Close Your Eyes and I'll Kiss You; Tomorrow I'll Miss You.

When Brendon wakes up the next morning, he feels like shit. His eyes are sore and his head hurts and there’s an aching feeling in his heart that hasn’t gone away for days. He doesn’t get up right away. He lays in his bed, staring up at the ceiling for as long as he can stand it before finally pulling his blankets off of him and sitting up.

He knows that the longer he dwells in his own misery, the longer he’ll be miserable, but he can’t think of anything better to do.

He’s not hungry because he hasn’t been hungry for days, but he knows that his mom will be distressed if he goes another day with eating nearly nothing, and since he doesn’t have anything else to do, since he doesn’t even have a friend in town now, he decides to go downstairs and find something to eat that will be maybe somewhat appealing, although he highly doubts it.

The minute he goes downstairs, he can feel the awkward tension in the room. His mother is sitting on the couch in the living room with her head in her hands, a piece of paper on the coffee table in front of her, and his father is standing nearby, staring out of the window with a stony face, void of any expression. These days, it’s not uncommon for everyone to seem so upset about things, but Brendon feels something weird in the air and he’s almost afraid to ask.

He doesn’t have to, though.

His dad looks away from the window and straight towards him, and his face goes from no expression, to an expression that Brendon can’t read because he’s never even seen it before.

“Why would you do this?”

Brendon doesn’t know how to answer because he doesn’t know what his dad is talking about.

“…What?” he asks, and he hears his mom start sobbing from the couch, and he looks over to her and back to his dad and he has no idea what is going on. His dad strides over to where his wife is sitting, swooping down and grabbing the piece of paper off the coffee table and marching over to his son and holding the paper right in front of his face. Brendon feels his stomach lurch horribly as he realizes what he’s looking at. It’s his first instinct to reach out and snatch it away from his father, clutching it to his chest.

“Where did you get this?!” he asks, but neither parent seems willing to answer that question.

“Is this really how you repay your mother and I for giving you food and clothes and a goddamn roof over your head for the past eighteen years?!”

Brendon has never heard his father use the Lord’s name in vain before and he’s never heard him use profanity before, and the combination of both is extremely intimidating.

“I can…explain.”

“Explain away, then!” his dad yells. Brendon gulps, looking straight into his father’s eyes, trying to avoid shrinking away and running, as much as he wants to.

“It’s not…. I’m not. I wasn’t just…trying to rebel against you…or society or…anything like that. I promise. It’s just…how I am.”

“Bullshit!” his dad spits, and Brendon jumps out of fear and surprise, and his mom is still crying, and he feels as though he’s about to cry because it’s like the weight of everything that’s happened the past two weeks are suddenly all upon him and he wants to just let everything out, but he’s trying so hard not to. He doesn’t want to make this worse.

“You think you just are this way?!”

“I don’t think, I know.”

“You think God made you this way?!”

“I don’t believe in God.” It slips out of Brendon’s mouth before he can even think about it, but the second it hit the air, he regrets it. His mother cries louder and his father grows angrier and he knows that he’s just ruined every dream his parents have ever had for him.

“You are a disgrace,” his dad says, and it’s so sickeningly slow and calm that it creeps up Brendon’s spine and back down to clutch at his stomach, making him feel so, so sick.

“I can’t believe you dragged Ryan into your sick little world,” his mom says, weeping, and it’s the first words that Brendon has heard out of her mouth, but they anger him more than anything his father has said so far.

“What?! I didn’t drag Ryan into anything, okay?! I love him! And he loved me….” Using the past tense of ‘love’ hurts worse than Brendon could have ever possibly imagined.

“Love,” his dad scoffs. “You’re eighteen years old; you don’t know what love is!”

“You know, you really don’t know anything about me at all!”

“You’ll go to hell, you know. This is a sin.”

“You know, you’re right. So is sex before marriage and alcohol and drugs and saying the word ’fuck’, so there’s what, five sins that I’ve committed right there? And the sex before marriage, that was with Ryan, so that’s like, wow, double sin, or something! Well, shit! Before you know, me and the devil, we’re gonna be like, best friends! Or more. Maybe I’ll let the devil fuck me, too!”

“Stop it!” his mom screams.

“You’re disgusting. It’s no wonder Ryan got killed.”

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Brendon snarls out, his eyes narrowing into slits as he glares at his father.

“I mean that it was God’s punishment for--”

Brendon is hardly aware of his hand balling into a fist and doesn’t even realize that he’s swinging his arm towards his father until his hand collides with the side of his father’s face.

And then the only thing going through his mind is a constant repetition of ‘fuckshitfuckshitfuckshit’.

His dad is staring wide-eyed and furious at his son, his own hand pressed against his face where he was just hit. He thinks his mom is yelling, but he can’t really hear anything other than the profanities running through his brain.

“Get out of my house!”

Brendon doesn’t have to be told more than once. He spins on his heel towards the stairs and stomps his way upstairs until he reaches his bedroom, nearly tearing the room apart as he grabs his belongings, throwing them aimlessly on his bed. He doesn’t even have a bag to throw his stuff in, but he’s impatient and he just wants to get out of there. He realizes about five minutes into grabbing his things that he has no way to get to where he’s going. He knows his exact destination, but no way to get there.

He runs back downstairs, not even looking to see if his parents are still in the living room. He grabs the receiver of the phone off of the wall and dials the numbers as fast as he possibly can. He hates the fact that the phone’s chord isn’t long enough for him to retreat back to his room as he waits for someone to pick up, but he just stares at the wall instead, until someone finally answers.

