Chapter Text
It started with wobbly blue lines, appearing slowly on Brendon’s hands. An unknown and unsure ghostly hand sketching them on his skin from some other world. Brendon could only hope to one day be a part of it. He had had them his whole life, at first thinking that he had some form of invisible imaginary friend, constantly trying to send Brendon messages. But when he was six, his parents explained that the appearing and disappearing markings weren’t magic or anything to be feared; it was the universe connecting him to his soulmate. Even at six, he thought it was bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. But then, names, phone numbers, grocery lists, sketches, and mindless designs began to show up along his arms; there was another life on the other side of that pen. It was a real person. Someone Brendon was destined to be with, but was yet to ever actually meet. The vast possibilities were overwhelmingly endless. At first, it was frustrating since he was practically stuck in the same one hundred square miles of suburban Las Vegas, but then, after suddenly joining the band and shifting his circle of friends to the vast homogenous diversity that was California, Brendon felt hopeless. Who could he find there? What use was any of it?
In the last few years, the drawings had begun growing darker, the ink showing up far more clearly and fully on his skin with every stroke of the pen. Brendon wasn’t sure what it meant- if he was geographically closer to Them? Were They moving closer? There was a young guy moving into the house down the street. But there was also a girl three doors over that was moving out to go back to college. Did it mean They were leaving him? Were They hurt? In danger? He had already lied to his parents about locating the other person; asking questions about the strange phenomenon was out of the question.
It was just him. And so it had been for twenty years.
Last week, Brendon had been sitting in bed, trying to silence his curiosity, and hopefully the mind taking up both of their arms as blank canvas at nearly midnight. He had intended to read, but the words were just passing past his eyes blankly, all content spilling past him. Brendon splayed a hand over a page as he creased the spine, the top of his hand suddenly littered with short tally marks. As they appeared, darker and retraced over his knuckles, Brendon looked up from his book quickly. Of course, the rest of the house was empty, Brendon looking up and for some reason expecting a miracle- or ghost of some sort to tell him the truth. The cryptic lines had been appearing for far longer than that evening, a nervous tick Brendon assumed, creeping up without warning. Most of the time, Brendon would awake up with them all over him; hands, arms, palms, sometimes ankles. Whoever was supposed to be Brendon’s predestined other half sure was restless. At least that could filter the pool of suspects to insomniacs.
Every morning when he woke, washing the pen markings off with ease- the original markings already washed off on the other side of the world- the thought of scribing his own never crossed his mind. Brendon always had reservations about answering back. What could he say? It was Their skin being used for their own purpose; phonebook, notebook paper, prison wall, it wasn’t his business. Not really.
Brendon typically never felt the markings forming on his skin, unless a particularly pointed pen was used, so most of the art or writing was a complete surprise. It would show up as painfully awkward reminders that Brendon had failed all attempts to find its writer. They would form on Brendon’s forearms as he sat across from a prospective new date, his sleeves not long enough to shield either of them from the truth that halted all conversation. They would appear all over his arms in the middle of the night, the words crossed out and written over a thousand times, illegible and secretive. The only time Brendon had been safe, in his experience, was when he was busy on stage. Either the two of them seemed to agree on the time revealing themselves wasn’t ideal, despite having never met, or he sweat most of it off, never seeing Their attempt at communication.
Part of Brendon hoped the charade would end soon, though. There were only so many different ways he could hide the words he didn’t understand and try to explain the phantom he carried with him every day. Brendon wasn’t special in his search, but his seemed to be the most fruitless.
The morning of the first pre-tour practice, Brendon awoke to the pounding sound of his alarm, just as irritating as he intended. It was still dark in his room, the sun only peeking through the curtains to provide shadows to the room. In the darkness, he blindly reached out to silence his alarm. The arm that extended seemed to fall directly in a shadow cast in from the window opposite him. It was darkened, the shadow seemingly spotted. Brendon sat up and felt around for his lamp switch, trying to push away the shadow that seemed to move with him. In the light, the shadow remained, revealing itself to be swirling and twisting thoughts unwritten by himself, running down to his wrist and running away from him.
I pass so many faces, so many eyes
They wander and search me
Looking for my our secret;
A word, a line, a shape that isn’t mine in creation.
They are looking and I wonder
If any of them are you.
If there are even any eyes looking now.
