Nazareth

"Ryan."

"Ryan."

"Ryan."

"Ryan, I'm leaving."

"Ryan, do even care?"

"Ryan, can you even fucking hear me?"

The words, said in blur of tears and fury never quite make it to their desired objectory and are brushed off like they're worthless. The intended reciever just sits there in a incoherent flurry of vacant stares and shaking hands. The eyes blink, but still see nothing.

"She was right, you know. You're a fucking piece of shit. I can't even... I just don't..." Brendon trails off, looking away from Ryan, maybe for the last time.

The syllables fall on deaf ears.

Brendon wants to reach out, wants to say something that'll matter. He just can't. He's done. He's put up with Ryan's bullshit for five years, whether it was one thing or another. Bitching about his vocals, about Jac cheating on him, about how his makeup was running, about Keltie's schedule... the list goes on. Ryan was always coming to him because Brendon would always listen to him, and he knew that. Brendon was always there, and Ryan took advantage of it.

Brendon loved him. He had done everything and anything Ryan had ever asked.

He was just tired of watching him deteriorate before his very eyes. With every puff, with every line, the boy he once knew faded more and more into oblivion. Soon, there'd be nothing left. Ryan was just going to be a shallow skeleton of his former self, and Brendon refused to watch it happen like some pathetic Lifetime movie. He was removing himself from the equation. Maybe, if there were less variables, things would become more simple and easier to solve. Or maybe the equation would have a hole that would never be able to be filled. Either way, it was a shot in the dark, and he got hurt either way. He was always the one getting hurt.

Since Keltie had left him, it had gotten worse. Ryan was high more often than not, and it was frustrating. You could barely talk to him without getting some cryptic bullshit that always resulted in meaning, "I miss her."

Brendon missed her too. At this point, he could care less if Ryan and Keltie had settled down and had a million kids. At least with her, Ryan was happy most of the time. At least with her, it was just pot. At least with her, Ryan could remember his own name. But once Keltie had made it painstakingly clear that she was not getting back together with him for all of the poetry in the world, things flipped. Ryan blamed it on Brendon, even though he had burned his own bridge with no help from anyone but himself. Ryan had decided to go cheat on her with some random chick.

That's what hurt the most. Of all the people Ryan could have cheated with, it had to be a lousy one night stand. Brendon couldn't help but wonder why not him. Why did it have to be with some pathetic girl he didn't even know? Ryan had thrown away two years with Keltie for nothing but his own stupid insecurities.

Spencer didn't even want anything to do with Ryan at this point. Spencer had always been the one who knew Ryan the best. He could always patch up the holes that Brendon only ever wished he could. He had tried to talk to him, tried to make him realize what he was doing, but he didn't listen. Ryan ignored him. He was too stubborn, as he always was. He'd always been like that, but this was rediculous. Jon was the only one who could handle him at the moment, which was surprising. They had gotten incredibly close in the last few of weeks and were always together.

Brendon was tired of being taken for granted. He was sick of Ryan expecting he was always going to be there, even though he was constantly pushing Brendon and everyone else away. He was sick of Ryan's stupid agendas and the several walls he put up to alienate everyone who ever cared about him. He wasn't going to stand there and be emotionally torn apart.

Hands shaking, Brendon grabbed his car keys. He refused to let himself look back at his former love for fear that he would never leave.

* * * *

Brendon laughs, climbing onto his surfboard and splashing water at Zack. "Shut the fuck up, I totally had that wave," he lies.

"Ya, right before it crushed you," Zack states sarcastically before rolling his eyes showily.

From a couple yards away, Spencer shouts, "Yo, Neptune has struck us with another!"

Brendon chuckles under his breath. That's Spencer-Speak for 'There's a big fucking wave right there.' "Alright, let's fuck this bitch!" he replies.

"Watch your language, motherfucker!" Jon retorts from behind.

Brendon flips him off without even looking and goes for the wave.

Needless to say, he rides it without incident (flawlessly, he'd say) and decides to lie out of the shore for a little bit. He needs to apply more suntan lotion on his nose so it doesn't burn or get more freckles on it. That would be bad. They make him look like a little kid.

