It's Only in My Head

“Believe me. This isn’t anything you want. And you definitely don’t want to understand it. If you understand it then you’re more crazy than if you don’t.”

It’s three in the morning. Ryan’s drinking black coffee from a red mug. Brendon’s sitting across from him, nursing a bottle of Miller Lite. The past few weeks Ryan hasn’t wanted to talk much, except late at night. Or early in the morning. One of those half empty/half full things. Brendon only calls it morning if he’s already been asleep.

Ryan calls it night, always. Night is when the world is sleeping. No one to eavesdrop. And he believes (possibly wrongly so) that Brendon’s brain won’t process what he’s saying as well. And then it won’t get thrown back into his face at a later date.

“Do you understand it?” Brendon asks. It’s what Ryan wants him to say. Brendon’s not stupid. He knows his place in these conversations isn’t to contribute or even to listen. It’s just to keep it going the way Ryan wants it to, so he can unload his brain and slow down the merry-go-round he feels like he’s constantly spinning on.

“Sometimes I do. But it’s not explainable. It’s not something you can put into words. You just get it in your head. It’s like colors and emotions and lines from poems I’ve read. It’s like it’s defined by what my brain has in its memories to define it with.” Ryan takes a drink of his coffee, makes a face and pushes the mug away.

Brendon stands, takes the mug over to the sink. He empties it and refills it from the pot.

“And sometimes.” Ryan licks his lips. His voice is high-pitched now, delirious, feverish. Brendon turns, eyes wide, nearly dropping the mug. “And sometimes I don’t remember and I fucking rip myself apart trying to. Try to write it down, but it’s always wrong. Write it, right it. Whatever.”

Brendon sets the mug down. “I think we should go to bed now, Ry. You take your pills?”

Ryan flaps his hand errantly, doesn’t say anything. The pills make him feel different, wrong somehow. He’s saving them up for when he needs to bail.

“They can’t help you unless you take them.” But Brendon knows he might as well be talking to a fence. He mouths Ryan’s answer in perfect time.

‘They can’t help anyway.’

“You coming to bed?”

“Not yet. Not tired. Later. You go ahead.” Ryan waves his hand again, excusing Brendon from his ramblings. He’s not mad, not upset. Not really anything. He’s just drained, mentally, not able to identify any emotion he could possible have the strength to pull off right now.

Brendon squeezes Ryan’s shoulder, brushes his teeth, and crawls into bed.

Ryan gets up, puts on shoes and a jacket, goes outside. It’s a little cool because of the time, but not enough to make him think about going back inside. There’s a very fat crescent moon hanging in the sky, half-hidden behind some clouds. The stars are even harder to see behind them. He only counts four.

He hears crickets chirping, sees a lone bird sitting on the powerlines. He walks over to the charcoal grill they never use and lifts the lid, pulling out the pack of cigarettes he hasn’t told Brendon about yet. There’s a lighter in the box.

He loves watching the end of the cigarette burn away as he lights it. He imagines it as flesh, burning the top layer of skin away, getting closer to the bone, the parts of us that are pure and not fucked up by whatever bullshit has happened in our lives. He inhales deep, smiles. Doctors should prescribe cigarettes instead of happy pills. So much more therapeutic.

He laughs silently in his head. Though the pills would serve their purpose in the end if the writer’s block continues, he supposes. He’s been refilling the prescription every month for the past three months. Hiding them in his bottom dresser drawer.

He doesn’t want to think about it though. Because then he has to think about what everyone will say after. Spence & Jon & Spence’s mom & Pete & Brendon. Oh God, Brendon. He’ll be a wreck, hasn’t even had a grandparent die. Just the bunny thing when he was eleven or whatever.

Ryan sniffs. He hates thinking about it, but sometimes he can’t help it. And when he thinks about Brendon after, alone, eyes red from crying, the same thoughts always happen.

You selfish prick.

He’ll be okay.

No, he won’t. And you don’t care, you bastard.

Well, at least I didn’t sleep with him. At least I didn’t let that happen, right?

Because Ryan’s wanted to sleep with Brendon for longer than he can remember, but he’s never mentioned it. More out of fear and self-preservation than protecting the other boy, but he’ll twist it to make himself feel better if he fucking wants to. Because it is a really good thing that he kept his legs and mouth closed. Because if they had fucked . . . Ryan’s sure Brendon would never get over it. And then Ryan might not be able to go through with it.

