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It wasn’t unusual for me to find myself drifting into one of Vic’s so-called “brainstorming” sessions. In fact, it had become something of a ritual. Almost every evening, without really thinking about it, I’d end up at the top of the stairs outside his apartment, one hand resting on the worn doorknob, listening. Sometimes I’d knock. Sometimes I didn’t have to.
Even if I stayed in my own apartment, I could always hear him—talking to himself, pacing, mumbling fragments of half-formed ideas that only made sense to him. His voice carried through the old floorboards, warm and chaotic like the rest of him. But being able to hear him wasn’t quite enough. Not anymore.
So I came over when invited, and I watched.
Perched on his battered couch or seated at the edge of his bed, I’d let him fill the room with that erratic, brilliant energy of his. He hardly noticed me most of the time—too lost in a potential storyline for an album that he was sketching out, or a song idea that he was tearing apart just to start again—but that was okay. I didn’t need conversation, nor did I come for it. I came for him. There was something magnetic about the way his mind worked: frantic, unfiltered, alive. I found myself enamored before I even knew his middle name.
It had been almost a year now since our friendship had begun, and even longer since I had started coming upstairs. I don’t remember exactly when I started bringing my camera along, but slowly SD cards ran full of photos of the two of us. I would take photos of him composing, he would take photos of me when I dozed off and looked like I had just gotten hit by a truck, and every once in a while we would turn the camera around and take a photo together.
Today has been just like any other day, Vic sat on his coffee table looking back and forth between his lovingly tarnished acoustic guitar and a journal. Sat over on the couch looking through the viewfinder of my camera, I shift slightly, angling the lens in his direction, and press down the shutter button.
Vic looks over at me, a shy smile creeping across his face as he catches the flash of my camera mid-strum.
“Aw man, did you get that?” He leans back, peering at the camera’s display, his shoulder brushing against mine. “I was smiling like a dork.”
The warmth of his presence so close to me sends butterflies fluttering in my stomach as he lingers briefly in the quiet of the moment. I pull my camera away exaggeratedly to “hide” the photo, hoping he will play into the teasing, but he moves back to his guitar and fails to notice. It’s always been so hard to maintain his attention, despite all my best efforts.
Vic’s expression shifts as he recalls our conversation from the night before. “So, about that new track we talked about– I’ve been working on the lead into the chorus, and I think you’ll love at least one of these versions,” he says, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. He excitedly picks up a notebook off the couch. It's one of many, filled with lyrics and mismatched notes for instrumentation, the pages more than slightly worn from use. He opens to a page full of ideas. As he speaks, any nervousness and inattention present before dissipates, replaced by a passion for the music we both adore. He looks terribly perfect when he’s confident.
I shift closer to Vic to get a closer look at the notebook, but find it hard to ignore just how incredible he looks in this moment. The intimate proximity allows me to catch hints of his cologne. It’s more intoxicating than any vice. I place a gentle hand on top of the notebook, pushing it gently down onto his lap. With every ounce of confidence in my body, I speak softly but deliberately. “You’ve been working on this for a while now; maybe we should take a break?”
Vic’s eyes light up like the Fourth of July, his nervousness and confidence melding together explosively. “That sounds great, we could just chill for a little bit.” He leans over to the mini fridge next to the couch to grab us a set of drinks. My favorite tea and a soda for himself. My hopes of something more are dashed, but I can’t complain at his attentiveness. “How about I put on some of our old tour videos? I’ve got a few that are pretty bad.” His lips curve up in the corners, his excitement barely contained.
I nod, almost not hearing his words over the noise of my own mind. He grabs the remote and settles back onto the couch. The space that separates us feels magnetic, but polarized. I want to lean closer to him, but I feel as though I can’t. Rather, I feel like I shouldn’t; like he doesn’t want me to. I still can’t help but steal more than my fair share of glances at Vic, who seems simultaneously relaxed and animated.
