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"I'm not in love with him, pshh," Brendon says, blowing air through his lips and cocking his head to the side in a gesture that seems like a cartoonish denial of a very true fact.
"First of all, he's probably not even- y'know, like me," he continues. "He's just, like, experimenting. Everybody experiments."
The mirror stares back at him blankly. Who is this guy not to believe him? When Brendon sticks out his tongue, so does his reflection. Rude. God, maybe all the pills he's been taking are finally making him crack up. Arguing with himself. He continues anyway.
"It's a lot of experimenting though." Damn, his reflection has a point. All those late nights in hotel rooms dotted across the country, and before then, the times in Brent's basement, or falling asleep tangled together on Spencer's couch. Ryan always says he's just bored. Brendon cards a hand through his hair, fusses with the way his fringe falls onto his forehead. It never sits quite right.
"Yeah, but it's not like there are girls around all the time." This, obviously, is a blatant lie. He's standing in the mirror, lying to himself about the fact that he could walk outside the bus at any stop on the tour and be met with a swarm of pretty girls who all wanted to get with someone in the band. Sometimes the girls are more interested in Ryan than in him. He can't blame them. It's Ryan. Who wouldn't be drawn to him?
"Sounds like you're in love with him," the face in the mirror quickly points out.
"There's a difference between thinking he's hot and being in love with him," Brendon answers. paThat's a great evasive answer. He could be a politician with answers like that. There is a difference, but of course, Brendon doesn't address which side he falls on. His reflection doesn't even bother to comment on it. They both know the argument is over.
Plus, he's totally been hogging the bathroom. So he puts the finishing touches on his hair (it falls out of place when he turns around), and opens the door.
And as if thinking about him too much could summon him, Ryan is there, sitting on the couch in the little "lounge" area of the bus, scribbling in the little notebook Pete gave him. His knees are pulled up to his chest, and his paperboy hat is cocked to the side. One socked foot taps on the edge of the couch along with a beat that only exists in his head. When he gets to the end of the mumbled phrase, he groans, reaching up to take off the hat and ruffle his hair before finally looking up at Brendon. His gaze is venomous at first, coming off hot from whatever annoyance the writing process had thrown at him, but then, just a moment later, it softens, and he lets out a little breath. "Were you talking to yourself?"
Oh, right. The ramblings of an insane person. "Uh, I guess," he answers, trying to sound as unsure as possible. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. And hopefully not loud enough for Ryan to have actually caught any of what he was saying. He shrugs his shoulders up and down in another gesture that feels too large for what he's trying to convey. It gets Ryan to crack a little smile though. More of a smirk. But it's something.
"Come here, I wanna hear you sing this." He shifts on the couch so his long legs curl to the side and he props himself up with his arm. Brendon moves from the doorway to sit down right next to him, their shoulders brushing. When he does, Ryan moves his arm and lets his weight rest against Brendon's side. His head fits neatly on his shoulder too. They've done this a million times, but it still feels electric every time. Ryan fumbles for the notebook without looking and holds it up to Brendon. He drags his finger across the lines he wants Brendon to sing, and then quietly gives it a try himself.
It doesn't really sound like anything they've put out so far. It's slow, sort of whimsical, and Ryan sounds even more shy than usual when he's going through the melody to show Brendon. There's something there, though. There's a buzz about it, like the smell in the air just before the clouds open up for a storm.
"I'm thinking of calling it Northern Downpour," he finishes, and it feels like he read Brendon's mind. "It's about everything," he adds with a shrug intended to look nonchalant.
But...Everything. That's a lot, isn't it? Somehow, though, within the text scribbled on the page, he understands. He can make Ryan's words come to life. Sometimes it feels like it's what he was put on this earth to do. Worship at the altar of poetry, kneel for the deity and muse wrapped into one. He starts to sing.
"Hey moon-"
"No, you're supposed to go down there." Ryan picks his head up off of Brendon's shoulder. The shift in weight feels like an unbalancing of the scales. Brendon sways, dipping his own head down to nose against Ryan's chest. He lets out a low groan that trails off into a laugh. Without even looking up, he can tell Ryan is rolling his eyes at him, but he's also messing with Brendon's hair, and that's more than enough to satisfy him. Eventually, he looks back up at Ryan and starts again.
"Hey moon, please forget to fall down. Hey moon, don't you go down..."
He stops short. It's not the end of what Ryan's written, but he stops anyway. His whole body feels heavy suddenly, like he could drown in Ryan's gaze. He's staring down at him with this look on his face that makes him forget everything else. His eyes are big, and his lips are fluttering between a pout and a smile, unsure. It hits him all at once, that compared to a year ago, he looks a lot older. He's grown into his features even more and hasn't bothered to shave the stubble around his chin. Brendon can see himself reflected in Ryan's dark pupils. He himself hasn't changed much at all. Still such a babyface, a hopeless puppy devoted so deeply. But Ryan doesn't seem to mind right now. His face settles on a smile. Brendon settles something, too, an argument between two halves of himself.
Obviously, they're about to kiss. Ryan, as mysterious as he can be, is terrible at hiding when he plans to go in for one. Brendon lets his eyes flutter closed in anticipation. Maybe he'll finally tell him the truth about everything. Maybe Ryan already knows. Either way, the moment they're about to fall into is special.
"I don't know, I'll probably hate it in a week," he says instead of kissing him. Oh. Brendon opens his eyes to see Ryan pick up the notebook and lean back into the couch, head tilting up towards the ceiling. He clutches it tight against his chest for a moment, and then chucks it across the lounge to fall to the ground by the bottom of the other seat.