If there is ever a reader to these dreams
Or if I’m the lucky one
Given the gift of silence;
The one person who will always answer back
By making you do it first.
The words stretched out the entire length of Brendon’s arm. It was the largest and most comprehensible happening yet. Four years and Brendon had never been able to read clear words from his other half, the other side. They were reaching out to him, asking if he was really there, if he was real. Or if they were one of the odd numbers that were left unmatched and meant to find another loose end to settle with. All Brendon had to do was draw a line and end the concern, but that seemed too simple; they wrote Brendon a poem and he would reply with just a scribble? He’d have to come up with a better plan than that. He had to be delicate and sincere. This would be the end of a period of desperation and silence. It was a drought; it couldn’t just be ended with a flood.
Getting out of bed, Brendon crossed the room the bathroom, undressing and looking for any other attempts at communication; only his right arm, wrapping all the way around. Brendon showered quickly, the ink running off his body quickly and easily; They must have already been awake- or never went to sleep- and had ridded themselves of the evidence. Brendon had gone to sleep early that night, God knows how long They might have been waiting for a response. Brendon scrubbed the guilt off his arm before stepping out of the shower and covering himself up with jeans and a long sleeve button up- if he had a reprise stanza, he didn’t want any of the guys to see it forming in the middle of a set; Brendon didn’t even have a name or gender of the person behind them. He was a proven failure. Not even luck was on his side.
Typically, people wrote addresses, dates, times, or names on their arms hoping to already know the person, but Brendon had kept a strict silence. He was terrified to break the façade. Whoever was writing those poems, those beautiful lines that poured out from the heart, might be disappointed by him. What if They would prefer to just be alone after Brendon’s response?
He’d have to get it right. Hear from experts- or really, the only dumb-lucky fool he interacted with daily.
After collecting his things and himself, Brendon grabbed his keys and phone and headed for his car. If he was lucky, he’d get there early and be able to have a few minutes alone to consider his first journal entry. Even luckier, someone there would be able to tell him and bypass his entire frozen mindset.
His brother found his soulmate by writing the address of the nearest coffee shop, his wife in Nevada by some stroke of universal will. His parents sought out each other after writing the same bible verse shorthand on their arm by chance during Sunday school. Jon happened upon his girlfriend, then a stranger, once she wrote her phone number on his hand and accidentally wrote it on herself as well. Spencer was attempting to locate his own soulmate by keeping records of all the words that appeared on him. Most of them though, by some freak chance, weren’t in English. Either Spencer was going to have to go international with his search, or he was looking at a French student with a horrible memory. The first option was a definite morale crusher, but Spencer still seemed hopeful. Ryan never really spoke to the topic often, saying he wasn’t that worried about it. He insisted that getting too wrapped up in the obsession right before going on tour and passing through mobs of unfamiliar faces was a surefire way to lose your mind.
Brendon envied his attitude. He wondered what was showing up under his sleeves that left him to be so nonchalant and confident in his search- or lack thereof.
Brendon drove in silence, looking at street signs and mulling over the idea of writing down a street cross section and requesting a face-to-face meeting. But nothing would be worse than discovering they resided by completely different oceans. He rejected the idea as he approached the street he was originally searching for. As Brendon pulled up to their practice space, he saw Spencer and Ryan climbing out of their own car. Spencer waved and Ryan held a hand over his eyes, squinting in the early morning light. His wave was far less enthusiastic.
“’Morning!” Spencer said once Brendon was out of the car and in earshot. “Ready?”
“Definitely.” Brendon nodded shortly. “Excited to get started. You?”
“The same.” Spencer agreed, the two of them walking side by side to the front door.
“I’ll be ready in about two cups of coffee.” Ryan muttered behind them, rubbing his eyes.
“Hung over?” Brendon laughed. “It’s Tuesday.”
“No. Just didn’t sleep well.” Ryan corrected, lowering his hands once they stepped under the awning that hung over the doors. “I’ll be fine.”
“I was at Ryan’s last night,” Spencer offered an explanation plainly as he waved to the man sitting at the front desk. “going over some ideas for tour.”
