You Writer, You Liar.

So here were are, back to the beginning. And all I've got to say is, I can get it right. I better get it right this time. We're all falling apart like rotted wood on a sinking ship. And we're going down, down, down. He's laughing, smiling at me. 'I see you,' he says. He can't see me. Invisible boy. Lost for all time. Sinking ships and rising ashes. Laugh about me as you strike up the matches. We're all gone and it's a dance we forget. You'll leave me here to find her and wear her on your hip. Like a watch or a chain and we're all drowning here. You look around for someone that you're not sure was ever there. Did you forget so soon? Already? What a shame. Don't worry about a thing, baby. I'll always know your name.
_

He's jolted away by the feel of cool hands on his bare back, under his loose tee shirt. "Ryan, wake up." It's Brendon's voice, as cool and soft as his hands. "I made coffee. We have to leave for your appointment soon, so shower if you want one, okay?"

"Appointment?"

"Doctor today, baby." Brendon leans in, kisses the boy on the cheek. Ryan's been like this lately. Jumpy, forgetful. He's falling apart and the meds aren't helping. He shouldn't be surprised. The meds only help for a little while, couple months at best. Then Ryan's changed so much that the meds couldn't possibly work anymore because they were prescribed for a different person.

Ryan sits up, yawning, giving Brendon a weak smile that he doesn't quite feel. "Can we smoke first?"

The younger boy frowns. "Yeah, like, going to see your shrink stoned probably isn't going to help."

"Leave me like a lucky clover."

Brendon pushes himself off the bed, eyes narrowed somewhat, but really just looking like a scared child. "I told you to quit doing that! It freaks me out, okay?" He sighs as Ryan's face falls, raking his hands through his hair. "I just . . . yeah, I'll go . . . breakfast or something. Coffee's in the pot."

He leaves the room and Ryan pulls his legs up to his chest, chin resting on his knees. He can't help the lines. They just come out now. Like reverse writer's block. He's got too much in him to write down now, so it just forces it's way out of him somehow. He only dreams in lyrics anymore. He's not sure where the words come from, but they're ever-present now, hanging over his head like icicles or tree branches, just out of grasp until a wind comes through and knocks them loose.

Crazy run and grab, dancing like a tea kettle.

Ryan shakes his head. Tea kettle? His lyrics don't make sense to a lot of people, but that one's a stretch even for him. "Beggars can't be choosers," he mutters to himself as he gets out of bed, walking barefoot down the hallway to the kitchen. He pours a cup of coffee, checks the weather outside, decides not to shower. Brendon's in the backyard having a cigarette. Ryan's going to be in the bedroom having a joint.

_
Criss-cross. Hopscotch. Down on your knees. I'm just a dancer. Kettle-dancer. Twist around, spin. Arms up, lift up, leg up. Leg up, behind your head. Smile at me. I'm smiling at you. Just pretend. We did once. Lipstick, slapstick, running around with jackets. Ashes, patches, we all fall down. Jungle gym and monkey bars. Puppy love like the kind you find at the pound. We're not what was desired, so we love ourselves, love each other. Falling in love is the only way to save yourself. Now dance with me so I can laugh with you. Force it out me. Smile for me, smile for you. Hot-cross buns.
_

"Told you not to fucking smoke," Brendon snaps for the third time. They're in the car, on the way to the appointment at the doctor's office in the building with the shiny, dark windows that look like mirrors.

Why would anyone want to see themselves when they're walking into a doctor's office? Ryan shifts in his seat. Uncomfortable because his shirt itches, uncomfortable because Brendon is mad, uncomfortable because he's going to get yet another round of happy pills that don't do shit. And he's not going to take them anyway. He's pretty sure the dosage he's on is the reason the words are growing like weeds. He needs them.

"Whatever, it's done." Brendon might as well be talking to himself for all Ryan's answering. "Just . . . be honest with him, please? Like, I love you and everything, but this is getting pretty out of hand."

"Hand in hand like--"

"Stop!" Brendon's voice is awful and high-pitched, scratching like nails on a chalkboard and Ryan actually gasps out loud, presses his hands to his ears. Brendon feels bad. He glances at Ryan, misery apparent in his eyes. And, God, he looks so tired, so worn-out.

