Sweet Talk 101

It is always five in the morning.

I'm not tired. Me, tired? I won't be tired for a few more hours. I'm actually feeling really awake. I drank some coffee and continued playing Mario after you left. I had nothing better to do. Now I'm in my bed though. My big, comfy, unmade bed.

I have my hands wrapped around a warm cup of coffee that I sip unconsciously as I flip through my notebook, recollecting on what I've written these past couple weeks. I didn't lie. None of it is good. It's actually just a bunch of garbage in my eyes. And I couldn't remember what I was thinking when I wrote any of it if I tried.

I can't write anything. Because my head is empty. If I had to interpret this shit I once called lyrics, all that comes to mind is my messy apartment. Everything about it that I haven't gotten around to fixing.

The empty beer bottles.

I know. I'm barely twenty years old. I shouldn't be drinking. But I'm not stupid and I'm not my dad. I'm not a kid and I'm not an adult. On the same hand, I am not a teenager. But on the other hand, I'm probably just this nihilistic gay boy with too much time on his hands. Where was I?

The apartment.

The unanswered phone messages. The base of my telephone sits next to my bed, blinking a bright red "02". I don't know who they're from. Maybe, now that I'm feeling like a human again, I should answer those. I toss the notebook aside and set my cup of coffee on the same table as the phone. I press the button and the machine starts talking to me.

"First unheard message."

"Hey, Ryan, it's William...Look, I'm sorry about the other night. I'd really, really like it if you'd return my calls. This is my first message but I've called you over and over. If you don't wanna talk to me, fine...but I'd much rather hear that come from your mouth rather than my own assumptions. Please."

Muffled click. I sigh and push the delete button. Why did I have to be so resentful? Because I'm childish. I freak out at the smallest things. You are the last thing I should freak out about.

"Second unheard message."

"Ry? It's Brendon."

Oh, here we go.

"What happened at the party was...Well...I don't know what it was. But it wasn't something that I should have overreacted about like that. I was drunk, Ry. It just really shocked me. And I wish you would just answer your phone. But when you do decide to come around...we're having band practice on Wednesday at 6 AM, in case you wanna drop by and show us what you've been working on. If you have been, that is. I guess that's all...Bye."

Muffled click.

Shit, I don't even know what day it is. I go back before deleting the message and listen to the date. Sunday the 8th. Now I have to go turn my TV on to find out what day it is today. 5:34 AM. Wednesday the 11th.

Well damn.

- - -

It's common knowledge that I love Palahniuk.

Jump to the recording studio.

I walk in our studio without knocking. What's the point? I hear Jon strumming on my guitar as I open the door. I forgot I'd left it here; I haven't been here in a long, long time. He and Spencer are talking quietly and tiredly, discussing something about an orchestra. Brendon is on the couch, sipping Starbucks and wearing nothing but his tight pink hoodie and black pajama pants. Oh, I remember those pajama pants. Stangely, he's acompanied on the couch by someone else of the same kind of attire.

As if the heavy door wasn't enough to announce my entry, it takes the four of them a few moments to realize I'm there. Unfortunately, Brendon's the first.

"Ryan," he says, getting up off the couch. His guest, she seems a little too comfortable around him. She pouts as he takes his attention off her to greet me instead. He comes over to me and touches my arm. Are you kidding me? An arm touch? He must have seen how confused I was, and he quickly pulls me into a hug. It's short, but I can't expect it to be long. I can't even expect it to mean anything at all. Not with this girl guarding her ground right behind him. When he pulls away, he sees that I'm looking at her.

"Ryan..." he says again. "This is my...girlfriend...Amy." Oh, the stuttering. I'm loving the stuttering. The hesitation. It's amusing me to a greater extent than it probably should. Even though this has got to all be a joke.

She's short, she's blonde, she's...a girl. She smiles a big fake smile and I return one just like it. "Hi, I'm Ryan," I say as I extend my hand. I try to make it a point to shake a person's hand when I meet them. Her grip is loose, as if she's afraid of what my skin might feel like. Brendon, he stands between us with an uncomfortable folding of his arms.

"So..." he says, looking from me to Amy. Jon and Spencer are watching from the other side of the room; they look amused. Let's steal a line. I so don't blame them.

"Got anything written?" Brendon asks me casually, even though I'm sure he knows he asked me this just last night, or, rather, Spencer did. He's just looking to break the ice. He's trying to clean the slate.

"I told you I don't," I say in a bored voice, and I stuff my hands in my pockets, secretly trying to rid of the warm feeling that Amy's hand had left on mine. That feeling of an overdose of moisturizer.

"Well we have lots of guitar parts to use," Jon says. "You know, if you'd rather use the music-before-lyrics method. Whatever though." He goes back to strumming, and everyone is thankful. The air is a tiny bit less thick with the sound of an instrument to thin it out.

"But we do need lyrics," Brendon says as Amy moves closer to him. "We needa start working out those shared vocals you wanted." If Amy were wearing jeans instead of pajama pants, Brendon's hand would be in her back pocket. But she's not, and that's just gross.

It's like he's not even talking to me. It's like he's pretending to be the most understanding sweetheart in the world. When really, he doesn't even want to understand why I've taken my little leave of absence. Brendon would rather pretend it never happened at all.