“Already ahead of the game.” Brendon noted with sounds of agreement. “Great. Can’t wait to hear them!” Ryan mustered up a tense smile, his features consumed with something unrecognizable and distant. Seemed like something other than Spencer’s ceaseless chattering kept him up. Brendon hoped he wasn’t nervous for tour; he knew Ryan’s constant last minute jitters that always flared up on the first days: first day of practice, first day of tour; first day of recording; first day in a new country. Doubt was a powerful enemy.
Spencer navigated the hallways quickly, muttering room numbers to himself and searching for the space reserved for them. It was towards the very back of the building, windows becoming far less frequent as they walked down a thin hallway; benefit of soundproofing. The lighting became artificial and the rising sun became irrelevant. They were without time, so it seemed.
“’Morning, gentlemen.” They all waved at the label manager standing at the front of the room, papers in hand and huddle of techs around him. Brendon forgot his name, and evidently no one seemed to say it as they greeted him. “Going to start just running through some stuff, hearing how it sounds- how you want to change it,” He meant that he had revisions already in the works. “We’ll work on a set list later.” When he was finished his own draft.
“Great.” Ryan said without any inflection.
“Jon should be here soon.” Spencer added overtop of Ryan’s reply, diverting the room’s attention from the growing tension. “Just parked.”
“Excellent. I’ll leave you to do your work. I’ll be right at the end of the hallway if you need anything.” His words implied a voluntary meeting, but they all nodded with the understanding that they’d never call him over. He’d be there every fifteen minutes with the same vague comments and suggestions until someone said a comment a little too honest and he turned sour. Ryan was already in the running of being the culprit that morning.
Spencer took his seat behind the drums and began warming up his wrists while Brendon and Ryan began checking the tuning of their guitars already placed out for them. Brendon’s had already been handled by a tech and needed no further adjustments. He swung the guitar around to rest behind his back as he walked up to Ryan who had his neck bent downward, listening for the correct notes as he made adjustments.
“You alright?” Brendon asked, approaching his attitude with more hesitance than usual.
“Yeah.” Ryan replied, not looking up. “Just tired. I told you.”
“Just checking.” Brendon replied defensively. “We’re going to be in here pretty much all day… Don’t snap on him too quickly; he’s just trying to help… Or control. Can’t tell yet.” Brendon laughed and reached out to bump Ryan’s shoulder lightly, not disturbing his work.
“I know. I’ll play nice.” Ryan agreed, looking up at Brendon, a smile pulling at his committed grimace. “Promise.”
“Thank you.” Brendon granted Ryan the full smile he was struggling with before turning away and greeting Jon in the door.
“Hey, sorry for being the last one.” He placed his bag down by the door before reaching for his instrument.
“It’s fine. All you missed were the typical orders and requests we will be ignoring.” Spencer laughed.
“Alright.” Jon nodded, already understanding the mood of the room. “Where are we starting?”
“Henry hasn’t presented us with his legislation on the set list yet.” Ryan replied, eyes still staring downward as he adjusted his corner of the room. At least someone knew his name, even though it seemed like he was using it more to insult than to dignify his position of power. Ryan looked up as the room remained quiet, surprised by his commentary. “What?”
“That kind of day? Alright. I can do it.” Spencer let out a laugh as he tested each head of his drum set. “Ready?”
They all nodded, settling into a previous routine, playing the same songs they had last tour. Time slipped past them as they focused on the songs they altered and rearranged and grew into melodies that could fill arenas as well as small indoor venues. It was a delicate balance. One that was interrupted not soon after they set in to work out the acoustic mid-set break.
The door swung open and Henry walked back in, clipboard in hand and pen tapping against it like it was a glass and he was about to make a toast to the room. He demanded the room easily, his presence taking up nearly the band’s entire view of the mirror in front of them.
“Great news!” He announced, holding the clipboard up. Brendon squinted to read the lines- the fine print.
“I’m sure.” Ryan quipped, bracing his elbows on his guitar and looking at Henry with a tense but patient face. He gave a side glance to Brendon. He would keep his promise. As Henry spoke, Ryan twisted with his shirt cuffs, turning the buttons until finally pulling it through the loop and loosening his sleeves to cuff them. His focus was an obvious sign he had no interest in Henry’s words.
“So, I put together my ideas for a set list- you boys you welcome to change it,” Boys. “but I think it does the job.”
“Thanks.” Brendon forced out, the paper being extended to him first. “Uh, hey, Spence? Ryan? Didn’t you two have some ideas you wanted to go over?” He turned to look over his right shoulder, keeping Spencer and Ryan in his vision while blocking Henry.
