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Description
I am running again. I am running down winding metaphors and ever lasting confusion. My entire life consists of rapidly running around, searching for answers that lead to more questions. Answers that tear open the lining of my brain and spill acid into my head. Like a bullet to my stomach.

--

I look at Burbank really closely. He's got to be fucking jonesing me! "What about Taylor?"

Burbank grins, "You know me too well. Okay, so these pills have nothing to do with Taylor, you got me. There is something we have to talk about, though."

I roll my eyes and lean back in that dull green chair I know all too well. Burbank should not tease people like that. I don't grudge on him, though. It seems I lie to him quite a lot, too. "What about Her Majesty, then?"

"Nothing bad," he circles around his desk to sit in his chair. "Actually, it's spectacular. She's exceeding standards in her English class. All her classes, really."

"That's great," he's got sarcasm outta me.

"True," he never could detect my sarcasm, "However, the VP and El Jefe are considering switching her classes so she's above, higher, where she can be challenged."

"I thought there was something negatively melodramatic, here, boss."

"There isn't actually. They're considering switching all your schedules back. Mac was not the only one exceeding. From what I understand, out of the five of you, only Trevor Carson is revolting. They want to return to your classes by the last Monday of this month."

"Except," my head explodes right about here, "there's one condition. You all have to sign a contract that explicitly states that under one violation or even suspected violation, you all are dropped back to regular classes. From that point, you can no longer redeem your academically inclined status."

Then implodes here.

-//-

Now I'm running because I suddenly remember, I remember about Pete's note. I'm not usually this eager to get it, but it's that Brendon was sitting in my seat when I left. My seat where I usually get the note. My seat where he's probably reading it now. My seat where he will probably tell Chelsea. My life where Chelsea knows everything about Pete and my life, where Chelsea will tell Mac.

I haven't actually decided why that's a negative thing, but so far, I've gotten as far as, it's none of their business. When I reach the class, it's empty. Brendon's locker was alone. My locker, however, has his home address.

"... in the file which I know you have. Everyone knows about those shits."

At my locker, however, are my two least favorite people in the world right now. Margot and Mac. I slow to a stop in front of them and they both stand. I wonder how fast I can turn around and dash out of the building before they reach me and rip my hair out.

So I take a new direction.

-|-

Ryan just sees the two of us and stops short in his steps. Before I blink, his fake smile bursts out on his face. He stares me right in the eye as he speaks, as to watch where exactly I'm looking. "Guess what!"

I nod, not in the particular mood for his little-kid shit. I can see past his facade even on his best days. Still, I know if I call him on it, he'll run. "What is it, Ry?"

Margot looks up from her Time magazine on the floor, only she's not interested. I don't really know what Margot's game is, but all I care about is Ryan's happiness. So as long as this broad keeps her skirt on and doesn't break my kid's heart or backstab him in any way, I wont take her lights out.

"I was talking to Burbank, and he said that El Jefe is considering returning our class schedules if, that is, we continue to exceed our current classroom potential. Not that will pose any difficulty. It sometimes strikes me how humorous the intelligence of our race can be. Anyways, we also have to stop acting out. Or even suspected to acting out. We should consider not getting caught, I reckon that will make everything around us much simpler. That'd be lovely... why the hell are you looking at me like that!"

What? "Like what?"

"Like I'm lying to you, why do you keep looking at me like that? I'm not fucking hiding anything from you, so either you pick a fucking side or tell me what your bloody problem with me is."

I know he's on the offensive because my defense isn't even up. Ryan told me once that we were two birds at the top of a tree, competing for the same resources. Yet, at the same time, we need each other to survive.

It never made much sense to me, either.

Margot stands to my defense, not like I need the skank. "Ryan, what the hell are you talking about?" Even I know why Mac is looking at you like that. You're acting like you're a goddamn junkie. Calm down, kid!"

Ryan looks between the two of us like he was expecting her to go to his defense. He caves, "I don't know what the hell my problem is, I can't keep my head together lately."

He walks past me and slams his head on his locker, sorrowfully. Margot wraps her arms around him, kissing his temple, "It's okay, kid. That's why we're here. You don't have to keep it all in, sweetheart." She rests her head on his shoulder and continues to whisper sweet nothings in his ear.

Margot might be fooled, but Ryan's act doesn't fool me.

Still, the skirt makes me realize that maybe, I'm going about this all wrong. Maybe if I'm not butting heads with the kid, he'll tell me what ever the hell's up his ass. Or perhaps what isn't...

