& What Would We Have to Sing About Then?
when he read it.
Ryan and Z had a two-bedroom apartment together. And, oddly enough for being a supposed couple, they tended to sleep in their own beds at night. Z had fashion prints and dreamcatchers hanging from her walls. Ryan had photographs he'd taken and Beatles records hanging on his.
But when Ryan threw open the door to Z's bedroom, it hit the wall so hard that a dreamcatcher on the other side of the room fell to the floor. "Well, you must think you're so fucking smart." He spat out, the paper she'd left on his pillow clutched so hard in his hand that it was beginning to tear.
"You never listen when I talk." the girl said. "I didn't know what else to do."
Ryan stumbled over to the bed, dropping the page from her journal next to her on the bed and putting his hands on either side of her face, forcing her to look at him. He knelt in front of her, their faces so close together that she could feel his breath. "How about . . ." He let his fingertip trace her jawline, voice gentle. "How about you keeping your fucking mouth shut, baby?" He kissed her, hard, enough to make her wince. "We're happy, right? We're happy. Why can't you just be fucking happy?!"
And he pulled away, storming out of the room, slamming the door behind him. And Z buried her face in the pillow, muffled sobs escaping her lips.
---
Ryan shut and locked his bedroom door, his hand coming down hard against the wood. He could feel the heavy breaths tearing themselves from his lungs, chiding him, only displaying how completely out of control he was. And you love her. he reminded himself. Why can't you ever be good to the people you love?
Ryan crossed the room and pulled open his dresser drawer, removing a half-smoked joint and pressing it to his lips. He lit it, inhaling deep as he closed his eyes. He just needed to go away for awhile, forget what an insufferable prick he was, how much he hurt the people he claimed to love, how right Z was, how much it hurt that she was right . . .
(How much he missed Brendon.)
And that hurt most because he knew better. He knew that it was his fault, that he'd fucked that over on his own. And that as much as he claimed to love Z, it would never amount. He was gay, as much as he'd always claimed to be bisexual. And as much as he loved her, he'd never be in love with her. She'd always just be his crutch, his therapist that came with snuggles and decent sex (for being a girl).
Ryan raked his hand through his hair, tugging, wincing at the pain. He was thinking. "God, just shut up!" he screamed, somehow unable to keep the words contained in his head. He winced, picturing Z curled up in the next room, hearing his words, thinking they were for her.
Fuck, the guilt was too much. He couldn't take it.
He opened the door and walked down the hallway again, joint between his lips, gently pushing her door open. "I wasn't yelling at you." he mumbled.
She sniffled, face hidden by her pillow. "'Kay."
Ryan sat down next to her, joint in one hand, his other coming up to stroke her hair. "Please don't cry, baby. I'm sorry. Please don't cry."
She looked up at him, her cheeks red. "I love you." she whispered, sitting up and looking at him. She took the joint from his hand and sucked in deep, almost coughing. Ryan reached around and rubbed her back. "I love you so fucking much. I just want you to be happy." she managed after she exhaled. "Don't you understand that?"
"You can't force me to do this." he told her, voice gentle. "You can't make this happen, Z."
"Fucking suffering poet bullshit." she snapped.
"I love you."
"Oh, go to hell."
She was getting angry. She always did when he made sense, when he pointed out her inconsistencies, the small hypocrisies. When she couldn't fix something and she felt useless. She didn't like being useless. Z liked to fix everything, especially when she thought it would be easy enough to fix. (After all, it was only Ryan's stubbornness stopping this from being fixed. And certainly if she pressed hard enough on his throat, he'd have to relent.)
"Did you decide to do this instead of dumping me?" Ryan asked, pulling the joint out of her fingers and taking a drag.
"I don't need to dump you." Her voice was ice. "This relationship is bullshit anyway."
The boy lowered his head, blinking his eyes. He knew it was true; it just hurt to hear. He did love her, after all. He just wasn't in love with her. And having a girlfriend had always been a sort of security blanket for him, as pathetic as it was. (As he was.)
"I love you." he repeated, unsure of what else to say.
"I just want to be alone right now, okay?" She lay back down, pulling the lilac comforter over her head.
Ryan shut the door quietly behind him on the way out.
---
"You're silly." Z teased, popping a grape into her mouth and giggling. "Just utterly ridiculous, Ross, y'know that?"
"Why?" He reached out and slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her into him, her back to his chest. "Just because I told you that skirt's so short I can see your . . ."
"See my what?" she asked, slithering out of his grasp. But she laughed again, pulling him down by the neck of his shirt and kissing him full on the mouth. "Bad boy."
It was times like these, when Ryan was too out of it to remember he had things to be upset about, when he actually acted like her boyfriend, that Z felt most at home. It would figure that the guy she fell for hardest in her life happened to be the one that preferred dick. And it would figure that he would treat her like a princess and love her to pieces and take such good care of her. Go figure. Life's one ironic disappointment after another. If it weren't, we wouldn't have anything to sing about.