“Yeah! I mean, sure, we have a few things.” Spencer piped up, a set list being held out to him. Spencer had to stand to reach it, the paper suddenly coming a few inches short of an arm’s length. “Just some… Song order ideas.” He trailed off as his eyes read the page in his hands.
The order was scrambled and had no flow or theme; it had them ending with a lesser known song from the most recent album. Ryan stepped up to read over Brendon’s shoulder, refusing to take a paper from Henry himself. He continued to roll his second sleeve as he looked, muttering in Brendon’s ear as he did.
“He can’t be serious.” Ryan sighed, nudging Brendon’s side lightly.
Brendon looked over his shoulder to Ryan, their words traveling an inch before reaching the other; their words staying just between them. “Be. Nice.”
“You know, every time you say that I want to kill him a little more.” Ryan deadpanned, his weak smile gaining energy from the laugh Brendon attempted to pass off as a cough. “One of these days, Brendon. You’re going to get me to commit murder.”
“Promise?” Brendon asked, eyebrows raised innocently. “Because unless you want your solo, slow-tempo ballad to open an arena tour, you might have to start doing something.” Brendon’s finger tapped the first song numbered at the top of the page. Ryan’s eyes shot up to the top, reading the title and face paling.
“I need a drink.” Ryan sighed, stepping back and pulling his guitar off his body. He placed it down carefully, his arm extending at full length as he leaned over to tuck it back into its case. The skin on the underside of his right forearm was red and raw. Brendon diverted his eyes before Ryan saw him looking, wondering and worrying about it; they would have to get Ryan’s song changed or his arm would be bleeding by sound check.
“Me too.” Spencer agreed, placing his drumsticks down and giving the room a knowing look.
“Good idea. Take five-”
“I’ll take as long as I like, thank you.” Ryan responded sharply, blinking at the frozen expression on the face of the executive. “Anyone else want lunch?”
“I’m in.” Brendon responded immediately, having skipped breakfast that morning. And dinner the previous night. His skin had been restless recently, and he spent most of his time trying to decode it.
“Be back soon.” Jon said neutrally, being the first out the door, followed by Spencer as he wrapped around his set, Brendon, and then Ryan. He closed the door behind him with as little grace as he could. “Don’t wait up.”
They reemerged from the thin hallway, the walls flaring back out to the window lined foyer of the building, the sun now high enough in the sky to illuminate all sides of the building. The sunlight warmed them even as they crossed the floor to the front doors.
“Anyone know a place to eat?” Jon asked, the four of them falling into a typical formation as they started down the sidewalk. He looked at Spencer, who walked beside him, before throwing a glance over a shoulder at Brendon and Ryan.
“Ryan and I tried a place a couple blocks this way a few weeks ago. Anyone else mind?” Spencer was met with sounds of approval, the three of them nodding at him before falling into their own conversations, silent or verbal.
Under Brendon’s sleeves, his forearm began to itch. The fabric was probably too stiff and heavy for such warm weather, but he wouldn’t be bothered to lift his sleeves. He hadn’t looked all day. With his luck, he had become a mural in the hours between waking up and then. It was better hidden, or at least only admired in the silent privacy of night.
Brendon still had to think of what he would write back to his internal and eternal pen pal. He couldn’t respond in the middle of practice and leave the other person with four words after They had offered him more than just well-arranged letters. His fingers traced along his cuff, the temptation burning along his fingers and up to his arm. He let his hand drop to his side with a sigh, his appetite fading as his stomach began to fill with the heaviness of guilt and swallowed words never expressed.
“You alright?” It was Ryan’s turn to ask, his mood turning around after leaving the practice room. His face was neutral and attentive, but exhaustion still shadowed his features.
“I could ask you the same thing.” Brendon countered. He let his finger tap against Ryan’s wrist, not needing to point more directly at the blemish he was concerned with.
Ryan twisted his cuff back down over his arm, suddenly aware of how blistering red the skin appeared out of the artificial practice light. “Just, uh, tried a new detergent the other day. Obviously not good for me.” He muttered quietly as he rebuttoned the sleeves around his writs. “Was up all last night scratching.”
“Oh.” Brendon crumpled his expression as he offered wordless apologies to Ryan.
