I figure we take it easy and take our time. We have several days, so there’s no need to rush into things. We work when we want to.”

“Yup,” I pick up a joint and light it, breathing in the smoke before exhaling. “God, that’s good.”

“It’s been a while,” he agrees. “You and me, that is.”

“What do you mean?” I ease into the couch, raising an eyebrow. “Smoking or writing music?”

“All of it,” he shrugs, picking up a cigar and lighting the end, taking a puff. “Talking, hanging out, smoking, making music…” He’s thinking of something else but he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. I already know. “Just being together.” He takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe in the atmosphere, then sigh. “It’s nice.”

“Almost like how it used to be,” I give a soft laugh and he nods slowly. I can tell he’s reminiscing like I am.

“Almost,” he whispers.

We fill the room with smoke and laughter, guitar chords and the humming of melodies, stitching together the body of a song on his laptop screen, playing it over and over again through headphones and earbuds, searching for the perfect sound. Before I know it, we’re dozed off on the sofa again, except this time, somehow, our limbs are tangled together in a soft embrace. My head’s resting on his chest and his arms are wrapped loosely around my hips, and I don’t even remember when we decided to lay down, but I’m too tired and too stoned to care. We’re safe here, we’re okay here, we’re together here. I give a sleepy smile at the sound of his snores, nuzzling my head closer to him. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been this close, his body pressed up against mine.

In the early morning when I flutter my eyelids open, I’m still half asleep. A mess of notebook pages and empty chip bags scatter the table along with two dead laptops and the lingering smell of marijuana. I’m on the couch, the room is dark and still, a body is pressed up close to my own, and his face is only but centimeters away from mine. I don’t know how we got here, but we did. His warm breath blows onto my face through his parted lips, eyes closed, soft exhales comforting, quiet snores amusing. I almost think I want to kiss him. He looks so sweet, so handsome, so perfect like this, calm and still and sleeping. It feels like decades since I’ve seen him like this, and now that I actually think about it, it honestly has been. I miss the way his mouth feels on mine. It’s been so long I can barely control myself. So I don’t. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m inching closer to his face, our lips barely touching, my heart racing. What the fuck is happening is what I am asking myself but it’s too late. I know I’m not supposed to be doing this but I kiss him anyways. It’s simple and sweet and soft and wonderful and when I pull away, his eyes flutter open and I can barely breathe. I’ve fucked up for good this time. Shit.

“Ryan?” his hoarse voice calls out my name, staring at me as he slowly pulls himself out from his sleep, giving a funny sort a smile.

“Y-yeah?” I stammer out, scared and nervous and afraid he might shove me off this couch and yell at me to leave like I had done to him the day he offered the possibility of this moment even happening to me.

“Did you just kiss me awake?” he tilts his head to the side, staring at me now, lazy smile still plastered on his lips. “Because correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty damn sure you did.”

“Maybe…” my voice fades out quietly and I try to pry my eyes away from his but I can’t.

“Almost like how it used to be,” he murmurs. “Huh?”

“Almost,” I mumble back, making us both grin.

“Come here,” he cups my cheeks with his hands and kisses me, with such fervor and passion. My mind is spinning and I feel the higher than I ever was last night. I’ve missed him so much I’ve almost forgotten what this feels like, to kiss someone you truly love. I don’t want it to end, but he pulls away, reminding me that there’s this thing called breathing, and I can’t help but release a winded chuckle from between my lips. “What?”

“Nothing,” I shake my head, still laughing. “I um, I’ve missed you. You know?”

“I know,” he gives a small smile, staring into my eyes. “Believe me. I know.”

“This is overdue,” I agree, looking up at him, goddamn goofy grin stuck on my face.

That entire day we decide to snack and work, grabbing room service and locking ourselves in for hours, really going at it. We’re almost finished with two whole songs. By the way Brendon’s talking, it might even get fully recorded, edited, produced and released in a handful of months. I’m ecstatic and can barely wait. All he has to do is get home to the studio and physically record and play the music, but besides that, we have it all written down and placed perfectly. We also have plenty of fragments of other songs and even more ideas for the album. When we work though, it’s obvious there’s been a change. He rests his head on my shoulder or in my lap. I wrap my arms around his waist or end up holding his hand. We share smiles and kisses on cheeks and foreheads. It’s different, us.

Tonight we play our favorite songs over the speakers and drink a shit ton of alcohol. There’s nobody to stop us. We dance around like fools and stuff our face with junk food and order almost every dessert on the room service menu. Surprisingly, we don’t get a single complaint. We over excessively lip sync the entirety of Queen’s classic Don’t Stop Me Now and then proceed to have a rather sloppy make out session to What Do You Want From Me, his tongue slipping in my mouth as the guitar riffs flood the room. The rest of the night is fuzzy, but all I remember is the taste of him on my lips. Clothes are being shed, words are being exchanged, and we’re gravitating towards the bedroom, Pink Floyd still playing in the background. He’s pushing me into the mattress and running his hands all over my body and the rest is forgotten in the bass lines of Nirvana’s Heart-Shaped Box and the faint lyrics of the second verse of an Arctic Monkeys hit single.

I wake up to his lips and his body and him beside me, in this hotel room bed, all mine. It smells like beer, sex, weed, and rock and roll. I don’t mind one bit. I pull his body close to mine and press my lips to his neck, relishing the taste of his skin. I don’t ever want to forget what he tastes like ever again. My small frame aches as I curl up closer to him, but the knowingness that what I’ve craved for all these years has finally been fulfilled makes every dull pain in the joints of my bones and tender bruises on my skin worth it all. It reminds me of times when I would wake up in the middle of the night from bad dreams and flashbacks, him there to remind me that everything would be okay. I had a rough life before I took to moving out of my home. Especially when my dad had died, that’s when I needed Brendon the most, and he was there for me. But having my heart broken, leaving him behind, abandoning the music dream, keeping to myself, that’s probably the second time I needed him the most honestly. I was glad to have him back now, even if it was only for one night.

We both curse instantly when the freezing cold shower water hits us both, jolting us out of our haze of a hangover. Showering together was something we had grown accustomed to after our many years on the road, especially after fucking in the tour bus bunkers in the middle of the night and being forced to wake up super early for interviews. The boys never really cared, would occasionally make a faggot joke or point out a hickey, but flipping them off and investing in a hefty collection of scarves during the Pretty. Odd. era of the band did the trick. God, as much of a literal pain in the ass as it was, I did miss touring and playing huge festivals, getting barely any sleep and signing kids’ shit, that whole ordeal. Especially with Brendon by my side. It felt like being on top of the world.

