Archive of Our Own

The pavement is damp from the downpour last night. I cherish the petrichor emanating in the air, even though I try not to curse myself as I walk down the street after forgetting an umbrella. The sky is still cloudy and gray, insinuating an upcoming rainfall.

My classes won't start until noon, so I like to spend the rest of my mornings at the library a few blocks down my apartment. The familiar architecture appears in my vision as I approach the building, the archaic exterior of the building is a contrast to the modernized architecture of the ones surrounding it, an excellent representation of juxtaposition.

The inside of the library is much warmer compared to the cold air of the streets outside, so I carefully remove the thin scarf that's securely wrapped around my neck, balling it up and stuffing it in my messenger bag that's hanging off my form. Much like the outside of the library, the interior and reception also has that archaic feel to it. I walk from the front to the continuous shelves of books. This is my morning routine, I wake up, take a shower and forgo my breakfast, then head straight to here.

I have my own spot, a lone armchair facing a desk, placed right in front of a glass stained window. It's a small little nook at the back of the library where no one goes to, or well, I think no one does. I rarely see anyone enter this library, save a few heads I recognize from campus and the librarian at the front desk.

I leave my bag on the floor next to the chair after I take out a book I've been reading, taken from this same library. I get comfy. I start entering my own little world as I read. Peaceful and quiet. I like the smell of books, it makes me focus on what I am visualizing as I read.

I don't know how long I've been reading for when my phone starts vibrating from inside my pocket— Spencer, I assume. He's the only one who calls me nowadays, I reach for my phone and answer.

“Ryan, hey!” I hear him call from the other line. It's comforting and familiar, he's the only one who's reaching out to me still after I left Las Vegas.

“Hey,” I greet him back, setting the book on the desk in front of me. “How are you? How's college life there in NYC? You been partying?” He asks me enthusiastically. I scoff at that, he's acting like we didn't spend elementary, middle school, and high school stuck to the hip.

“No, you're acting like you don't know me at all, man.” I say flippantly, “How about you?” I ask, unlike me who moved immediately after graduating high school, he stayed in Las Vegas.

“Great, man! You remember Linda?” he starts, and I grin.

I try to listen to him as he rambles about Linda– this girl he's been seeing for a week now, “And yeah, we're gonna have our first official date this Saturday.” He trails off, and I hum in reply even though I've technically been spacing out the whole time.

“That's great,” I say.

Then we both get quiet, just for a few minutes, until he starts talking again, “You should get yourself a partner, man,” he manages, and I laugh, I don't really need a partner right now.

“Or a friend, have you even socialized with anyone at all ever since you moved for college there?” he asks accusingly, and I probably shouldn't be offended with the question, because his assumption is right, but I'll never admit to that.

I shrug, even though he can't see it from where he is, “Whatever,” I reply indifferently, “I prefer to drown myself in books and admire the obsolete.” I hear him chuckle from the other end.

Then he sighs and says, “I'm serious, man, get yourself a friend.”

“I have you,” I say. He's enough. His calls every two weeks are enough.

“You know what I mean, Ryan,” I don't know why he's so insistent on me socializing with people. He's acting like he's my big brother or the like, I'm one year older than him— I know what I'm doing.

Then the line goes silent again.

“Spence, don't worry, I'm fine.” I say.

I promise, I'm fine.

After a few more minutes of banter here and there, me and Spencer say farewells to each other as my morning routine is up and I have to go to my class.

And this will be my routine for the rest of my college life.

•••

This morning routine goes on for another few days, wake up, take a shower and forgo breakfast, then go to the library and confide in that corner I've made mine.

It's 8:34 in the morning when I enter the library. The weather has started becoming worse lately, it drizzles quite more often than I'd like, but I didn't forget my umbrella this time. The library was particularly emptier today, guess it'll just be me and the librarian at the front desk here.

That's what I thought. When I walk up to my usual corner, it's occupied. Occupied by somebody other than me. Well, that's a first.

I stop in my tracks as I take in the figure sitting on the armchair I've mostly grown accustomed to by now. His back is facing me, dark brown tufts of hair sits atop the gray scarf he has on. He's reading a book that I can't identify from where I am standing.

Who is this guy and why is he in my space? Okay, I guess it's not really mine. It's not like my name had been permanently engraved on the chair ever since I sat on it or anything, but still. This corner is mine.

I'm not gonna do anything about it, obviously. I can't just go up to the guy and say “You're in my seat.” Because he isn't. This is a public library that anyone can walk into. I decide to just wait until he leaves. I walk away silently and find a different corner to sit in, I feel restless though, this isn't what my morning routine consists of.

I wait and wait, I don't even pay attention to the book on my lap I've drawn from inside my bag earlier anymore, I've just been keeping an eye on the guy occupying my corner. And I keep waiting, I wait until noon comes, and it's time for my classes. The guy never got up from my corner. I waited patiently as that guy sat there, unbeknownst to practically ruining my perfect routine.

As I start to pack my stuff, the feeling of loss somehow fill my guts, he's still sitting there as I exit the building.

But it doesn't stop there, no. The next following weeks, he's still there. Occupying my nook. The first time I saw him face-to-face, he looked back at me as I approached my corner, my footsteps might've disturbed him, I remember his brown eyes staring into mine. I don't know why, but I felt scrutinized as he glanced at me. He probably didn't intend it. I quickly turned around and went to that sordid armchair I've been sitting on as a replacement since he'd stolen my place.

But I've grown a dislike of his temperament. He's always here at eight in the morning sharp, except for Fridays and Thursdays, I've noticed, so I figured if I went earlier, I'd be the first one to sit in my armchair.

I'll start waking up earlier just to claim back my spot, I don't care how stupid it is that I'm changing my whole sleep schedule just to arrive earlier than that guy and sit on that chair anyone is free to sit on.

It was 6:45 on a Friday when I stepped in the library, and since today is Friday, the corner was empty. Thankfully, because I have already finished the book I've been reading a few days ago, I returned it to the front desk as I walked in earlier. I head to the tall endless shelves, dusty, untouched books sit atop them. Arthur Rimbaud, I spot on one of the shelves as I browse leisurely. Then I give focus to a Herman Hesse book instead, I reach out to one book in particular, about to take it from where it's sitting— before someone from the other side of the shelf snatches it away first.

Familiar brown eyes meet mine from the other side of the shelf, oh. Damn it.

I freeze with my hand in the air, and we stare at each other for what seems like minutes, until the guy lets out a breathy laugh. I don't see what's so funny right now.

I hear him talk for the first time, I've been keeping an eye on him for days, and this is the first actual interaction I'm having with him. Now that I'm thinking about it, that sounds creepy.

“Oh, sorry, guess we have the same taste,” He says, pointing at the book, he sounds apologetic, he should be for stealing away my spot. I don't even care about the book.

I shrug effortlessly, force out a grin, though I'm probably just making a fool of myself for the half-assed grin plastered on my face, “It's okay,” I say, my voice is monotone. This is weird. “You can take it.” I gesture vaguely at the book in his hand, before I start walking away.

“Hey, wait!” he whisper-shouts, since we're inside a library after all. Still, I don't really deem it necessary because it's pretty much just the two of us in here.

I stop in my movements, and I see him turning around the corner from the shelves, revealing him fully now, not just his face, he's slightly shorter than me. He's wearing a white t-shirt underneath a gray hoodie, black straight leg jeans and sneakers. I am, for some reason, just noticing the red glasses that rests on the bridge of his nose.

I turn to him and look at him questioningly, “Um,” he says, his face is contorting like he's processing what to say, “I feel a little guilty for snatching this away from you—” he trails off, he smiles at me nervously, “I'll give it to you once I finish it, I'll be quick,” he says. Now I'm even more confused.

I don't say anything, but he must sense the confusion so he starts elaborating, “I see you here a lot, you know— well, actually, you're the only one here most of the time, apart from me and the librarian,” he continues and I suddenly feel aware of my surroundings, shit, he sees me alot. Now I feel even more like a creep, I cross my fingers that he didn't see me staring at him all those times.

“And, you also keep staring at me, so it's really hard to feign ignorance,” I spoke too soon. This is awkward. Fuck.

He chuckles, and I start stuttering as I speak, “Fuck, I'm sorry I didn't know you—” I didn't know you could see me? I didn't know you were a human capable of sensing when someone's shamelessly glaring at you from across the room? I must have been dropped on the head when I was a baby.

“I mean, I didn't mean to— to, stare-” I cough, “Stare at you. Um.” I feel my face grow hot, fuck, I'm gonna rip my hair out as soon as I walk out of this place.

At times like this, I really wish I had kept in mind what Spencer had told me and socialized more, because this situation is fucking awkward and it doesn't help that I lack the skills to communicate with people. And I didn't mean to be a creep. It was his fault anyway, he's the one who stole my corner.

The guy scratches his nape nervously, “It's okay,” he assures, and I sigh, I don't know what to say so I just sigh.

I look around nervously, “I didn't mean to, um, be a creep and stare,” I whisper shamefully, and really, I didn't.

“Yeah?” he says, smiling at me, and I don't get why he's smiling right now. What's so amusing about this?

He lets out another breathy laugh and says, “Because you were looking at me like— I dunno, like I killed your whole family,” his tone is flippant, now he's just making fun of me.

