Dichotomy.

“T…are you alright?” Spencer asks.

“What?” I ask distractedly, startled by the question. We’re walking to the stage together for sound check, and neither of us has any idea where Brendon is. “If you mean I’m off onstage, I’ll-”

“No, I just…no, not that,” he shakes his head slightly. “I just wanted to ask if anything’s up.”

“It…it’s not something I can really talk about with you,” I admit, realizing he’s probably referring to Brendon’s scene at the bar the other night. “No offense.”

“Oh,” is all he says. I sling the guitar strap over my shoulder and plug it in. He goes to his drums and the conversation ends there.

Brendon’s still missing in action, but no one seems to make a big deal about it. I manage to curb my curiosity and don’t ask Spencer if he knows where he’s gone.

We don’t have any interviews or meet and greets today, so there’s no rush. One of our techs checks Brendon’s microphones and piano and I take care of his guitars.

I don’t wonder about his absence too long. As if I should care where he is.

Anyway, I hate him.

Speaking of which- I hate that he says he doesn’t hate me so much anymore.

Because then what are we?

And if we don’t have hate to hold us together, then what’s left of our screwed up relationship?

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Brendon enters the room, and by that look on his face, I can tell he wasn’t expecting to find anyone here, least of all me. He briefly glances at me then walks right over to the rider table with no further acknowledgement of my presence. It really irritates me.

“Where were you during sound check today?” I ask, from my spot on the dressing room couch.

“What do you care?” he retorts, half muttering the question. He twists open the cap from a water bottle and turns to face me. I frown, taken aback.

“I really don’t,” I snap back harshly. At the same time, I try to figure out why I’m so caught off guard.

Sure, we’ve openly hated each other from the beginning, but it’s always been a…civilized sort of hate: what I like to think of as classy hate.

Not this air of uncensored abrasive loathing.

“Not that you should care if I care or not,” I add nastily, but I don’t even know why I’m goading him. This can’t end well. “Considering you wouldn’t know how to feel anything if I did, anyway.”

That last one does it.

He abruptly rounds on me, stalking over just for the pleasure of arguing face to face with me.

My heart’s pounding faster and faster in my ears with every step he takes closer and closer. I get to my feet as he approaches me, since the last thing I’ll let him do right now is look down at me. Not that he’s not much taller than me in the first place.

For the record, I don’t expect him to grab my face for a long kiss that I hate myself for not stopping. The callouses on his hands rub lightly over my cheeks and my heart bangs in my ribcage with incredibly embarrassing speed. I’m too dazed to move anything besides my mouth against his.

For a little while, I’m able to pretend whatever’s happened between us is normal.

“Don’t tell me you know how to feel anything any better than I do,” he snaps, backing away just slightly. His heavy breathing is still on my face, still clouding my judgment.

The truth is, if I wasn’t so pissed, I probably wouldn’t even mind letting him fuck me right here.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I demand in annoyance, failing to cover up my flushed face and irregular breathing that matches his own.

“You know what? You need to lighten the fuck up already,” he growls, glaring at me, still inches away from my face. “We’re kind of doing you a favor here, so I don’t-”

“Me?!” I fume incredulously. “I’m the one doing you two a fav-”

“Yeah, and where would you be without this?” he demands, sneering. “Acoustic set at the local coffee shop?”

The color drains from my face and my fists clench of their own accord.

Makes sense.

I wound his ego; he stabs my pride.

I just didn’t expect my pride’s skin to be so vulnerable.

“I don’t need to take this shit,” I spit back. “I can leave right now, and you’d be fucked for the show tonight. And tomorrow, too.”

That’s the last show of tour, but I think my point is made.

“Go ahead. See if I give a damn,” he growls back, his fists clenching in anger.

“Fine.”

“Whatever.”

I have never wanted to slap anyone more than I’d love to slap that look off his face right now.

“See, this is why I hate you,” I spit back, my blood boiling like I never knew it could. His expression changes just slightly enough for me to notice, but not enough that I can actually decipher what it means.

“And this is why no one likes you,” he throws back. Another stab into surprisingly shallow skin.

“Asshole.”

“Bitch.”

Then I’ve had it; I make my way to the door.

“Maybe if you weren’t such a fucking coward-” he begins, but stops before he can finish the stinging remark. Then he laughs harshly, a dead smile on his face. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.” He doesn’t even look me in the eyes.

“You can keep all the songs we wrote. They were shit anyway,” is the last thing I say before I storm out.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

“Well. You two are all kinds of fucked up, aren’t you?” is all Tom says after I tell him what’s happened between me and Brendon.

“You are such a hypocrite,” I accuse. “When was the last time you got close to anyone?”

“That’s not the same,” argues says placidly. “You actually have a chance at something here and you just throw it away, like always.”

I open my mouth to retort, but I don’t know what to say.

“You’re so selfish sometimes. Shit, T. When are you going to realize that not everyone’s going to fuck you over?”

“I’ll realize it when it stops happening,” I growl back. He doesn’t say anything, just gives me an exasperated look.

“So you’re staying, then?” I ask, masking my disappointment with a dull tone. I cross my arms.

He shrugs, sighing, already lamenting what I’m doing even though I haven’t done it yet.

“You don’t have to leave.”

“You don’t have to stay,” I retort stubbornly.

“Would you be reasonable for a minute? What do you want from me, Tina?” he scowls.

“I want…I want you to be on my side!” I selfishly admit.

He’s my best friend. He’s supposed to be.

“You’re asking me to quit with you, and for what? What are you going to do at home, T.? Sell more fucking French plates and wine glasses? You want to drag me back with you? All because you hate Brendon. Why? Do you even know why you hate him?” he asks, an eyebrow raised, challenging me.

“I hate him…I hate him because-” I hesitate to spill my biggest secret. “I hate him because he’s just like me,” I admit quietly. He just stares at me for a while before he replies, shaking his head at me.

“Well, when you figure out why you hate yourself so much, let me know, T.”