“Can you believe we used to dress like that? Look at Tony’s hair!” His voice breaks the stream of noise from the TV, and I suddenly realize just how lost in his features I had become. I glance away before he notices my stares. Up on the TV is a circa 2008 video of Pierce the Veil on their very first tour, and Vic’s comment was not unwarranted. The quartet wear questionably styled outfits, adorned with greasy hair and egregiously ugly graphic t-shirts. It’s hard not to laugh. Yet, amidst the laughter in the room, I find myself drawn to Vic’s smile; the way his eyes crinkle with joy; the way the bridge of his nose creases. Our laughter fades into comfortable stillness, thick until Vic turns to me once again. This time, his voice and expression are soft.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” he confesses quietly.
A jolt, almost electric in nature, runs up my spine. He pauses briefly, swiftly turning his attention back to the screen and breaking our non-existent eye contact. However, I feel stuck in time, as though the whole world just stopped spinning. He’s so close, yet somehow miles away. The space between us feels deliberate, dangerous. I wonder if he notices how shallow my breathing has become, or if he hears the way my heart is trying to break its way out of my ribcage. He shifts slightly in his seat, and even that small of a motion feels magnified, like it ripples through time and space and directly pierces my chest. My shoulder brushes his, and though it’s barely a touch, it sends another spark crawling under my skin.
I don’t know if he felt it too, but he doesn't pull away. He doesn’t move at all. I swallow hard. ‘Say something, do something, anything.’ But the words knot in my throat. The more I wait, the louder the silence grows. And then, his fingers twitch against his knee, just once, like he’s thinking the same thing I am. Like he’s holding himself back. The temptation is unbearable now. My mind thrums, and the taste of bile seeps into my mouth.
“I’ll be back.” I stand up without another word.
Vic looks up to me, almost worried. “Everything okay?”
“Oh! Yeah I’m fine.” It’s nearly impossible to hide the warble in my voice. “I just gotta use the bathroom.”
He offers a warm smile, that goddamn smile. That smile that makes me forget how to think. The one that makes me want to fall to my knees and crawl in his direction. “I’ll be here.”
I’m already halfway down the hallway when he speaks, but even without seeing him I know exactly what he looks like. I feel haunted by someone that isn’t even gone yet. The mirror reflects back the visage of a human-equivalent trainwreck. Sweat beads on my forehead, my hands are shaking, and I can no longer breathe through my nose. I stay in the bathroom for what feels like hours, splashing cold water on my face to try and calm myself. This stupid crush has never been this bad. Maybe a little pathetic at times, but never to the point of almost throwing up.
A muted knock patters against the door. “You okay?”
There’s a beat of scrambling—faucet, towel, deep breath, fake composure—before I open the door. “Yeah,” I sigh.
“You have water on your face.” Vic disappears into his bedroom and grabs a t-shirt that was strewn across his bed. It lands softly against my chest as he throws it my way. He doesn’t even ask what happened, he doesn’t even question it, and it drives me crazy. He’s so fucking nonchalant about everything, either picking up on all the cues and heeding to them, or ignoring them entirely.
“Thank you…” I hesitate before wiping the droplets of water off my cheek.
Vic lingers in the doorway, leaning against the frame with one hand braced above him. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, quieter this time. Less casual, more… cautious.
I nod, too quickly. “Yeah. I think your AC’s out again, I guess.”
He doesn’t call me out. Doesn’t press. Just nods back, as if that’s enough. As if the tightness in my voice and the tremble in my hands aren’t obvious. As if the air between us didn’t shift just minutes ago.
And that’s what drives me mad the most. The maybe of it all. Maybe he felt it. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’s ignoring it. Maybe he’s trying not to ruin something. Maybe he’s just that good at pretending. He turns to walk away, and I follow him, because that’s what I do—gravitate toward him like gravity doesn’t apply the same way when he’s in the room.
Back in the living room, the glow from the paused video still dances across the walls. He flops down onto the couch, legs sprawled and eyes fixated as if nothing happened, as if I didn’t just spiral in his bathroom. I sit down beside him, not too close this time. And he doesn’t say anything, and I don't either. The silence thickens again. Not awkward, never that. Just loaded. Dense with what I’ve never dared to speak aloud.
Quietly, he starts. “You ever think about how weird it is? The way some people just… become part of your life?” I glance over at him, and his eyes are still locked on the screen, but the video is long forgotten. “Like,” he continues, “you don’t even realize it’s happening. Then one day you wake up and they’re just… there. And suddenly, its like they were always there, like you can’t remember what your life was before them.”