“Gabe, hi. Can you come pick me up?”

~*

Victoria takes on the role of Brendon’s mother-figure as soon as he gets to the apartment in the city, holding him and hugging him and letting him cry. She strokes his hair, tells him that it’ll be alright, lights him cigarettes, and lets him fall asleep still clutching onto her arm.

He hadn’t planned on moving to the city for a couple more weeks, but he doesn’t really complain. The only things he left behind were the parents that now hate him, the friend that now hates him, and memories of the boy he loved. He prefers the city.

The guys and Victoria try their hardest to cheer Brendon up as much as they can, but unless he’s high, they can’t manage more than a tiny half-smile.

He even refuses to go to the rallies and peace marches that he wouldn’t dare miss nearly a month ago. He likes staying inside, drinking and smoking by himself, more than going out and hoping for peace. He hardly even sees the point anymore.

But when Gabe brings Pete back to the apartment after a rally, Brendon would rather be anywhere else. He stubs his cigarette out and brushes past the group without even so much as a word. When the apartment door closes, he takes a few steps before leaning back against the wall and sliding down into a sitting position, burying his face in his hands. He doesn’t know how long he’s sitting there before he hears the door next to him open, but he doesn’t even look up to see who it is. He thinks he knows, anyways, and he’s trying to do all he can to not speak with him.

“I can here to apologize to you,” Pete says, and he sits down on the floor next to Brendon who still doesn’t look up. “I didn’t mean to try to make you cheat on your boyfriend. I just. I was really fucked up that night, and….”

“I don’t care,” Brendon mumbles, his words muffled by his hands still covering his face.

“…What?”

“I don’t care,” he repeats, lifting his head so his voice is clearer, although he looks straight ahead, avoiding Pete’s eyes.

“You don’t….”

“I wanted to write back to him but I couldn’t because I felt so guilty. I don’t even know if it would have reached him in time, but even so, it’s your fault that I didn’t get to tell him that I loved him for the last time.”

“Brendon, I’m sorry. I just…I really like you, okay? I didn’t plan on trying to seduce you at that party, but then drugs got involved and I couldn’t help myself.”

Whatever Pete is saying sounds legit enough for Brendon to finally look towards him and meet his eyes.

“Okay,” he says.

“…Okay?”

“I don’t forgive you. But…I accept your apology.”

“Thank you. I would…hate for you to hate me forever. Come on, let’s go inside.”

~*

Ryland finally convinces Brendon to get out of the house for one night for the first time since he moved in, two or three weeks ago. He’s aware of the fact that he looks disheveled, but he doesn’t really care. For once in his life, he’s thankful for the small amount of testosterone he possesses, because he hasn’t shaved in weeks, but he only has minor stubble on his cheeks and chin. And maybe the messy-hair look doesn’t look too horrible on him, either.

They drag him off to a party, which actually makes a nice distraction from all of the emotions that have been in him for far too long. He doesn’t even think twice when Pete offers him stuff, but hesitates as soon as he is far too close to him.

“You know that my boyfriend only died like, not even a month ago, right?” he asks, and Pete sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“And you know that I really like you, right?”

“You keep saying that, but if you really liked me, then you’d give me some time and some space.”

“Look, I’m seeing how much you’re struggling with all of this, and I just want to make you feel better…make you feel good. Distract you for a while,” Pete says.

“So you’re going to settle with just being a distraction for me?”

“If that’s what it takes. Here, do you want some of this?” he asks, holding something out to Brendon.

“…What is it?”

“It’s cocaine. It’ll make you feel better, I promise.”

“…Fine.”

~*

It feels too much like déjà vu when Pete is all over him. He doesn’t stop him this time, though, because he doesn’t really have a reason to. It makes him feel sick, though. Sicker than it made him feel last time. He thinks that if there really is a heaven, then Ryan is definitely there, and if he can see Brendon and Pete right now, then he’s definitely disgusted and disappointed and Brendon just can’t stand that thought. But he doesn’t make Pete stop. He goes through with it. He allows his clothes to be ripped away and he lets Pete out his hands all over him, and the sting and pain that goes through his entire body when Pete pushes into him is blinding, but he doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t stop it, but he’s crying and hoping that Pete doesn’t notice. He’s not even sure why he’s crying, but he knows that he wasn’t ready for this; not yet.

When it’s over, Brendon hasn’t even gotten off, but he doesn’t care, he’s just thankful that it’s done. But everything around him is so hazy and he’s so worn out that he just lays there until everything goes dark.

~*~

He doesn’t open his eyes when he regains consciousness. He doesn’t know where he’s at. The last thing he remembers…oh god, he doesn’t even want to think about it. It makes him want to cry or throw up or both. He’s fairly certain that he wasn’t in a bed the last time he was awake, so he’s not sure how he ended up in one. The blankets on him are warm and welcome, though. He’s sure that he hasn’t felt blankets like these in months. Since he was home, maybe.

When he finally opens one eye, there’s way too much white and it hurts his head and he immediately squeezes both eyes shut tightly.

“Are you awake?”

The voice is female and it confuses him because he doesn’t even know who it possibly could be. He tries to speak, but his throat cracks and he can’t even get a word out. So, instead, he just nods.

“Oh, thank God. We were all so worried that we were going to lose you, Mister Ross.”