It's my turn to scratch my nape, “No, look, I-” I cut myself off, do I just tell him the truth? that the reason I've been glaring at him was because he stole something from me that's technically not even mine? Fuck, I'm making a fool out of myself. Spencer, help me.

“Well, I know this may sound stupid but–” I glance away from his scrutinizing eyes, “You, uh, that corner– that was mine. I sit there.” I say incoherently, and God, this proves the fact that I probably was dropped as a baby.

“Oh!” he exclaims, lifting an eyebrow as he starts to chuckle, and I feel like he's just making fun of me now, there's nothing laughable about this at all. “No wonder why you were giving me that deathly glare,” he continues. This is just getting worse and worse, what time is it? Is it noon yet?

“I'm sorry, this is stupid,” I laugh nervously through my gritted teeth, running a hand through my hair restlessly, closing my eyes as I pinch the space between my eyebrows with my index and thumb, he hums, “It's not,” he says, shrugging, “It's admiring actually.” He's sporting a small smile on his face. What's that supposed to mean? Admiring?

“Admiring?” I voice out, and he shrugs again. He doesn't elaborate what he means, but he continues, “I'm Brendon, by the way,” Brendon. So I finally have a name for the guy who stole the corner that is not my corner.

“Oh,” I manage incredulously, and I must forget how human conversations work, that if someone introduces themselves to you— you must introduce yourself too, because he says, “And you? I gotta at least know the name of the guy who has been staring at me relentlessly for days,” he jabs, sounding playful.

I clear my throat, “Uh, sorry,” I apologize, I seem to keep apologizing, ”Ryan, I'm Ryan.” I say, nodding my head.

He gives me a smile, softer this time, more reassuring, reassuring of what? I don't know, but it seems to make me less tense, “Oh, well, nice to finally meet you then, Ryan,” he says, taking an indirect stab at the fact that I've been creepily stalking him, I ignore that though as he continues, “I just came to pick up a book, I have class in approximately–” he cuts himself off as he raises his left hand, checking his wristwatch, “Fifteen minutes.”

I let out a breath I didn't know I've been holding, he has classes, that must be the reason why he's not here at eight A.M. sharp during Fridays and Thursdays. And, that must mean he's around my age too, maybe younger?

“Oh, okay,” I say, relief washing over me.

“‘Kay, see you.” He waves farewell. See you? See you, when? He's insinuating that we'll be conversing when we see each other again, and I don't really like that idea. My nape feels flushed as I wave at him back. This is ridiculous.

•••

And it does happen, it's been four days since that encounter with him, and it's been four days since I've seen him around the library as well. Him. Brendon. He has a name now, I keep forgetting. I'm in my usual spot, reading something by Arthur Rimbaud, when a book is placed right on the desk in front of me without warning, startling me.

I glance up and see him, “Oh, I didn't mean to startle you, sorry,” he smiles apologetically, I close the book on my lap, setting it down on the desk with my palm over it, “It's fine,” I say, redirecting my focus on the book he placed, the same one he snatched from me before. Demian, Herman Hesse.

“I finished it,” he points at the book, oh, right. I also forgot about that. “Right, thanks,” I say, giving him a cordial nod.

He peers at the book that's being covered by my palm, “Oh, Rimbaud?” He asks, and I remove my hands from the cover, “I've read his stuff, ”Love has to be reinvented” he said that, didn't he?” He quotes Rimbaud, and I nod.

“Yeah,” I give him a small smile, “I agree with him on that,” he looks at me, his eyes are sparkling, that sparkle when you're talking about something you're completely passionate about, I stare into his eyes as he talks, “Like Rimbaud said, “Whatever it is that binds families and married couples together, that's not love,” and, I'm not saying that married couples don't love each other— but It's fairly common for people to tie their so-called ‘Love’ in a label, like they're just tying the knot for convenience. Love doesn't appear when you give it a label, or when you have children and get married, it's there even if those things aren't present.” He rambles, and I just sit there listening to him.

“So, um, I do agree that love should be reinvented. But I'm certain that he's only saying that because he's a gay man.” He jokes before he quiets suddenly.

“Sorry, was I speaking too much?” He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding my lingering stare.

I shake my head no at him, “No, not at all,” I say reassuringly, “Are you an english major?” If he was, then I would've noticed him in my classes. But we have completely different schedules, so that's impossible. But he's got me all curious, with the books he reads and the hours he spends in this damn library.

He waves his hands in front of him, “Oh, no,” he grins, “I'm a music major, actually,” he says, and I'm conflicted.

“Oh, cool,” I say, “What do you play?” I've considered studying music before, but I decided on Creative Writing instead, so much for saving up that one summer to buy a guitar, just to give up on it. I left it back in Las Vegas, which is foolish, I should've brought it with me.

“Uh, well, guitar, drums, bass, keyboard and piano— those two are pretty similar so I don't see the point of mentioning the other, sorry—” he rambles, “I also sing and write songs from time to time,” he lists off everything, and— wow. I'm quite astonished.

He shifts right beside me, and I can tell he's getting restless from standing, I stand up from the chair and start packing my stuff, save for the book Brendon handed to me, I still need to get it checked out. “Coffee?” I ask, though my voice is monotone, I am deeply nervous, “Um, there's a shop down the block,” this is the first time in a long time I'm asking someone for coffee. And it's not like I want to keep conversing with him, I just feel bad for him standing beside me as I sit. He looks at me surprised, but he nods and starts following behind me.

“How come I've never seen you on campus?” He asks, and I shrug, we walk down the block as I spot the coffee shop I was talking about. “Well, I mostly spend my time in the library,” I vaguely gesture at the shop from across the road at him, “If that's not obvious.”

He smirks, “Yeah, that is obvious, and staring, that's also obvious,” he says playfully, and I sputter at him as I open the door to the coffee shop, “Okay, can we just–” I sigh, “Can we just forget about that?” hiding my shamefulness with a laugh.

“Hmm, sure.” he says sardonically, laughing as we spot a table to accommodate ourselves, “Still, it's funny though,” he supplies, and I scowl at him. He laughs at me.

“Don't frown, come on,” he stands up from the chair, “You want anything? it's on me,” he taps on the table with a finger.

I almost decline, but I remember his teasing and mocking stabs at my totally accidental stalking. He owes me this, I don't say that though. “Um, sure.” I tell him that I want a Caffé Macchiato and he nods and gives me a smile as he approaches the counter, his hands tucked in his pockets.

I look outside the window of the shop, my thoughts are muddled and messed up, this is the longest I've conversed with anyone ever since I moved here, as pathetic as that sounds. I feel a little... hm, I don't know, gratified? Whatever. I won't let this get to me. Plus, Spencer told me I should get friends, for once I am listening to him.

Brendon comes back with two paper cups in his hands, “Here,” he passes me my Caffé Macchiato, I mutter a “Thanks” to him as I take it from his hand.

“So,” he starts, and this is getting awkward real quick, “You're an english major, I assume?” Brendon says, and I nod, blowing at my drink before taking a sip.

“Yeah, I was actually considering music,” I tell him, “But I decided on english instead.” His eyes light up in amusement as I say this. “So you play too, then?” He exclaims as he takes a sip from his drink.

I shake my head, “No, not anymore, but I used to,” I say, “I left my guitar back in my old city, I shouldn't have, could've kept it as a hobby now that I think about it.” He hums and takes another sip from his drink before placing it on the table. “Oh, that's unfortunate,” he says, and I nod, “I still write um, song lyrics though,” I say, and his full lips shape into an ‘O’ as he says “Ooh.”

“I bet they're good,” he replies, and I raise an eyebrow, “The songwriting, since you're an english major and all,” he explains, I chuckle at that, “No, not really,” I say truthfully honest. I don't try to think highly of my own writing that much, I'm just like every English student there is.

We talk until we both finish our drinks, until twelve P.M. approaches and I have to go to my lecture, I find out that Brendon has classes in the mornings during Fridays and Thursday, and afternoon classes the rest of the week. I find out his taste in books, and I find out he's much of a geek about The Beatles as much as I am. When we step out of the coffee shop, he asks for my phone number, and I reluctantly type in my number in his phone, the feeling all too new to me. We say goodbyes to each other, and that's that.

•••

“Ryan, are you listening?” Spencer calls from the other end, and I snap out of my dazed state, I've been on the phone with Spencer for thirty minutes, I think, and I've completely been spacing out as he's telling me a story about his co-worker getting fired from the job for giving a customer ‘The Bird’ if I remember correctly. “Yeah, yeah— so, he gave him the middle finger, then what?” I ask, still somewhat spaced out. I'm sitting on the desk beside my bed, in my dingy apartment, gripping on a pen as I scribble words on the paper placed in front of me. I don't feel very inspired.

“Ryan, I've finished that story, like, ten minutes ago.” He deadpans, “Oh,” I reply. I hear Spencer sigh, exasperated, “What’s up with you? You’ve been spacing out every time I call,” he asks, and I almost feel bad, but it's Spencer. He understands.

“Nothing, just. No ideas sparking right now, you know.” I explain, and even with the distance, I feel air against my ear as he lets out a breath from the other line. “Man, I told you to stop stressing about that and go have some fun,” he scolds me, as if he's older, “Go to a club, party and get drunk, whatever,” he says, and I scoff.

