FicWad

I relapse.

He leaves, he tours, he sings, dances, and performs. I relapse. Z hears the news about what her magical call did and she comes over. And with Z comes coke. I’m thankful for it. And we’re not together, not in the slightest, but she and I fall into the familiar pattern of forgetting. Forgetting things we’ve done, forgetting horrible things we’ve said, choices we’ve made. It’s what we do.

At least that’s what I do. Maybe she just likes to watch me wallow.

The three months pass in a slow, colorful blur, and a line a day keeps the feelings away, so I continue on my path of self destruction with head held high because I’ve decided that it’s my fate. The fallen rock star succumbs to cocaine and misery. How perfectly cliche. It’s practically comical.

I don’t pay attention to the tweets and the videos, the pictures and the interviews. They’re not my band anymore, so I don’t fucking care. I write shitty music in a dark, dusty, studio, and snort and sleep and drink but fuck eating. Eating makes me feel like I’m alive, and that’s the absolute last thing I could want. The closer to dead the better.

Though I couldn’t actually kill myself. There’s a line of pathetic that I refuse to cross.

“Ry,” Z says, snuggled up to my side as we watch the ceiling in buzzed up bliss. I hum in response, too distracted by the dancing dust particles to open my mouth and speak, “Ry, do you think we’ll grow old like this?”

I scoff, “Who said anything about growing old? I’ll be young forever.”

“No you won’t,” she says in this matter-of-fact way that says I can’t disagree with her, “Don’t act like the philosophical musician that you like to make people believe you are. Be honest for once.”

I sigh, keeping my arm tight around her shoulders as she rests on my chest, “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not a fortune teller.”

Z nods, satisfied by the answer for now as her eyes droop closed and she starts to drift to sleep. I don’t mind when she falls asleep on me. It’s a comfort in some weird way, because sleep never comes easy for me. Having someone there, sleeping beside me, just makes me feel normal again. Normalcy. When’s the last time I felt that?

I find myself asleep in less time than usual, and when I wake up Z is long gone and there’s a note on the counter. I stand up from our make shift bed in the middle of the kitchen floor, and glance at the yellow post-it. It’s Z’s fancy scrawl, with the simple words “Message on the machine,” written down. My eyes flash over to the blinking red light on my land line phone, and I scratch the back of my head; for once I’m happy to be sober.

I always like my mornings to be sober. My mind it the most clear when the air is just starting to get warm.

The button sticks a little as I press it down. The machine plays a woman’s automated voice for a few seconds before clicking to the real message.

The wind is knocked out of me, and I fucking despise it.

“Hey, Ryan,” Brendon says through the speakers, “Just got back. Thought I’d check up on you. Give me a call if you want to. Or don’t, uh, whatever works. You have my number. Bye.”

A ringing sounds, and silence falls over me.

He called after tour. Just like he said he would. I figured he’d been lying when he said it, seeing how pathetic I must have looked at the time. I told myself it was just his way of giving me some glimmer of hope. Nothing more. But he still called, just like he said he would, and my fingers twitch to reach for the phone and call him back directly.

I don’t hold back for once, and pick up the phone.

It rings a few times.

“Hello?”

“Brendon.” I say, breathing out the word.

“Ryan, hi. Glad you called.”

“How was tour?” I ask out of formality, not really wanting to know.

“It was good. Great actually. But, uh, let’s not talk about that. How are you?”

I pause, holding back the real answer, “I’m good... fine.”

Brendon stays silent for a few seconds, just his breathing on the other line, “That bad huh?” he waits for a few more seconds, my side of the conversation falling quiet, unable to find the words to tell him he’s right, “I’m gonna come over.”

I freeze. He can’t come over now. I look like a mess, the place is a wreck. I’m sure there’s coke laying out somewhere.

“Bren, no don’t-”

“I’m coming over,” he hangs up without another word, ending the conversation.