-|-

I barely make it away from Mac and Margot without barfing, spilling my guts, screaming bloody murder, or running away. Finally, at six and forty eight, I run to Brendon's house.

The M & M's insisted on staying with me for a while until I told them to get the fuck out of my house so I could sleep peacefully for some time. They bought it and scurried off. I managed to steer their attention away from me for some time and slipped Brendon's folder in my bag.

The second I felt it safe, I raced down streets until I couldn't feel my face from the wind chill. When I reached the front door, I rand the doorbell excessively.

A girl appeared in front of me. Maybe 25. Rude. "What?" Definitely not Ashlee.

"Uh, is Brendon home?"

"Yeah, hold on," she turns toward the house, "BRENDON!"

A bounding, lanky figure races down the stairs, "Whaddya want?"

"Someone at the door for you, Brennykins," she walks off.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and I, just then, remember I left my hoodie at my house, making tonight much colder than it should be. Brendon comes view and immediately my anger slackens. His features are angelic, framed by the light behind him. I almost forget my nerve. "What do you want?" he hisses at me.

"You have something of mine," I tell him. I'm not playing his retarded mind games tonight.

"Really? Do I?"

"Brendon. I'm not in the mood for your little kid shit. Can you just give me the goddamn note and leave me be?"

Brendon's eyebrows knit together in confusion, "Note?"

"Yeah, it was in my seat."

Brendon sighs, "There wasn't a note today. There was an envelope with a flyer inside."

What? "What?"

Brendon shrugs, reaching into his back pocket, "I figured you would swing by looking for it," he hands me a red envelope with my name scribbled on the back of it. I open it and take out a neon green flyer. It's for Zero Tolerance, a small nightclub at the end of Summerville, past 42nd street. In big letters, it tells the details of a show tonight at six. With the last act as a band with the name scratched out and written over in Sharpie. Saved Latin.

My blood stops cold. My shipwreck of a life is now, going down in flames. Pete should know me well enough to know that if I was in my right mind, I would never go to the show. Ego maniac. Who does he think he is? I rip up the paper, "Fuck you," I mumble under my breath, "I'm not going."

I'm not sure who I was talking to.

My hands are shaking when I run them through my hair. My shaky breath and shallow nerves tell me exactly what I am trying not to acknowledge. I want to go to that show. I'm not going. I take a deep breath, "I'm not going, okay."

Why did I even come for the stupid note? I turn and start to walk away. Then, I realize that Brendon must think I'm psycho. "Oh, Brendon," I turn to him, "Don't tell Chelsea, please. Or Mac. Or Margot. Or anyone for that matter. It's nothing, really. I'm just being melodramatic, so yeah." I look up at him to find he's closed the door to his house and is walking towards me.

"What are you-?"

"Do you want me to go with you?"

What? "What?"

"Do you. Want me. To go... with... you? To the show, I mean."

"Aren't you listening? I'm not going. I'm not going," he starts heading towards the car in the driveway, "I'm not going!"

He shakes his head at me, chuckling, and unlocks the car. "Get in. I'm reading your body language like an open book. One, you forgot your sweater and you're cold. Secondly, you want to go but you hate going to public places alone. My mom is just like that. Or maybe I'm wrong. Tell me on the way. Get in."

My body is possessed by his common sense that I get in the passengers seat, willingly. If only I was in my right mind...

Inside the red car, is beige leather interior and reclining seats that feel like heaven after the hell I've walked through. I let my guard down, in this lulling warmth. Brendon's smooth voice murmuring along to some song on the radio. Before I could notice I was exhausted, my eyes had blinked themselves into a slumber of oblivion.

-|-

When I woke, Brendon was leaning over me. My groggy eyes clear and I push myself up. "What's going on?"

"We're here. You dozed off on the drive. It's okay, though. There was no snoring or drooling. Definitely pulled off the relaxation with a calm gaze."

"What time is it?" I murmur between a yawn.

"Around seven forty," he jumps out.

I yawn and get out, waiting for him to round before we go inside. My joints are tight but I don't want to seem slutty by stretching. Brendon and I grab a table in the back. He's got a fake ID convincing enough to get us a pitcher of beer.

The nightclub is sort of a haven for teens on the dirty side of town. 15 and over only, Zero Tolerance is a sort of dingy pub with tables in the back, a stage for local bands and a bar off to the side.

Brendon and I sat, trading polite silence because I felt too disconnected to say anything. It was eight o'clock when the stage got crowded. I was getting tired of just sitting mindlessly. Brendon's foot was bouncing at the bottom of my chair. I could tell he wanted to ask. "Go ahead. Ask," I tell him. "I won't bug out, I promise."

