Zenith

“Jesus Ryan, I look at you, and I feel like I was promised this… this fucking romance, but all you give me is bullshit. All you’ve done is hurt me.”

You watch him until his brown eyes flicker like a candle wick, but he doesn’t scowl, doesn’t defend himself, until you’re really just standing there staring at him, wondering why all you want him to say is calm the fuck down.

“I never promised not to hurt you,” he says, and it’s so very carelessly, like he doesn’t know that he can play with you like a rag doll, rip you limb from limb all from the inside.

You know that he knows. You know that he’ll do it anyway.

You can feel his body heat when he inches closer to you, feel his warmth, his security, the complete opposite of vulnerable. Your breath hitches and you wait and wait, muttering a quiet “Ryan,” because you’re almost broken enough to beg.

He doesn’t continue, but suddenly you’re too tired to push.


You wake up pressed against his side, early afternoon sun seeping through the skylight. You steal that moment of blissful unawareness for yourself, forcing paralysis, trying so fucking desperately not to shift and ruin it.

He doesn’t stir, even when you rest your head on his arm, and you’re happy. You’re happy.


You fight like you fuck, and neither are gentle.

When he holds you down, you aren’t really ever sure if it's to get in your face or suck a bruise into your neck (because that's just how it is between the two of you), but it doesn’t matter because you’ll take both if it means he’ll kiss it better after, wet lips and sympathetic eyes and the way he says your name in a hushed, breathy whisper that seeps and stings and makes you want to fall at his feet.

It’s just… no one can call you weak for wanting to be wanted.


Spencer sees the purple-yellow bruises and doesn’t say anything, just stares and stares until you excuse yourself and hide in the bathroom. You hear the two of them laughing in the living room, laughing loud enough to drown the single sob that forces its way past your lips. It takes you a handful of long, long minutes, but you manage to curb the bile in your throat, the disappointment.

He’s protecting his best friend, you know. He’s protecting his brother.


This is your favourite part. The part where he presses you into the mattress, presses into you, and you shut off under him, you shut down as he falls into you.

That bruise on your chest, he digs his teeth into it, wraps your legs tighter around his waist and digs his heels into the bed, and it hurtshurtshurts, and he’s tearing you apart in the most honest way.

He will put you back together, though. He always does.


You spend long autumn days with your boyfriend and his best friend, and it’s wonder, and it’s harmony and it’s not wanting things to change.

It’s singing with Ryan and pressing into his side, pretending you don’t see the glint of wariness in Spencer’s eyes when he watches the two of you, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong, waiting for one of you to slip up.

You never do, and it gets easier to ignore the tension that coils in your stomach whenever he’s around, when his looks stop focusing on the bruise fading on your cheekbone and seem to fix on your mouth, at the way Ryan casually slings his arm around your shoulder like he’s taking possession.

It gets easier.


Spencer kisses you on the couch that summer, and you’re able to forget to think until your lips leave his.

But then all you can do is remember.

“You should leave him,” he whispers, and he’s distanced himself away from you, given you this space you aren’t sure what to do with. You take his hand and he sighs and you’re pretty sure the whole world just shifted off its axis. It’s strange. It’s… it’s wrong.

He presses his thumb into the bruises on your wrist (Ryan has a matching set on his thighs, but it’s not from holding too tight, it’s from not wanting to let go), and it’s so, so wrong.

You eventually breathe out an, “I can’t,” and he seems to understand, but you still avoid his eyes because all they scream is you used to be happy.


“He hit you.”

“And I hit him back.”

“Jesus Christ, he fucking started it.”

“Maybe I deserved it. Maybe… maybe we deserve this.”


A slice of pseudo-normal, where his feet are in your lap and he’s watching TV without saying anything. You hum under your breath a little, tuneless melodies, and when he catches your eye he maybe smiles a little.

You feel your breathing fall into sync. He leans his head back against the couch and you just watch him for a while.

This is what love is supposed to feel like.


Spencer doesn’t come over when Ryan isn’t there anymore, and you learn to live with this bizarre almost-regret.


Ryan buys you a kitten and you kiss his face, let him fuck you over the kitchen counter while the tired little thing circles around Ryan’s ankles, mewling to be fed, to be loved.

You name him James and boldly ignore the look Ryan gives you.


Ryan starts writing with Butch more, sessions late into the night, until the morning light seeps through the living room window and you’re physically (mentally, emotionally) tired of waiting up, waiting for him.

You feel the dry press of lips against your forehead, the guiding hand that leads you back to the bedroom, the soft press as Ryan lifts James onto the covers, immediately curling up against you.

He doesn’t climb in next to you, but, if you’re honest, it’s not like you were expecting him to.


You don’t ask, “Are you cheating on me?”