I panic, throwing the phone down and rushing to jump in the shower. I rinse the grease out of my hair, and move on to scrubbing down my body. As soon as the suds are rinsed off, I’m out of the shower in a flash, pulling on my one clean outfit and running out to clean the house as best as I can.

He can’t know how far I’ve sunk. He can’t know. He can’t.

The doorbell rings.

“Just a second!” I call out, rushing around the house to check for last minute mishaps, and then walk to the door, regaining my cool. I wrap my fingers around the door knob and pull it open.

He looks tired. Probably just as I do, but it makes a bigger mark on him because once flawless features now seem sunken in and dark. I force a smile, trying to seem at my best while all the while my head is spinning because it’s nearly noon and I have yet to put anything illegal into my blood stream. His eyes are slightly bloodshot, and his chin has more stubble on it than our last meeting.

My stomach churns at the thought of our last meeting. Three months ago. At the end of summer. What month is it now? October? No, November. Right.

“Hey,” I say, pulling the door open to allow him entry once again, and he slips inside without another word. The door closes with a light thud, and we’re back where we were three months ago. Staring at eachother without a thing to say.

He turns to face me, placing his sweatshirt on the backside of my armchair. He’s dressed in a blue and white plaid button up shirt, that hugs his, now minimal, curves just enough to give him definition. The button at the very top is undone, revealing a slice of pale white skin, and I feel my throat constrict. Tiredness aside, he’s still Brendon. My Brendon, and he’s still beautiful.

“So,” he says with an awkward smile, “I’m not going to lie to you, I really wanted to come over.”

The words make me stop, and cock an eyebrow, “Oh?”

“Yeah... I just...” he sighs, looking away and then finding my eyes again, “I kept worrying about you. I know I said that I’m not your savior, and I’m not. Not by any means, but... I wanted to check up on you.”

I nod. He wants to check up on me. Like I’m a recovering patient or something. The statement rubs me the wrong way, and I grit my teeth for a second.

“I’m fine. Just like I said over the phone.”

He takes a few steps closer to me, his eyes studying every inch before him, and I just want to puke from the obvious judgement he’s passing over me. I’m not his fucking pet, or his science project.

He doesn’t want to help me? Why can’t he let me wallow in peace.

“You look like an ethiopian war child. When’s the last time you ate?” he says, a hint of humor in his voice, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of even a smile. Fuck eating.

“Last...” I think, “Last tuesday.”

His eyes widen, “Jesus fucking christ, Ry. It’s Friday!”

I shrug. The days make no difference to me. It’s just the turning of the earth, and I’d be an idiot if I made that affect my pattern of life. Daylight, night time, it doesn’t matter. Anytime is a good time to get high and be numb.

Brendon stares at me in disbelief. Without so much as another breath, he moves into the kitchen, tearing into the refrigerator at lightening speed.

“Brendon,” I sigh, moving behind him, “Get out of my fridge. I’m not hungry.”

“Like fuck you’re not hungry, you’re just ignoring your body,” he huffs, searching through the shelves.

“Right, which means I am not hungry.”

“Yes, you are! Stop being stupid-”

“Oh, so now I’m stupid?” I raise my eyebrows, arms crossed as I watch him.

“Yes you are stupid. You have to fucking eat. I’m not going to let you do this to yourself,”

“I thought you weren’t my savior?”

“I’m not, I’m your friend.”

“A friend that doesn’t want to help me,”

He spins around, looking me square in the eye, “I said I couldn’t save you, not that I didn’t want to help-”

“But you don’t! You don’t want to help because it’s too fucking hard for you! Which is fine, Brendon, I get it. But if you’re not going to be here for me in the way I need you to be, then just don’t bother and let me handle it my way. Ignoring my body works for me. It works because then I just don’t feel anything and it’s easier that way.”
We stare at eachother again, this time with Brendon in shock, and myself in nonchalant honestly. I’m tired of the back and forth, and I know that I can’t rely on him the way I want to. It’s my own doing. Had I not left when I did, I might still have him, but I fucked it up so now I have to live in it.