He sees his other half, lying down with a magazine in hand. Large sunglasses are perched on the nose, which is nothing unusual. Brendon can't help but wish the magazine turned into a pretentious French novel and the bikini were replaced with a paisley scarf, but. He doesn't mention it.

"Hey babe," He greets, taking his place next to Sarah and leaning in to kiss her. In his mind, the lips are thinner and more hesistant.

"Hey. How's the surf?" she asks, putting the magazine on her lap and turning more towards him.

Brendon can't help but think how Ryan would have asked, 'Catch any fish while you were under?' "Good," he answers.

Ryan closes his eyelids, somehow painting flurries of colors behind them. He can't remember where he is, he just knows that the floor is hard and there's no sound, other than the rough dischordant sound of bells in his ears.

The next thing he knows, he's sitting up, shirtless and damp, as if he's been sweating off a hundred pounds for the past twelve hours. His breath is labored, and looking at the window, he can tell it's sometime in the afternoon probably. In his world, it's always nine in the afternoon.

He sees nothing, really, but feels everything. He can feel his own heartbeat thrumming in his veins and his lungs straining against his ribcage. He feels the rug, rough beneath his fingertips (the one he just had to have), and the harsh cracking of his knees as he attempts to stand. After a few attempts, he does.

He feels everything, yet nothing but himself. Maybe now, he is everything and there is else nothing left.

Eventually finding his Sidekick between the couch cushions, he clicks it open and it shows that he has one new message from Jon. It says: We're all goin surfin, you game?

Obviously not, he thinks, blinking a few times and wiping his nose. No matter what he does, it feels like he just snorted a beach. He might as well have. He wipes some white powder that rested on his fingertips off and onto his pants as trudges weightedly into the bathroom.

The mirror tells nothing but the truth, sadly. He looks like complete shit. His skin is ashen and his eyes are bloodshot enough to look as if he hasn't slept in weeks. The more he sits stands there, the more he hates himself.

Slouching against the wall, he needs something. His heart aches like it never has, but he doesn't know what he needs. He just doesn't know. He tries to remember, tries to find a name in his vocabulary that matches the the emotion he feels. It's like there's this big hole in his heart: burning, needy, and empty.

The name doesn't come, so he goes to his cabinet and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. Maybe the bottom of the bottle holds the secrets he's trying to discover.

They grab lunch, but not before Brendon smokes a few cigarettes as he watches intently at the spot where sky meets water. He smokes a lot these days. If Ryan can have his vices, then so can he.

Brendon looks at Sarah and feels guilty. He's already had his share of bad relationships (okay, maybe just one repeated and cut into pieces over and over) at barely twenty-two years old. On paper, he looks young, but on the inside, these past few months have aged him far more than it's worth.

"Zack, carry me," Brendon mumbles.

"No. You're a grown man. You can walk," Zack replies simply.

"You used to carry me all the time," Brendon pouts. Back when it was simple, he wants to say. Back when Brendon's obsene flirting with Ryan went unnoticed. Back when there were no pretty blonde dancers to catch Ryan's eyes. Back when there was no white powder in a bag stashed under Ryan's couch.

"That was before, and this is now. Walk, you lazy ass," Zack retorts, going off to say something to Spencer.

Sarah leans her head on Brendon's shoulder. "I'm tired," she says.

"Pft, tired? You were tanning all day," he replies.

"So? It's hard work," she defends.

'What's harder work is what you do when you hang out on that street corner,' Ryan's voice in his head mocks. "I'm sure it is," Brendon smiles, inwardly punching his subconscious.

Ryan posts some nonsense twitters (maybe tweets? twats?) to pass his time. He briefly considers calling Jon, but decides against it. He'd rather be alone right now, anyway. It's just easier and a lot less stressful.

He ends up sleeping again. He dreams. A lot, actually. The dreams are so random and spastic that he honestly can't even remember them when he wakes. It's all just a flurry a fears and feelings and losses and he tries to remember, really he does, but he just can't. He feels hopeless and violated about the fact that his own dreams are being kept secret from him.

