Can We Colour, Bren?

Brendon shuffles his feet a bit and moves from the window to a chair in the waiting room of the doctor’s office. He bites his lip and plays with his nails; crosses and uncrosses his legs; shakes the left foot then the right. Nothing’s working. A hand on his shoulder reminds him that he needs to settle down, but doesn’t slow down his nervous tactics.

The rushing sound in his ears feels like nervous blood quivering underneath his skin, but he can’t be sure if it’s the air conditioner or not. The need for a drink – something cold and hard – overwhelms him, and he bites even harder down on his lip. “Bren,” a voice brings him out of his drowning thoughts. The burst of air feels nice. “Calm down, okay?”

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says softly. “I’m fine. I mean, I’m not sick, not insane, or lost or…”

“Ryan?” Spencer finishes for him, blinking just a second. He smiles sadly, and nods. “Just because Ryan might need a little help doesn’t mean you have to refuse help for yourself,” he says, carefully choosing his words. He realizes that with Brendon, it’s just as dangerous territory as with Ryan. And it was just as hard to convince him to see the doctor, Spencer recalls. Then he shudders the memory away and smiles at Brendon once more as the other boy’s name is called.

The office is white; white white white. The white that’s so clean you’re afraid to touch anything. But it’s also smothered in pictures, Brendon notes, biting his nails again. Pictures of couples, or single persons, pictures of children. Jon told him he should see a new psychiatrist, one who didn’t already see him every other day.

The doctor is somewhere outside in the hall; Brendon can hear his murmurs. He grows bored and starts reading the captions in the little Kodak pictures. Sometimes, when he sees another couple, his heart crumbles just a little more. KC and I, after our vowel renewal. Lissa and I on our second honeymoon. Jayson and I. In the picture, they’re happy normal couples. But Brendon knows there’s a story behind it; that’s why those pictures are sitting there.

“My first couple,” a voice announces, and Brendon jumps up and sits back, startled. “When I started out. They were on the verge of divorcing; the judge ordered them two months of couple’s therapy before he’d sign the papers, if I thought it wouldn’t work. Successful. I was very happy. They live in Cancun now; she’s a waitress, and he’s retired.”

Brendon takes a moment to investigate the doctor’s appearance. She’s tall; taller than him – with brown eyes that seem to glimmer with hope and success in every which way. Her dress seems suitable for the job, just a white summer one, with black Prada pumps settled underneath her feet. Her nails are down, a silver engagement ring glittering in the sunlight the peeks through the windows.

But most of all, he notes, she seems trustworthy, if nothing else. So he nods. “Great. I mean… there’s probably something…”

“Better you could say,” she laughs. “I’m Dr. Robertson, and you’re Brendon, right? Spencer called me. He asked me to see you as a favour to him.”

“He says you’re pretty good.”

She blushes, smiles. “What’s your idea of good, then, Brendon?”

“Someone who knows their job…?” it escapes his mouth like a question on accident. He messes with his hands again, wringing them and scratching at them bitterly.

“Then I guess I’m good,” she smiles politely, and sits down at her desk, folding her hands together, staring at him. Brendon starts to feel like she’s waiting for him to say something, anything, but all the sudden, the words in his throat glue themselves, and refuse to come unstuck. Suddenly, he feels like he’s back underwater. “Brendon,” she says. “You can talk about anything. Right now. Whenever. We can just sit here in silence for a while, if you want.”

Brendon opens his mouth, and all the sudden, the words become unglued again, and everything pours out of him like a gushing fountain; they don’t come out fast enough.

-
When he walks through the door, Ryan runs to him, eyes sparkling. “Brenny, guess what? I maded you a picture! It’s in the kitchen, drying. Daddy says you’ll love it,” he giggles. Brendon tiredly smiles at the boy.

“Made, Ry, it’s made, not maded.” Ryan tugs on his hand, and pulls him forward, towards the kitchen.

“Wanna see, Brenny? Daddy says it has ‘exceptional detail,’ but I asked him what that meant and he laughed at me.” A frown settles into his features for a moment, before it flees again, and he continues pulling Brendon into the kitchen.

On the table sits a piece of paper that you can no longer see white, smeared with different colours, all shiny and drying in the sunlight that seeps into the window above the sink. Brendon smiles, momentarily fingering the painting, forgetting it was wet, before looking at Ryan. “It’s amazing, Ry,” he grins. “I’m tired. I’m gonna lie down to nap a bit, okay?” Ryan frowns again, though.

“But… you can’t. Daddy’s just gone. I don’t like staying out in the living room by myself.”

“Ryan-“

“It’s dangerous, anyways,” he continues. “I could get kidnapped, or fall down, or something, and no one will be here to see me, or hear me.”

“Ryan-“

“And it scares me, Brenny; I don’t like being alone,” tears shine in his eyes.

“For fuck’s sake, Ryan, grow up!” Brendon shouts, irritated now. Before he knows it, he’s reached across the counter and grabbed the glass; threw it, watching it shatter on the opposite wall. Ryan’s eyes widen. “You’re not two years old, you know,” he continues bellowing. “I’m fucking tired of taking care of you; fucking tired of letting my life revolve around your wants, and your needs.”

Once he’s done, he takes a deep breath and looks at Ryan, who’s now curled up on the floor, rocking back and forth.

The ritual helps calm Ryan. He counts how many times silently in his head. He’s not allowed to talk; Brendon’s mad. He might get even more mad, and send him to his room, or smack his face or something. The very thought makes tears seep down his face faster, and he lets out a strangled sob, on accident. He wishes he knew what he did, but he doesn’t, so instead, he continues counting, hoping Brendon might disappear. 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, he can’t count past twenty, so he starts all over again, drawing in a sharp breath.

“Ryan,” Brendon gets down next to the boy, reaching out his hand to touch his shoulder. But Ryan flinches away, in return, making Brendon cringe. He bites his lip to keep his own tears from falling. “Ryan, I’m so sorry. So freaking sorry. I… you have no idea. I had a really bad day. Look… I… I’m sorry, really. I’ll sleep out on the couch, if you want, to make you feel safer; I’ll stay awake until your daddy comes home. I’ll give you anything. What is it you want, Ry?”

The boy looks up, tears shining in his eyes still. He sniffles, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I want you to go away,” he whispers.

Brendon’s heart disintegrates even more, if that was ever possible.