He sighs in relief, "Okay, uh, why is this so nerve-racking? I swear, I can hear your heart racing from here."

I glance at the stage as to not look at him, "I don't know. Honestly, I shouldn't be here. Don't tell Mac or Chelsea, but I need to be here. I need to hear them play for some reason. I just need it."

"Okay," Brendon shrugs, "I won't patronize you or anything by pretending to know you or what your talking about for that matter."

"Hello, Summerville! How are you guys tonight?" A voice booms over the surround sound from the mic.

"Thanks," I smile for the first time today. "Truce?" I offer him my hand.

Brendon doesn't take a second's hesitation, "Truce."

It seems something is going smoothly tonight. My attention, however, is adverted by the band onstage. "Alright, shut up. First thing's first. Tonight, we are Saved Latin, for the purpose of identification. And we are looking for a good friend of ours in the crowd tonight. He's called Shakespeare."

Right here, I go into cardiac arrest. Shakespeare is what he used to call me when he wanted to ditch his friends for me. It made sense in only a Pete sort of way. I turn to face the stage fully and slink back, further into the darkness of the club.

Pete's up there on that bloody stage looking straight through me. He knows I'm here. The light hits his eyes in a way that makes them gold. Brendon glances between the two of us out of the corner of my eye.

Pete looks away, addressing the crowd, "Alright. I know you're here, Shakespeare. I don't need you to show your face. I know you hate public places, just listen to the first song then jet off to Brazil."

Brendon glanced at me again, scared to ask. His fear of my outbursts is convenient but at the same time, offensive. I don't let him ask this time. I'm nauseous as it is, without having to talk about it.

Peter retreats to his side of the stage and Patrick Stumph steps up to the lead microphone. He asks the sound tech for volume and then tests the mic. I can't remember the last time that I saw Patrick Stumph. It had to be ages ago. Patrick and I stopped talking much earlier than Pete's move to Chicago.

Stumph looks straight at me when he speaks, his voice is crisp and angelic. It's difficult to register that he's glaring, "Where is your boy tonight, I hope he is a gentleman," this is insane. What is he even talking about? They have to be Pete's words, "Maybe he won't find out what I know," I glance at Pete, staring glaciers of gold at me, "You were the last good thing about this part of town."

The rest of the world sort of melts away from us, in angry pop melodies. The song bursts into guitars. Joseph Trohman, Pete and Patrick and two kids I can't recognize for the life of me jump and thrash around playing angry chorus lines.

I'm struck dumb. Numb under this intensity. Everything is rushing back. I remember Pete's touch, a touch that never judged and his fierce dominance under stressful situations. I remember what his voice sounding as he drifted to sleep in the very rare occasions. I never told him how attractive his weaknesses were. Even as an incredible being, he was human. He always said he was alien without me.

It wasn't until they hit the second chorus that I realized what they talking about. Brendon. Where is your boy tonight? How dare he intervene in my affairs? This is really swatting to please me of! When did I start drinking...?

Brendon speaks in a smooth, lulling voice that hauls me back down to the face of the Earth with a mind splitting crash. I remember myself suddenly and stop all though processes. What am I doing?

"You need him? I could be him?" this is Brendon talking, "What's going on?"

I stutter something profound about love. By the look on Brendon's face, he heard what I said. My words are inaudible when I speak. Or they are to my feeble mind.

Pete's got me in a twist again. His sick game of mind games. Fuck him. I am so sick of his little kid shit.

Brendon stands and shakes me away from the stage. "We're leaving. Get up."

His command is lost on me. I stare at him. He tugs my arm, "Ryan, get up. Now."

I finally project that he's talking to me and stand. Brendon grabs my arm and rushes me out of the building.

The door and the mass of people coated in sweat and liquor close behind us just as the song ends. We're outside, in the fresh night air and I am feeling much cooler now that I can't feel Pete's eyes on me. My skin, however, is searing.

The commotion inside gets louder in my ears every second we spend outside. My eyes can hardly focus on one spot. My brow must be soaked in heat. Before I knew what was happening in front of me, I was hit on the face. A striking blow across my cheek woke me from the trance.

"What the hell, Brendon?!" I scream at him. People outside, walking, stop to look at us, expecting a fight. I do want to slaughter the kid, but instead of understanding my rage, he says, "It works in the movies."

I laugh at his retarded joke. Just half heartedly.

