Midnight Haze
1/1
Ryan lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling in Brendon’s house. The fan hanging above him looked as though it were a part of a dream. Its light barely broke through the hazy smoke that stung his eyes. It spun slowly, but it still made him feel dizzy so he closed his eyes and listened to the water bubbling in the bong Brendon has clasped between his knees. Brendon inhaled a long time and, consciously or not, Ryan found himself breathing deeply alongside him. He loved the smell of smoked weed and he let it all fill his lungs.
Ryan listened, his eyes still closed lazily, as Brendon put the bong down as gracefully as his tired hands could on the glass table. He fell back against the couch and sighed. He was going to say something; Ryan could feel it just as easily as he felt the smoke dancing around his body.
“I’m out.”
He nodded. “I’ll get more from Adrian.”
He felt Brendon clamber down from the couch and lay himself down next to him. Their arms touched slightly and their eyes each chased the ceiling fan’s panels run around in circles like rabbits. The fan pushed heavy air around them and it brushed across their cheeks. Brendon thought it felt like breath, Ryan’s breath, running seamlessly across his skin. He closed his eyes and imagined what it would feel like if Ryan climbed on top of him right now and started to kiss every inch of his body. A weak sigh escaped his lips, one that he could easily blame on the weed.
He glanced over at Ryan, his hands resting behind his head, his eyes still closed. They were fluttering like he was dreaming. Brendon wouldn’t put dreaming while he was awake past him. His eyes traced along Ryan’s sharp jaw line. The cloud of smoke made him look like an old photograph, one of those old black and white ones in the priceless family photo albums with the corners fraying and the colors fading. He hardly seemed real, like he was just an image in a dream of his and no matter how far Brendon reached out, he would never really be able to touch him.
---
Ryan sat cross-legged on the couch, a neatly rolled joint rolling between his fingers. Brendon sat opposite him, his guitar laying, face-up across his lap. He hadn’t played it for at least a half-hour, instead, he watched Ryan bring his joint up to his mouth, inhale, exhale and repeat. He didn’t notice Brendon studying him, he was lost in a thought that Aristotle had probably had but hadn’t ever quite written it down. Brendon always wondered what it looked like in Ryan’s mind. He was articulate and that made Brendon think that it must be like some great filing cabinet, but deep down, he knew that Ryan’s mind was in bigger chaos that his own.
“You know what freaks me the fuck out?” Ryan asked suddenly. Brendon lowered his eyes as Ryan’s voice floated towards him and studied the mahogany wood of his guitar. The golden strings contrasting against it reminded Brendon of Ryan’s eyes; the darkness lined with shining flecks.
“What?” Brendon mumbled. Surely, it would be something that hadn’t ever crossed his mind.
Ryan took a long drag on his joint before speaking. Brendon wondered if he kept him waiting on purpose. He opened his mouth, but for a moment, nothing came out.
“Being forgotten.”
Brendon looked up at him slowly. “What?”
“Being forgotten, you know? Like, I know right now we’re in magazines, we’re on TV and all that shit, but like, after we’re dead—no not even till then, like twenty years from now, what if no one remembers us?”
“Who cares?” Brendon asked.
“I care!” Ryan snapped. “I don’t want to just come in and sing one song and be done with it—that’s bullshit, that’s just commercial. I want somebody’s kids to find our album and then show their kids after that, you know?”
“You want to be The Beatles,” Brendon stated.
“No, I don’t want to be The Beatles, no one’s gonna be The Beatles, I just want to be more than everybody else right now. I’m done being the ‘it’ band, I don’t just care anymore. I just want to be a good band that will sound just as good and relevant forty years from now as we do today. And it shouldn’t matter who’s got the number one spot, it doesn’t matter what fad is happening, we’ll still be fucking good.”
Brendon just nodded. There was no use in fighting. Ryan was right until proven right. Though Brendon thought that Ryan thought too much, he would never say that because surely, Ryan would reply that Brendon simply didn’t think enough. Brendon knew that he and Ryan were different, too different to function sometimes, but he always felt that with their opposite shapes, they could fit together perfectly. Sometimes, if they got high enough, Brendon thought he could see the same idea pass over Ryan’s glazed eyes. So he invited him over to smoke frequently in hope that just one day, Ryan would turn that idea into words, the way he knew best.
“I won’t forget you,” Brendon finally said.
“What?” Ryan asked, looking up immediately.
“You said you were scared of being forgotten.” Ryan nodded and waited for him to continue. Brendon could feel his cheeks grow hot and he suddenly felt tongue-tied. “And—and I won’t forget you, so you don’t have to scared of that.”
Ryan looked at him for a long time. The smoke from his joint sailed past his blank face in thin lines. He didn’t seem to be breathing, he was hardly moving at all, he was just watching. Brendon could feel his throat tightening as he waited because for a few moments, he feared that he was waiting for nothing at all. Suddenly, Ryan stood and came towards the couch. He laced his fingers around the guitar neck and gently pulled it from Brendon’s lap with the grace of a ballerina before sitting himself down directly beside him; their arms and legs touched. Slowly, Ryan put his hand in Brendon’s and intertwined their fingers a child’s desperation. Then, he put his head on Brendon’s shoulder.
“It still scares me, Bren, I’d be lying if I told you it didn’t, but you really help, you always have.”