I want my old Brendon back, but as long as this girl is here, that's not gonna happen. And I can tell you that right now. But maybe that's my fault. With the old Brendon, this girl wouldn't be here for one. But two: he and I would have been here a lot earlier, maybe 5 AM, just to have our little make out session alone in the recording studio. But neither of us can do that now. And I'm not sure if I want to or not.

So I quickly think of you, honey, and all those thoughts of my body pressed against Brendon's are shovelled out of my head like the day after a snowstorm.

I finally remember that I have to reply to Brendon's insincere statement. Well, the statement wasn't insincere; it was just fact. I do want to sing with him. But his intentions are insincere. I just know. I know he won't let me and I know he wants all the spotlight, again. When he says we need to "work out" the shared vocals, he means "let me convince you that I have an immensely more sexy voice than you so we just can't have" the shared vocals.

"Yeah," I say finally. "I think it would make things a lot more interesting."

"Great! So what have you written?"

Did he not hear me the first thousand times? "I haven't written anything, Brendon. I told you that."

"Have you been busy or something?" Amy asks, her voice almost making my top lip curl in distaste.

I look down at her. "Yes."

"With William?"

I stare holes into her fake blue eyes. "Excuse me?"

"I just heard..." she says innocently, her eyes averting away from both me and Brendon.

"Well. You don't have any right-"

"Okay, okay," Brendon says, looking me in the eye. "Let's not get off on the wrong foot. Amy's really nice, okay, Ry?"

"Hm, 'Ry'? Isn't that what you used to call me after we-"

"Let's go!" Brendon says loudly, drowning out the obscene ending to my sentence. I can hear Jon and Spencer holding back laughter. I smirk as he pushes me away from Amy and out the door of the room. We're out in the hall now. It's brighter and I wait for my eyes to adjust. I want to make that girl mad. I want to make Brendon mad. Right now, I want to be the biggest bitch in the world.

"What the fuck, Brendon?!" I shout, taking advantage of the sound-proof doors.

"Me?! What is your problem?!"

"Her! She just appeared out of fucking nowhere! Did Spencer finally get you in a straight club?! Is your ass finally tired of you being such a gay SLUT?!"

"You're a slut!"

And that is the best he's got. I shouldn't feel so victorious so soon. "YOU'RE GAY!" I shout.

"I know but-"

"You're gay!" I say again, the speed of my words picking up. "I remember! You looked me in the eye and said 'Ryan, I'm gay'. Why would you lie-"

"No shit I'm gay; it's not like we didn't go out for three months!"

"THEN WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!"

And he snaps. I'm glad. He kind of smacks the wall, surely only letting out a small fraction of his frustration. We're not saying anything. The only sound is the movement of the ceiling fans spinning above us. I watch him, reading his every move. It's really hard. He must be getting better at hiding his emotions - he probably picked that up from me.

"I'm sorry, Ry," he says quietly.

"I thought you didn't like girls," I say in an equal volume, and the conversation carries on in that way.

"I don't." He leans against the wall and looks at me sideways. "But it's just different with Amy. It's just...different." I don't know what to say. Several moments of silence tells him to go on. "It's like when a girl suddenly realizes she's in love with her best chick friend she's known since kindergarten. I'm not in love with Amy but you know what I mean..." He trails off.

I'm hurt. I'm really, really hurt. This shouldn't be affecting me the way it is. It reminds me of when he and I broke up. It was tearful, hurtful, and simply heartbreaking. I feel my throat tighten, and it only increases the hurt. I open my mouth, finding the words are hard to get out.

"But...I thought I was your best friend..."

He sighs so sadly, and I know he thinks he chose the wrong words. We're facing each other, and he being shorter than me, lays his forehead on my shoulder. "You are," he whispers heavily into my chest. "You are..."

He lifts his head up again so that our noses are practically touching. I can feel his soft skin tickle the tip of my nose. He always used to do that. That is one thing that you, William, just can't replace. It's Brendon's little secret weapon. And he gets me every time.

My knees are so weak and that is probably how my lips end up at the same height as his, and maybe he takes that as a cue. He moves closer, his nose moving past the tip of mine, and he kisses me. His lips are light, not interested in portraying anything too passionate. It's like he's taking control, and I'm simply loving it, just like it'd always been. His lips were the ice skates and mine were just the ice that they glided over, letting him show off and simply make something beautiful happen. And somehow, together, we were so great at that.

It ends as quickly as it came. I'm staring at the floor between our toes. I'm wearing shiny black dress shoes, he's barefoot. I can feel him looking at me, smiling. That shouldn't have happened. We're both in relationships, basically. We are cheaters. We are liars.

But I can't help myself.

I look up from the floor and before I even get a chance to meet Brendon's eyes, my lips are back against his, and it's cold again. His breath on mine is warm and then cold. Our bodies aren't even touching; just our lips, and just my hands combing so delicately and slowly through his brown hair. His hands rest loosely on my hip bones. His kiss is so pure. Not lusty, not lecherous in any way. Just loving, even though he doesn't love me. Not anymore.

His lips barely break away from mine and he whispers, his eyes still closed, "We shouldn't be doing this." He smiles in guilt.

"But it's okay. Best friends can keep secrets."

His smile widens and he kisses me again. We just stay like that for a while...praying the door doesn't open...and skating on broken ice.