“Don’t have time for that,” I say.

“You never have time for anything anymore, Ry.” He replies, I can hear worriness from his tone, but I simply brush that off.

I feign ignorance to what he just said, he's probably right. “I’ve got a friend,” I say, just to lift his spirits a little, and that seems to work as his voice lights up, “Oh, that's great!”

Can I call Brendon that? I've only conversed with him two times, he's messaged me thrice the past five days, sending me a playlist he's made or a song he's listening to currently, I keep my responses short and concise though. He's insistent with talking to me. And I guess you could call that a friend.

“Tell me about it,” says Spencer, and, what do I even say? Because the events these past few days are ridiculous and I would rather not let Spencer be aware of my weird accidental stalking. “Hm, nothing much to talk about, he majors in music and we met at a library, s’all.” Though I keep it short, Spencer seems to like this new development of mine and laughs enthusiastically, “Far out! You guys must have a lot in common then?”

“Guess so, yeah,” I say.

“That’s nice, ah, well,” he drifts off, “Well, I gotta get going, my break ends in a few.” Before Spencer ends the call, he tells me that he'll call again in a few weeks. He's the only one I'll ever be close to like this. I miss his presence, but I'm glad he's having a great time back in Las Vegas.

I sit around my desk for a few more minutes, before I get bored and climb to my bed. It's late in the afternoon on a Sunday and I pretty much have nothing to do but finish my assignments. But I've already finished them all right before the due date. I grab my phone lying beside my pillow and I check my notifications, nothing. I have nothing to do but sleep, but that's also boring.

Then I get this stupid, wicked idea in my head, something that's very unlikely of me. It's already too late to go back when it's already ringing, the person from the other line picks up, and I only curse myself quietly as I put my phone against my ear, “Hey,” Brendon calls from the other end, “You need something?” He asks, I can hear shuffling from his side of the line. “No,” I say, and I feel sheepish as he chuckles and says, “What’re you calling for then?”

“I’ve got nothing to do, and I'm bored,” I explain, “What’re you doing?” I ask him, I can hear faint guitar strumming from his line, then it stops. This is foolish, I shouldn't have dialed him up.

“Jamming, here and there, I'm also bored and have nothing to do,” he answers, and I hear the strumming start back up again— it sounds familiar, and I listen intently as Brendon works on the strumming attentively. “Cat Stevens?” I ask when I finally recognize the melody from the back of my mind. The strumming again stops, “Yeah,” I can hear a smile from his voice even though I can't see his expression. “You know your music, hm?” He says playfully, and I chuckle softly. Not really, my bastard father would play Cat fucking Stevens every morning before he goes to “work” and go home drunk. Unpleasant memories.

“My father would play his songs every morning when I was thirteen,” I hear him hum in response, I put my phone in speaker when my hands get tired of holding it against my ear and lay it flat next to my head, “Brings back not so good memories,” I hear Brendon make a sympathetic noise from the other line, I chuckle again.

“Well, you've got any suggestions?” He changes the subject, and I'm thankful he does instead of asking about it. I think about it for a few seconds, humming, what to suggest, what to suggest… “Oh! Anything by George Harrison, don't care what song,” I say fervently, and he doesn't reply, I hear the intro to ‘Behind That Locked Door’ start, and I grin. Great fucking choice. He's damn good at what he does, I listen placidly as he plays the song— he's not singing, he's softly crooning instead, and it works wonders with easing my running thoughts. When he finishes the song, I say, “My first name's George, you know.”

“George? George Ryan…” He trails off and I finish it for him, “Ross.” I supply, and I hear him laugh softly, “George Ryan Ross.” He says slowly like he's shaping it on his tongue, and I like the way my name sounds in his voice.

“Yeah, that's me.”

“Brendon Boyd Urie.” He says then, and I grin at that, “Brendon Boyd Urie…” I repeat after him, “That’s me.” He mimics.

“How come you go by Ryan and not George?” He asks me after a beat, and I shift on my bed, moving my body to lay sideways, “I’m the third, George Ryan Ross the Third,” and I hear him burst into laughter at that, I scowl even though he can't see my face, “Stop laughing,” I warn him, and I continue, “And I decided that I didn't wanna be called as the same name as my father, so.” I manage.

Brendon murmurs a soft “Hm.” And he focuses back to strumming on his guitar, I don't talk, I let him do his own thing, he starts strumming a Frank Sinatra song, and then he sings. “I know, I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me,” he sings softly in his smooth voice, and I'm captivated, my breathing sharpens, and I think I stop breathing as I listen to him sing. Afraid that my breathing would somehow interrupt him.

“Then afterwards we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two,” he continues singing, and he's got me as an audience, he knows how to use his voice. I feel my face flush hot as I listen to him. This feels weirdly intimate. “And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like, I love you,” he draws out the last vowels. He doesn't sing the whole song, he abruptly stops there, and I hear him clear his throat.

“Why’d you stop?” I ask spontaneously, and he lets out a short laugh, “You’re enjoying this way too much,” he accuses, and yeah, I guess I am. He's got an amazing voice. “I am,” I admit nonchalantly, and I hear his breath hitch on the other side of the line, before a giggle comes from his throat.

I initiate more friendly banter, we talk more about his music, and he tells me that the first instrument he ever learned was the piano, how his father was the one that taught him at age six, but then started learning a few different instruments as he reached high school. I told him about how I spent the whole summer of 2007 saving money just to buy a guitar, “Dedication,” he comments. I tell him that that guitar is still alive, well, probably, it's all the way in Las Vegas, back in my sordid little room that I left after finishing high school.

“Las Vegas?” He gasps, “I'm from Las Vegas too!” He exclaims, and I have an incredulous look on my face, it seems like we've got so much more in common than I thought.

“Where in Las Vegas?” I question him.

“Summerlin,” he shoots back at me, and I let out a hum, “Oh, I was from Spring Valley.”

He tells me how he always hated how dry Las Vegas was, so he moved here to New York City where the weather is manifold. He likes winter, he said, but he's yet to adjust with the cold.

We talk for what feels like hours, and I didn't realize how late it was until I hear him yawn from the other end, “I didn't realize how late it is,” he says quietly, I look at the clock on my bedside table, it reads 10:48 P.M.

“Oh,” I manage, then I try to stifle a yawn as my body realizes as well that it actually is late. “I should probably go to sleep,” he says tiredly, I can hear the tiredness straining off of his voice. “Me too.” I say.

“Okay, goodnight.” I tell him, my eyes are already giving up, “Night.” Is the last thing I hear before the line goes dead. I immediately fall into a deep sleep.

•••

And I don't know when, but our conversations went from short banter and small talk, to full hang outs every weekend. Don't ask me, I don't know. He's interesting and he's fun to talk to, and I like the way his brown eyes look, and the way he sings smoothly and says my name. Spencer was right, and I'm admitting it for once.

“I should've bought swim wear,” I hear Brendon say beside me as he munches on a burrito we got from one of the stalls lined up near the docks, he called me up this morning and asked if I wanted to hang out, without really anything in mind. He told me, “Well, I dunno where to go, I just wanted to hang out,” he admitted sheepishly. So I dragged him to the beach, because August is about to end and the weather has been nice lately.

He's looking at the shore where people in their swimming trunks and bikinis and the like are hanging at, “Just swim naked,” I suggest jokingly, biting on my own burrito.

He laughs, “Skinny dipping would be nice, actually,” he moves his focus away from the shore and looks at me instead, he's wearing big sunglasses that covers his tantalizing brown eyes, replacing the red glasses he usually has on, “But I'm not skinny dipping during the day, where children can see me,” he points vaguely at the shore, and I look to see a group of kids on the sand, busying themselves by building a sand castle.

“The best time for skinny dipping is at sunset, where the tides are high and the air is fresh,” he continues with a silly smile on his face.

I look at him and study his facial features I've studied over a dozen times already, “You wanna go skinny dipping later then?” I don't know if the question is a joke or not, but I break into a grin.

“I have a night shift at the gas station, Ry,” he shakes his head no, and I almost feel disappointed.

Once we've both finished our burritos and found a trash can to throw it in, he grabs my arm and starts dragging me to a part of the shore where it's secluded and empty, “Let’s play in the sand, at least,” he suggests, before he takes off his sneakers and socks, tucking the socks inside the shoes, and leaving it on the sand. I shake my head at him but I follow anyway, taking off my own shoes and socks, I take my pair and his pair and place it on the rocks that's perched just beneath the docks— to avoid sand getting underneath the soles.

I hear him laugh as I walk to the shore, not approaching the water but close enough to admire the crashing waves, “This is nice, the weather has been nice lately,” he exclaims as he lifts up his big sunglasses to let it rest on his head where his brown hair are looking especially soft today.

“Sand reminds me of Las Vegas,” I point out when I stand beside him, feeling the sand in-between my toes, “The sand here isn't as scorching hot compared to Vegas though,” he chuckles, and I join him as he sits on the sand.

Our shoulders touch as we sit beside each other, and his skin is warm even through the shirt he's wearing, and I don't know why I'm focusing on that little gritty detail, but I do, and I start sweating because I feel nervous now. What is this?