The answer would be yes, and neither of you like things that aren’t complicated.


You call Spencer because it’s been 24 hours and Ryan’s phone is still off.

It’s like admitting defeat, but you have to, right? He’s his best friend, and you have to.

He puts his hands on you when you open the door for him, and maybe you feel like sobbing, but maybe that’s just the booze, the tiredness in your temples, radiating in your skull. He pushes you towards the couch with a firm, steady hand on your back, hand clutching his cell phone to his ear before you’ve even sat down.

He cautiously sits next to you, but his hand is still touching your wrist and it’s grounding. He’s grounding.

You hear, “Okay,” and you hear, “So he’s with you?” and you can’t decide if what you’re feeling is relief, if it’s fear.

Spencer ends the call with, “I will,” and his grip on your hand loosens but doesn’t fall away.

“He’s with Butcher. He’s fine.”

You knew. You know, but you just couldn’t force yourself to make that call.

Spencer brow furrows when you nod once, gently shaking his hand free, but he doesn’t follow you when you walk away, doesn’t ask “Why did you call me?” and that makes your chest feel strangely hollow. Empty.


Ryan comes home the next day, and he’s smiling, wide and cheerful and so very un-Ryan. He grabs your hand when you walk to the kitchen and kisses you against the wall. You let him, and neither of you say anything about the t-shirt Ryan is wearing -- the one that isn’t his – or about how he didn’t bother bringing his guitar home.

He holds you too tightly that night and you fight to keep a hold of your sanity.


“He’s fucking Butch,” you say, and it sounds strange coming out of your mouth, feels like you’re rehearsing it in front of a mirror instead of admitting it out loud. “He’s fucking… he’s fucking Butch.”

“I know,” Spencer says, and right. Right.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I… ” he pauses, stares at you long and hard. “You… you already knew.”


“Come on, B,” Spencer whispers.

His hands are cold on your arms, and when you finally rouse fully it’s with a shock.

You think you might vomit.

Spencer helps you stand, steadies you when you sway on your feet. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“You okay to walk?” he asks gently, and as if on cue you almost trip over a bottle that rolled off the coffee table.

You hum your agreement anyway, allow him to lead you upstairs, the cat trailing blearily behind.

He tucks you into bed with a tenderness that only makes your bones feel heavier, your heart squeeze in your chest, and when he turns to leave, you grab his hand. You mean to say stay, don’t go, don’t leave me like this, but you think it might come out all wrong.

You don’t really know what you mean, because maybe you’re asking too much, maybe he’s taking too little.

He falls under the sheets with you, places a hand on your head when you rest it against his chest. You listen to his breathing until it feels like it’s evened out under your cheek.

Your mouth is pressed tightly into his shirt when you finally manage to breathe out, “I just… I don’t think I know who I am anymore.”


The thing with Butch, it kind of just… dissipates.

You watch as Ryan’s things steadily begin trickling back into the house, his clothes and guitars and his person. You feel like you’re walking on egg shells just being around him, trying not to disturb the balance that seems like it’s so desperately trying to realign itself.

You… you do things together, and maybe it feels like he’s trying to make up for something, and maybe you’re letting him just a little bit. Let him corner you against the side of the pool and suck stains into your skin, let him move against you until you both come in your board shorts.

He trails into his study when the two of you get out, and you head towards the shower.

You tell yourself you’re washing off the chlorine, but it kind of feels like you’re washing off him.


You pick at your sandwich and Spencer just stares at you.

Ryan left a half hour ago, you can’t remember where to, can’t really remember if he even told you.

Spencer hasn’t said a word since he called his goodbye. It feels like he’s waiting for you to take your turn at Who’s Going To Crack Next and you don’t know what to say to him.

He’s wearing that flowery headband that you really fucking love and he hasn’t shaved and you just don’t know what to fucking say to him.

“Bren…”

You cut him off with an unsure, “I love him,” but he shakes his head like he thinks you’re lying.

So, maybe you do lie about Ryan a lot, but you’ve never lied about loving him, and maybe you tell Spencer that because maybe someone needs to know.

But then he’s moving across the room and kneeling in front of you. He lets his fingers rest around your waist. You shiver.

“—I can’t,” you whisper, but this time… this time you don’t sound convinced. Even to your own ears. Especially.

It strains at the edges, but when Spencer hums out, “You can,” it sounds infinite.


The next day you watch him from the kitchen window, sitting on the porch steps with a cigarette slack in his fingers, his guitar lying lazily next to him. His white wife beater shows off his ribs, the colourful marks you left on him last night, and he’s so very beautiful in the afternoon sun.

You watch him from the kitchen window and you think, you smoke too much, and you think, what would you do without me, and suddenly, unexpectedly, neither of them seem like good enough of a reason to stay anymore.