Ryan's hands slid down her sides, cupping her hips in his hands. Those hands. She was always shocked, no matter what, at the size and strength of those hands. They seemed almost inappropriately paired with him, as if he should have the artist's hands to match his mind and certainly not with the strength to leave bruises on her hipbones. "So beautiful." he said, his voice like gravel. "So fucking beautiful."
He lifted her up onto the kitchen counter and she wrapped her legs around his waist, matching each of his kisses with equal fervor. It was times like these that should could begin to forget everything and just enjoy Ryan, his company, the way he made her heart speed up. She could pretend they were normal--(as much as we can be)--and that they were just like any other young couple in love.
"I love you, Ry. So much." Her face pressed into his neck, inhaling the scent of fear and shampoo, her lips pressing against the skin.
"I love you, too, baby." His voice was tinged with confusion, as if wondering the reason for her sudden statement. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." she murmured, her breath warm on his neck. "Don't worry about me."
Ryan turned his head, his face now in Z's hair. "Always worry about you." he said softly. It was impossible not to hear the tenderness and love in his voice.
The timer on the oven beeped and they broke apart awkwardly, almost embarrassed. "You get the pizza." Z said, preparing to slide from the counter. "I'll get the plates."
The boy stared at her for a moment, scrutinizing her expression with a slight frown before nodding and pulling a potholder out of the drawer. "Do you want to go out tonight?" he asked, pulling the pizza from the oven and setting it on the stovetop.
"Not so much. Do you?"
"Not really."
"Okay." Z smiled, her hand sliding down Ryan's back. "I'm going to go change. Let's eat outside though."
---
A few nights later Ryan woke up around three in the morning, starting when he saw a figure sitting at the end of his bed in the dark. ". . . Z?"
He heard her sniffle. "Yeah?"
"What's wrong, baby?" He sat up, rubbing at his heavy eyes. "You okay?"
"I can't help you." The tears were evident in her voice even if it was too dark for them to be seen. "I want to, but I can't." She crawled up the bed, throwing one leg over Ryan's waist and kissing him on the mouth. She tasted like salt and sleep. "Why won't you let me?"
Ryan sighed, tiredly bringing a hand up to stroke the side of her face. "Let it go." He wrapped his arms around her, almost too tightly, pulling her to the mattress. "It's not your job to fix this, Z. Leave it alone."
"Why won't you let me?" she repeated, a half sob escaping her lips.
He stroked her hair, his hand soft despite his jaw setting. "Because you can't." He tried to make the words soft, but his voice was dry from disuse. "Okay? I fucked this up. Me. I did this. If anyone's going to fix it, it's going to be me."
"But you won't."
"That's right." Ryan kissed the top of her head. "I won't."
"And that's all?"
"That's all."
But when Ryan threw open the door to Z's bedroom, it hit the wall so hard that a dreamcatcher on the other side of the room fell to the floor. "Well, you must think you're so fucking smart." He spat out, the paper she'd left on his pillow clutched so hard in his hand that it was beginning to tear.
"You never listen when I talk." the girl said. "I didn't know what else to do."
Ryan stumbled over to the bed, dropping the page from her journal next to her on the bed and putting his hands on either side of her face, forcing her to look at him. He knelt in front of her, their faces so close together that she could feel his breath. "How about . . ." He let his fingertip trace her jawline, voice gentle. "How about you keeping your fucking mouth shut, baby?" He kissed her, hard, enough to make her wince. "We're happy, right? We're happy. Why can't you just be fucking happy?!"
And he pulled away, storming out of the room, slamming the door behind him. And Z buried her face in the pillow, muffled sobs escaping her lips.
---
Ryan shut and locked his bedroom door, his hand coming down hard against the wood. He could feel the heavy breaths tearing themselves from his lungs, chiding him, only displaying how completely out of control he was. And you love her. he reminded himself. Why can't you ever be good to the people you love?
Ryan crossed the room and pulled open his dresser drawer, removing a half-smoked joint and pressing it to his lips. He lit it, inhaling deep as he closed his eyes. He just needed to go away for awhile, forget what an insufferable prick he was, how much he hurt the people he claimed to love, how right Z was, how much it hurt that she was right . . .
(How much he missed Brendon.)
And that hurt most because he knew better. He knew that it was his fault, that he'd fucked that over on his own. And that as much as he claimed to love Z, it would never amount. He was gay, as much as he'd always claimed to be bisexual. And as much as he loved her, he'd never be in love with her. She'd always just be his crutch, his therapist that came with snuggles and decent sex (for being a girl).
Ryan raked his hand through his hair, tugging, wincing at the pain. He was thinking. "God, just shut up!" he screamed, somehow unable to keep the words contained in his head. He winced, picturing Z curled up in the next room, hearing his words, thinking they were for her.
Fuck, the guilt was too much. He couldn't take it.
He opened the door and walked down the hallway again, joint between his lips, gently pushing her door open. "I wasn't yelling at you." he mumbled.
She sniffled, face hidden by her pillow. "'Kay."
Ryan sat down next to her, joint in one hand, his other coming up to stroke her hair. "Please don't cry, baby. I'm sorry. Please don't cry."