Once the laughter floats away, he throws his arm around my shoulder and leads me back into the car. I feel like a bloody schizophrenic from this rush of untamed emotions. I feel like kissing him and running twenty six streets back home. I feel like tearing the very hair follicles out of my head but drinking some lemonade first. I could stay in the crisp night air forever. I feel like I would reach out and tear Brendon's face off and it would be like ripping wallpaper.

Brendon and I don't talk in the car. We don't think anymore. Or I'm pretty sure he doesn't. They clutter my head so much it feels like there is a demon inside. That's the fucking devil in my belfry.

I stop thinking in poetry long enough to process everything that's happened today. Hangover. Fight with Brendon. Fake out from Burbank. Fight with Mac. Swaying with Margot. Brendon's house. Pete's note. Pete's show with Brendon. You need him. I could be him. Have I eaten today?

"Stop the car."

"What?"

"Stop the car!"

I barely have enough time to open the door and lean over before I purge all my stomach acids curbside. Brendon groans in complaint but I completely ignore him. I feel I have more to complain about than he does.

When I settle back into the car, Brendon sighs, almost apologetically. "I really don't get you, Ryan Ross. Here, drink this, rinse your mouth out."

He hands me a water bottle. I do as instructed and pit out on the curb again. This makes me feel slightly less like shit. Brendon takes it upon himself to take good care of me. Not that I object. He hands me a ridiculous amount of mints. When they're all chewed out, he instructs me to spit continuously. Brendon says not to brush my teeth until I got to sleep.

"Why? My breath is killing!"

"Fine. Brush your teeth and get all those disgusting stomach acids stuck between them. I hope your teeth rot. Then you'll be moaning about me!"

"What?"

"About how you should have listened to me!" His blush is incredible.

I laugh and agree.

When he drives me all the way back to my house, I only stare at my lap. My system is still a bit shaken from the previous act. A sort of silence hangs around us, until, "Look," Brendon starts, "I don't really know what happened tonight, but I have a feeling that something was happening between glances and love songs."

I look at him now, urging him to continue. What does tonight mean to him?

Brendon sighs, "But I do know that's not any of my business, so I won't say anything to Chelsea or Margot or Mac or anyone like you asked me not to at the beginning of the night."

I sigh. Whether it's a sigh of relief or disappointment, I'll never know. I open the passenger door, "Thanks," I start, "Bren."

Then he looks at me fully and smiles brilliance. I can feel the heat rush to my chest at how attractive his true smiles is. Years pass before he speaks. "That's what friends are for, Ry. In case you hadn't noticed."

He doesn't drive off until he sees me enter the house.

-|-
In my house, I head directly to my room and shed my clothes. Inside the haven of my torn mind, I pace. Hours of thought and anguish wind around me and beat me into submission. I allow myself the pleasure of thought for a few moments. I think over all the events of the week, inadvertently ending up in one of my most hormone inducing places. He was so brilliant.

Then, realization hits like a beastly anvil over how I need him. How much I want him.

I realize everything he was talking about. Everything he said to me without saying a word. I'm an idiot. I'm such an idiot. An incredibly stupid idiot!

I spring from my bed and grab a hoodie to cover my chest. I grab the nearest pair of jeans and stick my feet in a pair of shoes without thought. How could I not see it?!

It was staring me right in the face.

...idiot!

Those reality cutting moment were all that I needed.

The world needed to catch up with me.

I race down the stairs and find The General passed out on the couch. That's good because I unexpectedly slam the door. My mind is spinning. I'm running again. Sprinting through possibilities and sidewalks and winding metaphors.

The putrid song is stuck in my head. You need him.

I need him. I realize that now. Maybe I always knew it. But I just never realized to what intensity.

Before I can really stick my foot the right way in my shoe, I'm standing on his front porch.

This could be the second stupidest thing I do tonight, but I have to see how it'll turn out. I need to know how he feels against me all over. I need to taste him, to feel his skin on mine. I need something real, to sleep between the stars and his heartbeat.

My body is possessed by curiosity and need as I fix my shoe and ring his doorbell. There's not even a second of my heart pounding until the door opens and there he stands. His features are angelic, framed by the light around him. I want to reach out and touch my angel.

To really touch him and not wallpaper.

His eyes light up at the sight of me, slightly confused. His smile is the first symptom of this contagious love. He does not protest as I rush his gold lips on mine. Our blind happiness sends me into a spiraling vertigo. His kiss is brilliance and magic and passion against me. I'm willingly melting into his love when he shuts the door behind us and leads up to his room.

