Friends. That’s all Ryan said he wanted to be. So what happens to make Ryan change his mind? Rydon
The moon is full and round, high in the sky, and you think that the reason it is so fat is because it contains all of your unshed tears that threaten to burst forth from within you. You haven’t bothered to close the curtains, and so it streams in through the window like a spotlight, highlighting your figure that sits at the end of your bed, your posture hunched and your head in your hands.
A stray, glittering tear escapes the prison of your eyes and falls to land gently on the fabric of your jeans. You roughly wipe your eyes with the heel of your hand, making your face even splotchier with your rubbing. Here, in the safety of your room, you finally allow yourself to give in and cry, spilling all your emotions out in delicate droplets that you refused to let him see. You disallow yourself to let him know how much he hurt you with his words, words that normally paint pictures on blank and empty pieces of paper but had tonight been turned into a knife with razor sharp edges. But you know he knows that he hurt you. You know he knows that he fucking tore you apart. How could he not after all these years as friends?
Because that’s all he wants to be. He told you so before, in the giant argument you two had. All the signs are there that he feels the same way about you that you do about him, you know they are. And it’s not just you that can see them. The rest of your band always roll their eyes and hide their smiles whenever he interacts with you, which is on a daily basis because of your roles in the band. All the signs are there. But you just don’t understand why he won’t give into his feelings like you have. It’s like he’s standing at the top of a building looking down at you, standing with your arms open, ready and waiting to catch him, knowing that you will never let him fall. And still he won’t jump.
You know he’s not as open and accepting about things as you are, and that’s okay with you. You know that when something is bothering him you have to go and ask him what it is, not wait for him to come to you with his problems and worries. And even then you don’t get an answer sometimes. The last few times it was just a sad smile and a shake of the head, signaling that he didn’t want to have this conversation. And so you searched his eyes, returning his smile and regretfully leaving him to his own devices. But just because it’s okay with you, it doesn’t mean that you like it when he doesn’t let you in. You respect the right to privacy, but you hate it when he shuts you out, even though you know he doesn’t mean to be hurtful.
Gradually, your sobs subside into shallow gasps, and you angrily swipe at your face again. You can still hear the loud music coming from his room down the hall, and you don’t know whether you should stay in your room or venture out and try to fix the shattered remnants of your relationship, broken after harsh words and angry yells flew from lips and vibrated through the air. You cover your ears, like you can still hear the shouts echoing through the apartment that you two share for convenience as well as company. You don’t know what to do next; your head telling you to stay locked away and hidden in your room while your heart tells you to go after the older boy who’s probably aching just as much as you are. Squeezing your eyes shut, you slide slowly to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them tight, rocking back and forth slightly. Words tumble incoherently from your lips, and with a start, you realise that you’re singing one of his songs. Breaking off mid-lyric, you press your lips together tightly, ducking your head and resting your chin on your knee. The heartache you feel is unbearable and you make your decision on what to do based on something your mother told you as a child: Never go to bed angry at someone. You simply don’t know what will happen during the night.
You push yourself up, hugging your arms to your chest in a form of measly protection. But from what? More harsh words that will probably greet you? The presence of strong emotions and feelings of hurt that will show in the other boy’s shining eyes?
The loud music still plays, switching to a random song the same time your fingers hesitantly brush against the cold metal of your door handle. You gnaw on your lip lightly before turning it and stepping out into the hall.
The lights have been turned off, so shadows reign and play on the walls. You don’t remember the hallway being dark when you made your desperate escape to your room, so you figure he must have turned them off. You can’t help the gentle twitch of your lips. He was always a stickler for the small, unimportant details.
You pause again at his door, seeing a small band of golden glow underneath that means his desk lamp is on. You have another inner battle with yourself about whether to continue further, and decide to press on. You know he won’t hear your knock over the music, so you slowly twist the handle, pushing the door open slowly to glance inside the room.
Like you noticed before, the lamp that sits on his desk in the corner is on, casting a warm light over paper and books that have been strewn across surface and stacked haphazardly on one side. His chair is empty however, and you sweep your eyes over the rest of his room, freezing abruptly when you see the small figure curled up tight in a ball under the covers of his bed. You softly take a step inside his inner sanctuary, a strange feeling washing over you at the thought of entering uninvited, which he’d forbidden, but you figure that the circumstances have changed slightly now. The iPod in the dock on the bedside table switches to another song, and still the lump doesn’t move. You cautiously move around to the side of his bed, but you get no response from him. You don’t know whether he’s ignoring you or unaware of your presence. You sit gently down on the foot of his bed, but that doesn’t gain a reaction either, and neither does carefully and lightly laying a hand on where his shoulder would be under the covers. At the top of the blankets, just under the pillow, is a mop of light brown hair, and that’s all you can see of him. Standing up again, you walk closer and bend down, studying the small part of his face that is exposed. His eyes are closed and he is breathing peacefully. Fast asleep. Indignation and other mixed feelings about how lightly he took the fight hit you like a train and you take an involuntary step backwards, moisture beginning to pool in your eyes.
