Title Track

Brendon hands me the bottle, lolling his head around to look at me.

“This is silly.” He slurs. “We’re acting like teenagers.”

“We were only teenagers a few years ago.” I point out, taking a drink.

“True.”

“I love you.”

“You’re dumb.” He laughs, taking the bottle back. I shrug, because yeah, good point. “Fuck, I think I’m drunk.”

“I think you are, too.” I smile as he passes the bottle back. “But seriously, Brendon. Totally in love with you.”

“You’re drunk, too.”

“Probably. But we drink a lot. So it’s whatever.”

I watch his lips move as he speaks, because so much happened today. Fuck.

“Brendon,” I breathe, eyes wide, “what the fuck just happened?”

He looks scared. Really fucking nervous

“I-- fuck--”

“Brendon.”

He looks at me like someone had just died; eyes wide and glossed over.

“I--- I need to think. Alone. Fuck. I just-- I need to think.”

I let him wander, pacing across the grass, far enough away for me not to be able to hear him talking to himself.

It scared me, the way he was acting.

But now we’re drunk, and everything is really fucking easy when you’re drunk.

“Ryan? Ryan, are you even listening?”

His saying my name pulls me out of my thoughts.

“What?”

“Are you listening?” He asks, nose wrinkled in the way that drives me up the wall.

“Yeah. I was just-- Brendon, I really do--”

“I know, Ryan. But do you really need to fucking say it?”

I look down at my feet, settled onto the floor.

“Yeah. I do.”

“Ryan.”

“Brendon, I know. It’s going to be a long time before it’s anywhere near what we used to have,” I stop, breaking to take in his face, “But if I fuck up this time, it’s not going to be for the wrong reasons. Just let me say it. I’m not asking you to.”

He blinks, alcohol seeping through his pours, greasing his skin, making him glow.

“It’s not fair,” he says quietly, “that you’re so sure about everything,” He looks like he’s holding his breath, choking on words. “When I have to think. All the time. About trivial things. About the things I say, or how I say them, how you look at people, at me. It’s not fair that you just know how you feel, and I’m fucking stuck.”

I watch him as he takes another drink and falls back to lay on the bed.

“It’s because you’re scared.” I say, rubbing my thumb over the top of his hand.

“See! You’re just so sure of yourself. You just know that I’m scared, and it’s taken me three years to figure it out! There’s nothing fair about this!”

I laugh, watching his fingers twitch under my thumb.

“I fucking knew it, Brendon,” I can see him roll his eyes, despite the way he’s laying, “the first time I saw you. I knew you were it.”

“Don’t be a jackass, Ryan.”

“That’s kind of what I’m best at.”

“Valid.”

“I’m not sure about shit. I don’t know a Goddamn thing, Bren. Not about anything.”

“Bullshit.” The little prick keeps cutting me off.

“Except,” I say loudly, “How I feel about you. You’re it, Bren. It doesn’t matter if I leave, or how badly I fuck up, or if I act like an ass; that shit is trivial. You’re fucking it.”

“You always do this!” He shouts, raising his arms above his head, trying to make a point with physical gestures. “You always say this shit! It just confuses me more, Ryan!”

He sounds pissed, but I know he’s not.

“Don’t be a dick, Brendon. You being confused isn’t my fault, and you know it.”

“But it is! You-- you treat me like you love me, like we’re best friends, like we’re the two closest people on the planet! But we’re not!”

“We kind of are.” I chuckle, now thumbing at his hip.

“Oh, fuck you, Ryan.”

“We’re young, Brendon,” he’s already scoffing at me, but it only makes me smile, “we’ve got time to be confused. We’ve got time to fuck up. We’re still aloud to have redos at this age.”

“No, we aren’t! We get one chance to do things right, because we’re people, Ryan!” and now he sounds distressed, and the crack in his voice is worrying me. “If we fuck up, someone gets hurt. Always. And that’s not fair to anyone.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” I say, still rubbing small circles into his hip.

He sits up and looks at me, eyes watering, and everything just became much more serious.

“I don’t want to get hurt, Ryan.” he swallows hard, throat tensing, “I know it sounds dumb, and juvenile, and that everyone has to get hurt sometime, but I don’t want to. I’m just starting to stop. It’s not fair if I have to start again.”

“I don’t plan on hurting you, Brendon.” I say, fitting my hand into his. “I never want to do anything like I did before again. I’m a fucking dick, Bren, I always will be, but I’ve already decided that there’s no one else. If I lose you again, I don’t want it to be because of me. I was miserable without you. I don’t want to deal with that shit again.”