“Do you miss Vegas?” Brendon asks beside me where he's drawing shapes on the sand. Good question, I don't really know. I miss Spencer, and I miss my guitar, and my little sordid room back in Spring Valley. But I don't know, I've never really thought about it. “I don’t know,” I admit with a chuckle staring out at the sea.

He makes a small noise from the back of his throat, “I kind of miss Vegas,” he confesses quietly, “Just a little, I miss my family,” his tone is forlorn and I stop staring at the waves to look at him instead, even with that desolate tone in his voice he still looks enthralled as he draws on the sand.

He's never talked about his family before, this is the first time he's ever mentioned his family in Vegas after we've properly met six weeks ago. “Do you not keep contact with them?” I ask spontaneously, he stops drawing on the sand and he glances at me, nodding. And another one to check in the list of things we have in common, I suppose.

“I cut contact with my family after leaving Vegas,” he sighs, “Yet, I still miss them, I wonder if they miss me too, or how they're doing, if they're thinking of me the same way I'm thinking of them after—” he cuts himself off when his voice starts getting shaky, and I try not to caress his hand that's now resting on the sand beside mine as some form of comfort.

Instead I place a hand on his back, rubbing circles comfortingly as he evens out his breath, “I’m sure they think of you as much as you think of them,” I say, and I'm not even sure about that, I'm just saying that so the shakiness in his voice disappears, I don't like that, it anguishes me.

I hear him let out a breathy laugh, “Sorry, fuck–” he covers his face with both of his hands, trying to regain his composure. I don't ask about his family anymore. After he goes back to smiling, I change the subject to a book I've been reading, telling him all about it, and he tells me about a similar story he's heard as we shift on the sand, changing our positions so we're lying beside each other.

Once the color of the sky turns into myriad shades of orange and yellow and the sun starts to set, we start standing up from where we’ve been lying and dusting off the sand in our clothes and hair, “I’m gonna be itching with sand my whole night shift, damn it.” he curses himself as he shakes his head to rid of the sand on his hair, “Why didn't you stop me, Ry?” He blames me playfully.

I was really hoping we'd go skinny dipping, like I jokingly suggested. Hoping that he forgot about his night shift at the gas station, but a man can dream. We say goodbyes to each other as we part ways. And I feel my skin heat up as he smiles at me when my hand lingers on his shoulder for far too long.

•••

My hands feel restless as I'm gripping on a pen, tapping, scribbling, doodling on a piece of paper. I'm trying to write, I swear I am, I'm just waiting for that burst of inspiration to arrive and punch me in the gut. Nothing's happening.

I pick up my phone and scroll through my contacts, Spencer hasn't called me in three weeks. I thought of calling Brendon, but it's currently 7:30 A.M. on a Thursday and I'm sure he's at his lectures right now. I give up on that instead and toss my phone on my bed, slamming my head on my desk.

I stay there unmoving with my forehead against the wood with futile attempts of getting inspired– until my phone starts ringing. It's Spencer. I enthusiastically grab my phone and answer immediately. He hasn't called in three weeks and I almost thought he completely forgot about me.

“Well, that was fast,” he says, not even greeting me, I hear him chuckle, “What?” I ask, rolling my eyes. “How are you? Sorry, man, I got busy the past few weeks,” he explains, and I really hope that's true because it'd suck if he's starting to consider me of unimportance now.

I think about what I've been doing these past few weeks. I think about the books I've read, then I think about how I've been going to the library less, I've been hanging out with Brendon more than I thought. And I think about Brendon. “Um, great!” I say, almost too enthusiastically, and I can picture the skeptical look on Spencer's face as I say, “I mean– whatever, it's fine,” I feign nonchalance.

“What’s gotten you so thrilled at seven in the morning, Ry?” He asks teasingly, and my face feels hot when I scoff. “No one. I mean nothing.” Fuck, I feel mindless.

Spencer bursts out into laughter and my face contorts into a frown, I change the subject and ask, “What’re you doing up at four A.M. anyway?” Las Vegas is three hours behind New York, if I remember correctly.

“I just finished writing my papers a few minutes ago, and I don't feel sleepy at all so I decided to check up on you.” He says calmly before, “Hey! don't try changing the subject, you bastard, you,” he accuses me, and of course he's not letting it go. He's Spencer's for God's sake.

“What?” He's really not letting this go until I tell him what's on my mind.

“You seem enthusiastic, tell me,” he says, “You got something on your mind? someone, maybe…” he says teasingly, and I choke on my spit. I've got no one in my mind, except for Brendon, and that's nothing to be ecstatic about. But I am, for some stupid unknown reason. Maybe it's the effect of not having someone to talk to in such a long time.

“Nothing to be so excited about,” I assure him, “just a friend,” I think I'm lying. Am I lying? I don't know.

“Well, if you say so,” he doesn't sound convinced in the slightest, but I'm glad he's letting it go. I can already feel my face getting slick from sweat as I flush.

“Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?” He asks suddenly, and shit, I completely forgot what date it is. I don't know. I don't think I am. What will I be going home for? Certainly not to visit my father.

Last Thanksgiving, Spencer told me to come home, he said he missed me, so I did. I stayed at his apartment for three days, celebrating Thanksgiving with him. He urged me during the time to at least greet how my father was doing, but I didn't budge. I went back to New York with a sigh of relief.

“Uh,” I say reluctantly, “No, not this time around, busy… You know,” I lie to him, I've been lying to him so much lately, and I feel like a shitty best friend.

He sighs hard, “Oh, well, that's fine then.” He says, sadness in his tone. I know he was probably looking forward to seeing me again. “I think I'll be meeting Linda’s parents on Thanksgiving,” he says, and I smile at that. Sometimes I forget we're no longer teenagers, that we're full functioning adults capable of working and having relationships. A wave of nostalgia hits me as I remember the first time he got a girlfriend during our freshmen years, didn't last long though. The girl cheated on him three weeks later, I still remember his anguished face and the betrayed look in his eyes as he ranted to me. I chuckle at the memory.

“She the one?” I ask playfully, and I hear him laugh breathily, “I hope so,” he says. And our conversation ends there. Even if our conversation is short-lived I still appreciate that he calls every few weeks. He's like a brother to me.

As I throw my phone down on the bed, I think about Thanksgiving and Las Vegas. I think about a lot of things, and finally, inspiration punches me right in the gut. I think I write more today than I usually do on any other day.

•••

I don't see Brendon for a whole week, and it's not like I'm anticipating when we'll be hanging out again or anything, and really, who's counting the days? Not me. He sends me messages from time to time though, especially at night, when he's at his shift at the gas station. We've both been busy due to the semester nearing its end. My professor had just passed multiple paperworks to us spontaneously all on the same day.

I get to see Brendon again on a Sunday. I see him leaning against the doorframe of the coffee shop we frequent with a cigarette hanging off of his lips, I've never seen him smoke before. He's wearing a black t-shirt that I'm fairly sure is too small for him, hugging his narrow waist and exposing the jut of his hips, I try to avoid looking at that. And he's wearing black straight leg pants that expose the flat of his stomach and his V-line. I try to avoid looking at that too.

“I didn't know you smoke,” I say as I approach him, he shrugs and replies, “That’s because I don't,” before taking the stick from his mouth and stubbing the part that's lit up on the wall beside him, throwing it on the ground. I raise my eyebrows at him questioningly, he looks exhausted, but he's still sporting that warm smile on his face as he looks at me.

“I only smoke when something's troubling me.“ he explains, and I wanna ask what it is that's troubling him, that's putting that sad glint in his eyes, but I just give him a nod and guide him to where my car’s parked.

“Didn’t know you had a car,” I think he's quoting me, and I chuckle, opening the door to the driver's seat, as he walks to the other side to open the door to the passenger seat, “I don’t have anywhere to go,” and that's true, all the places I go to are walking distance, and I don't do road trips.

He invited me to go with him downtown to buy new guitar strings. We didn't take long though, walking to the parking with him carrying a bag of steel guitar strings, “That’s a lot of strings,” I comment, relocating where I parked my car, “I have a total of five electric guitars and four acoustics in my apartment,”

“Shit, that's alot,” I say incredulously.

“Most of them are old, from high school,” we approach my car as he tells me about the different kinds of guitars he has in his collection, his favourite ones and his least favourite ones. “Where to?” I say questioningly, since he really only invited me to go to downtown to buy guitar strings.

He taps on his chin, before saying, “You wanna go to my apartment?”

His apartment is— I wouldn't say cramped, compared to mine, it's definitely smaller, it's not messy but not the tidiest. He has a single dark green couch in the middle of the living room with cushions perched on the seat. The walls of his apartment are cream-white with a bunch of paintings and posters of bands or whatever plastered all over it, it feels more lived in than my apartment at least. A small hallway extends from behind the couch with two doors, which I assume is his bedroom and the bathroom.

His kitchen is small, and there's no dining table, only a small counter that connects with the stove. There's a few dishes left on the sink, but I ignore that, it's not like I'm any better. There's two guitars leaning on the side of the couch, and here I am left wondering where he's storing his instruments. His apartment is not small, but it's not that big either.