And that’s when you notice the lonely tear that slides down his face, the betraying hint of what he’s really feeling.
He never cries, you know that. So for him to be crying now… you don’t know what to think. Expelling a large breath, you quietly turn the music down and eventually, off. On an impulse, you pull up his desk chair next to his bed and sit there for a while, staring at him and watching over him as he sleeps. Your observations are broken by a yawn, and you realise that it is late. But you don’t feel like going back to your own room.
You turn off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness and waiting until your eyes adjust. When you can see properly, you move slowly forward until your knees hit the mattress of the bed. Gently, as so not to disturb him, you pull the covers back and slip delicately in next to him, sighing softly in contentment. Lying on your back, you turn your head and come face to face with him, the single tear having frozen on his cheek. You brush it away almost lovingly with your thumb before thinking, what the hell, and sliding an arm around him and pulling him close.
You fall asleep with him in your arms, loving the way you both seem to fit together.
When you wake the next morning, you can tell from the tense muscles that tremble beneath your fingers that he’s awake. And he can tell you are too.
“Are you lost?” he asks softly, his voice heavy with a sleep-induced monotone that makes it hard to tell what he’s feeling. “Because I don’t think this is your room or bed.”
In the darkness provided by heavy curtains, you raise your eyes to meet his own unreadable orbs. They flicker back and forth a few times before breaking away. And suddenly, you can’t take it anymore. You push forward, crashing your lips together, and there’s a slight moment where he relaxes against your mouth before you feel him stiffen and pull away.
“Don’t,” he says, and you can hear the soft hints of anger in his tone. “Don’t do things like that.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” you ask, staring at his face while he refuses to meet eye contact with you. He wrenches his body out of your hold, and you don’t fight to keep him in your arms like you know you should, letting him shift to the other side of the bed and lay on his back, watching him stare at the ceiling.
“Because,” he grinds out, but it sounds slightly strangled.
“Because why?” you counter, shifting your position to get a better look of the boy next to you.
“Because,” he throws back. “Because… because I’m scared, okay? I don’t want to fuck up somehow, and ruin not only what we could be, but our friendship as well. I don’t ever want to lose you. And there’s the whole publicity thing… And…” He breaks off with a groan and throws his arm over his face. You know that this is a big admission, especially from him, so you are silent, waiting to see if he’ll continue. When it’s obvious that he won’t, you hesitantly say quietly, “How could you be so faithless?”
You watch the arm being removed, and slowly, ever so slowly, his head turns and he looks at you. You reach out and take his hand under the covers.
“I know we’ll be just fine,” you say, staring into his eyes. Oh, how you could get lost in his eyes. You squeeze his hand, which gains a small squeeze in return and his mouth, which has hardened into a line, starts to soften. You give him a hesitant smile, watching as he stares back at you, his eyes drinking in every detail of your face. Letting go of your hand, he rolls over onto his stomach, and this time it’s him who kisses you. You gasp in surprise, but let him, feeling him open his mouth and deepen the kiss. You return it hungrily, desperate for more of him. You break apart gently.
“How do you know?” he asks, almost demandingly. You chuckle.
“Uh, hello, that kiss was fucking amazing for starters,” you say. “And besides, I just know.”
He rolls his eyes and gives a small grin. “You’re such an optimist,” he says, nudging your neck lightly with his nose as he rests his head on your shoulder.
“One of us has to be,” you say back, sliding an arm across his stomach and reaching for his hand again. He gives it up easily.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into the silence that has developed between the two of you. “All those things I said last night… I didn’t mean it. I was just so…”
“It’s okay,” you murmur back, kissing his soft hair. He sighs, and huddles closer to you, and you think that this is the most natural feeling in the world. “I’m sorry, too.” Your apology is accepted with a gentle kiss to your jaw, and you breathe out, feeling happy. The boy in your arms soon falls asleep again, and you follow him not long after.
Outside, the sun rises, bringing with it a new day and hope for a new start.