Both of us down cups of coffee and get back to work, must mostly share occasional kisses while plucking out rhythms on our acoustic guitars. It’s a lazy Sunday, a sit around and do nothing kind of day, and there’s no one I would rather spend it with than him. I flip through the channels on the television and we settle for an 80’s classic before curling up together and making commentary back and forth. We make note of some of our favorite quotes and write them down, an old thing we used to do back in high school in order to come up with witty lyrics or song titles. It’s something I’ve done mentally but haven’t had a chance to do out loud since I left the band. It makes me smile. We’re on commercial break when all of a sudden, Brendon turns off the television. “I want to make a sex song,” he declares matter-of-factly, making my eyebrows raise.

“I thought you already did,” I retort. “Miss Jackson?”

“No, something nitty gritty, something to fuck to,” he shakes his head.

“The Good, The Bad, and The Dirty? Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off? Casual Affair? House of Memories?” I begin listing off the ones on the top of my head.

“What? Are those all the songs you jack off to when you’re busy thinking about me?” he smirks.

“Oh shut up,” I laugh.

“I was thinking something with an old school vibe,” he says. “Like in those movies, you watch the couple turn up the radio and make out, then take it to the back seat. Classic 80’s shit, right? I want to create that moment in a song, the whole backseat lucky night after a trip to the diner and the roller dome. Catch my drift?”

“Ferris Bueller’s Day Off meets Breakfast Club meets Dirty Dancing and Footloose,” I turn to look at him and we both break out into stupid grins. “Fuck yeah.”

“Imagine all the references,” Brendon’s face lights up. “That’s a goldmine right there.”

“Think of all the samples we could choose from, that would make such a cool introduction.”

“It’s like the song that would replace Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing in an alternate universe. Except sexier and even more iconic.”

“That’s the perfect description for it.”

“It doesn’t even exist yet.”

“Yet,” I remind. “Yet.”

He kisses me fiercely before we take to flipping our laptops open and searching for the perfect quotes to intermingle into the lyrics of this upcoming song. This is going to be by far his most memorable album yet. I know it.

We relish the rest of the time we have together, seeing as we’re slowly approaching the end of our three day weekend hotel room stay. Before I know it, we’re packing up our things and cleaning up the hotel room, promising each other that we’re going to keep up the emails and phone calls and whenever we get a free chance, come back to this city and do it all over again. He even invites me to come over to the studio and says that if we’re particularly sneaky, I might even be able to record some bass tracks for the new album. It’s probably illegal, he says, the whole not crediting me for all the work I’m putting in, but I tell him I couldn’t care less. Just imagine if the press caught wind of this. It would blow up and I would never get a chance to go outside and grab coffee in peace ever again. Much less check Twitter or Instagram.

The ride back home is glorious, one of my favorite CD’s blaring with the windows down, sun shining on my face and hair blown back, a cigar poking out my lips. I don’t think I’ve had that good of a time since Z’s Prom, and even then, that was nothing compared to this. I secretly wonder if we’ve reached an unspoken arrangement that we’re back to normal, back to how it used to be, back to being lovers rather than enemies. Maybe I’m making this all up in my head. I’m too wrecked too care. I’ve fallen too far down already. Fuck trying to postpone or avoid disappointment. I’ve stopped trying to hold myself back at this point.

I would’ve thought returning to my apartment would be lonely or boring, but it wasn’t at all. I was glad to see Elwood and Dottie again, and sift through my mailbox and voicemails, sit on the sofa and take midday naps and edit script scenes. It was comforting almost. That week, Brendon and I call almost every day. Usually in the afternoon all the way up into the late hours of the night. We’re not really working at this point rather than reminiscing old times and pouring out forbidden confessions, expressing our once secret thoughts and yearning to see each other once again. Most of the time I fall asleep listening to his voice, or he does mine. I would have thought it to be something that only happened in stupid romantic novels or bits of over glorified love poems. It’s worth every single unprecedented charge to my phone bill that month.

I end up actually going out for burgers at that dumb bar with Jeremy the next week and then have a lengthy conversation about whether it’s better to invest in headlining festivals or starting up tour dates for over the summer. He’s been playing small shows and been debating about taking the whole thing to another level. I always encourage him, tell him I’m here if he needs me for anything. The burgers actually aren’t half that bad and the only chicks in here tonight are already talking up some other guys. Lucky for me, because if I pulled another ditch on a date, Jeremy might smack me over the head this time.

I’ve been avoiding Daniel on purpose and instead investing all my time in Brendon and his project. He’s sent me demos of the songs he’s recorded so far, and I’m super stoked. They sound even better than I had expected, and he even added a couple little twists of his own on the tracks, which I love. That night on his livestream he tells the fans that he’s been working on a little something for them and that it’s going to be a special surprise. I find myself smiling at the screen like a fool, probably like the other thirteen thousand fans watching, and so I decide to click off right after his talking dies down and he takes to sipping a beer and headbanging to whatever nonsense he’s playing on his radio with five o’s website.

“You should come over when you get some free days to my place,” he insists over the phone that night. “Nobody’s home but me.”

“It’s a couple hours of a drive but yeah, I’ll consider,” I joke.

“I miss you,” he croons. “I don’t have anyone to cuddle me to sleep anymore.”

“Uh huh,” I roll my eyes. “Need another hotel weekend?”

“More like week,” he insists. “Come on Ry, it’ll be fun.”

“You just want to fuck me,” I tease.

“Maybe,” he admits. “But I also want to do so much more than just that.”

“Like what?” I prod.

“How about you come on over to find out,” he challenges.

“Guess like I’ll just have to,” I sigh sarcastically. “Otherwise the anticipation and unknowingness would eat me up alive.”

“I’m about to eat you up alive the next time I see you,” he replies. “It feels like fucking forever.”

“All in due time,” I remind. “I’m going to see if I can take the next week off and head over. I don’t think it should be a problem. I’ve been slacking lately anyways, I don’t even think Daniel’s going to notice.”

“He’s too far up his own ass to notice,” he snorts. “Come on, you’ll be fine.”

“I do miss you,” I slowly nod my head, curling up on the couch with Elwood in my lap as I readjust the phone to my ear. “I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

“Alright,” he sounds content and I relax. “Don’t rush, take your time. It’s not like I’m dying without you or anything.”

“Must’ve been dying for a quite a long time then. Last I checked you went a couple years doing just fine without me,” I unintentionally insult.

