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Thick curtains held the world at bay, bringing the bedroom to a pitch-black stillness. Now, the only thing spinning amidst the silence was the ghost of a vinyl record, long since played out.
Brendon found himself lying restless on the worn mattress. The ambience felt unusually still, luring him into a sleepless night. Battling insomnia by focusing on breathing patterns, since counting sheep to sleep seemed too old — childish, even.
A selection of thoughts intruded upon his foggy mind. A silent caricaturesque movie played, faceless people adorned with fancy suits and big dreams, until a gentle knock on the door brought his attention back to his immediate surroundings.
Without a verbal response — beside lazily averting his gaze to the further side of the room — the door slowly opened itself. Brendon didn't flinch, his face a carefully neutral mask, considering the intrusion.
Seconds later, there’s the creaking sounds of the heavy door, followed by a familiar set of footsteps, soft thuds against the wooden-looking floor. Stopping once they got close enough to Brendon's side of the bed. They pulled the cord hanging off of the nightstand’s lamp, making the bulb spring back to life — a warm glow lit up the face Brendon had grown very used to seeing.
No one spoke, nor moved. Coming across an old time acquaintance whose features were supposedly buried beneath dozens of fresh faces. Buried is a strong word; camouflaged instead. A faint smile balanced on those thin lips, intending to reach Brendon, before he broke the peaceful night.
"Hi," The two-letter word hung in the air just a second too long, before he added, "mind if I join you?"
Brendon’s face muscles twitched in agony when he refrained from showing any gesture, and resumed staring at the ceiling, trying his hardest not to notice the obvious presence — Actually, refusing to accept his pupils ached already from dilating the second he saw him once again.
“Your room hasn’t changed much." He sounded so casual. Brendon almost envied how he could act so normal after all this time. "You got more books now... you read a lot back in the day."
Brendon hummed, forcing his eyes to remain glued at the ceiling. Even if they wanted to act as metal against the magnetic-like figure, walking over, closer to him. When the unoccupied side of the bed dipped down, he sighed in defeat.
"How are you?" A simple, yet so complex question was said after a minute of uncomfortable silence.
"Fine, I guess... How do you think I'd be?" A few more words were left unsaid on the tip of Brendon's tongue. He had plenty of things to say, but refrained. Countless nights spent questioning and blaming himself, wondering if things could have gone somehow different. In the end, it wasn’t worth fighting over now.
"I don’t know." Of course, it had always been this easy for him.
Silence took over the room, apart from the quiet, but so loud, sound of breathing — Even if the bed was big enough for them to keep a reasonable space in between, Brendon heard him breathing right against his ear. It made him wonder if it was just his mind playing tricks on him. Making Brendon listen to the used-to-be, or maybe-still-is, soothing melody. Or the breathing sounds were in fact loud.
"I miss you." For the second time since he made an appearance, Brendon turned to look at the man laying next to him. Not surprised at all when he found a pair of brown eyes already looking his way. Brendon's face was masked with pure incredulity. "I really do miss you."
Brendon lifted an eyebrow, tempted to scoff right there on his face, though he didn't. "I wouldn't know… Last thing I heard, you didn't want to see me anymore."
"I didn't say such a thing, B." Denial, something Brendon had grown used to. Words were meaningless now, they dissolved with the rest of unwanted apologies that stringed along.
Time hadn’t stopped years back, it only enhanced the years apart, vanishing once young features. The faint, growing creases around his eyes were the faded ghost of a thousand smiles; the stubble, a shadow of the man he had become. Slight details imperceptible for the passersby, only noticed by trained eyes.
They were lifetimes away from those two innocent souls who had clasped hands and promised forever, mistaking a seasonal first love for a happily ever after.
"I'm sorry." He concluded with the famous two-word apology. Brendon just hoped the speech had come naturally, not methodically scripted.
"Yeah, I get it." Brendon only half-meant to respond in such a rude way. "But, why now?"
If Brendon’s senses weren't failing him, with glasses-less eyesight in a poorly lit room, he caught dullness in those typically shiny chestnut eyes. Which simply wasn't fair. If the intentions were to make Brendon feel pity, he simply couldn't allow himself to fall for those games, definitely not again.
The man shrugged and sat up on the edge of the bed, long legs hanging off the bed. "Just wanted to let you know — in case you'd want to listen."