“It’s a little messy, sorry,” he sounds nervous, and I suddenly remember that thing he said earlier, troubling, something's troubling him. And I wanna know what it is. So I can assure him and make that desolate expression that flicks in his face from time to time disappear. “It’s okay.” I offer.

He tells me to get comfy on the couch. He doesn't have a TV, but he has a record player as a replacement, a bunch of records peek from under the shelf where the player is sitting on, and he approaches that to pull out a record, Crowded House’s self titled album, “Nice place you've got,” I say, he shows me the record, pointing at it, before he puts it on the player.

“Some ambience,” he says, talking about the music. The record player starts sounding as it spins. “Want something to drink? I got beer,” I nod distractedly as he walks in the kitchen, still taking in his apartment.

He comes back shortly with two opened bottles of Coors in his hands, I take it from him, taking a sip. “Where’s your other guitars?” He reaches for a guitar on the side of the couch, a Fender classic. “Most of them I store in my bedroom,” vaguely pointing behind the couch, I hum in amusement as he takes the pliers that's resting on the table in front of the couch, working and starting to restring his guitar.

“How often do you restring your guitar?” I ask, and he shrugs with a stupid grin on his face, “Not as much as I probably should.” He chuckles and goes back to working. He sings along sometimes with the song in the background while I talk about my apartment as he focuses on his job, I tell him that his apartment feels more home-y than mine, and he laughs softly and asks “How so?” My apartment looks completely bleak compared to his, I barely have any furniture as well, and the plants that I bought for decoration a year ago have wilted and died. I'm not one for taking care of plants.

He tells me that he wants to go to my apartment someday and I insist that he definitely doesn't, because the aura of that place is depressing and I don't want him getting depressed from how lonely and gray my place is. I don't tell him that though. When he finishes restringing his guitar, the record stops spinning as well, the last song from the album coming at an end.

He mutters an “Oh,” before standing up and replacing it with a different record, this time, it's a David Bowie record, Aladdin Sane. He's got a diverse taste in music.

When it gets quiet, the only thing in the air is David Bowie's voice singing about who will love Aladdin Sane, I finally ask him. Ask him about what's been putting that forlornness in his demeanor.

“So, what is it?” I ask suddenly, and he shoots me a confused expression, I shrug effortlessly, feigning nervousness, “That’s been troubling you? You said you only smoke when there's something troubling you, so–” I cut myself off, “And that's what you were doing. Earlier.” I place the empty beer bottle on the table in front of us.

He stills in his seat, breathing sharp and when I look at him, his shoulders are tense, then he shifts and heaves a sigh. “My– my brother called,” he whispers, his voice lowers as he avoids my eyes. “I don't even know how he got my contact– it must've been Ian, I don't know, I…” He's told me about his siblings before, he told me that there's five of them and that he's the youngest out of all of them, “God, I don't know,” he chokes on his words, laughing pathetically, “He told me that– my parents, um, they wanna see me. And they want me to come home for Thanksgiving.” He shakes his head, his hand comes up to push back his hair that's bunching up in his face.

“Oh,” I say, “Are you?” I question him.

He shakes his head frantically, “No, I'm not. I can't—” his face is flushed and he looks like he's about to cry, but his eyebrows pinches together. As he talks I've been unconsciously moving closer in his space. “Even with all the pleading, I could somehow hear the condescension in his tone.” He mutters bitterly. “I miss my family, yes, and it is comforting to know that they wanna see me, but– what they've… said to me, I can't forget, I won't, I'm not going home.”

I’m not good at this at all. I inch closer to him unconsciously, reaching a hand to his shoulder, “Hey,” I say, lowering my head to look at his face, but he avoids me, “Bren, hey.” My voice is soft as I say his name. My hand on his shoulder has moved to his neck, moving his head so that our foreheads are touching. His breath hitches, and I think I stop breathing for a minute.

My eyes are closed, And I hope his eyes are too because I'm certain that my face is hot enough for it to turn red. I can feel his breath on my cheek as his breathing evens out, “Hey,” I say again, just to let him know that I'm still here. “No one's forcing you to go home, okay? If you don't want to, then don't.” Our foreheads are still touching, “And at least you know now that they've been thinking about you, no?” I feel him nod against me slowly.

“Bren,” I whisper. Then something foolish takes over me. My hand that is resting on his neck travels to his face, and I don't know, it just happens. And I try to curse myself, but I can't really curse myself under my breath if my lips are already against his.

He makes a sound in the back of his throat as our lips touch, gentle, so gentle. His lips are soft and moist, and I try all that I can not to bite his bottom lip and ravish it. Then, I stop trying to beat myself up when I feel Brendon respond. Searching. Until he finds the angle that allows our lips to press against each other perfectly.

The song in the background changes, and God– I almost stop responding to his kisses with how painfully cheesy and cliché this is. Drive-in Saturday starts playing from the record player as we share shy, open-mouthed kisses, urgency in its wake.

When we pull back from each other, my hands are still resting on the side of Brendon’s face. His face is red, lips parted. I try to ignore that. “We could spend Thanksgiving together,” I suggest with faux confidence in my tone.

There's an incredulous look on his face as I say that, “You’re not going home?” He asks, and I nod. Our faces are still close, not as close as it was earlier, but close enough that I can almost see each individual strand of his eyelashes.

He doesn't say anything about my offer because he starts laughing. What's so funny? He laughs and I stare at him with a conflicted look. We just shared the most perfect kisses on the couch with David Bowie playing in the background, offering him to spend Thanksgiving together, and he's laughing. I don't get it.

“Fuck, this is so cheesy,” he says unbelievingly, and I start laughing too because it is, I agree with him on that. But then his laughter dies down and he looks into my eyes, all too alluring and provocative.

Then my lips are back on his, he's the one who initiated it this time. And I respond back just as fervently. His hands lift from where it's resting on the couch to my head, pulling on my hair to deepen our kiss. My hands on his face travel down to his shoulders, then to his waist, caressing carefully, before settling on his hips, pulling. But he pulls away abruptly, and I feel sheepish when I chase for his lips.

He opens his mouth to say something, then stops to give me a short, chaste kiss when he sees me chasing for his mouth. “I think I'd enjoy spending Thanksgiving with you,” he says softly, and I ignore him as I start kissing down his jaw, straight to his neck, his smell is divine. I leave small, gentle kisses on his protruding Adam's apple.

I feel his throat vibrate against my searching lips as he laughs. Suddenly, I remember what he said back in that library, quoting Rimbaud, and my chest constricts.

I lift my face off of his neck, nervousness taking over. “Um,” I blush when he gives me a questioning look, I didn't prepare for this. I didn't prepare a speech for this and I'm just following what my thoughts are telling me to say. “I haven't felt emotions this intense in such a long time. And I'm afraid that if we rush this it won't work out– but I want it to. I really do.” I avoid his eyes as I talk, “I love the way you say my name, and I can't help but want to hear you say it every damn time, so I wanna try this out. Because I like you, even more than the moon, and that says a lot, because I love the moon– fuck, sorry. What I mean is that.” I halt to take a deep breath in. Fuck. Here goes nothing. “I want you to be mine.”

His face softens, flushed. “Words are inadequate in times like these,” is his only response, before he intertwines his hands with mine, “I’m yours.” he whispers, his eyes that parallel the moon stare into mine.

And we don't talk about his family and the phone call anymore. Instead we stayed there on his living room couch, talking about what we'll be doing on Thanksgiving as Brendon lies on top of me. I feel fucking ecstatic. My skin felt electrified and hot when evening approached and I had to go home.

Whispering goodbyes in front of his door, but ending up getting pushed against it, rushed, short kisses, before I say, “I really need to go now.” Even with my teeth still clamped on his bottom lip.

•••

Nothing changes between us, despite the chaste kisses and obvious flirting, we still talk normally as we did before what happened. We hang out during weekends and days when we're both not busy with work, and I won't deny that the messages and calls I give to him increases. I call him at night when I have nothing to do, and he talks and sings and whispers my name in a way that is so riveting that I can't help but write down every single thing he says to me on paper. And sometimes I whisper to him back, ‘I miss you’s’ and ‘I wanna see you’s’ and ‘I miss your lips’ because it's hard not to.

I've been writing more the past few days, when I don't get to see Brendon– I think of him and write, I can't seem to stop thinking about him. With his flirtatious smiles, smooth hypnotizing voice, and his provocative hips. I can't.

Spencer calls me in the middle of writing, and I answer, of course. “Hey,” I greet him.

“Ryan, hey, how you doing?” He asks me enthusiastically. And I know why, Halloween has passed, me and Brendon spent the holiday watching horror flicks on his laptop in bed, munching on all the candy that we bought from Target. And once we ran out of candy, we went back to Target and got more. I suggested to him that we should dress up, because I love Halloween and it's my favourite holiday. I always dress up during Halloween. And he seemed to like that idea, it was something simple— I painted his face white and helped him with the fake fangs for his costume. He decided to dress up as a vampire, and I dressed up as a mummy. We spent the whole night taking pictures of each other even with the shitty make up and the shitty costumes, and after we decided we'd taken enough pictures, I kissed him breathless.

Thanksgiving is fast approaching, and Spencer sounds enthusiastic because he's going to be spending that holiday with his partner.

“Great,” I don't lie this time, even though how I've been doing is beyond great. But I won't tell him that.