“Shut up and kiss me you idiot,” he laughs. Then he suddenly stops, silence on the other end of the line. “Oh wait, that’s right, you’re too fucking far away to do so.”

“And who’s fault is that?” I retort.

“The one who said he wasn’t moving to Los Angeles to be with me,” he argues.

“You literally came bursting into a coffee shop with a desperate proposal and a couple beers, how was I supposed to know we were magically going to go back to how it was?”

“Take a leap of faith, Ry. Maybe you’ll actually go somewhere.”

“Uh huh.”

“Like my bedroom if you’re lucky enough.”

“Go to sleep, Bren. You’re probably drunk.”

“Drunk on your love.”

“Goodnight dumbass.”

“Sweet dreams loser.”

He hangs up and leaves me to fill up my empty apartment with delayed laughter, my heart aching to see him once again. He’s not wrong, it has been a while. I turn on the television and watch an old sitcom before dozing off. I dream of old times, being on a stage, flower decorated microphone stands and tambourine in hand, strumming on acoustic guitar strings and peeking through shaggy haircuts, scrawling down lyrics about the sun and the moon being in love. He hated the idea of a Beatlesque vibe, hippie aura, folk styled music. I loved and craved it. I still think he’s an idiot for refusing to add the songs to the current setlist. Personally, one of my favorite albums I’ve ever created. Him, not so much. He was always more of a heavy bass, electric guitar, party playlist kind of guy.

I leave Elwood with one of my friends and pack Dottie in the backseat the next morning. I grab some snacks and an iced tea from a gas station, fill up my tank, and snatch an e-cigarette. Road trips will always be something held close in my heart. I turn the radio up and roll the windows down, then head towards the highway just past sunrise, leaving Brendon a voicemail that I’m on my way. “Ready or not, here I come” is what I had told him with a soft chuckle. The ride there is fairly nice, light rain for part of it, but it’s actually not bad at all. He has a nice place, a little hard to find, but that’s alright. After all, he already was forced to move out of his dream house due to those goddamn awful over obsessive fans. I knock on the door and when he opens it up, he pulls me in and gives me a huge hug and a kiss on the forehead.

“Hey you,” I blush.

“Hey yourself,” he grins. “Took you long enough to come over.”

“It was overnight,” I narrow my eyes. He tousles my hair and laughs before catching my lips in a kiss, then taking me by the hand to his kitchen, where he’s prepared some salads and sandwiches as well as mixed some drinks for us.

Lunch is nice. We throw playful insults back and forth. But we know deep down, we deserve it. Nothing could hurt more than the years that had separated us before. It’s a love-hate relationship, what we share. It always has been. Dottie gets along well with Bogart and Penny Lane, which is good, because I don’t know what I would’ve done if she didn’t. She’s probably the only person I love more than Brendon, which is ironic, but honestly, the saying is true. A dog is a man’s best friend, more than any human ever will be. We end up shifting to the couch and laying on top of each other, him playing Grand Theft Auto and me resting my head in his lap. He asks if I want a turn and I decline. I’m not even staring at the television. Instead I’m staring upwards at his face, the change of expressions, the way he gets excited or intense or surprised or frustrated. I hate everything about him because it’s everything that makes me love him even more. It’s a paradox. It’s inevitable.

It’s not even past noon when we end up having sex. Then having more sex. And even more sex. It’s almost like we can’t get enough. I joke that we have to make up for all the years I’ve missed out on him, and he rolls his eyes before attacking my neck with his mouth. He’s leaving marks everywhere and I’m warning him to stop, but he’s reckless and careless and he’s not even listening. He tells me I’m not leaving anytime soon so there’s no reason to worry, making me the one to roll my eyes this time. He’s so goddamn irresistible. That night we order take out and grab tubs of ice cream and eat in the bedroom after a warm shower and an agreement that we’re turning in for the night. It’s so nice to just chill, not having to do anything or even say anything, simply being in the presence of the other. It’s one of the most comforting things I could ever experience.

The next morning, I wake up in a daze trying to figure out where I am, and as soon as I realize it, the biggest, stupidest, goofiest smile surfaces onto my face. I curl up closer to the warm body that’s wrapped in my arms, amused at the usual soft snores that he emotes, running my fingers through his hair. He’s definitely sleepy, and I find it almost surprising that I’ve been waking up before him in the past. I’ve always been the one to sleep in while he’s the early morning bird. I think it’s the fact that I subconsciously already know that I want to watch him sleep, and I laugh to myself. It’s stupid things like this that I thoroughly enjoy about being in love. It’s these sort of things that help inspire me, encourage me, make me want to create again, make music again, follow my dreams again. A part of me wonders if why I stopped caring was because I had lost everything in my life that had made me have hope, which was me being in love. Specifically, with him.

His eyelids flutter awake and he groans, and I nudge him slightly. “Come on,” I whine. “Wake up, sleepy pants. Let’s go get coffee.”

“Five more minutes,” he grumbles, and I relent.

It’s oddly satisfying to see him this calm, this quiet, this peaceful. I’m used to his boisterous behavior and overbearing happy-go-lucky attitude, wild stage antics and overexcitement, not the soft sleepy boy that I see in my arms. I give him a kiss on the forehead and tell myself I would let him sleep forever if it meant my arms weren’t going to fall asleep and I didn’t have to take a piss. I let him sleep for ten more minutes before finally kicking him out of his own bed. I need my caffeine and I need to really fucking pee. Dottie follows me at my heels, and another dog, which surprises me at first, but then I realize is the sweet little Bogart. A little voice in me whispers the temptation of the idea of doing this every single morning, every single day, being able to live here, be with him, love him forever. It terrifies me and encapsulates me at the exact same time. I refuse to think about it. It’s too dangerous. Fuck what I said about trying to avoid disappointment. I’m doing it again, this one last time. For something like this, it’s an instant free pass. Anyone else would do the same. Thoughts such as these are too good to be true.

That morning we dance around the kitchen and make homemade waffles, playing his favorite Frank Sinatra album on a vinyl, and sharing laughter and kisses and throwing batter at each other playfully. We’re making such a mess but we couldn’t give a single shit. The dogs are howling happily and barking and jumping around, the sweet smell of fresh breakfast in the air, and freshly poured orange juice in two tall glasses. We sit on the sofa and eat, keeping to ourselves, but staying together just the same. He rests his legs over mine and leans back, drizzling syrup over the golden squares and giving me a goofy smile. So much for working on music. We’re too busy falling in love all over again.