'I'm sorry', 'In case you'd want to listen'. The words fell into Brendon's mind and found a perfect, painful resonance with a word he’d only recently learned: gaslighting. There was no one to blame, only two flawed people who had failed one another.
But before Brendon could answer, his past partner in crime stood up from the bed. Gaze locked on the few framed art pieces Brendon recently hung on the walls. The pad of his fingers gently traced the patterns of the closest one. He questioned, not really thinking. "I didn't know you liked art?"
Brendon rapidly sat up, crossing one leg and letting the other hang off the bed. "You don't know me anymore, Ryan." Brendon deadpans, nostrils flared, swallowing down the rest of his remark.
"I know... I'm sorry." He turned around, eyes falling into place once again. His bony fingers pointed at Brendon, and asked. "Can I?"
Brendon wasn't entirely sure what he meant exactly. He could expect anything to come from him, but stood up and nodded nonetheless, in automatic.
After a few long steps, they were now facing each other. He could feel the heat emanating off of him, a proximity that he once called home, and now, felt like a trespass. Brown irises pierced through Brendon, yelling all the things he couldn't dare to say out loud. He cupped Brendon's right cheek, cold skin lightly touching and caressing his cheekbone.
Brendon thought he'd go for a kiss — slightly hoped for it in the midst of a mental battle of emotions. Instead, they embraced themselves in a hug, long arms holding a smaller figure securely by the waist. As they used to, Brendon's arms flew to a now cold and empty neck, where soft curls once lingered.
It felt wrong to admit how comfortably familiar that felt, and just how well they fit together. Something about the embrace made Brendon's inside tingle. A warm, homey feeling nestled. That alone meant so much more than any scripted speech with a dozen apologies could show.
The solid weight of Ryan's arms began to feel frail. They reluctantly pulled apart. They could've stayed just like that. But they knew it wasn't appropriate. It would just make things far more complicated than how they initially were.
"Take care, Brendon." Before they detached themselves completely, he left a sweet kiss on his ex lover’s temple, so close to his eyelid. And with that, he turned around and walked away. But not before pulling out slightly from its place, one of the books Brendon had neatly organized. Then left the room without another word.
The characteristic scent of his skin, once engraved into Brendon’s mind, faded into the generic smell of stale air and old books. The sound of footsteps was swallowed by the insistent chirping of a robin outside his window.
Deliberately ignoring the melodic sound, Brendon crossed the bedroom to analyse the bookshelf from closer. 'Across the river and into the trees' by Ernest Hemingway, read the bold letters on top of the cover. Memories flashed through his mind. Him, laughing with his head thrown back, practically in tears, in that very room, the image so vivid it physically ached.
Being the curious man he is, he opened the book and briefly scanned through the pages. A polaroid unexpectedly fell to his feet when he reached the middle.
It could have been any picture. Out of all of the polaroids they had taken in their younger days, this one had to be of one specific person. Brendon bent down to pick it up, and was met with the face he just saw minutes ago.
It showed him playing a piano, most likely — Brendon didn't remember the exact details anymore. But he was there, not looking up at the camera lenses, concentrating on the piano keys. With a small caption below in black ink. Brendon recognized his messy handwriting immediately. A simple message, an inside joke, a silly nickname. "Golden god"
At the moment it felt like the right caption for it. Brendon chuckled just thinking about it. Two young and carefree souls, discovering the wonders of nature and humankind. Before the shared smiles and lazy kisses, slowly stretched further apart, until all they did was complain and argue.
A boiling pressure pot stirred with many repressed emotions. The warm touch of his delicate arms, the homey scent, and the polaroid that replaced those once he left. From a knot in his throat, to a tingle in his abdomen, the epitome of contradiction. Brendon forced his eyes closed, only to wish he hadn’t.
The curtains were drawn close, a blade of amber morning light cut across the floor. A reminder of rough bedsheets traced along his face. The nightstand’s lamp was off. The bedroom felt strangely empty, charged with an aching silence regardless of traffic amidst an awake city. His sleep clouded gaze was drawn to the bookshelf, where a tilted book, the Hemingway volume, stood out from the rest of the books. Coincidence or not, who’s to judge. “I saw you in a dream.”