Description
I am running again. I am running down winding metaphors and ever lasting confusion. My entire life consists of rapidly running around, searching for answers that lead to more questions. Answers that tear open the lining of my brain and spill acid into my head. Like a bullet to my stomach.

--

I look at Burbank really closely. He's got to be fucking jonesing me! "What about Taylor?"

Burbank grins, "You know me too well. Okay, so these pills have nothing to do with Taylor, you got me. There is something we have to talk about, though."

I roll my eyes and lean back in that dull green chair I know all too well. Burbank should not tease people like that. I don't grudge on him, though. It seems I lie to him quite a lot, too. "What about Her Majesty, then?"

"Nothing bad," he circles around his desk to sit in his chair. "Actually, it's spectacular. She's exceeding standards in her English class. All her classes, really."

"That's great," he's got sarcasm outta me.

"True," he never could detect my sarcasm, "However, the VP and El Jefe are considering switching her classes so she's above, higher, where she can be challenged."

"I thought there was something negatively melodramatic, here, boss."

"There isn't actually. They're considering switching all your schedules back. Mac was not the only one exceeding. From what I understand, out of the five of you, only Trevor Carson is revolting. They want to return to your classes by the last Monday of this month."

"Except," my head explodes right about here, "there's one condition. You all have to sign a contract that explicitly states that under one violation or even suspected violation, you all are dropped back to regular classes. From that point, you can no longer redeem your academically inclined status."

Then implodes here.

-//-

Now I'm running because I suddenly remember, I remember about Pete's note. I'm not usually this eager to get it, but it's that Brendon was sitting in my seat when I left. My seat where I usually get the note. My seat where he's probably reading it now. My seat where he will probably tell Chelsea. My life where Chelsea knows everything about Pete and my life, where Chelsea will tell Mac.

I haven't actually decided why that's a negative thing, but so far, I've gotten as far as, it's none of their business. When I reach the class, it's empty. Brendon's locker was alone. My locker, however, has his home address.

"... in the file which I know you have. Everyone knows about those shits."

At my locker, however, are my two least favorite people in the world right now. Margot and Mac. I slow to a stop in front of them and they both stand. I wonder how fast I can turn around and dash out of the building before they reach me and rip my hair out.

So I take a new direction.

-|-

Ryan just sees the two of us and stops short in his steps. Before I blink, his fake smile bursts out on his face. He stares me right in the eye as he speaks, as to watch where exactly I'm looking. "Guess what!"

I nod, not in the particular mood for his little-kid shit. I can see past his facade even on his best days. Still, I know if I call him on it, he'll run. "What is it, Ry?"

Margot looks up from her Time magazine on the floor, only she's not interested. I don't really know what Margot's game is, but all I care about is Ryan's happiness. So as long as this broad keeps her skirt on and doesn't break my kid's heart or backstab him in any way, I wont take her lights out.

"I was talking to Burbank, and he said that El Jefe is considering returning our class schedules if, that is, we continue to exceed our current classroom potential. Not that will pose any difficulty. It sometimes strikes me how humorous the intelligence of our race can be. Anyways, we also have to stop acting out. Or even suspected to acting out. We should consider not getting caught, I reckon that will make everything around us much simpler. That'd be lovely... why the hell are you looking at me like that!"

What? "Like what?"

"Like I'm lying to you, why do you keep looking at me like that? I'm not fucking hiding anything from you, so either you pick a fucking side or tell me what your bloody problem with me is."

I know he's on the offensive because my defense isn't even up. Ryan told me once that we were two birds at the top of a tree, competing for the same resources. Yet, at the same time, we need each other to survive.

It never made much sense to me, either.

Margot stands to my defense, not like I need the skank. "Ryan, what the hell are you talking about?" Even I know why Mac is looking at you like that. You're acting like you're a goddamn junkie. Calm down, kid!"

Ryan looks between the two of us like he was expecting her to go to his defense. He caves, "I don't know what the hell my problem is, I can't keep my head together lately."

He walks past me and slams his head on his locker, sorrowfully. Margot wraps her arms around him, kissing his temple, "It's okay, kid. That's why we're here. You don't have to keep it all in, sweetheart." She rests her head on his shoulder and continues to whisper sweet nothings in his ear.

Margot might be fooled, but Ryan's act doesn't fool me.

Still, the skirt makes me realize that maybe, I'm going about this all wrong. Maybe if I'm not butting heads with the kid, he'll tell me what ever the hell's up his ass. Or perhaps what isn't...