“I want to go out and do something,” he pouts after playing a couple hours of Outlast on the sofa, tossing his controller to the side. I’ve been replying to emails beside him.

“Then go,” I shrug.

“No,” he shakes his head as if I don’t understand. “With you.”

“Very funny,” I roll my eyes. “You know we can’t be seen together, much less go out together. Where would we even go anyways?”

“To a music store,” he suggests. “Or maybe to grab some coffee.”

“We have plenty of music here and we can brew coffee if we need it,” I narrow my eyes. “We don’t have to go out.”

“But think about a nice car ride, getting some fresh air, maybe even walking the dogs,” he insists.

“You know as well as I do that no matter how much we might want to, we can’t,” I sigh. “Let it go, Bren.”

“How about we ask Pete for those giant llama costumes? Then we can go wherever we want, nobody has to see our faces, you know?” he smiles.

“You’re batshit crazy,” I laugh.

“As if you aren’t,” he gives me a kiss on the lips and then pulls away, staring at me with puppy dog eyes. “Come on Ry, it’ll be fun. Even if people do see us, I don’t give a shit anymore, alright?”

“I do,” I argue. “So just drop it, okay? I’m not going to go out in public with you.”

He pulls back even more, hurt expression on his face. He looks almost offended. “Why are you so ashamed to be with me?” he asks. “Why don’t you want your name on anything? Why do you want to keep us a secret? Why are you always so scared of everything?” He looks like he might cry.

“Have you forgotten everything that happened or are you stupid?” I say the words faster than I can comprehend. I instantly regret saying them as soon as they leave my mouth. Fuck.

“So what?” he tightens his jaw. “All of a sudden you want to keep bringing up the past? Are you ever going to let it go? I thought we were over this.”

“We were,” I get up off the couch. “Then you wanted to start recreating mistakes.”

“Mistakes?” he grabs my wrist as I begin to walk away, stopping me. I turn back and shrug him off of me, facing him who’s still sitting down. He looks up at me, even more hurt than before. “W-we were a mistake?”

“Shit Brendon, are you blind?” I run my hand through my hair in disbelief and frustration. “Do you know how much press and paparazzi and fucking interviews and fanfiction we had to go through? Do you remember all the comments and signs and harassment? Do you really want to repeat all of that over again?”

“Do you think I care?” he retorts. “You’re worth it, Ry. You’re worth every single bit of it, all of it, I couldn’t care about the fans or the press coverage or any of that.”

“This is your life now, Brendon. You chose this. Everything you do, all eyes are on you, waiting for a moment to ridicule you, your entire reputation is on the line every single time you step outside that door. And you want to throw it all away for me?” I shake my head. “I’m not going to let you do that and I’m not going to take in any part of it either.”

He takes a deep breath and looks away, stays quiet. He does for the rest of the night. I don’t know if he wants me out of his house, but I give him time to settle down and breathe. He’s not the type to get angry or hold grudges for more than a couple hours, especially with me, so I think we’ll be good. Instead I sit on the couch and browse through the channels until I find a hockey game, and then pop some popcorn in the microwave and sit on the sofa with Dottie as I watch it. I think he’s taking a shower or a nap. It’s probably what’s best for him. He decides to join me towards the end of the game, resting his head on my shoulder, still silent. I don’t say anything, but keep my eyes fixed on the screen. I don’t know which of us is to apologize, so neither of us do. Until the game ends that is.

“We have a whole week,” he states after I pick up the remote and shut the television off. “What do you plan on doing at my house for a whole week if we’re never going out?”

“Relaxing, working, sleeping, eating-”

“Then what?”

“Then I go home back to my old routine and wait around for your emails and phone calls.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know,” I think hard. “Uh you’ll probably get around to releasing the album and I’ll be playing a handful of shows and we’ll still be calling and stuff.”

“And then what after that?”

“Hell, I don’t know!” I finally sigh, leaning back. “What do you want me to say?”

“That’s the thing,” he points out. “What are we going to do? Constantly hide ourselves from the world? Pretend like this isn’t going on? Sure, I’ll release this album. But what about the next one? What about all our calls and emails and visits? What about days like these? What about when I go on tour and I’ll never have a chance to be alone for months on end?”

It’s my turn to be quiet now. I don’t know what to say.

“What happens after this, Ry?” he looks at me, desperate. “I need to know that this isn’t just another phase, this isn’t just some daydream to attempt to recreate what once had been, this isn’t a temporary craving, this is for real.”

“W-were you actually serious?” I stammer. “When you first asked me to move out to LA with you?”

“Of course I was,” he responds. “I thought maybe we could…” His voice fades out and he looks down, as if preparing to say the next words, rehearsed lines in front of a bathroom mirror, replayed in his mind on a loop. “I thought maybe we could be together. For real.”

“You want me to live with you?” I whisper, wary.

“I want us to be free,” he insists. “I want us to be able to love each other freely, not care about whatever the people say, be able to wake up next to your handsome face every morning. Imagine it, Ryan. You and me and the dogs, back to making music together, smoking and drinking, having a grand old time. You can still play shows, you can do your own thing, hell, you can even still tag along with that douchebag director of yours and beg to act in his short films. But please, no matter what you do, please don’t leave me. Alright?”

“I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” I tell him. “I thought you wanted Sarah.”

“Everyone’s left me,” he confesses. “Everyone, even Sarah. And now all I have is you. I’m not going to let that go again. Leaving you and watching you leave the band was one of the biggest regrets and mistakes of my life. Thinking that we couldn’t be together just because of what others would think or say is ridiculous. I’m never going to let anything or anyone stand in the way of me loving you. I promise.”

“It’s only been a couple months,” I argue.

“I know, I know,” he closes his eyes, nodding. “But I’m telling you, all those years you’ve been gone, you’re all I’ve ever thought about and you’re all I’ve ever wanted. Take a chance Ryan. Take your leap of faith. Just trust me on this one. I can’t possibly be the only person here missing what we had, cherishing and enjoying what we have, and being terrified it might all be gone. I don’t just want you for your lyrics or your company, I want you for you.”

“I took that chance when I kissed you that morning,” I tell him. “When you were still sleeping and my mind was reeling and I decided that maybe I would throw it all away to have the chance to kiss your lips one last time.”

“Yeah, you did,” he gives a small smile.

“That terrified me,” I admit. “But I did it, and in that moment, I let go of everything. I lost everything.” I pause. “But in the same token, I gained everything I could ever need. And that was you.” I look at him. “You’re my everything.”