I smile cautiously and stifle a laugh. “Yeah?”
His head turns, eyes finding mine. Then suddenly, he’s not looking at me anymore. He’s playing it safe, like he didn’t just say something that attempted to break down the very wall I’d worked so hard to build around my stupid, aching feelings. The TV hums softly. A younger version of Vic yells something inaudible into a crowd on the screen. His hair is messier. His voice louder than ever. But I can’t take my eyes off the version sitting beside me—older, softer, quieter, and infinitely more dangerous.
Emboldened by his words I finally lean in to close the gap. The air condenses around us, and I look up at him for his approval. Stars in his irises, he nods breathlessly, and I find the velvety skin on his neck with my lips. Soft, tender kisses wash over him, raising bumps and making his hair stand on end. He instinctively tilts his head slightly, giving me better access to his nape, as a shaky breath escapes him. His cheeks flush a rosy hue, eyes fluttering closed as he mutters something inaudible under his breath.
Vic’s pulse quickens as a hibernated part of his soul reawakens. He reaches out, almost blindly, to brush a strand of hair behind my ear. I break away from his skin to meet his eyes, greeted with a pleading stare.
“Vic…”
I can’t even get the rest of my statement out before his lips are on mine. His kisses start slowly, the soft flesh of his lips grazing against my own. But he grows hungry, and as our kisses deepen we pour ourselves into each other. His hands slip down to grab my waist, and my own hands find their place on either side of his face. I respond to his fever almost instinctively, kissing him with an intensity that mirrors his own. The world around us –the drinks sweating on the table, the tour videos rattling on in the background– all wash underneath a wave of emotion.
Vic pulls back, only for a moment and only a hair's breadth away, words tumbling from his lips directly on to mine. “I was hoping you'd get the message,” he speaks, barely above a whisper, like all the air has been removed from his lungs. The sincerity in his voice makes my stomach ache. “I was tired of hiding how I feel.”
I’ve never had his attention like this before, and I find myself moving almost instinctively so as to not lose time. One leg after the other, I straddle his lap. He looks up at me as though I’m holding him on a taught leash, lost in the bliss of the moment. It isn’t long before I’ve moved back to his neck. I make quick work with my lips back down his neck to the collar of his shirt, exploring paths not traveled. My trembling hands trail gently down Vic’s sides, fingertips lingering just above the waistband of his jeans. I brush against his skin, savoring the warmth he exudes and the shiver my touch brings him. He exhales sharply, the sound catching in his throat like he’s been holding it in for far too long. With each kiss his fingers flex against my waist, gripping me tighter, both anchoring himself and silently begging me not to stop. There’s a vulnerability in him now, a tenderness behind the desire, and I feel it in the way he presses against me.
Despite how much he clearly enjoys my pampering, he cups my jaw in his palm to guide me back up to his mouth. Where within me before there was intensity and adrenaline, is now replaced with what I can only describe as pure yearning, almost closer to heartbreak than anything else. He holds the master set of keys, and I merely provide the lock on the door. This is as close as I've always wanted him, and yet it doesn't feel close enough. So, despite being entranced by our moment, I shift back. Vic’s hands hang in the air, confused but understanding all the same.
“Can we… hold on?” For the second time tonight, my voice waivers, and I hate how it sounds so utterly pathetic.
Worry shadows Vic’s face. “Of course. What's wrong?”
As much as I try to maintain eye contact, his dark irises connecting with mine makes me feel all the more guilty. “What is this to you?” I motion to myself, and then him.
In a heartbeat, something shifts in him: softens, deepens, relaxes. His shoulders release their tension and when he speaks, his voice is steady and real. “Everything I've ever wanted.”
Of all the answers I was expecting, that was not one of them.
Over the last year, Vic had become so much more to me than just a voice through the walls. Every photo of us together has been curated and saved, prepared for everything short of the damn apocalypse. One of them is my desktop wallpaper, several have gathered above my bed, and all of them linger in my mind more often than I ever admit. And it wasn't just the photos. Pierce the Veil's songs often rang through my headphones; during work, during school, and almost always before bed after our hangouts. There was something about Vic's voice–and just his entire being in all honesty–his raw emotion that he exuded in every project he graced, that made my pulse quicken. In the both cosmically short and personal eon I had known him, I had been in love with him.