When he wakes up it's three the next day. His ribs ache from lying on his stomach for so long, but he really doesn't care. He still feels tried when he rolls out of bed, so he does two lines to wake him up. Much better.

He has no missed calls when he checks his phone, which doesn't exactly strike him as odd. People don't really call him very much anymore because they know it's useless to even try.

He ends up making himself breakfast at around four and sits at his window and eats his eggs like a normal person would. A normal person who has distanced himself from all human contact and does a lot of drugs. Perfectly normal.

Scratching absently at his wide wrist and making faint red lines with his fingernails, he realizes he hasn't written in a while. He rummages around him room for his notebook and gets a pen from somewhere. He sits down and stares at the page for a while, waiting for something to strike him.

Turns out that Ryan's too jittery to sit still and think. He decides to go out, eyes red and hair a mess and probably smelling of endless illegal substances.

Ryan makes the decision that he needs some tea, so he drives over to Publix to get some. While perusing the aisles, he ends up grabbing some Red Bull and a box of Frosted Flakes as well. He doesn't know why; it feels sort of right, in a way. Like he's used to picking up energy drinks and sugary breakfast foods everytime he goes to the store.

He just can't remember why.

Brendon sits on the floor, cigarette perched haphazardly between his fingers while he's trying to get his twitter page to download. It's always so fucking slow.

He arches his back, feeling a little sore from surfing all day the day before. It's nothing major, really, but it's still there, nagging like a toothache.

"Yo, I want fucking pizza," Spencer announces suddenly from behind him.

Brendon inhales the smoke and lets it out before it travels all the way down his throat. "Then go get some, you lazy ass," he replies simply.

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Spencer asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Um. Yes?" Brendon answers uncertainly, turning his direction back to his computer's screen. He sees Ryan's music recommendation that's posted on his main page and he clicks on it, letting the oldies fill the room.

It's almost like a slap in the face. It's a love song, and just far too familiar. The notes burn his ears mockingly. It just feels like too much like Ryan. He turns it off.

He looks up to see Spencer and Jon staring at him weirdly. Their gazes have a strange feeling of sympathy to them; he doesn't like it.

"What?" he snaps.

"Nothing," Jon mutters, scratching the back of his neck.

"I'm going to get pizza," Spencer says, breaking the semi-awkward moment. "Mushrooms, green peppers, and sausage?"

"Yessir," Brendon answers, wondering when it became okay for him to eat meat. "I love you, Spencey-poo."

Spencer rolls his blue eyes. "Yeah, yeah. You guys need anything else while I'm out?"

Brendon shakes his pack of Marlboros. "More cigarettes," he answers.

Nodding, Spencer turns to Jon questioningly.

"Get some beer," Jon states.

"Ya man. Corona and Coors," Brendon agrees.

Spencer puts his bitchface on (which Brendon is still scared of until this day) and mumbles, "You're lucky I fucking like you guys, or you'd be out getting your own shit."

Brendon grins. "Hear that, Walker? We're two lucky bastards."

Spencer flips him the bird and grabs his keys. "I'll be back in a few," he says, walking out the door.

Later that night, Ryan looks around the room, scanning for any familiar faces. He sees a few and waves to them, going back to his drink.

He's in no condition to be out at this party. His hands keep shaking, and he just feels heavy everywhere. He needs coke. His chest and head is just burning for it, like he's substituting it for the equivalent of his air. It's something he can't ignore.

When he finally gets his fix, it feels like everything is brighter, sharper. He can smile; he can laugh. He feels unbothered. He feels alive.

The feeling lasts for about twenty minutes.

Brendon swallows as he looks at Jon. He has to ask now, while Spencer's gone. "Hey, um. Jon. Have you..." he trails off, hoping Jon will get what he's trying to say.

Sadly, he doesn't. He frowns and asks, "Have I what?"