“We’re not together, Ryan.” he says. It’s almost a whisper, like he’s scared to tell me the truth, but I only nod.

“I know, I know. I just-- I need you to know that I can’t not have you in my life anymore, Brendon. Even if-- even if we’re just friends, fuck, if we’re just acquaintances, I’ll be fine. I just need you to be there.” He’s staring at our hands, fingers entwined together, “Of course I want more than that, but if I can’t have it, I’m not going to do anything to risk your friendship.”

It’s quiet, and his skin is flushed from all the alcohol, blotchy and pink, and his hair is a mess, and he’s wearing his glasses, and this, this is why I need him. Because he’s drunk, and disheveled, and confused, and pissed off, and still so fucking amazing.

“I don’t want you to leave again.” He says, and it’s honest, and it’s understandable.

“Neither do I.”

“But what if you feel like you need to again? What if you find someone better?”

“Were you even listening, Brendon? You. Are. It. Last one. If I lose you, then there’s nothing else. I’ll be alone for the rest of my life. You’re all I want.”

“You’re being repetitive.”

“Because you’re not listening.”

“I have to think about this.” He says quietly, taking his hand out of mine.

“That’s fine.”

“It could take a while.” It’s unsure, testing the waters.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Can I-- can I sleep on it?”

“You can take as much fucking time as you need. The clocks aren’t going to run out any time soon.”

He nods, crawling to the head of the bed and climbing under the blankets.

“If you want,” he says, “You can sleep in my bed again.”

“But they got that shit off of mine.” I point out, watching him rest his head on the pillow.

“I know.” he says simply, closing his eyes.

I feel like the first time I got laid.

Awkward, slow movements, not knowing how far back to pull the sheets, how close to get until he tells me when to stop, if I’m breathing too loud. In fact, it’s pretty much the exact situation.

Give or take a few details.

“Thank you.” I whisper, closing my eyes.

“Goodnight.” he whispers back.

This is some kind of chance.

--

It’s been a couple of weeks since Vegas.

Some days I’d stay at his place, some days he’d stay at mine, some days we wouldn’t see each other, some days we’d sit around and not speak, just exist.

I’m not sure if he gets how honest I was being, yet.

I think he may still believe that I haven’t changed. Which, yeah, I get.

It just sucks.

But, this is a good day.

This is a day at his place, just laying in his bed, holding hands.

It’s not the destination I was looking for, but at least we’re getting somewhere.

“We could have made it.” he says after what feels like hours of silence. We’re staring at his ceiling, and for a moment, I don’t register that he’s speaking to me.

“What?”

“Before. We could have made it.”

My stomach turns, and I nod.

“Yeah.”

“A lot has changed since then.”

I’d like to know where he’s going with this.

“Could we still make it?” he turns his head towards me, and I turn mine towards him, and then we’re staring at each other.

“Maybe.” I say, honestly. I could be with him as long as he wanted to be with me.

“Should we try?”

My heart stops.

“I mean, do you really think we should?”

“Do you realize who you’re asking?”

He chuckles, eyes closing for a moment. “I know. I just wanted to make sure.”

“Is this an answer?”

“It might be.”

“What are the defining bits of the ‘might’?”

“I want it to be easy.”

“Easy?”

“It’s going to be hard. To get to where we used to be, I mean. I just want us to make it as easy on each other as we can.”

“I don’t want to make anything hard for you.”

“Double entendre?” He grins, because he’s twelve.

“Shut up. You’re immature.”

“Shut up. You’re immature.” he mocks. I laugh a little, squeezing his hand.

“Seriously, Bren. Do you want this?”

He takes a deep breath, pressing his forehead to mine.

“I think I want to. But I think I want to take it slow.”

I think my heart just exploded because yes. He said yes.

“For you? I’ve got for fucking ever.”

“Shut up. You sound so cheesy. You’re ruining the moment.”

I smile, scooting closer, because seriously? Right about now, I need to be touching more than his hand.

“Can I kiss you?”

“You’re dumb because you asked.”

I shrug, bringing our lips together, and fucking fireworks, every time I have ever kissed this man, and this time is no different.

“Hey, dickface,” he smiles, our faces so fucking close.

“Yeah?” I’m grinning like an idiot.

“Someday you will be loved.”

And it doesn’t sound bitter. He’s not throwing it in my face.

He’s telling me what I want to hear.

And I like the way it sounds.