Ryan wants to kiss him, lean in and kiss him, fingers sliding under clothes to touch skin. He just wants to let Brendon know he's still there. He's always there. He's just different now. It's not him who's pulling away, it's Brendon. But he doesn't blame the other boy. He's just scared, doesn't understand. It's not the Ryan he fell in love with. But who is that Ryan anymore? He might as well be dead for all either of them know about him nowadays.

But neither of them says anything, does anything, kisses anyone. Ryan lets his hands fall back to his lap, staring out the window, watching the people in the cars they pass, trying to look for something he recognizes in someone. Brendon stares at the road, eyes flicking to Ryan, mentally cursing back and forth inside his head.

"We're here," he announces unnecessarily, as he pulls into a parking space. He turns the car off and grabs Ryan's hand as the boy reaches to open the door. "Wait." His breathing is heavy, labored, forced. Ryan wonders if he's trying not to cry. "Just, wait a second."

"Brenny," Ryan whispers, voice gentle, soft, warm. He reaches out, hands on Brendon's cheeks. "Brenny, Brenny." He leans in, kisses the other boy. "I love you."
_

Run away like the water in the brook. And we'll swim like mermaids, feast like serpents. I'll laugh at you for thinking that we couldn't make it. In all your infinite glory, but I'm the serpent now. And you're nowhere to be found, to be seen. You're nothing and I am everything. I see God in mosaics and music and parties in the basement with twenty people and a bong. You're a fairy tale; I'm the imagining. Bring it all down and back to me. Just want to give up, but you never can. Running through the desert, hand in hand.
_

"Please tell him the truth," Brendon whispers. "Please, baby. I can't do this anymore. I . . . I can't. If you can't . . . see you need help, then I'm . . . done. I can't handle this. Not you, like this. This isn't you." His lips are covered in tears. Ryan tastes them when he leans in to kiss Brendon again.

He's buying time, buying lies. How is he supposed to choose between words and Brendon? "Go up, now, yeah?" He wipes at the boy's cheeks. "It'll be okay," he promises/lies.

Brendon nods, smiling for the first time in days. He sits in the waiting room, while Ryan goes in to talk to the doctor. The magazines are months old. Everything in them is like a strange, altered memory. None of the people are still married, or still engaged, or still fighting, or still pregnant. The only consistents seem to be the perpetual train wrecks. Ryan's not a train wreck, though. He's an atomic bomb.

"So how are things going?" the doctor asks Ryan. They've seen each other before. Ryan feels like Dr. Xavier sitting down to play chess with Magneto.

"He thinks I'm sick."

"You don't?"

Ryan shakes his head. "I like the meds. They help me think." He's trying to say the right thing, trying to hide the secrets. Don't tell him you're overproductive. Don't tell him you talk in rhyme. Don't tell him you won't sleep with Brendon because you think sex steals the words away.

"Why does Brendon not like them then?"

Ryan's fingers twist in his lap. "He just . . . he thinks I'm not acting like myself."

"Are you?"

"I'm always acting like myself."
_

Always acting, always acting. Eager actor, over-actor. Over-reactor. The Emmy goes to . . . Best new fuck-up in a daytime trainwreck. Don't trip when you walk up those stairs. Don't trip when they give you those stares. Don't laugh like a joke, don't cry like a martyr. You're nothing, you're everything. You're a liar, you're an actor. You're a writer, you're a dancer. Illusion/allusion. Can we play a game? Can I drag you back to the beginning of time, hold you sinking on the ocean floor? If I had a dime for every time you lied. If I had a dime for every time we died. Well, just one dime then. Don't roll your eyes at me. It made sense in my head.
_

"It's a new pill, in the same family as your old medication, but with less side effects."

"But, I--" Ryan stops himself, corrects himself. "I like the side effects."

The doctor turns to look at him. "Which side effects?"

"O-Over . . . production? Is that a side effect?"

The doctor looks concerned now, leaning forward, staring Ryan in the eyes. "No, it's not. You didn't mention you were feeling manic."

"I'm not manic," Ryan snaps. "I'm just . . . happy. I'm aware. I can write. I can't stop writing. I'm not manic. The last time I was manic I was sleeping with everyone and eating all those drugs and driving on the wrong side of the road. I'm not manic." He slumps down in his chair, breathing hard. "I'm not manic," he repeats.