“It’s okay. Not a big deal.” Ryan finished his second sleeve and shook his wrists, settling the fabric while also waving away Brendon’s expression. “It’s fine. Let’s just get lunch. Do you know what you want? You’re hungry, right?” At the moment, no. The thought repulsed Brendon.
“Yeah.” He lied, smiling. “Never been… Wherever we’re going though. Don’t know what to expect.”
“Nothing too extravagant.” Spencer said, having been listening as his conversation with Jon lulled to silence. They stood at the corner of a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. “Just a sandwich place. It’s got like, four tables in the whole place.”
“How did you find it again?” Brendon wondered, looking more so at Ryan for the truthful response.
“There is a French place down the street.” Ryan said softly, lifting his hand to conceal his words. “Spencer was following some of the writings on his arm a little bit ago and we went to the restaurant- God knows why, the fuck do the French really know about food- and when I wasn’t in the mood for unpronounceable seafood, we found our way a few blocks down to this place.” Ryan waved his arm up at the building awaiting them at the other side of the street.
Brendon would have mistaken the place as another house along the sidewalk, the aged and sun streaked white siding looking more like that of a home than a functioning business. He didn’t object and followed the three of them in the front door.
There were two other people in line before them, staring up at the lettered sign hanging above the short wrap-around counter. Ryan didn’t look up at the menu, but instead at Brendon; he was looking up with a growing look of discomfort and disinterest on his face.
“Not like anything?”
“No… Just not hungry all of a sudden.” Brendon admitted. The churning in his stomach was starting to swirl around in his ears. His hands fiddled with his cuffs again. “Don’t feel like it.”
“You have to eat something. We’re going to be in that dungeon for the next twelve hours. You and I both know it.” Ryan countered. “You have to eat.”
“Really, I’m fine.” It seemed to be the most common expression exchanged between the two of them. Brendon didn’t like to think their friendship was based purely on the exchange of lies.
“Shut up and go sit down with Jon. I’ll get you something.” Ryan said with both finality and laughter, pointing at the only free table at the other end of the deli. “The order process is weird; Spence and I’ll do it.”
“I’m not-” Brendon stopped a lie from coming from his lips, one already buried under his skin. “Thanks.”
“Please. Don’t mention it.” Ryan winked and waved Brendon away, stepping up to Spencer as the line condensed.
Brendon walked past the line and sat across from Jon, his shoulder leaning against the wall. Jon was on his phone, most likely speaking to Cassie for the first time that day since their morning had started early. Brendon didn’t interrupt him and looked around at the newspaper clippings framed and taped to the walls. He didn’t notice the pair of eyes that kept glancing back at him from the line. He was too fixated on the article about the fire that nearly ended business three years ago.
“Hey, crazy morning, right?” Jon said finally, placing his phone down and engaging Brendon in conversation. “What is he thinking?” The name had already been forgotten.
“Not sure.” Brendon laughed, throwing his hands up to shrug. “I’m sure we’ll fix it though. Either that, or we won’t really have a show.”
“Hope we can. While still keeping our jobs.” He added, rolling his eyes. Brendon wasn’t sure who it was meant to antagonize; Henry or Ryan. Either way, neither were going to be a peaceful force to coax.
Brendon nodded in agreement and shifted in his seat, facing Jon. He placed his hands on the table, fingers drumming on the table top softly. Brendon was back to looking at the décor, oblivious to the eyes on him, including Jon’s.
“…What?” Brendon asked, his hands lifting to touch his face, attempting to find the obvious blemish or deformity Jon was focusing on.
“What’s TC mean?” Jon asked, his head nodding toward him. His eyes were focusing on his hand slowly.
“I don’t know.” Brendon replied honestly, looking at the letters being scribbled on his left hand.
“Any ideas?” Jon asked casually, turning his head to look at it from a different angle. “Know who it is?” Typically, the question was followed with the most painful three letters: yet. Jon withheld it and asked with sincerity and patience.
“No.” Brendon sighed, pulling his cuff over it and sliding his hands off the tabletop. “Working on it.”
“Fair enough.” He accepted the answer without further questioning; not everyone was lucky enough to find their soulmate in their homeroom freshman year. “Don’t worry too much. There are only so many people in the world. You’ll find them.”
“There are seven billion people.” Brendon deadpanned.
