Never Coming Home

1952

Ryan was perched on the old plaid couch in front of the television. His finger lightly traced the rim of his coffee cup. The television was blank, Brendon having switched it off at the wall before he left for work earlier that day. Ryan hadn’t bothered to turn it on. He’d just sat there, fingers looped through the china handle of his coffee cup.

He’d watched the sunlight on the stained coffee table gradually shift throughout the day. Like he did every day. When the light finally left the old wood, his gaze moved lazily to the clock on the wall. Twenty-five past five. Ryan got to his feet, put the empty mug in the sink then strode over to the window. His right hand clutched at the glass, his left attached itself to the paisley drapes.

Brendon locked his car then looked up at the apartment building. He could see a figure move away from the window on the left above the entrance. His fatigued expression, brought on from a hard day at work, softened. He checked his watch. Five-thirty.

His leg ached as he climbed the two flights of stairs. He grimaced and rubbed that spot on his thigh. God, he wanted to move from this place so badly. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with shitty, broken elevators or the noisy traffic that made Ryan jump and shake and close his eyes. He wanted a house out in the country somewhere. Alas, his pockets were empty aside from a pack of cigarettes and his keys.

Ryan tried not to panic as he heard metal jiggle in the lock of the front door. Rationally, he knew it would only be Brendon, but rationality didn’t dictate his reactions. He jumped behind the couch, knees to his chest. Cold sweat and a held breath; both were familiar sensations of dreaded anticipation.

The door swung open, leaving only a few inches ajar. The chain was taut between the frame and the heavy door. Brendon’s face appeared in the gap, eyes searching the dingy apartment.

“You going to let me in, Ryan?” Brendon called and Ryan’s heart rate slowed. He got up and unhooked the chain on the door.

Brendon shuffled into the apartment, closing and locking the door behind him before hanging up his hat and taking off his coat and blazer. Ryan stood off to the side, hunched over, like a puppy that’d just peed on the carpet, waiting to be scolded.

“What’d you do today?” Brendon asked, turning to Ryan and taking his hands in his.

“I drank some coffee.”

“Did you eat anything?” The silent response said it all. Brendon sighed and wrapped his arms around Ryan’s waist.

“I cut up the chicken like you wanted,” Ryan told him, then leaned over and kissed his cheek. His expression was one of expectation, waiting for that recognition that yes, he had done something today; that he was improving.

Brendon’s gaze dropped to the hem of Ryan’s shirt that hadn’t been tucked into his trousers. Again. But this was better than looking into his eyes, which oozed emptiness and twisted the knife in Brendon’s heart; seven years had done little to change Ryan’s haunted look.

The thought of losing him entirely was a terrifying concept for Brendan, but sometimes he couldn’t help but wonder if things would’ve been better if Ryan hadn’t come home at all. Then the guilt would kick him in the guts.

Ryan sighed as he realised that no, Brendon wasn’t going to look at him. He knew why. Instead he just buried his face in Brendon’s neck. The younger of the two’s leg was stiffening up again. Sometimes he was certain that if he pushed his finger into that one point in his thigh hard enough, it would find its place there, in the cavern that the bullet had carved. But he wrapped his arms around Ryan nonetheless and held him close.

“I just wish things could be how they used to, you know?” Ryan murmured and Brendon nodded. He kissed the side of Ryan’s head then pulled away. He walked over to the radio and switched it on.

He adjusted the dials slightly then asked, “You remember how we used to have to dance with those girls?” Ryan grinned. A slow jazz number crackled through the old speakers.

“Then go get drunk and screw? Yeah, I remember,” Ryan said and Brendon laughed.

The latter offered his hand and Ryan took it up with a smile. Soon they were swaying along to the music, shoes padding on the atrocious murky-green carpet. A ghost of a sparkle glistened behind Ryan’s eyes, but it was merely that, a ghost. It took hold of Brendon’s throat and choked him into silence.

“You were the only reason I could get through those stupid dances,” Ryan muttered. “You were the reason I came home.”

Those eyes were so void of everything. Brendon was tired of everything. He’d come home early from the war with a hole in his leg. Ryan hadn’t come home at all. He was a hollow shell. And Brendon, he was broken far beyond repair.