Brendon rested his chin in Ryan’s hair and took in the sweet smell of his shampoo. Inhaling that made him feel happier and freer than the marijuana. Brendon closed his eyes and let Ryan’s smell cascade over his entire body and listened to the nerves just beneath his skin singing in anticipation. He let his thumb stroke the top of Ryan’s hand and felt Ryan wiggle closer to him.
See, he wanted to tell him. We do fit together perfectly.
Ryan listened, his eyes still closed lazily, as Brendon put the bong down as gracefully as his tired hands could on the glass table. He fell back against the couch and sighed. He was going to say something; Ryan could feel it just as easily as he felt the smoke dancing around his body.
“I’m out.”
He nodded. “I’ll get more from Adrian.”
He felt Brendon clamber down from the couch and lay himself down next to him. Their arms touched slightly and their eyes each chased the ceiling fan’s panels run around in circles like rabbits. The fan pushed heavy air around them and it brushed across their cheeks. Brendon thought it felt like breath, Ryan’s breath, running seamlessly across his skin. He closed his eyes and imagined what it would feel like if Ryan climbed on top of him right now and started to kiss every inch of his body. A weak sigh escaped his lips, one that he could easily blame on the weed.
He glanced over at Ryan, his hands resting behind his head, his eyes still closed. They were fluttering like he was dreaming. Brendon wouldn’t put dreaming while he was awake past him. His eyes traced along Ryan’s sharp jaw line. The cloud of smoke made him look like an old photograph, one of those old black and white ones in the priceless family photo albums with the corners fraying and the colors fading. He hardly seemed real, like he was just an image in a dream of his and no matter how far Brendon reached out, he would never really be able to touch him.
---
Ryan sat cross-legged on the couch, a neatly rolled joint rolling between his fingers. Brendon sat opposite him, his guitar laying, face-up across his lap. He hadn’t played it for at least a half-hour, instead, he watched Ryan bring his joint up to his mouth, inhale, exhale and repeat. He didn’t notice Brendon studying him, he was lost in a thought that Aristotle had probably had but hadn’t ever quite written it down. Brendon always wondered what it looked like in Ryan’s mind. He was articulate and that made Brendon think that it must be like some great filing cabinet, but deep down, he knew that Ryan’s mind was in bigger chaos that his own.
“You know what freaks me the fuck out?” Ryan asked suddenly. Brendon lowered his eyes as Ryan’s voice floated towards him and studied the mahogany wood of his guitar. The golden strings contrasting against it reminded Brendon of Ryan’s eyes; the darkness lined with shining flecks.
“What?” Brendon mumbled. Surely, it would be something that hadn’t ever crossed his mind.
Ryan took a long drag on his joint before speaking. Brendon wondered if he kept him waiting on purpose. He opened his mouth, but for a moment, nothing came out.
“Being forgotten.”
Brendon looked up at him slowly. “What?”
“Being forgotten, you know? Like, I know right now we’re in magazines, we’re on TV and all that shit, but like, after we’re dead—no not even till then, like twenty years from now, what if no one remembers us?”
“Who cares?” Brendon asked.
“I care!” Ryan snapped. “I don’t want to just come in and sing one song and be done with it—that’s bullshit, that’s just commercial. I want somebody’s kids to find our album and then show their kids after that, you know?”
“You want to be The Beatles,” Brendon stated.
“No, I don’t want to be The Beatles, no one’s gonna be The Beatles, I just want to be more than everybody else right now. I’m done being the ‘it’ band, I don’t just care anymore. I just want to be a good band that will sound just as good and relevant forty years from now as we do today. And it shouldn’t matter who’s got the number one spot, it doesn’t matter what fad is happening, we’ll still be fucking good.”
Brendon just nodded. There was no use in fighting. Ryan was right until proven right. Though Brendon thought that Ryan thought too much, he would never say that because surely, Ryan would reply that Brendon simply didn’t think enough. Brendon knew that he and Ryan were different, too different to function sometimes, but he always felt that with their opposite shapes, they could fit together perfectly. Sometimes, if they got high enough, Brendon thought he could see the same idea pass over Ryan’s glazed eyes. So he invited him over to smoke frequently in hope that just one day, Ryan would turn that idea into words, the way he knew best.
“I won’t forget you,” Brendon finally said.
“What?” Ryan asked, looking up immediately.
“You said you were scared of being forgotten.” Ryan nodded and waited for him to continue. Brendon could feel his cheeks grow hot and he suddenly felt tongue-tied. “And—and I won’t forget you, so you don’t have to scared of that.”
Ryan looked at him for a long time. The smoke from his joint sailed past his blank face in thin lines. He didn’t seem to be breathing, he was hardly moving at all, he was just watching. Brendon could feel his throat tightening as he waited because for a few moments, he feared that he was waiting for nothing at all. Suddenly, Ryan stood and came towards the couch. He laced his fingers around the guitar neck and gently pulled it from Brendon’s lap with the grace of a ballerina before sitting himself down directly beside him; their arms and legs touched. Slowly, Ryan put his hand in Brendon’s and intertwined their fingers a child’s desperation. Then, he put his head on Brendon’s shoulder.
“It still scares me, Bren, I’d be lying if I told you it didn’t, but you really help, you always have.”
Brendon rested his chin in Ryan’s hair and took in the sweet smell of his shampoo. Inhaling that made him feel happier and freer than the marijuana. Brendon closed his eyes and let Ryan’s smell cascade over his entire body and listened to the nerves just beneath his skin singing in anticipation. He let his thumb stroke the top of Ryan’s hand and felt Ryan wiggle closer to him.
See, he wanted to tell him. We do fit together perfectly.