"Mania isn't the same every time," the doctor says, voice even. "Just like depression isn't the same every time. Maybe we should bring Brendon back here. Sometimes people--"

"No!" Ryan stands up and now he's pacing. "No, I just . . . I want the same meds, okay? And, Brendon . . . I told him I wouldn't so you can't tell him I want them. Because he's going to break up with me, okay? So just . . . give me the old meds. I'm fine, I'm fine. I promise."

"No, Ryan, you aren't."
_

Legs feel like lead, threatening to give out. Last mile, last mile. Finish this, finish everything. Winner takes all. Loser walks home. You're laughing at me, aren't you? You're laughing. But I can win this, I can take this. Legs are like lead. Legs are half dead. You're still laughing, I'm still smiling. Do you want me to fail? Always want me to fail? Better by comparison, maybe. Wouldn't you rather have something to compare to? You stack the deck, I play the hand. Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater. Can't keep it here. Liar, liar, overbuyer. Not playing with you today.
_

"What the hell was that?" Brendon yells, running out of the building where Ryan is furiously tugging on the car handle. "I thought you said you were going to do this! What the fuck, Ryan?"

"You thought wrong," the older boy snaps, turning, eyes livid. "You just hear what you want to hear, like a fucking child. Now open the door!"

"No."

Ryan turns, eyes flashing, and Brendon crosses his arms. "Open the door."

"No. Not until we fix this."

"There's nothing to fix! You never listen to me. I'm fine. I'm happy. It's not my fault that you're miserable. Maybe you're the one who needs pills." He's borderline hysterical now and he doesn't care. Ryan feels his pulse in his veins, his heartbeat in his head. He think he tastes metal in his mouth, but that's probably not real. Just blood, maybe. Did he bite his tongue?

"I'm not unlocking the car."

Ryan steps up onto the sidewalk, so close to Brendon that they can feel each other's breath, the heat of anger radiating off skin. He grabs the boy's arms, presses their foreheads together, licks his lips. "I love you," he whispers.

Brendon nods, agreeing. "I'm still not unlocking it."

Ryan screams, presses the other boy back, watches him stumble, catching himself and his balance before he falls. "Fuck you, then," he snaps. "I'll walk."

This time Brendon doesn't say anything, just stands there, watches, waits for Ryan to turn around and come back.
_

Like nothing you've experienced. Like everything you have. Feel it, heavy on your tongue. Like words that don't come out. Like tears that you don't cry. Like revenge you never sought. Like sex you never had. Just a barrage of things you always wanted, things you fought yourself from keeping. Why so many checks and balances? Why don't you ever take the time to be selfish? Not a martyr, not a saint. You're not saving yourself with your broken heart. You're not saving the children, saving the whales. Just lying in bed, alone. Four beers down and two to go. You're not going anywhere.
_

Ryan walks around. Ryan eats lunch at some hole-in-the wall. Ryan finds a record store. Ryan follows a guy into the backroom at the record store. Ryan buys a drink to get the taste out of his mouth after. Ryan walks into a tattoo shop but walks back out a minute later. Ryan tells a girl her eyes are beautiful. Ryan hands a woman the lipstick tube that bounces out of her purse. Ryan goes to a movie. Ryan stares at the buildings and wonders how high you could go and fall while still living. Body cast, sure, but still living. Ryan wonders what it feels like to fall.

Ryan gets a cab and goes home.

Brendon's done crying when Ryan comes in. Still drinking, but done crying. Ryan starts, crying for both of them, the tears he's ignored for weeks and weeks and weeks. Words are more important than tears. Ignore the tears, take the words. Ryan cries. Hugs Brendon as tightly as he can and cries. Ryan's sick. Ryan's scared.

Brendon packed Ryan's suitcase while Ryan was walking around. Brendon's not mad about the record store. Brendon's so scared he can hardly stand it.

"Let's just wait until tomorrow," Ryan whispers. "We'll go when you're sober."

Brendon's too drunk to realize. Ryan's too gone to think. When Brendon falls asleep, Ryan puts the suitcase in the back of his car and drives.
_

If I get lost in the words, I can create you here. You're with me. I can lie to myself, lie to everyone. Lies are the food of the writer. I am the writer. I can create you. Maybe I did anyway. You're a part of me. Let's run away together. Let's live off the words.