“Minus the couples.” Jon countered. “That leaves you with only about… I’ll say four billion.” He laughed and reached over to push Brendon’s shoulder lightly. “I’m kidding, relax. Not a big deal.”
“I know.” But it was to that other person, scrawling away on their skin, screaming silently and reaching out into the dark, hoping someone would reach back, answering the call. Brendon would have to answer that call soon. He couldn’t leave Them to think they were a child of the dirt, destined to be mismatched and alone. “Just need to figure out what to say.”
“You haven’t written anything?” Jon asked, surprise crossing his neutral expression. Brendon shook his head, tugging on his sleeves again. “Shit. How did you ever cheat in high school?” Brendon was relieved by Jon’s light-hearted joke, grinning and letting his fingers come up to rest on the edge of the table.
Their laughter was interrupted by Ryan, placing his hand on Brendon’s shoulder as he passed, telling them Spencer was waiting on their food. He walked on, presumably to the bathroom, his right hand twisting his left as he disappeared around a corner. Both Jon and Brendon watched him hurry away.
“You think he’s okay? He’s been pretty weird lately.” Brendon asked, eyes still fixed at the end of the hallway.
“I don’t know.” Jon shrugged, turning back to Brendon. “Love the guy but sometimes I don’t even know where to start, ya know?”
“I guess.” Brendon mumbled. “Hope this tour kicks off a lot better than the last.” Ryan didn’t speak the entire flight, bus ride, or sound check. Brendon was no better though, every free second he had, he was staring down at frantically written words too rushed to understand, trying to understand, trying to help.
“I’m sure it will be.” Jon assured him. “We’ve all gotten better since then.”
Brendon nodded and looked down at his hands. He hadn’t gotten that much better since the last tour; he still didn’t know what any of the words meant. He still hadn’t figured out what had happened all those miles away. Nervously, his fingers ran over the words on his left hand, the tingling in his other arm extended over to the other. As he itched, the letters smudged and began to disappear on his hand. He hid his hand under the table hurriedly, still trying to remove the lettering in secret as Ryan fell into the seat next to him.
He entered the conversation with a scoff, wiping his hands on his jeans. “No receipts or paper towels. This is the most green small business I’ve ever seen.”
“No receipts?” Brendon echoed, the annoyance unclear.
“To get your food you have to have a receipt, we got little notes jotted on our hands.” He rolled his eyes as he moved his chair closer to the table. “Had to copy mine onto Spencer’s hand just so I could use the bathroom.”
“You are just having the worst day.” Brendon sighed, patronizing him.
“Shut up.” Ryan fought another smile and pushing Brendon’s arm, his hands sliding off one another and halting his attempt at erasing Their communication. “Told you I’m running on like, two hours of sleep.”
“We know. Still not sure what you could possibly have been doing.” Jon said, raising his eyebrows but lowering his eyes to his phone, muting his following commentary.
“I was waiting for someone, I’ll have you know.” Ryan replied, placing his hands on the table. “Waiting for someone to get back to me. Guess I couldn’t stay up past four.” Ryan muttered the last part to himself, his thumb rubbing the skin on his left hand, the skin turning red just like his arm.
“Here we are!” Spencer announced his arrival before sitting down across from Ryan. “Jon here’s yours, Ryan, and Brendon.” Spencer handed Brendon a sandwich wrapped in thin foil. He took it with a quiet muttering of thanks as he placed it on the table in front of him, careful not to leave his left hand above the table for too long. “I got that last time I was here. It’s really good, but not that heavy; Ryan said you weren’t feeling that good?” He wasn’t inquiring for accuracy, but for more information on the topic.
“Just not feeling it.” Brendon replied, waving his right hand around to gesticulate his articulation. “Palatable tension and resentment ruins my appetite.” He threw a look at Ryan, who ducked his head as the table laughed.
“I promised I’d be civil.” Ryan answered. “I promised.”
“We still have the other half of practice.” Brendon reminded him, his fingers finding the folded flap of tinfoil and lifting it as his elbow nudged Ryan.
Jon replied with a snide remark, the table’s laughter slowly getting louder, but Brendon never heard the exact words; his eyes were too transfixed on the small lettering written on the foil, identifying the sandwich: TC.