-|-

I barely make it away from Mac and Margot without barfing, spilling my guts, screaming bloody murder, or running away. Finally, at six and forty eight, I run to Brendon's house.

The M & M's insisted on staying with me for a while until I told them to get the fuck out of my house so I could sleep peacefully for some time. They bought it and scurried off. I managed to steer their attention away from me for some time and slipped Brendon's folder in my bag.

The second I felt it safe, I raced down streets until I couldn't feel my face from the wind chill. When I reached the front door, I rand the doorbell excessively.

A girl appeared in front of me. Maybe 25. Rude. "What?" Definitely not Ashlee.

"Uh, is Brendon home?"

"Yeah, hold on," she turns toward the house, "BRENDON!"

A bounding, lanky figure races down the stairs, "Whaddya want?"

"Someone at the door for you, Brennykins," she walks off.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and I, just then, remember I left my hoodie at my house, making tonight much colder than it should be. Brendon comes view and immediately my anger slackens. His features are angelic, framed by the light behind him. I almost forget my nerve. "What do you want?" he hisses at me.

"You have something of mine," I tell him. I'm not playing his retarded mind games tonight.

"Really? Do I?"

"Brendon. I'm not in the mood for your little kid shit. Can you just give me the goddamn note and leave me be?"

Brendon's eyebrows knit together in confusion, "Note?"

"Yeah, it was in my seat."

Brendon sighs, "There wasn't a note today. There was an envelope with a flyer inside."

What? "What?"

Brendon shrugs, reaching into his back pocket, "I figured you would swing by looking for it," he hands me a red envelope with my name scribbled on the back of it. I open it and take out a neon green flyer. It's for Zero Tolerance, a small nightclub at the end of Summerville, past 42nd street. In big letters, it tells the details of a show tonight at six. With the last act as a band with the name scratched out and written over in Sharpie. Saved Latin.

My blood stops cold. My shipwreck of a life is now, going down in flames. Pete should know me well enough to know that if I was in my right mind, I would never go to the show. Ego maniac. Who does he think he is? I rip up the paper, "Fuck you," I mumble under my breath, "I'm not going."

I'm not sure who I was talking to.

My hands are shaking when I run them through my hair. My shaky breath and shallow nerves tell me exactly what I am trying not to acknowledge. I want to go to that show. I'm not going. I take a deep breath, "I'm not going, okay."

Why did I even come for the stupid note? I turn and start to walk away. Then, I realize that Brendon must think I'm psycho. "Oh, Brendon," I turn to him, "Don't tell Chelsea, please. Or Mac. Or Margot. Or anyone for that matter. It's nothing, really. I'm just being melodramatic, so yeah." I look up at him to find he's closed the door to his house and is walking towards me.

"What are you-?"

"Do you want me to go with you?"

What? "What?"

"Do you. Want me. To go... with... you? To the show, I mean."

"Aren't you listening? I'm not going. I'm not going," he starts heading towards the car in the driveway, "I'm not going!"

He shakes his head at me, chuckling, and unlocks the car. "Get in. I'm reading your body language like an open book. One, you forgot your sweater and you're cold. Secondly, you want to go but you hate going to public places alone. My mom is just like that. Or maybe I'm wrong. Tell me on the way. Get in."

My body is possessed by his common sense that I get in the passengers seat, willingly. If only I was in my right mind...

Inside the red car, is beige leather interior and reclining seats that feel like heaven after the hell I've walked through. I let my guard down, in this lulling warmth. Brendon's smooth voice murmuring along to some song on the radio. Before I could notice I was exhausted, my eyes had blinked themselves into a slumber of oblivion.

-|-

When I woke, Brendon was leaning over me. My groggy eyes clear and I push myself up. "What's going on?"

"We're here. You dozed off on the drive. It's okay, though. There was no snoring or drooling. Definitely pulled off the relaxation with a calm gaze."

"What time is it?" I murmur between a yawn.

"Around seven forty," he jumps out.

I yawn and get out, waiting for him to round before we go inside. My joints are tight but I don't want to seem slutty by stretching. Brendon and I grab a table in the back. He's got a fake ID convincing enough to get us a pitcher of beer.

The nightclub is sort of a haven for teens on the dirty side of town. 15 and over only, Zero Tolerance is a sort of dingy pub with tables in the back, a stage for local bands and a bar off to the side.

Brendon and I sat, trading polite silence because I felt too disconnected to say anything. It was eight o'clock when the stage got crowded. I was getting tired of just sitting mindlessly. Brendon's foot was bouncing at the bottom of my chair. I could tell he wanted to ask. "Go ahead. Ask," I tell him. "I won't bug out, I promise."

