Tales of a King (Brought to You in Sharpie Marker)
One
Ryan saw him from across the venue. He had soft brown eyes, hair that fell in fringe onto his eyes, and soft lips he kept licking in hopes that they wouldn't stay chapped. His shoulders weren't slouched, and he had his head held high with the smallest of smiles.
Ryan was fiddling with his thumbs from his spot at the bar and was doing his best not to full on stare. It was hard because he forgot there was a show going on. He was able to block out the music, the lights. It was like his eyes were a camera lens. He just zoomed his focus on the kid from across the venue, and everything else blurred.
Ryan wanted to go up and talk to him. Ryan wanted to start a conversation, ask the guy his name, why he was there, what his number was. Ryan wanted to hear him laugh. Ryan wanted to see his eyes light up and see his grin spread across his lips.
But he couldn't. Not now. Not with Spencer sitting right next to him, waving his hand across Ryan's face to gain back his attention. It only sort of worked, and he only sort of understood that Spencer kept pointing at the stage, his eyes sparkling and his cheeks tinted pink.
Ryan was still watching the kid, sending quick glances at Spencer to show he was kind of with him. It didn't matter though. Ryan didn't want to talk to Spencer; he wanted to talk to the kid across the venue.
By the end of the show, Ryan almost had the courage to go walk up to the kid, start the conversation. Ask him his name, why he was there, and what his number was. But his confidence dissipated when a guy he vaguely recognized from the band walked up to the kid. The band guy put his arms around the kid, and they shared a smile Ryan thought he was intruding on.
Ryan never did talk to the kid from across the venue. He only noticed that the kid's sweatshirt was still there and how the kid was already out the door.
-
Ryan saw the band guy leave the kid from the venue fifteen minutes into the walk. They didn't kiss, didn't hug, only waved and kept on walking. Ryan thought it was odd, thought it was weird but he still only wanted to talk to the kid from the venue.
Ryan could have called out. The kid could have turned around with a questioning gaze. Ryan could have helped up the sweatshirt in response, as if it answered all the questions. The kid from the venue could have smiled, could said thanks. Then Ryan could have stared the conversation, but he didn't.
-
Ryan waited an hour before knocking on the kid from the venue's apartment door. He didn't know why. He didn't know about anything anymore except for the fact that this was it.
The kid from the venue opened the door. His eyes looked tired, his wet hair was sticking to his forehead. His shoulders were hunched. His lips were pulled at the corners in a slight frown.
"Hi?" he asked, voice very quiet.
"Hi," Ryan said just as hushed.
They stared at each other for a moment, before a man, who looked like he could be Ryan's father, who could be the kid's father, came up and put a hand on the kid's shoulder. Ryan was never good with fathers, especially his own. Ryan’s father was number one his People-I’d-Rather-Not-Know List. The people Ryan used to crush on, their parents were always second.
"Who are you?" the man asked, eyebrows pulling in on each other, eyes accusing.
Ryan held up the sweatshirt.
The kid's eyes softened, like this sweatshirt meant everything. Almost like this ratty, dirty thing meant the world to him. It was like Ryan had just gave him a million dollars, but it was something more than that because Ryan couldn't figure out the significance of this sweatshirt.
The man reached out, pulled the sweatshirt from Ryan's hands, and shut the door on his face.
Ryan was fiddling with his thumbs from his spot at the bar and was doing his best not to full on stare. It was hard because he forgot there was a show going on. He was able to block out the music, the lights. It was like his eyes were a camera lens. He just zoomed his focus on the kid from across the venue, and everything else blurred.
Ryan wanted to go up and talk to him. Ryan wanted to start a conversation, ask the guy his name, why he was there, what his number was. Ryan wanted to hear him laugh. Ryan wanted to see his eyes light up and see his grin spread across his lips.
But he couldn't. Not now. Not with Spencer sitting right next to him, waving his hand across Ryan's face to gain back his attention. It only sort of worked, and he only sort of understood that Spencer kept pointing at the stage, his eyes sparkling and his cheeks tinted pink.
Ryan was still watching the kid, sending quick glances at Spencer to show he was kind of with him. It didn't matter though. Ryan didn't want to talk to Spencer; he wanted to talk to the kid across the venue.
By the end of the show, Ryan almost had the courage to go walk up to the kid, start the conversation. Ask him his name, why he was there, and what his number was. But his confidence dissipated when a guy he vaguely recognized from the band walked up to the kid. The band guy put his arms around the kid, and they shared a smile Ryan thought he was intruding on.
Ryan never did talk to the kid from across the venue. He only noticed that the kid's sweatshirt was still there and how the kid was already out the door.
-
Ryan saw the band guy leave the kid from the venue fifteen minutes into the walk. They didn't kiss, didn't hug, only waved and kept on walking. Ryan thought it was odd, thought it was weird but he still only wanted to talk to the kid from the venue.
Ryan could have called out. The kid could have turned around with a questioning gaze. Ryan could have helped up the sweatshirt in response, as if it answered all the questions. The kid from the venue could have smiled, could said thanks. Then Ryan could have stared the conversation, but he didn't.
-
Ryan waited an hour before knocking on the kid from the venue's apartment door. He didn't know why. He didn't know about anything anymore except for the fact that this was it.
The kid from the venue opened the door. His eyes looked tired, his wet hair was sticking to his forehead. His shoulders were hunched. His lips were pulled at the corners in a slight frown.
"Hi?" he asked, voice very quiet.
"Hi," Ryan said just as hushed.
They stared at each other for a moment, before a man, who looked like he could be Ryan's father, who could be the kid's father, came up and put a hand on the kid's shoulder. Ryan was never good with fathers, especially his own. Ryan’s father was number one his People-I’d-Rather-Not-Know List. The people Ryan used to crush on, their parents were always second.
"Who are you?" the man asked, eyebrows pulling in on each other, eyes accusing.
Ryan held up the sweatshirt.
The kid's eyes softened, like this sweatshirt meant everything. Almost like this ratty, dirty thing meant the world to him. It was like Ryan had just gave him a million dollars, but it was something more than that because Ryan couldn't figure out the significance of this sweatshirt.
The man reached out, pulled the sweatshirt from Ryan's hands, and shut the door on his face.