We kiss again and this time I’m not holding back. I think of the possibility of this every day. There are no boundaries or protection or attempts at avoiding disappointment. There will be none. He has given me everything I could ever wish for. Homemade breakfasts and time with dogs and watching sports games and playing music, sharing cups of coffee and puffing out smoke from between our lips, late night sex and holding each other as we fall asleep, exchanged phone calls and messages. We end up having rough sex for hours before falling asleep on the couch exhausted and tired by early afternoon. Everything seems right for once. I couldn’t be happier.

Although, as soon as we step out the door the next day, I’m terrified. I don’t think I’m quite ready. I’m already a deer in the headlights anytime I’m out on tour and kids are racing up to me asking for selfies and autographs and spitting out a seventy-five words a second presentation on how I’ve changed their lives forever. Not to mention the social media mentions and tags. So when we go out for coffee the next morning, his fingers interlaced with mine when we walk down the sidewalk holding hands, my heart is thumping so hard I think it might fall out of my chest. My eyes are flitting around, nervous, anticipating some mob of girls or throng of paparazzi to jump out at us any moment. It doesn’t happen though. Brendon must sense this, because he squeezes my hand, giving me a soft smile, and I force one out too. It’s hard though.

I stammer out an order when we get to the counter, and the barista looks at us funny, like maybe she’s seen our faces together before somewhere, but she doesn’t say a word. Instead she nods and grabs our names before Brendon tugs me towards the end of the counter. We sip our drinks and sit down, Brendon going on and on about some new action film trailer that dropped, but I can’t seem to follow his words. My anxiety is holding me hostage. Ironically, I can’t help but feel a sense of panic when I’m around him. My mind is screaming the question “what if someone sees us” even though I already know everyone is probably looking. I think I hear a camera shutter and I flinch. My mind is playing tricks on me.

“Hey, you alright?” Brendon tilts his head, frowning slightly.

“I don’t know,” I admit, looking down. “I just, this is new…” I start fidgeting with my thumbs. “The whole us, in public, and stuff.”

“It’s going to be okay,” he puts a hand on my arm reassuringly. “I’ll be right here beside you.”

“Y-yeah…” my voice drifts off and sure enough, when I look up, there’s someone standing beside us.

She’s a teenage girl with a pixie cut and rubber bracelets lining her arms, a black hoodie and ripped jeans, huge gauges, holding a bright purple phone case. “Hey I’m so sorry to interrupt but I saw you guys when I walked in and I’m a really big fan and I’ve been listening to your music for literally forever and I just-” she goes on and on and I start to feel faint, almost dizzy.

“Of course!” Brendon’s voice jolts me out of my daydream and I blink back to reality. “Come on Ry, let’s pose for a picture.”

“Oh my god thank you so much you have no idea how much this means to me, holy shit,” she rambles on even more, opening up her camera app. The words don’t even process in my mind before he leans in with a cheery smile and a bright flash blinds my vision and the girl grins and waves goodbye before racing back to her table. I don’t know what to think.

“She was nice,” Brendon sighs. “See? Not so bad, right?”

“W-what did you tell her, again, exactly?” I stammer out.

“How we’re still friends and we’re hanging out,” he shrugs. “That’s okay, right?”

“Right,” I nod slowly. I take a sip of my drink but it only makes me feel twice as sick. My head is spinning.

“You don’t look so good,” he points out. “You need some fresh air?”

“Maybe,” I pale. “Uh sure.”

The idea of going outside makes me even more sick. That girl probably tweeted out that picture to everyone, put the address of the coffee shop on there too. It will make headlines of Alternative Press by tomorrow morning, I’d almost bet fifty bucks on it. As soon as we step out, I hold my breath, terrified a bunch of people are going to be snapping pictures and running up to us too.

My brain immediately recognizes that I’m not in my small town anymore. People are bustling on the streets, on the sidewalks, everywhere. I feel so claustrophobic and uncomfortable. Brendon squeezes my hand in reassurance, walking me down the sidewalk, our drinks in hand. I’m still stuck on that girl, that photo, the possibility of everything going south. What would my friends say? Wasn’t Brendon’s plan to make sure nobody knew about his divorce with Sarah? And what would happen if news articles started saying I’m part of the band again? I’m not, I’m only writing the lyrics, right? I start to feel as if I’m about to faint.

“You okay?” he sits down on the bench outside the café and my hands are still trembling. I’m afraid that if I try to sit down my legs are going to give out and I’ll end up tumbling down onto the sidewalk and skidding my face with the pavement.

“S-sorry I just…” I stammer out, him slowly helping me sit down. I haven’t had my anxiety this bad since I don’t know when. “I wasn’t r-ready for that I g-guess.”

“It’s alright,” he soothes me, rubbing small circles on my back and taking a sip of his coffee. “Small steps, little things. We can head home if you’d like to. If uh, if that would make you feel better.”

“I don’t think I can do this,” I confess, squeezing my eyes tight.

“It’s okay we can have more time,” he insists. “Maybe we can try going out again tomorrow.”

“No, I mean that. That. The going out thing, the being public thing,” I explain. “I thought you didn’t want them to know about your personal life, your romantic life, the divorce.”

“I just told you yesterday, I’m so in love with you Ryan. I don’t give a shit anymore. I’m tired of hiding. I want them to know about us,” he looks hurt. “I thought you wanted that too. I thought that we agreed.” He looks off into the street and sighs. “You’re all I have, you know.”

“It’s just such a big city,” I whisper. “There’s so many people. It’s overwhelming.”

“I know,” he sighs. “It’s alright though, we can do this.”

“Maybe you can. But I can’t,” I admit. I get up from the bench and begin to walk away and he grabs my hand, concerned.

“Ry, don’t say that,” he begs.

“It’s true,” I come to a breaking point, tossing my drink to the ground, frustrated. It feels like Cape Town all over again. “I was so stupid to think we would ever even work out.”

“Just give it time-”

“Oh I’ve given it plenty of time,” I seethe. “A couple years, actually.”

A camera flash blinds us both and we freeze. I’m a goddammit idiot forever thinking going outside for fresh air would be a good idea. Brendon’s head whips around to stare at a handful of paparazzi growing closer. “Let’s go,” he grabs my hand but I jerk it away, still angry.

“I can walk on my own,” I grumble, walking past him and the paparazzi, ignoring the questions they’re raining down on me, paying no attention to Brendon following behind.

