"Fuck..."
I don't know why it felt so good. It shouldn't feel so good. Shaant's touch was nothing compared to yours. He didn't care that I was still hurting from the night before. He didn't care that he touched me exactly where it was hurting. But at least he made it appear as if he did.
Shaant's the kind of guy that knows how to use his body. As he held me there against the wall, in front of everybody, all I felt was him. And all I heard was his heartbeat. His breath was only slightly burdened with alcohol. I appreciated that. I liked how he took precautions before getting someone up against the wall, but it wasn't exaggerated or obvious.
At first, I thought he was going to fuck me right there. I really did. Right there in Mike's living room. I wouldn't have really cared. Half these people have seen me naked anyway. But he took my hand and brought me to Mike's room this time. I must admit, it was rather gross. Hooking up in your friend and bandmate's bedroom? It's just...
No more than five words were passed between us, but he did cuddle up to me when we were through. He did leave
I look at my watch awkwardly as we lay there, and I realize I do really need to go. It's 9:53. Shaant will think I'm crazy for leaving the party so soon, but maybe he'll understand. "I have to go," I mutter incoherently into his swift brown hair that lays on his head that lays on my chest. Shaant nods and kisses my neck before he moves out of my way. I'm not sure if I should kiss him goodbye...or hug him...or just walk. He seems affectionate enough. So I kiss him as we sit up. He prolongs it, and I whimper slightly. I pull away and his eyes becoming very, very enticing.
After a quick last makeout session with Shaant and one stop by Blockbuster, I'm home. And it's 10:20. I knew I wouldn't be able to be back on time. But it doesn't even matter. Because when I sneak through the front door of our apartment, I don't feel you this time. I can tell within seconds that the place is empty. You better have an excuse for this, boy.
But...even if you don't, you can sweet talk your way out of anything.
It's hours and hours and hours on end before I hear the door open. I'm nodding off to sleep, painfully keeping my eyes awake all the while. It's hard to even care about the sound of the door opening when you've been gone this long. My dedication to you means nothing. Obviously, we mean nothing.
I'm sitting on the couch, alone, watching Pretty In Pink, alone, eating dry Rice Krispies, alone. I hear the door open and it's like the muffled words from the TV are drowned out. You walk in, and suddenly everything's a party. "William!" you shout out happily as you lean over the back of the couch, taking my head in your hands and kissing my cheek. Sure, your cute antics are hard to resist, but I'd rather be resisting the smell of alcohol on your breath.
This makes me resent you even more. This makes me want to make you sleep on the couch, like a lame married couple. Please don't tell me we've come to this, Ryan.
"You're drunk?" I say in the most simple but most incredulous way.
"There was a party at the studio! Spur-of-the-moment thing, babe," you say as you stumble around the couch and flop down beside me. I stare at you in disgust. I stare longer and longer, and it takes you even longer to notice. "What?" you say innocently. Mock innocence. Always a turn-off.
"I'm not your fucking play toy," I state bluntly, and I finally have your attention.
You look at me in sad confusion. "What? Baby..." You move closer and I cower away.
I can tell I'm hurting you. But not as bad as you're hurting me. "I kind of thought you knew that when I said I'd be home at ten, I meant I wanted you to be here too."
"I told you!" you say, holding up your arms even more innocently. "There was a party."
"Then you should have called me!" I argue childishly.
"Jeez, sorry..." you mumble, folding your arms and sinking into the couch. You're not too drunk at least. That's good. I know I can trust you, but I still can't help but get the feel that there's not a lot of honesty going around. And surprisingly, those are two very different things.
I don't want to forgive you so fast. You don't deserve to be forgiven so fast. You don't deserve for me to set my box of Rice Krispies aside and cuddle close to you, but oh, I am. The way you stare down at yourself in shame, your fingers twisting and playing with the hem of your V-neck shirt. The way your eyes are narrowed slightly, obviously saddened and distraught. It all makes me want to cuddle right next to you and attack you with my infamous kisses.
Ryan, you didn't even have to sweet talk your way out of this one. You just had to be you. And that, as it always should have been, was clearly enough.