He doesn’t realize his cheeks are wet from tears until he instinctively wipes at them with the back of his hand. He puts the cigarette out in an old can of Coke beside the grill, lights another one.

Just one more. One more, he tells himself. One more and then I’ll go in. And he will. He’ll go in, brush his teeth, put his clothes in the washer. He’ll crawl into bed beside Brendon, watch him breathe, try to fall asleep.

It’s an emotional affair. One that Ryan isn’t even sure Brendon realizes he’s a part of. He assumes Brendon doesn’t, just like he does about everything else. It’s easier for Ryan if Brendon doesn’t understand anything, so that’s how it’s going to stay.

Brendon gets up at nine in the morning, tries to be quiet and not wake Ryan up. He gets online, checks his email. Goes to the store to pick up bagels and drives through Starbucks for a coffee. He goes to Target to pick up a dozen cupcakes and takes them to his mom’s house for no reason. They talk for about twenty minutes and she gives him two hugs when he leaves, says to give one of them to Ryan.

It’s eleven when he gets back and Ryan is still asleep. Brendon double-checks the blinds to make sure they’re keeping most of the light out. He watches TV and makes a frozen pizza for lunch. Ryan gets up at two, wanders into the living room, yawning. He’s wearing boxers and one of Brendon’s tee shirts.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.”

“If it’s still morning I’m going back to bed.”

“It’s not.”

“Good.” Ryan just stands there for a moment and Brendon just looks at him. “I’m going to shower.”

“Okay.”

Ryan wants to say it then, but he doesn’t. He turns and goes to the bathroom. He stays in the shower until the hot water runs out. Then he wraps himself in a towel and sits on the bathmat for God-knows-how-long, shivering.

“You idiot.”

Ryan opens his eyes. He’s on the bathmat still, slumped against the wall. He’s naked and very, very cold, he realizes immediately.

Brendon’s shaking his head, but he’s smiling. “You’re so weird, Ry.” he says as he bends over and heaves Ryan to his feet. He grabs the shirt off the floor and pulls it over the other boy’s head, helps him work his arms through the sleeves as if he were a child. Then he kneels, lifts Ryan’s legs to put the boxers on him, tugs them up around his waist as if it’s the most natural thing n the world.

“Your hair dried all messy.” Brendon says as he stands, laughing and ruffling it with his hand. “Wanna go back to bed?”

Ryan drapes his arms loosely around Brendon’s neck, slightly unsteady. “I think.” He licks his dry lips. “I think we should sleep together.”

Brendon doesn’t understand. He nods. “Okay. I’m not tired though.”

Ryan makes a small, frustrated noise and crinkles his face up, shakes his head. “You should fuck me.”

The younger boy blinks, his head cocking slightly to the side and his eyebrows furrowing. “Why?” No anger or shock or horror registering in his voice, just critical curiousity.

“Because if we fuck I won’t kill myself.” Ryan blinks hard, stares at the bottom of the wall, where it meets the floor. He bites the inside of his cheek, listens to Brendon’s steady breathing.

“Is that the only reason you want me to fuck you? ‘Cause if it is, I’m not.”

Ryan’s head jerks up, his eyes locking on Brendon’s dark brown ones. What is this? His best friend won’t fuck him to save his life? What’s going on? He has instant visions of tipping the pills into his throat, swallowing them with a glass of overflowing water. But they’re suddenly gone and a sob tears from his throat and he realizes something for the first time. And he decides maybe he’s just been making himself sick.

Being sick is easier.

“It’s not.” He shakes his head and Brendon nods, reaches out and touches his shoulder.

“We can talk about it later.” His voice is sympathetic. “C’mon. You look like you want one of those cigarettes that you’re hiding from me.” Ryan stares at him and Brendon laughs. “I was thinking about doing steak three weeks ago. Decided not to.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t tell you.”

“I don’t think it’s important.” Brendon shrugs, smiles, takes Ryan’s hand. They walk out onto the porch, into the sun. It’s still bright, but not as warm as it was earlier. Brendon lights the cigarette between Ryan’s lips because the older boy’s hands are shaking too much to keep the flame going.

“Are those clouds over there?” Ryan asks a few minutes later.

Brendon nods. “Yeah. News said we had a 60% chance of rain.”