Of course I had to make a scene, getting up from the bench and throwing my drink and refusing to hold his hand. The paparazzi decides to lose us after a couple blocks and Brendon has stopped trying to talk to me from behind. When I get to his house, I realize I can’t open the door and stand there like a dumbass waiting for him. Okay, so maybe I didn’t think this entire thing through. I’m so caught up in the moment the only thing I can think about is distancing myself. Taking Dottie and driving home, ignoring his calls and emails, hoping to forget about him. It would all blow up then blow over and it would be done.

“You could’ve just told me,” he says when he walks up to me on the porch. “We didn’t have to do this in public.”

“What?” I can’t even meet his eyes, instead staring at my shoes.

“Break up,” he answers and my stomach does a flip. Yeah I knew we were arguing and yeah my current plans were extreme but I didn’t actually process the idea of splitting up so soon.

“Oh,” I become silent. Fuck. I really didn’t think this through.

We both stand there, avoiding eye contact, not really sure what to do with ourselves. He clears his throat awkwardly and reaches into his pocket, fumbling for the keys. The door opens and as soon as I step in I feel like I’m about to puke. I walk into his house and made a beeline to the bathroom. This entire day has been a fucking train wreck. “Hey Ryan-” he calls out for me but I’ve already locked the door and slouched down, holding my head in my hands. Suddenly I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m hearing his voice from underwater. My vision is fuzzy. I feel like I’m having a panic attack. My entire body is shaking and I don’t know what to do anymore. I can feel him knocking on the door behind me but it feels as if it’s in slow motion.

I slowly start to resurface, gasping for air and feeling my heartbeat begin to settle. My thought process becomes molasses. Thoughts about the picture and paparazzi and going out in public begin to drift off to the corners of my mind. I stagger up and wash my face in the sink, looking up at the bloodshot eyes and pale lips that stare back at me. I make my way to the door and jostle the knob before unlocking it and staggering out to the couch. It’s quiet. I curl up with a blanket and watch as Dottie slowly approaches me and then hops up to join me, nuzzling her head underneath my arm. I let out a heavy sigh. I wonder where Brendon is or when he’s going to come out to talk to me. A part of me doesn’t want to know.

I end up falling asleep on the couch. I wake up in the middle of the night, and Dottie’s not beside me anymore. Instead, it’s a boy with messy black hair and parted lips and soft features. He��s in his underwear and an oversized sweater and he’s clinging onto me, with his head on my shoulder. It’s him. I close my eyes and hold him tight, giving him a kiss on the forehead. I love him, I really do. I don’t want to give up on us. Not yet.

But somehow, I feel like I might have to.

When I wake up in the morning, I go out to the kitchen and Brendon’s there, staring at his phone with a blank expression on his face. I already know. “It’s uh, it’s up. Isn’t it?” I clear my throat. He’s already smoking a joint.

“Yeah,” he silently hands his phone to me and my stomach drops.

There’s pictures of us on AP’s newest online article, of fucking course, just like I called it. A video up on TMZ. Even a Twitter hashtag with that dumb ship name Ryden or whatever. It makes me absolutely sick. “Are you kidding me?” my voice goes hoarse.

“We both knew it was going to happen,” Brendon gives a slight shrug. “It doesn’t bother me, Ry. But um, I know that you, you might not handle it as well.”

“No shit,” I scroll through another article and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. No amount of mental preparation could ever make me ready for this. I wish I never left the house that morning. I wish I never went to visit Brendon. I wish I would’ve just stayed at home in my little boring, pathetic, stupid life and just ignored him at the coffee shop the day he interrupted my newspaper reading.

“Well what do you want to do?” he stares at me, blowing out smoke from between his lips, dark eyes pondering what I’m about to say.

“I want to go home,” I simply tell him.

He looks twice as broken at my response. “Okay.”

We don’t say much as I pack up my things and get Dottie situated in my car. In fact, we don’t talk at all. We just exchange goodbyes with a nod and before I know it, I’m back on the road again, heading home. I don’t know if this is the end. There’s still so much we haven’t decided upon. Him using the lyrics in his new album, how he’s going to go about producing it, things like that. I don’t know if he’s going to call me or email me, and I don’t know if I have the guts to reach out to him.

I go straight to my bed when I get through the door, Dottie following at my heels, and check my phone. I already know I’m not going to respond to anyone who’s called or texted. It’s all about the press coverage anyways, I already know. Daniel might just drop me. I don’t really care at this point. Even Helena reached out for me. “Fuck my ex,” I mutter. “Probably is just glad to know I’m single again.”

That’s when I realize about a week later that throughout all the notifications on my phone, mostly bullshit sympathy and people dying to get some inside information on the drama, Z has texted me. All of a sudden I feel bad for even saying what I had said about Helena, or any of my exes for that matter. Even though we broke up, Berg has been my best friend throughout all this chaos. She doesn’t deserve my hate. “Hey,” I pick up right away even though I promised I was going to distance myself from everyone and everything. So much for that.

“Hey, how are you doing?” her voice is soft, concerned, careful.

“You heard. Didn’t you?” I stare off at a wall.

“It’s been over a week, Ryan. Everyone heard,” she replies flatly. “Look, if you need someone to talk to-”

“Come over,” I insist.

“What?” she’s confused.

“Come over,” I repeat. “Tonight.”

“Okay,” she swallows hard. “Talk to you then.”

When she comes to my place, I tell her everything. We drink glasses of wine and I pour out the entire story, all that had happened with me and Brendon from when we first met to when I walked out his door. She sympathizes with me verbally, but after a few glasses of wine, physically. She’s putting her hand on my shoulder and then on my knee and making these eyes, these sad, longing, nostalgic kind of eyes, and I can tell she’s missing what we had too. And that’s my next biggest mistake. Because once I kiss her, I can’t just stop there.

We’re drunk and we’re hurt and we couldn’t give a shit. By the end of the night we’re in my bedroom and we’ve had really shitty pity sex. The bottle of wine is long gone and she’s going on about her latest ex as well. We’re both broken and fucked up and lost. She’s my best friend for a reason. But this, it feels wrong. It feels like an act of impulse, an act of not knowing what to do, an act I’m going to regret. I think about Brendon and I’m already wrapped up in guilt. Not even two weeks separated and I’m already sleeping with someone else, my ex and best friend much less, already confessed our entire relationship and spilled secrets over a couple glasses of wine. Fuck my life.

“Why do you care?” she asks, curling up next to me underneath the sheets.

“What do you mean? Like why do I care about you?” I tilt my head to the side, confused. We’re both slowly drifting off to sleep.