But as the week drags on, we barely touch. The distance becomes greater and greater, to the point that I can't feel your skin against me at all when I wake up in the morning. This always puts me in a bad mood. It upsets me so bad that I grab your hand and place it over my side myself. And you heave a great sigh and turn back over, all connection lost once again.
I pulled my body closer to you that morning, and you pretended to be half-asleep.
"I'm sorry for whatever I did," I whisper, knowing you won't respond, so I might as well get it all out. "And I'd really like it if you forgave me. I'd really like it if we could be like we used to be." I pause because maybe, just maybe you'll cave. And when you say absolutely nothing, I nibble lightly on your bare shoulder for extra penitence.
You roll over uncomfortably and stare me straight in my eyes. You're not touching me or kissing me or let alone, forgiving me. You just say, "I need space, William. I need you to give me time. And if you can't do that, I'm not sure how much longer this'll work." And you sit up straight, throwing your legs over the side of the bed and hurrying out of the room. Our room. Too much had happened in this room. Too much had yet to happen in this room.
I know you've gone to the studio. Even if the band isn't there, I know that's where you're going. Where else are you going to go?
But me? I need anything but time. I need someone to hold me. I wish it could be you, I really do. But you're so. Fucking. Stubborn.
But Ryan Ross? "Stubborn" is your middle name. You're like a child. You'll kick and scream until you get your way and when the offender's foot is considered down, you resort to your most powerful weapons. You collapse. Cry. And Cuddle.
The soon-to-be famous Three C's of Ryan Ross.
And now, it's only a matter of time until you collapse into me. Because you need me. Not just like a bad habit but an addiction. My force on you is stronger than any powder or pill you could shove into your frail body. But time? Time's up, baby.
The front door closes as I jump out of bed. I throw on a shirt that hangs off the corner of the bed, and I grab a pair of tight jeans from the drawers. It's not hard to distinguish mine from yours. We're so different and maybe opposites really do attract. Maybe we do have something here but we're too in lust to see it. Or maybe...I shouldn't have even touched you that day at the party.
I sigh, and I stop in the middle of the room, wondering if all your pain these days really is from me. Is that quirky little spring in your step gone because of the nights I spent without you? Is that tired look under your eyes because of all the cups of coffee we never shared? Or are we just so distant that we're like specks to each other now, fading into the horizon line?
And maybe I'm taking it all too seriously. Maybe I just need a little fun. I need the acme of fun. And maybe not parties, but the boy that makes them all happen.
Ryan's POV
You left your fucking cigarettes in my car again.
I swat them off the dashboard and they land right next to my thigh, and I hate being next to them, lit or not. I pick up the pack and am about to throw it in the backseat but something stops me. They're suddenly...what are they? Appealing? No, what am I saying? Plus I don't even have a lighter.
Where am I going? Destination: Complete Failure.
Round trip to Fucked Everything Up.
And suddenly how enthralling everything seems, including your pack of cigarettes, as I lay my forehead on the top of the steering wheel. I can feel tears well up in my eyes and I don't hold them back. And suddenly, I have an idea.
The worried stutters that the cashier gives me when he tells me my total are actually really cute. He's actually really cute. He actually puts a smile on my tear-streaked lips when his fingers graze mine as he hands me my change. I glance at his nametag. "Thanks, Cory," I say and then attempt to wink, although my eyes are so swollen that it's a little hard. I see him smirk too as I dash through the double doors and back to my car, flicking my new lighter to ignite the flame.
I dig out my phone from my pocket and hold down the number three, speed-dialing Brendon. I actually smile wide, even though tears are falling freely now. I feel kind of manic, and I try to calm down as the phone rings and rings until he finally picks up. "Hi, Ryan!" he squeels happily.
I take a deep, shattered breath before saying anything. "I wanna see you."
Brendon, he goes from sixty to zero in 2.5 seconds. "Ryan...what's...what's wrong?"
"What?" I snap quickly. "I want to see you."
"Okay, okay," he says hastily. "Well I'm at the library, can you meet me?"
I nod really fast, then I remember he can't see me. "Yeah. I'll be there in a few."
Where does the good go?
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