If Brendon hadn’t lost all appetite to eat by that point in his day, he wasn’t going to be hungry until at least next week now. The realization was disorienting and horrifying. Brendon felt embarrassed, someone at his table being his designated other half, and he didn’t notice. Hell, he never even wrote back. There was no charming way to talk his way out of that. Soulmates or not, They didn’t have to like him after the way Brendon had threated Them… Him. Who was it?
Jon, definitely not. Brendon had been sitting with him when the letters showed up; it would have been impossible for him to be at fault. Ryan, couldn’t be. His hands were completely clean, admittedly red and painfully raw looking, but clean. Not a word written. All that left was Spencer. But that… That couldn’t have been right either. Spencer already had someone. Why would Spencer write paragraphs on his arm searching for someone? Unless Spencer had two… Brendon had heard of it a few times; people having two channels, two different soulmates. All three weren’t in connection, there was only one person who branched out to two other souls. Sometimes they all got together, but most of the time one person was left behind, left out to try and settle with a missing piece, forgetting that their true soulmates words would appear on their skin involuntarily.
It couldn’t be. Brendon couldn’t be the forgotten, pulled along soul everyone pitied. He had already lied to his family. Spencer was already completely entranced by his French mystery, an awkward friend and bandmember was not nearly a good enough trade off.
Brendon thought his stomach was going to make its way into his throat, swirling and churning like a storm as he looked at Spencer. The same letters appeared on the hand resting on the table, for all to see. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t right. Those words weren’t Spencer’s. He was never worried about being met with silence. That wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been. There was something wrong. Something wrong with Brendon.
“Hey I think I left my phone in the studio, I’ll be right back.” Brendon said, standing quickly and stuffing his hands into his pockets, hiding his hands and pretending not to feel his phone. He avoided a particular set of eyes as he turned and went for the door, nearly tripping over his chair and own feet. Brendon was out the door, on the sidewalk, and seconds from walking onto the crosswalk without a second glance when he heard someone calling after him.
“Brendon! Wait!” Ryan had a hand out, not only waving for his attention, but trying to grab his shirt before he nearly walked into traffic. “What the hell happened?”
“Nothing.” He lied; old habits die hard. Brendon took a step back and stood firmly on the sidewalk. Ryan’s hand gripped his shoulder tightly, the again exposed raw skin stretching up his arm. Just looking at it made Brendon’s own arm sting, a sensation similar to frantic scratching ghosting over his skin. He let his eyes fall to the sidewalk.
“Okay, I know I started my day practically dead, but you do know I’m not blind, right? I mean, I’m not a complete idiot.” Ryan said firmly, his eyebrows raised incredulously.
“I didn’t say that-”
“But if you say you’re ‘fine’, or some variation thereof one more time, you practically are. And I won’t have my intelligence insulted by two people today.” Ryan’s dry humor was the most honesty in the area they had expressed in a while. They were both far too sober. “What’s wrong?”
Brendon dug his hands into his pockets again. “Nothing-”
“Brendon, I swear to God.”
“I don’t want to talk about it with you.” Brendon said harshly. “I know you don’t want to hear it.”
Ryan’s hand lowered and his expression softened. His lips parted as he looked shocked and hurt by Brendon’s response. “I-I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know, Brendon.”
“No, I won’t make you listen to my crap.” Brendon scoffed. “You said it yourself that it’s foolish to get too involved in it.”
Ryan’s voice immediately lowered and he stepped closer to Brendon, their conversation enclosing between them again. “Did something show up at practice?” It was the first time Ryan was even interested in the topic, typically waving the topic away with a clean and unmarked hand.
“Not practice, but…” Brendon looked around at the empty sidewalk, as if anyone passing by would understanding the strings attached to the news he had stirring inside of him. “But, something did show up while we were waiting, just a minute ago.”
“And? What does it say? What’s wrong?” Ryan was trying to follow Brendon as closely and quickly as possible to the same understanding, but Brendon had very little information to give. He just lifted his hand from his pocket. “Is that it.” His eyes fell on the letters, now known to be abbreviations, and his voice grew grim. He seemed to come to the same conclusion. Even Ryan pitied Brendon in his sudden hopeless situation.
“Don’t say it. I know.” Brendon sighed, letting his hand drop quickly. “Believe me, I’ve been to every conclusion in the past two minutes. I don’t need them to be fact checked, okay?”