“I can't believe this, I'm meeting Linda's parents—” Spencer rants from the other end, and I actually listen to him this time. I give myself a pat in the back for not spacing out and actually listening to Spencer's stories. Spencer laughs and exclaims as he talks about Linda. And, it's… Endearing. How you unconsciously just become like mush when talking about the one you love.

I feel my face get hot and I get restless as I think about Brendon. When Spencer finally finishes ranting about Linda, it's my turn. “I’m spending Thanksgiving with someone too,” I blurt out impulsively, shit, I haven't even prepared yet.

I hear Spencer exclaim enthusiastically from the other line, “With someone? Who? You? You're spending a holiday with someone? Am I actually talking to Ryan right now?” And he can't seem to stop asking questions after I said that.

“You didn't tell me you were seeing someone, who's the unlucky person?” He says jokingly, I laugh at that. Because Brendon straddled my hips and said the complete opposite as he kissed my face the other day.

“Shut up,” I say.

“We’ve just started, um, seeing each other a few weeks ago…” I admit.

“And you guys are spending Thanksgiving together? You must like each other that much, then, huh?” Spencer teases me and my skin feels hot as I press the phone against my ear.

“Yeah.” A stupid grin is plastered on my face.

“Is that the reason why you're not coming home for Thanksgiving then?” Spencer asks me, and I don't know, no. It's not, but also yes. I guess so, yeah.

I hum in agreement. Yeah.

Spencer wishes me a Happy Thanksgiving before putting down the call, saying that he won't be able to call me during because he'll be busy with Linda, of course. And I just nod, even though he can't see me, and I wish him a Happy Thanksgiving too.

•••

“Ryan, I don't know how to cook a turkey,” Brendon is lying beside me on his bed, Thanksgiving is in three days, and we've discussed that we're gonna be preparing dinner, but neither one of us knows how to cook at all. His bedroom is small, there's guitars hanging on the walls and a few that's resting on guitar stands on the floor. His bed sheets are freshly changed the last time I was in here, floral and fading, and we've been dozing off beside each other since I picked him up from work.

I grumble from beside him, scratching my head, “I have no idea how to cook a turkey either,” I hear him let out a disappointed noise at that.

“Oh, we could go shopping for one!” He jumps from his space beside me, his hair is all mussed up from lying down. “You know, those fully cooked ones where you just put it in the oven and it's done?” He explains, and I stifle a yawn, nodding.

“Okay, sure,” I get up from where I'm lying, and Brendon is already out of the bed before I am, he's hastily putting on the jeans he threw on the floor a few hours ago when he decided that it's squeezing his hips too much as he lies on the sheets. “Careful,” I say from where I'm sitting on the bed when he starts walking out of the bedroom without his pants fully on yet.

I notice Brendon's glasses on the night stand and pick it up, and I also pick up my gray jacket from the floor when I've gotten up from the bed, shrugging it on as I follow Brendon out of the bedroom. “Hey,” I call for him as he furiously flattens his mussed hair in front of a mirror.

I walk up to him with his glasses in hand, “You forgot your glasses,” I say before putting it on for him. I like the way he looks with and without the glasses. He gives me that warm smile I've written so much about, and he leans closer to give me a peck on the lips. Short and chaste.

“Thanks,” he says, before grabbing my arm and pulling me out of the door.

Brendon is shrugging on a coat as we walk to my car. It's been getting chillier these past few weeks, especially since December is near. “I’m still not used to the cold at all,” Brendon says when we enter my car, I turn up the heating when I start the engine.

“Me too,” I reply back as I maneuver the joystick and move away from the parking spot, “Still the Vegas boy that I am,” I say playfully and he chuckles.

“Yeah, but I love the winter,” I was on call with him a few nights ago while doing some of the last of my paperwork when he told me that he's anticipating when it starts snowing. I told him about when I first arrived in New York and I didn't have a single jacket that was warm enough to keep me from freezing during the winter. He exclaimed that he had the same thing happen to him, and immediately went shopping the next day before he died from hypothermia.

“And winter is really romantic, don't you think?” Brendon asks me as I press lightly on the break because of a stop light, he's looking out the window of the car, absentmindedly drawing patterns on his jeans.

I quirk my eyebrow, “How so?” And I turn towards him while I can, while we're at a red light. He directs his attention to me then, and says, “Well, it's cold.” He shrugs, “And what's a better way to defeat the cold than canoodling under the sheets with someone, drinking hot chocolate, and exchanging body heat?” He says, his eyebrows wiggling suggestively.

I laugh and my chest constricts as the mental image of him under that exact scenario comes to mind. The sheets over us as I stare at him, his lips are kiss-swollen and his face flushed.

I focus my attention back on the road, “Don’t give me ideas,” I breathe in, warning him jokingly, and he chuckles, “That was the plan,” he has a stupid smirk on his face and I can't help but laugh at that.

We arrive at the supermarket shortly, Brendon's dragged me inside and it doesn't take us long until we spot that fully cooked turkey he was talking about, “Oh, wow,” I hear Brendon say from beside me, biting his bottom lip pensively as he skims his eyes over the turkeys.

I look at the prices and I'm a little horrified. Sixty dollars for a raw turkey? “God, I forget how expensive turkeys are.” Brendon follows my gaze and chuckles.

“Hm, oh well,” Brendon says as he snatches one of the ready to be cooked ones, beckoning me with his hand as he starts walking towards the alcoholic drinks section. “Needs to be paired with something, you know?” He snickers.

“Wine?” I ask as we scan the endless bottles of alcohol perched on the cased shelves, he nods enthusiastically, “Uh-huh,” he hums as he takes a bottle of Penfolds from one of the shelves, showing it to me, ”Get two,” I say, because I know one bottle of wine won't be enough for the two of us. He breathes out a laugh and says, “‘Kay,” handing me the turkey in his grip and takes another bottle of Penfolds from the shelf.

“This all?” I ask as we start walking to the front, he hums quietly, “Hmm, how about side dishes?”

We walk aimlessly around the supermarket for a few more minutes, grabbing some stuff that we thought would do good, canned corn, green beans, carrots, cornbread mix, instant mashed potatoes– which I didn't know existed until now.

Once we're out of the supermarket and have paid for the stuff, we walk back to the car, the sun has set and the air is even colder, and I figured that the jacket I'm wearing is probably too thin for the weather.

“I thought I was gonna die, I probably shouldn't have been so overconfident that time knowing I've never even tried ice skating before,” he trails off.

“And that's why I'm never gonna try ice skating,” he was telling me about the time where he first tried ice skating– but went terribly wrong as he got too confident and almost gave himself a concussion.

He laughs and nudges me with his shoulder, “it’s actually really fun once you get used to it,” he admits, and I shake my head unconvinced.

“We should go ice skating once it snows,” I see him staring at me from my peripheral vision as he says this, and I can't resist his eyes so I look back, “I don't think that's a good idea, what if I die from a concussion?”

“That would suck if you do,” he sneers and I give him an offended face, “I’ll hold your hand so you don't fall— and if you do, well, at least we'll both be going down together.” he offers, and I can't help but smile at that.

When we've approached my car, I round it and I open the trunk to store the stuff we've bought there.

I hear Brendon gasp loudly, still focused on my task, “You okay?” I can't see him from the trunk’s open hood, and then something lands on my face. A snowflake.

“Ryan, it's snowing!” he exclaims loudly as I slam the trunk's hood shut, I see Brendon opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue as he tries to catch the falling snow on his tongue.

I grin at his antics and I walk towards him, admiring the sight, “Is that safe to consume?” He ignores my question as he continues to catch the snowflakes on his tongue to no avail.

He closes his mouth a minute later, saying “My tongue was about to freeze,” and decides to just admire the snow instead. He rubs his nose, slightly red now because of the weather, and he looks soft and cold and he's not properly dressed for the weather, and so am I. “Hey, come here,” I gesture to him with a come-hither motion.

He obeys and walks up beside me, “What?” giving me a quizzical look as I walk behind him so that his back is facing me, then I wrap my hands around him– perching my chin on his shoulder. Hugging him from behind. “If you want to keep admiring the snow,” I say, “You’ll freeze.” I nudge my freezing nose on his warm cheek.

He gets the memo as he says, “Ah, exchanging body heat,” nodding, a pleasant smile appearing on his face. And it does work. My hands are wrapped around his middle and he's warm even through his coat. My eyes are closed as I keep nudging my nose against his cheek, inhaling his scent. “Snow in November, in New York,“ he points out, his gaze focused on the powdery white that's bunching up on the ground in front of us, “That’s unusual.”

“Maybe it came earlier for you.”

When I open my eyes, his cheeks have turned a deep crimson, his breathing slows as he relaxes against my figure.

“We should go back,” he says after a few more minutes of ogling at the snow, and I allow him to escape from my grasp. I round the car again, opening the door to the driver's seat and hastily entering because the cold is getting into my bones.

