What does all this mean to you? I'm nothing more than a part of your theatrical game.
As soon as I heard the latch click, I opened my eyes, not really looking at anything in particular. I wasn't sure if I was more relieved or disappointed that he was gone.
I always pretended to be asleep when he came in on nights like these. That way, I didn't need an excuse to let him be near me.
It was the same way at shows. Seeing him getting nearer, knowing how he would raise a white gloved hand to brush my hair from my face, place his hand behind my head and crush our lips together, before backing away with a flourish amid a torrent of fangirls' screams. And what did I do, night after night? I let him. I did nothing to put a stop to his careless theatrics.
I told myself over and over that I only let him kiss me because it's what the fans want to see.
I could only be near him when I had an excuse, like being asleep or performing.
I couldn't let him see that I cared.
Any other time I would pull away.
Brendon, with his carelessness...
Brendon, with his intense looks my way.
Brendon, with his touch.
The way my whole body tingled in anticipation when he came near me across the stage.
The way his lips sent electric shocks down my spine.
The way the screeching of the fans reminded me how wrong this game we were playing felt.
And the way he, as he pulled away, seemed completely unaffected, continuing his performance with renewed bravado after our mouths had parted.
The way I was expected to do the same.
We're not gay.
That fucking interview. I couldn't get it out of my head.
Maybe you're not/, I thought miserably, /but I'm in love with Brendon fucking Urie.
In the other room, the black-haired boy was tossing and turning on the couch, plagued by dreams of a brunet angel that he could never quite reach.