“No. Him. Brendon,” she clarifies. “Why do you care if the media finds out? If people begin to start rumors? If the paparazzi snap a couple photos? If you really love him that wouldn’t bother you.”

“But it does,” I argue.

“Exactly,” she points out. “Why?”

“I don’t… I don’t really know,” I admit. I did really love him.

“You can’t hide forever,” she insists. “And maybe you didn’t quite get it when he explained it to you the first time, so let me.” She caresses my face and gives a weak smile. “When you find someone, that special someone, you don’t let anything get in your way. Whether it’s other people or publicity or whatever might try to pull you apart, you need to be stronger than that.”

“Did you think we weren’t strong enough?” I look at her, curious and somber.

“No Ry,” she shakes her head slightly, smile coming out even more damaged. “I think we just weren’t meant to be.”

“Yeah,” my voice fades out, looking away. I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss us.

“But you and him,” she insists. “I think that you found each other again for a reason.”

“A mistake,” I pout.

“No,” she reassures and then pauses. “But um, us hooking up tonight, uh, that was a mistake.” She laughs and then recovers. Her tone turns more serious. “Look Ry, you can’t go against your instincts. When you were apart you missed each other so much. And then you were reunited and you flourished. Like you said, you felt on top of the world, and I’m sure he did to. Making music again, loving each other, just being together… it’s what you’re meant to do.”

Z’s words stick with me for a while after that. Brendon doesn’t call and so I don’t either. My inbox stays void of his name. I drink coffee alone. I don’t check the news or the internet. I ignore everyone around me, even Z, who tries to call several times and even leaves a couple voicemails. I don’t bother listening to them. I already let her in too much, I can’t let her know even more. I need space. I need time to think. Dottie must know something’s up, and Elwood too, because they’ve been giving me extra love and affection this week.

About a month passes and eventually I do have to talk to Daniel, because he’s my employer, and I absolutely dread what’s going to come out of his mouth. It’s probably the fifteenth call this week when I pick up and I can already hear the sarcasm dripping from his voice. “About done fooling around with your emo boy toy?” he taunts.

“Cut it out,” I scoff.

“No really,” he insists. “Are you done or should I consider yourself extracted from the project? Because I don’t need that kind of bad publicity around my work.”

“I’m still on for the project,” I argue. “I need cash, I need work.”

“Well I don’t want you seeing him anymore. I don’t care if you’re off the press or the papers or photos and shit, absolutely off. No more going off and seeing him or arguing or any of that. You’re my worker and you abide by my rules. If you want to argue, consider yourself fired,” he states. “And hey, pick up your goddamn phone, will you? I’m sick of it going to voice message.”

“Fine,” I spit. “And by the way, I dumped his sorry ass a while ago. Don’t worry about it.”

“Good to hear. See you next shoot,” and with that he hangs up. God, he’s such an asshole.

That’s when, of course, I get the fucking notification. He’s livestreaming on Instagram. I quickly ignore the notification and shut off my phone, trying to push him out of my mind. Half of me wants to go running back to him, but another promises that I’m done having my heart broken and playing these types of games. Perhaps I’m just not a relationship type of person and I’m meant to be alone. Maybe Z was just talking nonsense to try and make me feel better. I should’ve just ignored his call that night at the bar with Jeremy, taken home that cherry haired girl for the night, stuck to flings and not caring about all that romance shit. The things I write about in my songs are meant only to be lyrics, not reality. They were simply dreams, fragments of poetry, wishes put into words. I needed to face the truth.

The next couple of weeks are dry. I’m really hurting, and pushing myself away from others doesn’t help. Even after I reach out to Jeremy and try to hang out for the night, go to see a movie and grab some drinks, I still feel empty and dull. We only make small talk. I start calling Z, and when she asks why I haven’t talked to Brendon, I can’t really give her a pinpoint answer other than I’m lazy and afraid of confrontation. She’s patient and understanding, and talks me through rough nights. I start meeting Daniel for some projects, help with the shooting and cinematography, whatever other bullshit he’s too lazy to do himself. I’m there, I’m interacting with people, and I’m doing things, back to my old life. But it doesn’t feel the same. Not at all.

“Did you hear?” Jeremy’s the one who brings it up, when we’re a couple beers in, playing pool at a bar.

“Did I hear what?” I narrow my eyes, unamused.

“They’re coming to town,” he replies, addressing the ball before hitting a stripe across the table.

“Who? Fucking Santa Claus?” I scoff. He’s kicking my ass at this game.

“No, your ex,” he corrects.

“Z or Helena?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Him, Ry. Brendon,” he states. I blink at him.

“Like, this city? Here?” I tilt my head, unsure.

“He put it on the list of tour dates. He’s coming next month. Playing that little venue down by the liquor shop a couple blocks across from your place. Tickets are going quick so I’d score some if you plan on going,” he shrugs. “I don’t know, in case you wanted to see how he was doing or something. I think it’s odd he’d pick here out of all places. Probably his first time playing in a place like this.”

“He’s never done a gig here,” I agree. “Weird.”

“Probably to see you,” Jeremy prods, and although I can tell he’s joking, it still makes my heart stop. “Probably wants you to come out and see the show.”

“Right,” I roll my eyes and take a lousy shot. What if it was his intention though?

“I mean, why else?” he asks. “It just wouldn’t make sense.”

I go home that night and search up his stupid tour on my computer. Apparently he’s doing a string of dates before dropping his next album. I scroll through his Twitter and that’s when my heart stops. All of his tweets this entire past month, while we’ve been apart, are quotes. Not just any quotes, song lyrics, all written by me. Fragments of the things I have given him, written him, emailed and spoken over the phone. And he’s signed them all from the sun. My heart aches.

Before I know it, I’m buying a ticket. I don’t dare tell Jeremy. When Z mentions that he’s visiting my city I don’t say much to her either. She claims this is my chance, my moment, my opportunity at redemption, but I just shake it off. Even if I am going, I don’t know how to gain his apology, to make things right. Yeah, I do miss him and I’m anxious to see what he’s doing with the things I have written him, the song lyrics on the next album, what’s to come. However, I’m indifferent towards the idea of reuniting us just the same.

When I can’t sleep, I find myself reopening my computer and going to my email. “I miss the moon.” Right before I’m about to send, I falter, saving it to my drafts instead. I drown myself in alcohol and hide within the clouds of cigarette smoke. Every night I debate whether or not I should click send. I feel like the entire world has its eyes on me, waiting for my next move, wondering if I’ll take the chance. He had always encouraged me to take the leap of faith. Perhaps I just have an inevitably bad case of pistanthrophobia.