He sighs in relief, "Okay, uh, why is this so nerve-racking? I swear, I can hear your heart racing from here."

I glance at the stage as to not look at him, "I don't know. Honestly, I shouldn't be here. Don't tell Mac or Chelsea, but I need to be here. I need to hear them play for some reason. I just need it."

"Okay," Brendon shrugs, "I won't patronize you or anything by pretending to know you or what your talking about for that matter."

"Hello, Summerville! How are you guys tonight?" A voice booms over the surround sound from the mic.

"Thanks," I smile for the first time today. "Truce?" I offer him my hand.

Brendon doesn't take a second's hesitation, "Truce."

It seems something is going smoothly tonight. My attention, however, is adverted by the band onstage. "Alright, shut up. First thing's first. Tonight, we are Saved Latin, for the purpose of identification. And we are looking for a good friend of ours in the crowd tonight. He's called Shakespeare."

Right here, I go into cardiac arrest. Shakespeare is what he used to call me when he wanted to ditch his friends for me. It made sense in only a Pete sort of way. I turn to face the stage fully and slink back, further into the darkness of the club.

Pete's up there on that bloody stage looking straight through me. He knows I'm here. The light hits his eyes in a way that makes them gold. Brendon glances between the two of us out of the corner of my eye.

Pete looks away, addressing the crowd, "Alright. I know you're here, Shakespeare. I don't need you to show your face. I know you hate public places, just listen to the first song then jet off to Brazil."

Brendon glanced at me again, scared to ask. His fear of my outbursts is convenient but at the same time, offensive. I don't let him ask this time. I'm nauseous as it is, without having to talk about it.

Peter retreats to his side of the stage and Patrick Stumph steps up to the lead microphone. He asks the sound tech for volume and then tests the mic. I can't remember the last time that I saw Patrick Stumph. It had to be ages ago. Patrick and I stopped talking much earlier than Pete's move to Chicago.

Stumph looks straight at me when he speaks, his voice is crisp and angelic. It's difficult to register that he's glaring, "Where is your boy tonight, I hope he is a gentleman," this is insane. What is he even talking about? They have to be Pete's words, "Maybe he won't find out what I know," I glance at Pete, staring glaciers of gold at me, "You were the last good thing about this part of town."

The rest of the world sort of melts away from us, in angry pop melodies. The song bursts into guitars. Joseph Trohman, Pete and Patrick and two kids I can't recognize for the life of me jump and thrash around playing angry chorus lines.

I'm struck dumb. Numb under this intensity. Everything is rushing back. I remember Pete's touch, a touch that never judged and his fierce dominance under stressful situations. I remember what his voice sounding as he drifted to sleep in the very rare occasions. I never told him how attractive his weaknesses were. Even as an incredible being, he was human. He always said he was alien without me.

It wasn't until they hit the second chorus that I realized what they talking about. Brendon. Where is your boy tonight? How dare he intervene in my affairs? This is really swatting to please me of! When did I start drinking...?

Brendon speaks in a smooth, lulling voice that hauls me back down to the face of the Earth with a mind splitting crash. I remember myself suddenly and stop all though processes. What am I doing?

"You need him? I could be him?" this is Brendon talking, "What's going on?"

I stutter something profound about love. By the look on Brendon's face, he heard what I said. My words are inaudible when I speak. Or they are to my feeble mind.

Pete's got me in a twist again. His sick game of mind games. Fuck him. I am so sick of his little kid shit.

Brendon stands and shakes me away from the stage. "We're leaving. Get up."

His command is lost on me. I stare at him. He tugs my arm, "Ryan, get up. Now."

I finally project that he's talking to me and stand. Brendon grabs my arm and rushes me out of the building.

The door and the mass of people coated in sweat and liquor close behind us just as the song ends. We're outside, in the fresh night air and I am feeling much cooler now that I can't feel Pete's eyes on me. My skin, however, is searing.

The commotion inside gets louder in my ears every second we spend outside. My eyes can hardly focus on one spot. My brow must be soaked in heat. Before I knew what was happening in front of me, I was hit on the face. A striking blow across my cheek woke me from the trance.

"What the hell, Brendon?!" I scream at him. People outside, walking, stop to look at us, expecting a fight. I do want to slaughter the kid, but instead of understanding my rage, he says, "It works in the movies."

I laugh at his retarded joke. Just half heartedly.