“W-What do you… Who do you think it is?” Ryan asked slowly, his hands wringing in front of him.
“Don’t make me say it.” Brendon grumbled, turning to notice the light had since changed, giving him the safety to escape further. “I don’t need this.” He began walking away. Ryan stayed put.
“Brendon.” He called to Brendon who was a quarter of the way across the street. He didn’t yell, in fact, Brendon wasn’t even sure Ryan had called after him at all. Brendon kept walking, keeping his head facing forward. “That-That’s my handwriting.”
Brendon was sure he had imagined it. It was a trick of the city, the humming cars and gentle wind and chattering outdoor cafes deceiving him. He stopped in the middle of the street, letting his head turn to look at Ryan, acknowledging he had spoken, if he had at all…
Ryan was standing at the very edge of the sidewalk, having stepped up moments from chasing Brendon. His eyes were wide, blown from sublimity and blinking rapidly as he tried to filter reality from any dream his sleepless night was attempting to use to disorient him. His arms hung by his sides limply, completely weightless from shock. The skin on his right arm was just as red and raw, the tingling skin under Brendon’s own sleeve suddenly making a lot more sense, feeling a lot less painful. The matching sensations coinciding with scrubbed away communication, a dedicated attempt to forget and erase the permanent.
Ryan stepped down from the curb, meeting Brendon in the middle of the street, mouth hanging open as if words would one day come. But he had written them all down. There were none left.
“It was you.” Brendon approached the subject slowly. “You.”
“You were there the whole time.” Ryan was finally being answered by something other than prolonged silence. He looked close to tears or laughter- Brendon wasn’t sure which at the moment. “You’ve been here the whole time.”
“I guess I have…” Brendon breathed, looking down at his own hands, finally having found their artist. “I-I’m sorry for the silence… I never knew what to say. You… You wrote such beautiful things,” Ryan scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I never knew how to tell you that you weren’t talking to nobody… Because you kind of were.”
“Jesus, Brendon, I didn’t need a sonnet. Just a line, a word, a shape, something.” Ryan finally began laughing, grabbing both of Brendon’s shoulders to shake him lightly. “Anything would have sufficed.”
“Well, you could have told me that.” Brendon muttered, blush rushing to his cheeks. “I mean, we have a direct form of communication, Ryan.” Finally, no more lies.
“Next time you give me the twenty-year silent treatment, I’ll consider it.” They began laughing again before being interrupted by honking cars, the two of them still in the middle of the street.
“Shit!” Brendon quickly reached out and began pushing him back to the street, the two of them stumbling into and over each other as they reached the curb again. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this now.”
“No. No. Definitely not.” Ryan agreed, brushing his shirt down and looking over his shoulder to see if Spencer and Jon had made their way out onto the sidewalk out of curiosity. “Not here.”
The discomfort was unnerving, but at least equally shared. The information was shocking and undeniable, but they still had other things to do before they could even discuss what it all meant now. What all four previous years would mean now that it had been Ryan writing all over Brendon during tour, long nights, and early mornings. They’d both need time to relearn what it meant to be each other’s friend, each other’s other half. They would need to learn how to be together. They had spent so long with some part of themselves belonging to the other, they now had to reintroduce themselves.
But it couldn’t be there. Not now.
“Do you… Do you want to maybe do something after practice?” Brendon asked, rubbing the back of his neck. Rejection now would be horrific and not even the immediate promise of rushing traffic could cure it.
“Absolutely.” Ryan nodded, smiling softly. “As long as I’m not in prison by then.”
“Hey, you said you’d be nice.” Brendon said with faux shock, feeling comforted by the unaltered smile Ryan offered him, the two of them starting for the shop again.
“I lied.” Ryan whispered, shrugging. “I do that sometimes.”
“Can’t believe, first day of meeting my sought after clandestine other half, and he lies to me. And vaguely threatens to kill our label manager.” Brendon muttered, clucking his tongue softly. “Unbelievable.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” Ryan began, placing an arm around Brendon’s shoulders. “We both have a very long time to start believing it.”
“Starting with lunch.”
“Promise you’ll actually eat it this time?” Ryan asked, raising an eyebrow and reaching for the door. “Sorry. Sorry. No more promises.” He paused for a moment. “You better eat that damn sandwich or I’m going to start using permanent marker.”
“Do you promise?”