Always

"Can't sleep?"

Brendon glances over his shoulder and finds a half-awake Spencer staring groggily at him from the doorway of his bunk, dark mussed hair falling over dozy blue eyes. He gives him a small smile, shakes his head, and returns to sucking on his ceasing cigarette stick. Eyes following his bandmate who steps around him to get a glass of water.

"What's on your mind, Bren?" Spencer turns to face him after a moment, setting the now empty glass on the counter he's leaning on.

"It's nothing," Brendon says. "Go back to sleep, Spence."

Except Brendon wouldn't be up at three in the morning, slumped in the dark kitchen of the tour bus, smoking, for nothing. Not anxiously, at least, as he usually is on this date. Spencer catches sight of the lack of sleep hinted by Brendon's trembling hand. When Brendon exhales, the smoke shivers along with him.

Three years of this, Brendon thinks Spencer would have gotten used to it by now. Apparently not as he practically hears the latter hold back a scoff. He knows it's not nothing. It's always going to be something.

He's always going to be something.

"So," Spencer sighs, peering around the darkness."July sixth..." he trails off, almost winces, as if the mere mention of the date is bad luck or that it might send Brendon into a psychotic frenzy.

But it's not like Brendon needs reminding. He knows this day well. He has never missed a dawning in three years. It started as a habit, then a ritual. He would hope for the same thing every time, thinking that if he did, maybe things will return to how they really were. Maybe he'll come back.

He frowns, "July sixth," and repeats, averting Spencer's gaze.

Maybe he'll remember.

Spencer runs his fingers through his hair. "I miss him too, Bren," he sighs, voice almost falling to a whisper. "And Jon."

Brendon chuckles. "I hope that wasn't supposed to make me feel better." There's a slight edge to his tone that irritates Spencer.

"You've got to stop moping around."

"I know."

"It's been three years. I'm sure Ryan—"

"Yeah – yeah, I know."

But he still refuses to make eye contact. Spencer's gaze remains fixed on him, searching for clues, waiting for him to say anything more, because God knows he's sick of playing this game with Brendon. So he grabs the phone off the wall and tosses it on the table next to Brendon before heading back to bed.

"Give him a call," Spencer calls out over his shoulder. "Won't change a thing, but, try."

A few padded footsteps fade into the narrow hall. A faint rustling of sheets before the silence.

Brendon casts his eyes upon the wireless phone, imagines the ringing on the other end of the line. A quick "hello". A voice, raw, soft, and familiar. And he would freeze like always until the hum of the dial tone lifts him off from cold feet. Like he hasn't done this a hundred times over during the freshness of the split.

And if this doesn't change anything, Spencer, then what would it do? The slight pounding in Brendon's head permits him to dive into a bitter recollection of him – Ryan – him saying that it's not going to work out, sorry, but that was that, thanks for coming, let's not do this again. The ache in his mind transfers into his chest, which, although dull, echoes against his miserable frame. He's holding his breath and he wants a release but the drag is gone and the sun hasn't risen yet.

He shuts his eyes, hoping to feel Ryan in his state of delusion. Because Ryan never really left. Somehow, he's still always around, vacating the spaces in between Brendon's cells, leaving him with no sense of clarity. Everyday, Brendon tries to keep him out, exhausting himself in the music that Ryan wouldn't write, exchanging body heat with the fill-in bassist, and returning home clothed in the permanent scent of shows. Momentary escapades. Living acid trips. But at the end of the day, Ryan would always linger. Brendon can't let him go.

And he misses him, so much more than he should. He can still hear his short even breaths on the other end of the line. Feel the ghost of his fingers splayed across his back. Inhale the waves of want that overtake him as he stares up at Dallon compensating for Ryan's absence and how he keeps thinking that he's not Ryan. It will never be the same because it will always be Ryan.

It was always him.

Brendon finds his hand reaching for the phone, fingers dancing on the keypad, and he's back to pressing his ear against the speaker. A click. A "hello". He finds his voice.

"Hey."

There's a pause but then he hears it, soft and hesitant with only a touch of surprise: "Brendon?"

There it is – Ryan's said his name and that's enough for Brendon's breath to catch in his throat. He recognizes the lack of grogginess in Ryan's voice as though he, too, has been up all night. Brendon faintly conjures up an image of Ryan staring out the same scene he's looking at now, thinking about him, too. Fuck it, he thinks, the possibilities are endless.

"Hello?" Ryan tries again.

Brendon clears his throat, falters a "so..." The letters quiver, causing him to pause for a quarter of a millisecond, but he's not done yet. He clears his throat once more. "Missed me?" He says.

Ryan laughs in disbelief. But he's happy to hear from him. Brendon can tell as he leans his head onto the window pane, heavy-lidded eyes concluding as the conversation carries on. The road has never looked clearer, the skyline smaller when faced with this moment. The distance doesn't matter anymore.

The day breaks.