Sure, Sarah was part of it, but it wasn’t really why I had left the band. This was something different. This was why we had broken up. This was why we weren’t talking now. I was always too scared, too afraid, too uncertain. I was never brave enough to trust him, to accept myself, to let others see me for who I was. I just wanted someone to love, but he wanted someone to show off, or at least that’s what I had thought. But no. He needed someone to love, someone to love openly and freely and with pride. He didn’t want to keep hidden what we shared. It was what had happened before and what had happened now, and both times I had shied away, afraid and scared and nervous and confused.

Ticket in hand, oversized hooded jacket hiding my face, shifting eyes, I stand outside the venue along with a string of hipster emo teenage girls and goth punk boys. Arms crossed over chest parents and bored older siblings stand beside them, clearly only there for supervision and transportation. I get in just fine, sticking towards the nosebleed section, but staring at him from afar as he sings the songs and performs. I can tell he’s searching for me. His eyes scan the crowd, he seems distracted, and he even stumbles on some of the words here and there. He’s doing backflips and funny impersonations, cussing and making speeches, dancing and taking off his shirt like a fool. I miss him. My heart aches as I watch him sit at the piano and belt out a ballad. As he finishes up the show, I have to hold back tears. I wish I was up there with him.

People start to file out, and I’m surveying the area for a while, trying to find a way to sneak backstage. There’s security everywhere, so I doubt I’ll get to the pit, much less to where I need to be. I’m almost tempted to shoot him a text. I’m lingering by a merch table for a good half an hour when a teenage boy comes up to me, donned in messy fringed hair and dark eyeliner. “Uh hey,” he gives a small smile. “I know this is uh, a weird question, but would you be Ryan Ross by any chance?”

“Um…” I stare back at him, his wide eyes and eager expression making me anxious.

“No sorry, it’s okay,” he laughs nervously. “You just looked like him, I don’t know. Sorry for bothering you. Have a great night.”

I watch as his expression fades, embarrassment turning his cheeks bright red, disappointment starting to arise. There’s no use in hiding. I should stop. Brendon’s right. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

“Uh wait!” I call for him as soon as he turns his back towards me. He flips around, raising an eyebrow. “Um, yeah. I am actually. Ryan.” I swallow awkwardly. “Sorry, I was just surprised.”

“Oh,” he lights up instantly. “Awesome. I’m a huge fan and I’m glad to see you playing music again. I went to the Z Berg Prom a while back and had a great time. I’m glad to see you came to the concert.”

“Wow, thanks. And uh, yeah. Me too,” I give a small nod.

“Well hope to see you at another one!” he gives a wave and then walks away, leaving me puzzled. He didn’t ask for an autograph or a picture. He simply just asked me a question, gave me a compliment, made small talk, then left. It was almost comforting. I let out a small sigh of relief and then pull back my hood, running my hand through my hair. I can do this.

I get strange stares and a couple whispers and points as I make my way through to the door of the venue. I know where the tour bus will be, maybe I can sneak back there and wait for Brendon to appear. Maybe if I told the security I was one of his friends or relatives they would escort me to see him. I can see the flashes of cameras and hear the sounds of shutters as I walk outside, but I don’t mind. In fact, I give a small wave and a smile as I walk past the groups of people. I was done lingering in the shadows. I was ready to be open and be proud of who I was.

Sure enough, he’s outside the venue towards the back, a barricade separating him from the throng of fans, going through and signing stuff, taking pictures, and even giving hugs. I race towards the crowd as fast as my feet can take me, not giving a single shit about how strange I may look. I need to get to him and I need to make my move. I’m squeezing through the crowd, shoving people out of my way, ruthless and desperate. As soon as I make it to the barricade, I shout his name as loud as I can, waving my arms at the black haired, brown eyed, overexcited hyperactive broken-hearted boy standing just several feet away. He does a double take, staring right at me, awestruck. “Ryan?” his jaw drops.

He drops the Sharpie marker and the poster he’s holding midway through giving an autograph and races towards me, and before I can even process what I’m doing, I’m capturing his face in my hands and pressing his lips on mine. We’re kissing. In front of thousands of fans. With a metal barricade between us. Outside, in public, absolutely exposed. And I couldn’t care less. We kiss and kiss, tongues slipping into each other’s mouths and fingers tugging on locks of hair, passion replacing unspoken words. We’re drowned in camera flashes and videotaping, screaming teens and people pointing, absolute mayhem and chaos unleashed around us. But here, in my arms, interlaced in our embrace, shared between our lips, it’s peaceful. It’s tranquility and serenity and comfort and quiet. We construct our own world, compose our own melodies, write our own stories. We do not care who decides to enter, who sings along, or who wants to read. I am open doors, I am full volume, I am an open book. From this moment on, I am nothing but me, authentically and genuinely me. And part of being me is loving him.

“Holy fuck,” he catches his breath when we pull away and we both burst out into laughter like fools.

“I love you,” I blurt out and he grins.

“I love you too,” he replies, capturing me in another kiss.

Security doesn’t know what to think. Fans are squealing and going wild. I feel like time is in slow motion as we make out the second time. Before I know it, he and the fans around me are carrying me over the barricade and placing me into his arms, and everyone’s laughing and smiling and having a grand old time. There is no shame, no guilt, no regret here. I am completely and fully free.

“I took the leap of faith,” I tell him happily. “I trust you.”

“You don’t care about the cameras? The paparazzi? The rumors? The press coverage?” he stares at me, still confused and puzzled. “Ry, you don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” I reassure, tears surfacing in my eyes, giving a laugh. “I care about you. Alright?”

“Fuck,” he closes his eyes and blushes. “This is too good to be true.”

“Well you better believe it,” I chuckle. “Cause you’re stuck with me now.”

“Oh yeah?” he raises an eyebrow, amused. “I like the sound of that.”

“Despite what I may say or do, I could never leave you Bren,” I confess. “No matter how many times I hide or run away, I’ll always come back to you. Somehow, someway.”

“Whether Seattle or Cape Town or LA or even here, in a little run down city like this, I will be there and I will find you,” Brendon promises. “I’ll be here for you. I will always love you.”

“Our love might be confusing and broken and different but that’s okay,” I reassure. “I want it and need it just the same.”

“Reinvent love,” Brendon whispers, placing a kiss to my forehead. “It’s okay. We’ll reinvent love. Together.”

“Together,” I repeat, kissing him back. “We must reinvent love.”

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