•••

I’m woken up by a calloused finger poking my cheek, I hear a faint whisper of my name, “Ryan.” The poking on my cheek stops, and it gets replaced with something softer, lips. I blink as I open my eyes, Brendon is staring down at me with a stupid smile on his face, “It’s Thanksgiving,” oh right. I've been staying at Brendon's apartment the past few days. Recently he's been playing romantic, sappy songs on his record player. I can hear the faint voice of George Harrison’s singing from the living room as he croons about being happy to dance with someone.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he says in a sing-song voice, and I chuckle, yawning. “Goodmorning,” I reach for his face and kiss him on the forehead softly, “and Happy Thanksgiving.” I say before moving down and giving him a quick peck on the lips.

He tells me that the turkey we bought at the supermarket three days ago has thawed completely and that he's already heated it in the oven. He's in his work clothes when I observe him walking out the bedroom. He works part-time at a diner now. He quit his job at the gas station a month ago, if I remember correctly, said that he can't keep up with the night shifts anymore and wanted something part-time.

I enter the bathroom, wash my face with cold water and brush my teeth before walking to the kitchen where Brendon is sitting on a stool in front of the small counter. “Want?” He offers me a piece of toast with butter spread on it. I take one bite from the toast before walking towards the cupboard to get a mug.

“What time do you get off work?” I ask whilst pouring myself coffee, he finishes chewing first before talking, “Four, noon.” he says, then asks, “Why? Are you picking me up?”

I shrug, maybe.

“Maybe,” I voice out.

He grins and takes a sip from his cup, “Okay.”

“I’ll call you,” I approach him on the counter, standing beside where he's sitting. I take a piece of toast on the plate in front of him and bite into it, still warm.

I go back to my apartment. I decided to drop off Brendon at the diner when we finished eating breakfast. He told me in the car he'll reheat the turkey in the oven once we're back, also saying that he can't wait to spend Thanksgiving with me even though all we've been doing this past few days is spend time together, I told him that, and he said that this one's different because it's a federal holiday. He says goodbye to me by giving me three innocent kisses on the lips.

When I step into my apartment, it's dark and gloomy. I think I've gotten used to the warm lights of Brendon's living room. I take this time to get some clean clothes from my closet, throw my dirty ones in a basket near my closet door.

I look at the DVDs on my shelf and I decide to bring a few with me when I pick up Brendon from work and we go back to his place, thinking that maybe we could binge movies after dinner.

When I have nothing to do, I decide to go down to the laundromat downstairs to get my dirty laundry washed. I have a washing machine in my apartment, but it broke down a few months ago, and I had a lecture in the morning that time. So I was forced to wear my dirty laundry the next day and had to excessively shower myself in body spray.

The laundromat is eerily bleak, and the walls are too white. The person at the front greets me with a large rehearsed smile on their face when I walk in.

I probably should have bought a book with me, or something to distract me. Once the washing machine stops spinning and I take out my warm clothes, I don't bother folding them and I immediately exit the building.

The pavement is covered in a blanket of snow, my feet disturbs the smooth plane when I walk on it and I almost feel disappointed that I do. I appreciate these little details.

I think I appreciate the snow a little more now.

•••

Brendon waves his hand as he walks towards the car, his smile is warm compared to the streets outside. He's still in his work uniform, his hair is tousled and messed up. “Hey,” he exclaims when he opens the door, he throws his bag in the backseat before sitting and closing the door. I point at the center console where two paper cups rest, “Mine?” He questions, referring to the one that isn't half empty. “Yeah.” I give him a small smile. “How was work?”

He shrugs and picks up the paper cup from the console, wrapping both of his gloveless hands around it. “Same as usual, but we had to greet a Happy Thanksgiving to every customer that goes in, and it was fun at first, but it got boring quickly,” he laughs softly.

I start the engine and turn on the heater, pulling out of the parking lot. “I bought movies with me, by the way, we can watch them after dinner,” I mutter as I focus on the road, trying to drive through the slippery road. “Just how many DVDs do you own?” he asks quizzically, “As many records you have at your place,” I shoot back at him with a raise of my eyebrow.

He hums in amusement, “I should start renting movies from you instead of Jon then, hm?” He jokes, “You won't charge me that much right?”

I hum in faux wonder before I say, “I won't, as long as I'm watching them with you.”

He exclaims rhapsodically in his seat, “Sweet.” He puts the paper cup back in the console, “What movies did you bring?” He asks, looking at me.

“I brought Moulin Rouge, it's a musical,” I explain to him as I steer the wheel, approaching a corner in the road and attentively stepping on the gas. “I’ve not watched that yet,” he mutters.

“Impossible,” my mouth opens incredulously, “A music major that hasn't watched one of the greatest musicals of all time?” I say accusingly. He laughs and nudges me on the arm softly. “Well that's because I'm engrossed in music and not theatre, Ry,” he reasons, and I keep myself from smirking teasingly. I nod instead, saying “Sure, sure,” playfully.

When we've arrived at his place, he changes into something more comfortable than his work clothes and immediately tends the turkey he left in the fridge earlier this morning. “Put some music on, would you?” He asks for me. I stand from where I was sitting on the kitchen counter and stride towards the collection of records he has on display. Each are categorized in different genres, save for the Beatles, they're their own category. My eyes skim over each record, until I spot something that I like.

The first track of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Tango In the Night' starts, sounding from the record player into the apartment. I head back to where I was sitting earlier and Brendon’s arched over the oven, closing the door and turning it on, setting the timer. “Fleetwood Mac, nice choice,” he comments when he advances towards me.

“It’ll take about fifteen minutes before we can take it out,” he explains as he moves towards me with a sultry look in his eyes. My face warms.

“Let’s dance,” he says spontaneously, and he doesn't give me time to either decline or accept his offer because he’s already dragging me away from the kitchen and to the living room.

“Woah,” I gasp, “I can't–” cutting myself off, his hands are moving up my chest carelessly and my skin is heating beneath his fingers, “I can't dance.” I continue, and he gives me a bored look, one that says ‘Seriously?’ and I avoid his eyes.

“Don’t be silly, Ross, anyone can dance,” he says, tapping his hands on my chest, “And you can't expect me to stay still after putting on Fleetwood Mac,” he blames. Guess I'm the fool then.

“Well, I didn't know you have a ritual of dancing whenever Fleetwood Mac plays,” I retort and he giggles. “Now you do.”

He reaches for my hands and grabs them, placing them on either side of his hips, “If you can't dance then I'll show you how.” He says confidently.

“If you like a song you feel it in your bones, and it just comes, you know?” he looks me in the eyes, “Can you feel it?” he gives me a wide grin before he starts swaying his hips, my hands still grabbing onto them. And I have no idea what he's talking about at all, but the stretch of his lips makes me join him anyway. I start moving with him.

My toes are tapping to the beat of the song, I bite on my lips to keep myself from laughing nervously, “See, you're such a liar,” he laughs and points at my chest accusingly, he continues swaying, “You can dance perfectly well.” And I believe he's probably only saying that so I keep dancing with him, but I just laugh and follow his lead as we sway together to Big Love.

When the song ends and changes, we slow down, not enthusiastically moving together like earlier, but we're still swaying gently, slowly.

My hands have travelled behind his back and his are over my neck, we're practically hugging each other. “This is nice,” he mutters from where his face is squished against my shoulder, I smooth my palm on his back, “What is?” I ask quizzically.

He’s humming to the melody quietly, “You know, this. You. Us.”

I like that word. Us.

My hold on him tightens, “Yeah, it is nice.” My face is buried in his hair and I inhale his scent. Then he pulls away from my hold a little, looking at me.

His full lips curl upwards in a grin, “I wanna make out with you, can we make out?” He asks frivolously. He knows damn well he needn't have to ask that. I sneer at the anticipating glint in his eyes.

“I don't know, can we?” I retort playfully, and I don't know if that was a pout that flicks on his face for a second, but I don't think about it anymore because I lose all my thoughts when I pull him close, the distance between us diminishing.

Our lips press against each other shyly, like it's our first time kissing again. I feel him exhale against my lips as he reaches for the back of my head. Fisting on my hair as if we aren't close enough.

He licks on my bottom lip, asking for permission, and in all earnestness, I grant him permission.

My teeth clack against his when I part my mouth, our kiss turning urgent and feverish. And I'll never get tired of how soft his lips are, how warm they feel when they press onto mine. My hands grip on his narrow waist, pulling his body to mine, our chests touching.

I swipe my tongue against his boldly, and I feel like a teenager with how my heart’s beating inside my ribcage loudly, loud enough that it blocks the song in the background— but not loud enough to block the way Brendon moans into my mouth. I feel hot all over and my skin is electrified.

The sound of the oven’s timer ticking off is what pulls us away from each other. “Oh,” Brendon gasps when we abruptly halt. I feign ignorance to the strand of saliva that stretches from my lower lip to his, breaking off when he wipes his mouth.

“Dinner’s ready,” he whispers, and I smile, nodding.

”Let’s eat then,” I whisper back, caressing his side gently.

It turns out the instant mashed potatoes weren't that bad. I was a little reluctant when Brendon threw it into my hands with a careless shrug. When it was time for the turkey, Brendon gives me a pensive stare as I bite into it, “Is it any good?” It is, I admit, which is good because this cost over fifty dollars if I remember correctly.

“Yeah,” I say, and Brendon smiles softly, “Well, good, I'd be afraid if it wasn't when it was so overly priced,” he heaves a sigh of relief before taking a bite from his portion as well. It seems we thought of the same thing.