And now, here he was. Sat underneath me, freshly confessed, soul attempting to break through from the corporeal realm to ours so it could grab a hold of me, and I couldn't feel more confused. I had convinced myself that if he ever found out about my affliction, his only reaction would be disgust.
“Look at me, please.” His voice is soft, breaking through the noise in my head. I hesitate, afraid that if I meet his eyes again, the dam will finally burst. That all the fear, the longing, the doubt, the love—I won’t be able to hold it back. But not looking at him feels worse. So, I do. I look.
And there he is. Vic, in all his impossible perfection, gazing up at me like I’m something worth waiting for. Like disgust and I could never possibly be in the same paragraph. Like I’m something worth understanding. “I’m here,” he says, barely above a whisper. Words spoken for me and for me only. “I’ve waited my whole life for you.”
The words knock the breath from my lungs. Because I know it’s true. He has been here, stood lingering like an awaiting passenger. Every late-night songwriting session, every shared laugh, every lingering glance that felt like a promise I was too afraid to believe. It was all him, and I had been refusing to acknowledge what was always there.
I swallow hard, blinking back the sting in my eyes. “I don’t know how to do this.” The words fall out before I can catch them: small, scared, honest. “But I've had this… feeling growing inside of me for a long time now. I know I should've been honest, and I would understand if you were irritated that my stares meant more than what I claimed they did-”
He cuts me off, wrapping his arms around the very shape of my being and finally pulling me over that gap. He nestles his face in the crook of my neck where my wild pulse is felt, soft breaths disturbing the long starts of my hair that fall near his face. “Even when I'm not with you, I'm still with you.” His voice, low and fervid, rattles my ribcage when he speaks. “When you don't come over for a few days, you manifest yourself in my mind. You live there rent-free, but I like having you there. I just want you to understand that.”
The words themselves are a promise in their own way; the kind of promise that needs no reassurance or reiteration. My arms rise on their own accord, threading around his shoulders, fingers tangling gently in his hair. I exhale, slack-jawed and weightless, finally letting go of the fear that kept me stuck in a rut for so long
“I want to do this right,” his voice is muffled as he turns his head in towards me. “Anything you need from me is yours for the taking.”
I sigh. “I don't want anything from you, Vic,” voice clear for the first time all day. “I just want you.”
The corners of his lips tighten into a smile, unseen, but rather felt against my chest, and I can't help but smile too. Helplessly, completely, beautifully undone by the magnificence wrapped around me; my misery eviscerated.
When I finally pull back enough to look at him again, his eyes are already waiting for me. “You’re shaking,” he says softly, brushing his thumb along my jaw. “There’s nothing wrong with your fear, but there also isn't anything wrong with your feelings.”
God, I want to believe him. And somehow, I do. My raw belief causes a stifled laugh to ring throughout the near silent room. “Well, there goes any chance I had of hiding it, right?” Miniature tears laced with joy, and hints of embarrassment, prick the corners of my eyes.
He smiles, like sunshine peeking through clouds of my rainy day disposition. “I think so. Though, I don't mind seeing you all flustered like this.”
I go to nudge his shoulder, but he knows me all too well. Vic catches my wrist mid-motion, threading his fingers through mine. He brings the back of my hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to trembling flesh, and for a moment, I wonder if this is all some fever dream. Yet the warmth of his lips, the slight firmness of his calloused fingertips—those are real. Undeniably real.
“You’re everything I write about,” he says suddenly. “Every song. Even before I knew it was you I was writing about.”
Once again, my heart does backflips. I try to squeak out a response, to let him know that everything is because of me. All that comes out is a strangled noise accompanied by a wavering smile. He seems to understand all the same. And then, he takes his lips in mine again. This kiss is different. Less like drowning, and more like swimming, and then like breathing underwater. When we part to gasp for air, I feel incomplete.
“Does this mean you'll stop hiding from me in my bathroom when I compliment you?”
I kiss him again. Explosively so. “Does that answer your question?”
He grins.