Sighing, Brendon knows Jon shouldn't be expected to read his mind. It'd be nice, that's all, to have someone there again that could read him like an open book. "Talked to Ryan?" Brendon whispers.

Jon shifts. He knows that Brendon's worried about him. Hell, so is he. Spencer's taking it the worst: inwardly, of course. He refuses to acknowledge that Ryan ever existed, and they both know it's hard for him. Ryan's been like a brother to him for almost his whole life. Jon can't even imagine. "No," he replies. He watches as Brendon breaks eye contact, fidgets. "I'm sorry, Brendon."

Brendon shakes his head; he doesn't know for what. Maybe telling Jon it's not his fault. Maybe spelling that things are fucked beyond repair. Maybe screaming that he's not okay. Maybe it's all three.

"Call him."

Jon's head snaps up to meet Brendon's eyes, which are void of any expression. "What?" he asks.

"Call him," Brendon repeats, keeping his breathing level. "I need to hear him."

Jon looks down at his phone and hesitantly reaches for it. He dials Ryan's phone number and puts it on speaker.

They listen to it ring (eight, Brendon counts), before it finally goes to voicemail. Brendon doesn't know what he was expecting. Not an answer, that's for sure. That would be far too much to ask. "Hey, it's Ryan. Leave a mess-" Jon hangs up. Brendon remains silent.

They stay like that until Spencer returns. They first thing Brendon does is grab the cigarettes and head out the door for a much needed smoke.

* * * *

The next morning (or afternoon; keeping time is overrated), Ryan wakes with a sore neck and a girl at his side. Fuck He quickly gets out of bed, pulls his clothes on, and grabs his keys to get a coffee. He knows the girl will be gone by the time he gets back. They always are.

When he gets back from avoiding his one-night-stand, he goes back to his room to find his bed empty just as he had predicted. He checks his phone, which is resting on his bedside table, and sees it has one missed call from Jon, but no message. He grinds his teeth for a moment, wondering if he should return the call.

On a split second decision, he does. He holds the phone to his ear for a few moments, and then hears a weary "hello?"

Now, if there's one thing Ryan knows, it's Jon's voice when he's tired. They've been high together on more than one occasion, and that's not his voice. Still, he asks, "Jon?"

"N-no it's not-" The voice cuts off midway and questions, "Ryan?"

The voice is familiar, but it just doesn't click. He doesn't remember who it is. "Um, yes. Is Jon there?" he questions.

There's a long silence, and the voice accuses, "You don't even recognize my voice anymore."

Ryan says nothing. He tries, really. A running face through his mind, but all he see is a blur of full lips and pale hips.

The voice is obviously aggravated, if not extremely hurt. He hears it faintly say, "Here, Jon," then it's Jon saying hello.

Their conversation is of nothing important. Neither are surprised.

* * * *

Brendon hasn't eaten since Ryan couldn't recognize his voice over the phone two days ago. He can't, because every time he tries, it comes right back up. He's hysterical. He can't keep himself straight enough to take a deep breath.

Sleeping has been out of the question. Everytime he tries, his body is exhausted, but his mind still whirls with 'what if's and 'why's. He can't shut off his head. He's never felt so alone. Jon and Spencer are there, trying to soothe him the best he can. They take turns with him and ask if he needs anything or of he wants to talk. He shakes his head. He feels like he'll never speak again. His throat is tight. He couldn't scream if he tried. After all he had done for Ryan over the years, after loving him so much it hurt, Ryan had forgotten.

He wants to be able to forget too.

Ryan dreams. He dreams of haunting harmonies and fingers on keys and and soft whispers on his neck. Hands are on him, lingering on the taut skin of his throat and stomach. He tastes sweetness on his tongue, sees a blur of bruised lips. Everything is soft all around him, cradling his frame. The smell of sweat and stale cologne fill his lungs. He revels in spurts of hot breath on his jaw. He doesn't want this to end. He feels wanted, needed, loved.

Then, just like that, it's over, and Ryan sits straight up in bed, suddenly more awake than he's been in months. His hands shake, and he cries out the word that's been on the tip of his tongue ever since he's been alone:

Brendon.