“Ignoring your body...” he says slowly, looking at my fragile frame with concern, “isn’t going to get you anywhere.”

“I like being numb.” The answer is simple, but ultimately true.

“No you don’t,” he says, inching towards me and I feel my heart jump into my throat, “because if you were completely numb, you wouldn’t feel this,”

He closes the gap between us faster than I can gather, and his lips are pressed against mine in this sickeningly familiar way and my body splits in all different directions. In the same moment that I want to pull away and scream at him, I feel like I’m at home and I should never let go. His lips are warm and soft and perfect and this weight is lifted from my chest and, dear God, I can breathe again.

Our lips part just slightly, “Bren, what are you-”, but he’s back on me, holding the back of my neck in place so I have no where to run. I ball up the front of his shirt in my fists, pulling away from him, “what are you doing?”

His breath is pouring over my lips and all I want to do is taste him again, but I’m not that dumb. I can’t give in without knowing why.

“Kissing you,” he answers in a husky voice that has my knees shaking.

“Yes, I know but-” he kisses me again, silencing my questions. I feel his tongue brush against my chapped lips and I have no choice but to let him win what ever game he’s playing. I stop the fight, and slip my arms around his waist, pulling our bodies flush together and just kiss him. Kiss him like it’s the only thing that will keep me alive.

My chest is swollen over with an emotion I barely recognize anymore as I pull him as close as possible. He’s mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. And no one can have him but me. I hold onto him possessively and our lips move together like they never were apart. I move him backwards, pinning his hips to the kitchen counter as the want grows in me, taking over everything. I can’t see straight, I can’t feel or taste anything but him and it’s all I could ever want.

Next thing I know we’re on the floor, his body writhing beneath mine, and it’s nothing but skin and sweat and it’s so fucking wrong. He’s the love of my life and I’m sure I have a bed somewhere in this house but I don’t fucking care because I need him right now, so the floor will do, and he’s not complaining. The clothing disappears, and so does any semblance of space, and we’re closer than we’ve ever been.

When I press inside of him, I can’t breathe, but I feel more alive than I have in years and oh god the noises he makes should be illegal and I love them, I love him. I love him. Our fingers intertwine, pressed to the floor above his head and our hips move together in a sinful rhythm that has us both panting for air. He’s intoxicating, and invigorating, and mine, mine, mine. Our lips never part except for the brief moments where we look at each other, our eyes both reading the same expression of “is this really happening”. And it is. Fuck, it is.

My body heats up, so does his, and the moment is over far too soon. We lay on the floor side by side, our faces turned up towards the ceiling.

“Are you still numb?” he asks, not turning to look at me.

“No,” I respond.

“Good.”

He sits up, shimmering sweat coated skin moving quickly to retrieve his clothing. My heart stops.

“Where are you going?” I ask, sitting up as I watch him. He turns and smiles at me, and my heart picks up a pace again.

“I should go... but I’ll be around.”

He dresses, and I stand to pull on my pants again. Something isn’t sitting right inside of me, and I don’t know how to put it into place. As he reaches the door, I halt him, with an innocent expression on my face.

“What did... what did that mean?” I ask.

He looks back at me for a few minutes before speaking, “I’m not sure,” he says, a small smile on his face, “Something. It meant something.”

I nod. Because it did. It meant something and everything to me, but it just meaning something to him is all that matters.

“I’m not your savior,” he repeats his words, grabbing the door handle, “but I’ll be around. I promise.” He pulls open the door, and quickly looks back at me, “Call me.”

And then he’s gone.

No I love you’s. No I want to be with you’s. No confession of love or hatred. Just a promise and a smile that I’ve grown to adore so much.

I breathe. I’m alive again.

I’ll call him.


(A/N Thanks so much for all the love! Please Rate and Review!! I'm already working on my next fic (drama drama drama central) and I can't wait to keep posting more work! You guys are the best! xoxo-Tay)