Chapter Text
he comes over to me on stage, adrenaline in his eyes and raises the microphone to my mouth. i can see his every breath, the way he pants at me, grasping his chest and sweating as he sings the lyrics and prompts me to do the same. it’s electrifying, even if the current stings more than something like thrill or excitement. louder than the crowd singing, i can hear the girls screaming as he presses his forehead to mine. if not for spence’s drumming pulsing through me and jon’s bass soothing the blood through my veins, i would’ve frozen up right there. my fingers feel thick and heavy, suddenly straining for the frets on my guitar. brendon doesn’t stop, he threads his fingers into my hair with his other hand, a hot breath landing on my neck before he presses his lips onto my cheek.
another roar of the crowd. i thinly veil my discomfort. ryan’s the one who doesn’t sweat on stage.
ryan, the genius young lyricist. ryan, the founder, the visionary. who’s emo? and yet, just that gesture is enough to send the gears in my body into mayhem. offstage, i confront him.
“bren?”
“ry? what's up?” he looks up at me from the spot on the floor where he’s packing his things, eyes sparkling and always too eager to please.
a sinking feeling fills me at the thought of dimming that glimmer. i'm irredeemable. we agreed to this. why am i complaining?
“can you… not do all that..? y’know, like onstage?” i should've said. instead, silence follows and i bite my tongue back. i might be too much of a coward to tell him to stop, just as i am to go through with the agreed upon act.
it’s just that– an act. it shouldn't get me all bothered. “nevermind,” i reply, suppressing the lack of confidence in my voice as best i can and pretend to busy myself with something in the cabinet.
“hey! come on now, ry,” his bright voice came from behind me, slightly higher now with concern. the thought of shutting myself in said cabinet is somewhat compelling now. but, he doesn't miss a beat changing the subject. “it was insane tonight wasn't it? the crowd.” the voice is coming from that same place on the floor, so luckily he can't see my face. i relax a bit. i need it that way, off my back. “and like, we were too y’know?” he continues, the same adrenaline-fueled enthusiasm inflecting on his words.
i continue to fidget with whatever coat or vest that's hanging in the closet. i don’t know why i can't turn to face him, but at some point i tune out his cheerful voice. my own high– of which i’m uncertain is of the same cause as his– swirls in my chest until it slowly begins to dissipate, not without a few remaining tears. after who knows how long, at least enough for his sweat to dry, apparently, i feel bren’s hand land on my back, smacking me lightly. his tone is softer now.
“ryyy?.” he drones. “you’ve been standing here like a rock for like, a while now, ry. you tired? you should’ve just sat down with us.” he says with a small pout, i’m not sure what emotion it is. i can’t meet his eyes.
“maybe he has a headache? i don’t know…”
“could be. it was real warm up there under the lights.”
“yeah, maybe not sweating much might be worse in this case…”
it turns out spence and jon had piled onto the couch in the other counter at some point. i hadn’t noticed until now. i glance towards the center of the small room we were alone in and they returned my glance with a mildly concerned face.
i’m not sure who said what, but eventually spence gets up and takes me by the shoulder. i lean a little, letting him take me wherever. “you wanna get some air? take off your face paint?” i give a weak mumble. any would do, the paint on my cheeks is beginning to feel thick and the ruffled collar felt like it stuffed my chest cavity too. any would do.
“you’re such a baby sometimes,” he jokes, dryly. my head turns instinctively at the insult, giving him a shitty frown. he returns with a small punch to my side and chuckles. “there’s the ry i know.!” we’d stumbled down the makeshift hallways; thin, poster patched walls made out like paper mache in the low lights which eventually bled into some dinky backstage restroom. i lean against the small row of poorly laminated sinks making note of the now hollow popcorn walls and he leans next to me.
“so, what’s the deal with you?” spence asks, almost too serious all of a sudden. it makes the buzz of the sickly yellow fluorescents overhead uncomfortably loud. it sounds far too much like the anxiety in hospital waiting rooms. i don’t let my hands go around my ears like they would if i were a child. instead, calloused hands tighten around the ledge, catching on the peeling marble veneer. my eyes dart down to his shoes, to the mold in the caulk between tiles, and back to his nose.
“... what deal?” i retort, stupidly. even i know it can’t be more obvious that i’m hiding something, especially to spence. i’m not even sure if ‘hiding’ is the right word. what am i even ‘hiding’? even my actions are blurring together, what was even that much different from the usual? this is how i've always been.
“really?” he presses, crossing his arms. a suspicious breath later, he continues. “you think you can fool the fangirls… hell, even brendon maybe, but you don’t seriously think i’d believe you, right?”
“no… but like..-” brendon?
“you were frozen like a statue out there, man. like, even since we began touring it feels like you’ve been sketching around ‘n stuff, y’know.”
i breathe. we breathe. deep enough for us to hear each other, but still shallow with tension. “i’m just… worried about you, man.” i let out a stiff breath at the notion. he’s worried about me. for what? i'm fine. clearly. i can tell he’s watching me. not particularly carefully or closely, but being spence, he sees everything, including how i freeze up again slightly at that word, it’s uncomfortable being in the spotlight.
“... like, i know you've been kind of… spacey and shit. what? you got yourself girl or something? don't feel like sharing?” i can hear the cheeky smile coming into his voice. oh, he's the good cop.
“dude, no, what the hell!” i shove him away again, laughing a little more genuinely now.
“hey, i mean, you’re always off somewhere with your guitar or scribbling in your notebook. i see your face ry, you look like you’re gonna kill someone with your pen!”
“shut up, not that, idiot, hiding a girl?!” really? a girl. how could he even assume something like that? “can't a man write his music in peace?” i scoff.
“i mean, you never know right?” he gives me a shitty ‘i know what you’re hiding’ look like we’re gossiping schoolchildren.
i exaggerate a sigh and add more dramatic effect by rubbing my temples. “ugh… no…” i let my hand fall to my side again, slowly coming rest on the countertop and i make eye contact with someone for the first time in a while. spence looks gentle– or at least like he’s trying to be. it’s a bit off-putting to see my childhood best friend look at me with the same patronizing expression as doctors or social workers when you tell them what's wrong with you. i brush it off, a trivial memory. i know he’s just trying to help. “it’s fine, really, like not that serious,” i say, like code for “can you stop looking at me like that?”
“ry, seriously you-”
“no, no, look… i dont know… gosh.” i pause to think, “it’s not serious, really, just… give me a second, jeez.”
i hear him let out another sigh, this time it flows from him like water from a quiet river’s mouth. hardly anything coherent comes out of me, though. i'm confused, more than anything. what's so off about me? so it begins slowly, i’m stumbling over my words like a child taking its first steps. this must be a pathetic display to see a band’s supposed lyricist struggle for words. when i want to say something all that comes out is i don't know or it's nothing. once i get going, though, words fall from me more like frazzled confetti in the wind and less like sentences. i helplessly watch them fall from my mouth onto my polished dress shoes.