Brendon's throat is raw. It feels like he's been crying for weeks: that's how badly his eyes burn, like someone threw sand in them. He can't move, can't think, at least not of anything but Ryan. He doesn't know what time it is, doesn't know when he last slept. All he knows is that it's dark. Everything's broken. His heart, mainly, but everything else too.

He wishes he had never loved Ryan Ross.

Staring at his pale fingers, he curls them around his opposite wrist tight and kneeds the prominent blue vein. A soft sigh escapes his lips. He knows he needs to get up and move on. He does. He just can't bring himself to.

He wishes he didn't still love Ryan Ross.

Every time he closes his eyes he sees Ryan's smile, feels his lips on his, has his hands all over him. This is why he can't sleep. It's like a constant reminder of how things used to be. He can't stop it.

When he hears the door creak open from behind his back, he doesn't roll over to see who it is. He assumes it's Jon or Spencer, coming to see if he's still awake. He just stares blankly at the wall and waits for them to leave.

They don't. Footsteps come nearer, tapping against the floor. He feels his mattress dip down from weight, and that's when he finally turns his head to see who it is.

Ryan. It's Ryan.

Brendon doesn't know if he should be pissed, happy, relieved, or all three. But Ryan's sitting there in sweat pants, no shirt, with his hair a mess and guarded eyes, and he just. Comes apart. He grabs at Ryan, pulling him closer onto the bed with him and holding Ryan's skinny body close. Ryan feels even more boney than before. Brendon tries not to cry, but a strangled sob breaks out of his throat. "Ryan," he repeats over and over.

Tangling their legs together, Ryan grips Brendon's forearm tightly. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry. I know it doesn't mean shit, but I'm sorry." He kisses Brendon's face lighty: his cheeks, forehead, nose, and lips.

Brendon just closes his eyes, wondering if he finally fell asleep and this is all a dream. He can't be sure. Maybe he just doesn't care. "You forgot me," he says quietly.

The lips cease on him. He nods. "I was lost. I'm still lost, but. I need you. I can't have you leave me again," Ryan replies.

Brendon's chest is tight. Even when he had been there after Keltie, it still hadn't been enough. "Are you over her?" he questions.

"Over who?" Ryan asks, kissing Brendon's palm with his feather-light lips.

"Keltie."

His eyes unreadable, Ryan swallows. "She's not... I mean, she was there, you know? Got me out of my rut. But you've always been there. She's just not you. She was never you. Yeah, I loved her, loved her a lot, but she's not you. Me losing her isn't the equivilent of losing you," he explains.

"The drugs," Brendon begins, holding one of Ryan's wrists and demanding his attention, "They have to stop. Right now. I won't put up with them."

Ryan's torn between drugs that give him incredible highs and Brendon, the boy who's always been there. "I-" he swallows. "Yeah, I'll stop. I mean, I'll try, but I don't know if I can-"

"We'll help, all of us. We'll put you in rehab if you want. Just, please. I can't take it. I can't compete with them," Brendon pleads with wide eyes.

"Okay," Ryan mumbles, kissing Brendon deeply.

Brendon pulls on Ryan's hips so Ryan's hovering over him, planting kisses on his neck and giving his goosebumps. He doesn't even remember the last time they were together like this. All he knows is that it's been a long time. "Wait- how'd you even get in here?" he blurts.

Chuckling into Brendon's neck, Ryan says, "Spare key under the plant."

Huffing, Brendon states, "I can't believe you remembered that."

"Yeah, well. Neither can I," Ryan admits, sealing their lips together once more.

Brendon knows they're not out of the woods yet, and things aren't going to be easy. Things are going to be really fucking hard. They're going to have fights and disageements over stupid things. He knows that Ryan's not just going to shrug off his addictions just like that. But he also knows that if they're together, anything is possible. That's why he'll always stay.

"Hey, your freckles are back," Ryan smiles, pecking Brendon's nose lightly and making his eyes flutter shut.

Yeah. He'll always stay.