Thursday
10:25 PM
home
There's a soft snow drifting from the sky outside my window. "All is calm, all is bright" is certainly a beautiful phrase, I've decided. Because nothing is brighter than William's face when he sleeps. He's like a little night-light to protect me from the monsters, or skeletons, in my closet. I simply sit cross-legged on my bed and watch him sleep under my sheets. It's Christmas Eve, and I can't say this is exactly where I'd want to be right now, but it's still calm, and it's still bright.
I wonder what would happen if I called Brendon. I'd never considered it, probably because I don't know his home number and he most likely doesn't have the same cell phone. I really haven't spoken to him since the first day he arrived back in Chicago. Even though he was more than furious with me for whatever reason, I missed having conversations with him, even if they had to be like that.
I stroke the brown hair on William's head, careful not to disturb his sleeping baby face. I'm often jealous of William, it's true. He can be having the shittiest of days or the shittiest of years, and he still smiles at whoever passes that's willing to smile back, and he has this loving aura about him. He might seem like an arrogant jerk to some people at school, but when you really get to know him like I have, you think the opposite. You see side B. You find a whole different person, hidden beneath an entire layer of proud, nonchalant skin. The layer beneath is something not often seen, and it's something I thank my lucky stars to get to be able to see and feel, when I want, as I please.
Unlike William though, I can't sleep so easily. I never can. I always crash at about three in the morning, after many hours of tossing and turning in bed, or just plain giving up and watching TV or writing. I sometimes wonder if I have insomnia, or if I really just can't stop thinking about him. He's all I've thought about at night for the past two years.
Before I tear myself to pieces again, I decide I should distract myself. I slowly grab my guitar from the floor and begin strumming it at the end of my bed. William's a heavy sleeper, and I need to busy myself with something other than thoughts of Brendon.
But it doesn't work. Every chord I strum just reminds me of his brown eyes and his pink lips. His jagged hip bones, his soothing voice. I can't believe I remember it all so vividly. There's not a single cloud in the way when my mind decides to take on Brendon Urie.
I find my eyes filling with tears, as I play the song I wrote for him, the one I never got to play for him. So I just play it to myself every now and then, thinking maybe somehow, miles away, he can hear it too. If he could just see me now... maybe he'd see what I've become. Maybe he'd be proud of me.
I just want to hold him again... I want to kiss his skin and feel his soft hair and whisper sweet everythings in his ear. Even if he runs away again, it'd still be worth it.
I feel movement at the other end of the bed, and William is slowly waking up, blinking away tired eyes. He glances at the clock and sighs. "Dangit, I was gonna say 'Merry Christmas.""
I smile meekly. "Not yet, sweetie."
He rolls over to pull a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. He looks at me to ask permission before lighting it up. I nod and go back to my strumming. I can hear the whole process behind my back: the cigarette slipping from the package, the flick of the lighter, the shoving of the lighter back into William's tight pocket, and a few moments of silence, then William breathing out, long and slow. I strike an F# chord just as I feel William wrap his naked arms around my neck from behind me, and he holds the cigarette out in front of my lips. Without hesitation, I inhale the drug, and breathe out just the same, filling my room with the familiar dusty smell.
I feel William's lips on my ear, sucking and playing so seductively, and I smack my guitar strings to silence it, and I start to think William wants things to be complicated. I think he just likes it better that way.
I'm about to put down my guitar and turn my head to kiss him, but the sound of a loud thud from the front room fills my ears. My eyes grow just as wide as William's. But he reacts first. He throws the cigarette in a bottle of water that stood on my nightstand, and he grabs his shirt from the bed, throwing it on faster than I thought anyone could. He looks at me quickly and says, "I love you, Ryan." And he dashes out the door of my bedroom, and I'm not far off his heels.
William knows what to do. He races toward the back door of my house, and my dad barely catches a glimpse of him before he is out of sight. My heart beats faster when I see my dad standing in front of the door, and I know he's not happy. I'm not scared though.
"Who was that?" he says maliciously and exasperatedly.
My breathing hitches as I watch his knuckles turn a ghostly white. But I'm not scared. "William."
He grits his teeth behind his lips. I can tell because there's always this vein that moves a little when he gets mad and clenches his teeth. He takes a step toward me, although we're still about ten feet apart, and he says, "You had that fag over here all week, didn't you?"
I don't know whether to lie or just confess. Apparently he knows it anyway. If I lie though, I have to stick with it. The one thing I've learned through the years is that if you decide to lie, you gotta stick to your story. Improve it or use it to your advantage, but never take it back.
My silence angers him more. "Didn't you?!" he roars, and my body goes into its animalistic mode of survival. That certain, familiar feeling that comes over you when you know you're in danger. But my dad doesn't even move. He just puts his fingers to his temple, and he turns around to open the door. He doesn't go out it, he just opens it to a 90-degree angle, and stands there, staring at the carpet.
My eyes are shaking in their sockets; I just can't believe this, although maybe I should have expected it. I look from my father to the snowing mess outside. "Dad-"
"Get out. Now," he utters in an artificially calm voice, though I can see his fists shaking now. I'm afraid to walk over, not to leave, but because of what those fists might do.
After several more seconds he says, "You're no son of mine."
I'm shaking now, and I know it'll only get worse, but I clench my teeth, curl my lip, and put my chin up. I'm disgusted and appalled. So I walk straight out the door, past my father, into the freezing cold, and I don't look back.
I don't think I'll ever have a better Christmas.
click ->
Yay for Christmas stuff in October.
Rates! <3