She looked up at him, her cheeks red. "I love you." she whispered, sitting up and looking at him. She took the joint from his hand and sucked in deep, almost coughing. Ryan reached around and rubbed her back. "I love you so fucking much. I just want you to be happy." she managed after she exhaled. "Don't you understand that?"
"You can't force me to do this." he told her, voice gentle. "You can't make this happen, Z."
"Fucking suffering poet bullshit." she snapped.
"I love you."
"Oh, go to hell."
She was getting angry. She always did when he made sense, when he pointed out her inconsistencies, the small hypocrisies. When she couldn't fix something and she felt useless. She didn't like being useless. Z liked to fix everything, especially when she thought it would be easy enough to fix. (After all, it was only Ryan's stubbornness stopping this from being fixed. And certainly if she pressed hard enough on his throat, he'd have to relent.)
"Did you decide to do this instead of dumping me?" Ryan asked, pulling the joint out of her fingers and taking a drag.
"I don't need to dump you." Her voice was ice. "This relationship is bullshit anyway."
The boy lowered his head, blinking his eyes. He knew it was true; it just hurt to hear. He did love her, after all. He just wasn't in love with her. And having a girlfriend had always been a sort of security blanket for him, as pathetic as it was. (As he was.)
"I love you." he repeated, unsure of what else to say.
"I just want to be alone right now, okay?" She lay back down, pulling the lilac comforter over her head.
Ryan shut the door quietly behind him on the way out.
---
"You're silly." Z teased, popping a grape into her mouth and giggling. "Just utterly ridiculous, Ross, y'know that?"
"Why?" He reached out and slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her into him, her back to his chest. "Just because I told you that skirt's so short I can see your . . ."
"See my what?" she asked, slithering out of his grasp. But she laughed again, pulling him down by the neck of his shirt and kissing him full on the mouth. "Bad boy."
It was times like these, when Ryan was too out of it to remember he had things to be upset about, when he actually acted like her boyfriend, that Z felt most at home. It would figure that the guy she fell for hardest in her life happened to be the one that preferred dick. And it would figure that he would treat her like a princess and love her to pieces and take such good care of her. Go figure. Life's one ironic disappointment after another. If it weren't, we wouldn't have anything to sing about.
Ryan's hands slid down her sides, cupping her hips in his hands. Those hands. She was always shocked, no matter what, at the size and strength of those hands. They seemed almost inappropriately paired with him, as if he should have the artist's hands to match his mind and certainly not with the strength to leave bruises on her hipbones. "So beautiful." he said, his voice like gravel. "So fucking beautiful."
He lifted her up onto the kitchen counter and she wrapped her legs around his waist, matching each of his kisses with equal fervor. It was times like these that should could begin to forget everything and just enjoy Ryan, his company, the way he made her heart speed up. She could pretend they were normal--(as much as we can be)--and that they were just like any other young couple in love.
"I love you, Ry. So much." Her face pressed into his neck, inhaling the scent of fear and shampoo, her lips pressing against the skin.
"I love you, too, baby." His voice was tinged with confusion, as if wondering the reason for her sudden statement. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." she murmured, her breath warm on his neck. "Don't worry about me."
Ryan turned his head, his face now in Z's hair. "Always worry about you." he said softly. It was impossible not to hear the tenderness and love in his voice.
The timer on the oven beeped and they broke apart awkwardly, almost embarrassed. "You get the pizza." Z said, preparing to slide from the counter. "I'll get the plates."
The boy stared at her for a moment, scrutinizing her expression with a slight frown before nodding and pulling a potholder out of the drawer. "Do you want to go out tonight?" he asked, pulling the pizza from the oven and setting it on the stovetop.
"Not so much. Do you?"
"Not really."
"Okay." Z smiled, her hand sliding down Ryan's back. "I'm going to go change. Let's eat outside though."
---
A few nights later Ryan woke up around three in the morning, starting when he saw a figure sitting at the end of his bed in the dark. ". . . Z?"
He heard her sniffle. "Yeah?"
"What's wrong, baby?" He sat up, rubbing at his heavy eyes. "You okay?"
"I can't help you." The tears were evident in her voice even if it was too dark for them to be seen. "I want to, but I can't." She crawled up the bed, throwing one leg over Ryan's waist and kissing him on the mouth. She tasted like salt and sleep. "Why won't you let me?"
Ryan sighed, tiredly bringing a hand up to stroke the side of her face. "Let it go." He wrapped his arms around her, almost too tightly, pulling her to the mattress. "It's not your job to fix this, Z. Leave it alone."
"Why won't you let me?" she repeated, a half sob escaping her lips.
He stroked her hair, his hand soft despite his jaw setting. "Because you can't." He tried to make the words soft, but his voice was dry from disuse. "Okay? I fucked this up. Me. I did this. If anyone's going to fix it, it's going to be me."
"But you won't."
"That's right." Ryan kissed the top of her head. "I won't."
"And that's all?"
"That's all."