The Pills Never Lie

Ryan looks like a doll. He slouches against the dining room chair, its back his only support, and his head lolls to the side. His arms and legs lie askew in the positions they flopped into; palms are upturned, feet are apart, and his mouth is parted just barely—but it’s his eyes that disturb Jon the most. They’re waxed over and faraway; they still gaze up even when his head hangs, and Jon sees the white rimming the aqua. Whenever he walks closer, the eyelashes flutter.

Jon’s dress shoes clack against the wooden floor, and an echo carries the noise. “Ryan,” he calls. “I’m going home for the night.”

Ryan’s eyes begin to sharpen. He tries hard to focus; some of his fingers twitch.

“I know,” Jon says softly as he takes another step. A wall-length mirror decorates the dining room, and Jon wonders if the reflections are anything like Ryan’s mind: pretty imitations. “It’s the medication. It won’t always be this bad, though. I promise. The doctor says it’ll just take your body a couple of days to get used to it. Something to look forward to, right?”

In his hand he holds envelopes, white and sealed. He smiles and waves them. “I’ll pay your bills for this month, so don’t worry about them. I’ll do whatever I can to help, okay?”

Something wheezes out of Ryan’s throat. His eyes roll to Jon and widen.

Jon suppresses the urge to shiver. “I’ll… come by again tomorrow after work. You’ll feel better by tonight. Please remember your pills, Ryan.”

Little white round pills, 300 milligrams a day—

________________________________________

Ryan stands in the shower. Warm water sprays across his form; little rivulets trail down his skin and drip off his hair. When it gets into his eyes, he barely blinks—just stands and stares at the blue tiles without movement or sound.

There’s a squeak and water trickles to a stop. It collects and swirls down the drain.

The shower door is opened and a fuzzy towel is wrapped around his shoulders. Hands guide him out of the stall and the towel begins rubbing up and down his arms.

“Always nice to see you spick-and-span,” someone says. Hair invades his vision.

Ryan’s eyes focus. “Brendon.”

“I’m home,” Brendon says as he smiles and uses the towel to pull Ryan closer. He buries his face into the nook between neck and shoulder. “You smell good.”

Brendon draws him into their bedroom. He sits Ryan down on the bed and starts to dry his legs. Momentarily his fingers pause along Ryan’s inner thigh, but with a sigh, he moves on to dress him.

Contact your healthcare professional for dosage reassessment—

________________________________________

Ryan can function now. Sometimes his hands are still shaky—he drops things a lot—but the disorientation has worn and his body has adjusted to the medication. He tries to do all the domestic needs because Brendon does all the work (because no one wants Ryan to work). Ryan makes food, but Brendon says never to worry about it because he eats out; Ryan does laundry, but Brendon says to just sit down because he can do his own; Ryan tries to do something, but Brendon says he can do everything and Ryan should just take care of himself.

Ryan tries, tries to even just please Brendon in bed, or let Brendon please him, but everything feels lethargic and filmed over. His skin is reveled and touched, but he has to concentrate so hard to derive pleasure from it. That good feeling is just underneath the surface but he can’t reach it; it’s coated over by little white pills.

Brendon leans over him in the dark, and his head is hanging. Ryan can barely hear him mutter about the medication and how it feels to do more harm than good.

Ryan whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Brendon says as he rolls off him. He breathes deep and pulls the covers up. “You can’t help it. Just go to sleep.”

Possible side effects are as follows—
________________________________________

Things have gone missing lately. Physical things he used to see everyday—like gifts from old friends. The stuffed animal Spencer gave him when he was younger is nowhere to be found. He hasn’t seen Spencer in months, but he cherishes it all the same.

“I can’t find it,” Ryan murmurs. “Where is it?”

He looks under furniture and in closets, in dresser drawers and in the storage downstairs. He finds old things he forgot he had—like the picture of when he and Jon first met—but he can’t find anything Spencer gave him.

His brow is scrunched in worry and he wonders how so many things could have disappeared (he swears it was right there, right there). He doesn’t remember misplacing them, because he’s always careful with his things, so he checks places a second time, and the horrible feeling in his chest grows and gnaws at him from the inside.

Brendon comes home to find Ryan sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. As Brendon steps closer, Ryan glances up, and his face twists angrily as he demands to be told what Brendon did with Spencer’s things. Brendon had to have done something with them; Ryan doesn’t just lose things like that—it’s Brendon’s fault they’re gone. Brendon knows where they are; he should give them back—

Brendon holds Ryan close. “It’s the medicine working,” he says.

He doesn’t let go until Ryan stops shaking.

Patients have reported the following positive effects—

________________________________________

Jon visits again while Brendon is at work. He sits at the kitchen table while Ryan makes sandwiches. Jon smiles and talks conversationally, and Ryan responds in kind.

The sandwiches are placed on plates, and the plates are placed on the table. Jon reaches for his, but stops when he sees there are three instead of two.

“Feeling a little hungry, huh, Ryan?” he asks, grinning.

“Huh?” Ryan blinks slowly, then looks at the prepared food. He tries to hide a smile. “Oh. Not really. Brendon’s coming home soon, so I fixed him one.”

Something flickers in Jon’s eyes. “Oh. Okay.”

Ryan pulls out a chair and sits down. Jon munches weakly on his snack, distracted.

“Ryan,” he says suddenly, “you’ve been taking your pills, right?”

They’ve gone through this before. “Of course, Jon. You don’t let me forget.”

Jon purses his lips. “… Okay.”

He falls quiet once more as they finish eating. The silence stretches out, dull, and the third sandwich lies untouched.

“Do you remember Spencer?” Jon asks; his voice cuts through the air loudly.

Ryan smirks at the memory, but doesn’t meet eye contact. “Yeah, I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

“That’s good.”

He glances up, startled, and frowns deeply. “Good? Why? He’s a great friend.”

The something in Jon’s eyes returns, and Ryan recognizes it as concern. “Ryan,” Jon starts slowly, “no one ever saw Spencer but you.”

He can’t find that stuffed animal.

Ryan laughs. “That’s stupid, Jon. Why couldn’t they? I showed you the stuff he gave me.”

Jon remembers staring at the empty space in Ryan’s hands.

He stares at the untouched food now.

“The pills aren’t working right, are they?” he says quietly, looking down at his folded hands. “You need a larger dose. We should talk to the doctor—”

“Jon, stop it,” Ryan orders sternly, because silly Jon’s talking nonsense again. “I’m fine.”
Jon tries to reach out, but Ryan flinches away. “I’m just trying to help—”

“I don’t need it. Brendon—”

That’s when Jon stands, and he’s adamant and furious, because he’s been so kind even with no progress and he just wants his best friend back. And he doesn’t really mean to shout; it just blurts out because it should be known—

“Brendon’s been dead for three months!”

A silence falls across the room, more terrifying than before. Ryan’s eyes are wide, and Jon can see their whites.

Jon pays the bills because Brendon’s income is low (there’s no income at all). Brendon doesn’t need any food because he eats out (he doesn’t eat at all). Brendon never has any laundry to do because he does it himself (the clothes are never worn).

“There was no funeral—”

“You didn’t attend. You said he was at home with you.”

Brendon sleeps next to Ryan at night—he does; he’s right there, and he’s coming home soon.

“Ryan—”

He’s coming home soon. He is.

Take all your pills and divide them by number and size—

You’ll see.