Brendon didn't have any wine glasses in his cupboards, so we used normal drinking glasses instead, the wine is bordering cold to room temperature as I sip from the glass. I’m nowhere near a lightweight, so it’s guaranteed I'll have no trouble finishing a bottle of this Penfolds wine.

Me and Brendon talk as we eat, we talk about the time we first talked to each other, “I’m glad you stalked me when you could,” he says jokingly, and I don't really like remembering that. But he finds it funny.

“I would’ve been unaware of your charmingness if you didn't,” and that makes me laugh a little, I guess, “I remember the first time we saw each other face-to-face, You looked back at me when I walked up behind you, I think I was already captivated by your eyes then,” I can almost picture the way his eyes looked then, blaming scrutiny when it had been admiration all along.

“What’s with you and your obsession over my eyes?” He’s biting on his cornbread as he talks, sporting a silly smile on his face, and I smirk from where I'm sitting beside him, nudging my foot against his.

“They’re beautiful, s’all,” I say with faux nonchalance in my tone. I can never resist his stare, I immediately melt at the sight of it.

He hums amusingly, “You’ve got nice eyes too, you know, pretty,” he nudges his foot against mine back.

“Oh, yeah?” I give him a playful look, and he nods fervently. “Your eyes are like the moon, when I see them I can't help but croon,” he says in a sing-song voice, and I chuckle. “I also love your voice. Actually, I think I'm more obsessed with your voice than I am with your eyes,” I point out.

I notice the way his face reddens slightly, “Well, I knew that,” he says sheepishly, “You told me you loved the way I say your name,” he explains. And yeah, I did, I remember that.

“I think I tell you that all the time,” I shoot at him. I tell him almost every time we see each other.

He giggles under his breath, “Okay, Ryan Ross,” he elongates the vowels as he says my name, “Let’s finish this so we can canoodle on the couch, Ryan Ross.” He whispers my name in a mocking way, and I feel my face reddens. He's making fun of me. I can't believe this.

“Stop doing that,” I warn him with a soft laugh, “Stop what? George Ryan Ross,” he continues, and I laugh at that.

“Okay, Brendon Boyd Urie,” I start, repeating after him. We're sitting so close to each other that he's practically on my lap. “Hmm, Ryan,” he hums in his perfect voice, he's saying it like he's shaping his tongue around my name.

“Ryan.” He says more firmly now, and I focus my gaze toward him, “I love you, Ryan Ross.”

I think I stop breathing for a while, and I don't think I start breathing at all again, dumbfounded. Because I've done foolish things and have been a fool before, I can admit that. But those stupid fleeting memories and thoughts can't even compare to how much of a fool I am for him. Right now, at this moment, everything suddenly makes sense.

I surge towards him, I don't care about the fork I knocked down, I care more about the way he's gripping on my shoulders as he tries to regulate the way I'm spreading wet kisses on his face, “Ugh, Ryan, gross!” He exclaims. But I don't care. I keep kissing his cheeks, his nose, his forehead. His lips.

“Love you,” I finally say, and his grip on my shoulders loosens when I do, “I love you, too.” My tone is firm. And I've never been so sure of something in my whole life.

We forget about the DVDs inside my bag when we enter his bedroom, intertwined against each other. I love the way his skin feels against mine. I love the way his hips quiver as I leave traces of kisses on his navel. I love the way that it's just him. Him.

My whole body is on fire when I find him beneath me, sheets clinging to his sweat-slicked skin. My palms lay flat against the plane of his stomach, roaming aimlessly, caressing his waist, his ribs, his chest. We didn't plan for this to happen at all. But I can't stop kissing him, each kiss is left with purpose.

Our breaths are warm as it mingles in the night air. We move against each other skillfully. Searching, memorizing. Everything is graceful and quiet, save for the occasional gasps he lets out and the periodical creaking of the bedframe under us. We lose track of time. But who's counting really?

I touch him like I'm trying to study which parts would make him melt the most, and my heart squeezes every time he lets out a shaky breath when I do find those parts.

I tried not to fall asleep after, but Brendon's breathing heavily into my ear and his hand is warm where it's resting on my chest, his presence alone lulling me to rest.

I don't remember my dream. I don't know if I dreamed of anything at all. I woke up first. We're tangled together with his duvet over our unclothed forms. I smile a small, small smile. This isn't the first time I'm waking up with him beside me. But this is the first time I'm waking up beside him after a night of shared passion and love. I stifle a yawn as I try to stretch my limbs, but Brendon's practically laying on top of me, so it's hard to maneuver at all.

I nudged his nose with a finger, “Bren,” I whisper. I don't want to wake him up, but my limbs are starting to get numb from the strain. “Bren, hey,” I whisper again, my thumb carefully stroking his cheek now.

He grumbles, nuzzling my chest, unmoving. “Baby,” I then say, sheepishly. And he starts gaining consciousness from there. “What?” He says against my skin. I'm sifting my hand through his hair, “You’re crushing me,” I manage, and he instantly moves away from where he was resting his body on mine, muttering apologies.

After a beat, he takes in a breath and says, “You just called me ‘Baby.’” He says with a bashful smirk on his face. I quirk my eyebrows, “Did I?” my tone flippant, shooting a smirk back at him.

He nods, messing up his hair even more, “Yeah, you did,” and I notice the crimson appearing on his cheeks. “S’that bad?” I question him. I hope not, because I wanna keep calling him that.

“No,” he shakes his head hastily, his hand moving up my shoulder gently. “Keep calling me that,” he continues, and I do.

I move my body sideways so I'm facing him, reaching out to caress his face with my thumb. “Baby.” I then say, and I hear him hum amusingly. A stupid grin is plastered on his face. I'm never gonna get sick of this.

•••

Spencer calls me a week after Thanksgiving, “You had fun during Thanksgiving?” was his opening line, and I laugh at that. I missed him, I admit.

“Yeah, lots of fun, how about you?” I retort, and I hear him let out an amused whistle, “You sound happy, did you get laid?” He asks, I think he's asking that jokingly. But he’s on fucking point.

“What? how did you—” I cut myself off with a laugh, “Whatever, you didn't answer my question.” I say accusingly. And I hear him let out a short, breathy laugh.

“Great, man! Linda's parents liked me, I think.” He exclaims enthusiastically, he tells me about what they did during their stay at Linda's parents’ house, and I reflect on what me and Brendon did during that time as well.

He tells me about the beautiful sceneries at South Dakota and the like, “Well, that's great, seems like you got it going with Linda then?”

I can't see his face, but I can practically feel his smile radiating from my phone’s speaker. “Yeah, guess so.” I hear him shuffle and then he starts talking again, “How about you? What'd you guys get up to? You and…” He trails off, and foolish me forgot that I didn't really tell Spencer what the ‘Unlucky person’s’ name was.

“Um, Brendon,” I whisper softly, admiration clear in my tone. “Nothing much, we practically spent the whole week getting comfy, and on Thanksgiving we prepared dinner, did you know instant mashed potatoes existed?” I say quizzically, and he lets out a disagreeing noise from his throat.

I talk more than I usually do. I tell him about how I've been staying at Brendon's place too much, and I tell him about how Brendon also lived in Las Vegas and that he moved here to New York City where the weather is miscellaneous, I say “He got sick of the desert,” Spencer chuckles and replies, “God, yeah, no. Totally understandable.” I don't mention his family. I tell him that he was right, that I did get laid. And he makes such a big deal about it, as if he hadn't witnessed my old partners in high school.

I brush it off when he says, “I think this is the most you've talked whenever I call,” and I don't know why, but my body warms, I miss Spencer. I miss his presence. Maybe… I really should go back to Vegas. Just to see him. And Ginger maybe.

“Hey, I think I'll come home during Christmas,” I say reluctantly, and he beams at this, “Just for a few days, I guess I'm starting to miss you.” I think Spencer whoops on the other line, and, God, I really do miss my best friend.

“Fucking awesome! Mom’s been asking me all about you, she actually asked me if you were coming home in December…” And the way he refers to Ginger as Mom makes it seem like we're brothers by blood. Which I wouldn't mind at all. Hell, he's always been my brother. “Well, I didn't know what to answer of course, you didn't tell me yet.” He laughs softly. And I nod even though he can't see me.

After a few more minutes of banter, Spencer tells me that he has to go. I cherish the stories he's told me.

•••

Even through my unconsciousness I can feel and sense Brendon's presence next to me. I love this new life of mine, I've gotta admit. I wake up to the most beautiful brown eyes staring into mine, and I'll never get sick of that shade. I share conversations and laughs and smiles and kisses with the body that bears those eyes, and I feel gratified. I read books and sometimes there's quotes or lines that make my thoughts gravitate towards him. He's all I ever think about nowadays.

I tell him about those, I tell him about the lines and the quotes and the reason why it makes me think of him, and I get to savor his reactions and retorts and place it in a little box in my head that I labeled with his name.

And sometimes he sings to me, he sings me songs that fit the situation or sings me songs that he loves, and if he's not singing– he's whispering sweet nothings, my name, and the like, into my ear. And every single thing he whispers is written down on paper.

And this is our interpretation of reinventing love. This is ours.

“L’amour est à réinventer.”

Arthur Rimbaud