Once the laughter floats away, he throws his arm around my shoulder and leads me back into the car. I feel like a bloody schizophrenic from this rush of untamed emotions. I feel like kissing him and running twenty six streets back home. I feel like tearing the very hair follicles out of my head but drinking some lemonade first. I could stay in the crisp night air forever. I feel like I would reach out and tear Brendon's face off and it would be like ripping wallpaper.

Brendon and I don't talk in the car. We don't think anymore. Or I'm pretty sure he doesn't. They clutter my head so much it feels like there is a demon inside. That's the fucking devil in my belfry.

I stop thinking in poetry long enough to process everything that's happened today. Hangover. Fight with Brendon. Fake out from Burbank. Fight with Mac. Swaying with Margot. Brendon's house. Pete's note. Pete's show with Brendon. You need him. I could be him. Have I eaten today?

"Stop the car."

"What?"

"Stop the car!"

I barely have enough time to open the door and lean over before I purge all my stomach acids curbside. Brendon groans in complaint but I completely ignore him. I feel I have more to complain about than he does.

When I settle back into the car, Brendon sighs, almost apologetically. "I really don't get you, Ryan Ross. Here, drink this, rinse your mouth out."

He hands me a water bottle. I do as instructed and pit out on the curb again. This makes me feel slightly less like shit. Brendon takes it upon himself to take good care of me. Not that I object. He hands me a ridiculous amount of mints. When they're all chewed out, he instructs me to spit continuously. Brendon says not to brush my teeth until I got to sleep.

"Why? My breath is killing!"

"Fine. Brush your teeth and get all those disgusting stomach acids stuck between them. I hope your teeth rot. Then you'll be moaning about me!"

"What?"

"About how you should have listened to me!" His blush is incredible.

I laugh and agree.

When he drives me all the way back to my house, I only stare at my lap. My system is still a bit shaken from the previous act. A sort of silence hangs around us, until, "Look," Brendon starts, "I don't really know what happened tonight, but I have a feeling that something was happening between glances and love songs."

I look at him now, urging him to continue. What does tonight mean to him?

Brendon sighs, "But I do know that's not any of my business, so I won't say anything to Chelsea or Margot or Mac or anyone like you asked me not to at the beginning of the night."

I sigh. Whether it's a sigh of relief or disappointment, I'll never know. I open the passenger door, "Thanks," I start, "Bren."

Then he looks at me fully and smiles brilliance. I can feel the heat rush to my chest at how attractive his true smiles is. Years pass before he speaks. "That's what friends are for, Ry. In case you hadn't noticed."

He doesn't drive off until he sees me enter the house.

-|-
In my house, I head directly to my room and shed my clothes. Inside the haven of my torn mind, I pace. Hours of thought and anguish wind around me and beat me into submission. I allow myself the pleasure of thought for a few moments. I think over all the events of the week, inadvertently ending up in one of my most hormone inducing places. He was so brilliant.

Then, realization hits like a beastly anvil over how I need him. How much I want him.

I realize everything he was talking about. Everything he said to me without saying a word. I'm an idiot. I'm such an idiot. An incredibly stupid idiot!

I spring from my bed and grab a hoodie to cover my chest. I grab the nearest pair of jeans and stick my feet in a pair of shoes without thought. How could I not see it?!

It was staring me right in the face.

...idiot!

Those reality cutting moment were all that I needed.

The world needed to catch up with me.

I race down the stairs and find The General passed out on the couch. That's good because I unexpectedly slam the door. My mind is spinning. I'm running again. Sprinting through possibilities and sidewalks and winding metaphors.

The putrid song is stuck in my head. You need him.

I need him. I realize that now. Maybe I always knew it. But I just never realized to what intensity.

Before I can really stick my foot the right way in my shoe, I'm standing on his front porch.

This could be the second stupidest thing I do tonight, but I have to see how it'll turn out. I need to know how he feels against me all over. I need to taste him, to feel his skin on mine. I need something real, to sleep between the stars and his heartbeat.

My body is possessed by curiosity and need as I fix my shoe and ring his doorbell. There's not even a second of my heart pounding until the door opens and there he stands. His features are angelic, framed by the light around him. I want to reach out and touch my angel.

To really touch him and not wallpaper.

His eyes light up at the sight of me, slightly confused. His smile is the first symptom of this contagious love. He does not protest as I rush his gold lips on mine. Our blind happiness sends me into a spiraling vertigo. His kiss is brilliance and magic and passion against me. I'm willingly melting into his love when he shuts the door behind us and leads up to his room.