#bogart the eraser

[ariel-seagull-wings]

@themousefromfantasyland @piterelizabethdevries @thealmightyemprex @the-blue-fairie @professorlehnsherr-almashy @stickypersonaearthquake

Do you know the conflict between Autheur Theory vs Art as Collaboration?

Basically, Autheur Theory began between French critics and filmmakers, as a way of analyzing the film industry: originally films were clearly a collaboration, and it was common to have more than one director on the same project until the final edit of the film was reached (Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz being famous examples).

But the Autheur Theory presented and popularized the idea that, to have the same prestige as, for example, a classic novel, it is necessary to have a figure defined as "the Author of the film", and the chosen figure was the director.

And this vision became dominant from the 60s onwards, when a wave of directors grew up who exercised strong control over films, and whose names became the brand that attracted people to watch. Before, you went to watch a film expecting to be entertained by the fiction, and to see the actors and characters who were the Stars. You would go by Judy Garland, Gary Cooper, Vivien Leigh, Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, etc. From the 60s onwards, you will see films by director Alfred Hitchcock, Stanley Kubrick, Ingmar Bergman, Federico Fellini, Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Copolla, etc.

And there was the simplified idea that "the director is a visionary genius who is a champion against the oppression of producers and studios who care only about money." But decades passed, and after some box office failures of films made using the Autheur model (Heaven's Gate directed Michael Cimino being the most famous), the cult of Autheur began to be questioned, as it denied the fact the role of all the team collaborating to make a film, often this personality cult of the director encourages abuse practices in the name of the "vision of genius", the fact that just because the director has a style and trademarks common to his films, it does not This means that it is automatically good, just that it repeats themes and subjects, the study of the history of cinema showing that Autheur itself is also a brand to be sold, and that it is not the "great champion against the studios", but in fact, he becomes prominent because when he makes a film that is successful and the studios see that it makes a profit, the studio will support him to do what he wants in the hope of always replicating that success, and the prestige of his name is it works as marketing in the same way that the face of the Actor who is a Star works.

I bring up this discussion because I think a similar conflict applies to the American comics industry: American society is obsessed with the idea of ​​the Great Man, the Visionary Genius. Originally, artists drew the character, and then he became part of the publishing house (Detective Comics, Fox, Timely, etc.).

Those who originally created them continued drawing for a while, then went to work on other titles, and then another artist would take care of drawing the Phantom, Mandrake, Flash Gordon, Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, The Society of Justice of America, the Blue Beetle, Namor the Sub-Mariner, Captain America. Another artist could expand the universe and increase the lore and create a new villain, but he did not compete to erase what the previous artist had built and only establish what their idea was as "the true version".

It was the old collaboration model in which the name of the artist didn't matter, what mattered was telling a good story about those characters. Not everything was rosy, obviously: with the publisher being the owner of the character, the artists were often screwed and left in the cold. poverty. Siegel and Shuster suffered from poverty after creating Superman, and it was the fact that other cartoonists came together to demand decent pay that helped them in their old age.

But narratively, there was a focus on cohesion and collaboration.

But in the 60s, as in the film industry, things changed: the idea of ​​control and authorship grew.

And now you had Marvel (former Timely) selling the image of Stan Lee as the creator of his entire Universe, Steve Ditko defending the view that the Artist should be considered the author of the work, names like Alan Moore, Frank Miller and John Byrne becoming stars, and it all comes back to the idea that the Author should have all the control.

And when a name and work become popular and make money, remember what companies do: they let you do whatever you want:

You are the Autheur.

And readers bought into that idea: His redesign and rewrite of Daredevil and graphic novels The Dark Knight Returns and Year One made people for decades venerate Frank Miller to the point of denying everything that came before as the "version wrong" of the characters and that Miller "fixed" them, no one heard of Swamp Thing and Miracle Man until Alan Moore's name was on the cover, no one remembers that one day Sandman was a masked guy with a sleeping gas gun before being portrayed as the embodiment of the concept of Dreams in the graphic novels of a certain accused of sexual abuse Neil Gaiman.

Now, imagine you are an artist or writer who becomes known as a star in the comic book industry, whose name becomes prestigious and helps sell the magazine, and then you are given the job of drawing an existing character.

Everyone worships you, your word is considered law, you are a genius who can do no wrong, and then you think:

"Why do I have to follow rules, because I have to think about what has already been established as a characteristic of that character, when I can use it to represent what is MY artistic VISION of what a hero SHOULD be?"

And as a result. ..comic crossover events where a bunch of characters die horribly or turn evil for no reason, weddings you've followed developing for decades erased from continuity, characters committing horrible acts without any idea on how to examine the consequences.

We, as the public, created the cult of the genius, the comics industry responded to this by thinking it was a viable economic model in which to profit, and art suffered in the process.

Recognizing the importance of collaboration is the solution to dealing with this problem.

And there are other comic industries outside the US where collaboration, rather than competition between "visions of genius", is encouraged:

In France, more people came to draw Asterix and Obelix after the passing of Gossiny and Uderzo, building the stories based on the work they established.

In Brazil, Maurício de Souza's publishing house produces both Classica Mônica and Friends and Monica's Teen Manga series magazines with several artists and scriptwriters working together as graphics novels in which individual artists reinterpret characters, but without wanting to impose their interpretation as the only correct one.

And the Japanese manga industry has the model of one or two artists working on a story with a beginning, middle and end, which allows other artists, often fans, to develop sequels or spin offs that expand or complement the previous title, without ever trying to erase what was done before.

[easternmind]

Artwork for Kasaburanka Ni Ai O 〜Satsujinsha Wa Jikū O Koete〜 by Akira Yoneda (aka Akira Komeda), a 1986 Thinking Rabbit game for the PC-8800, PC-9801, FM-7 and Sharp X1 computer series. This is the third entry in the Disc Mysteries series of computer text adventure murder stories, following Dokeshi Satsu Jinjiken and Kagiana Satsujin Jiken. 

I became aware of this game due to Riverhill Soft's Windows 95 port, itself an adaptation of Thinking Rabbit's reissuing of the original game for the 3D0 from 1994, including a soundtrack and completely redone color graphics. The game is set in the 1940s and tells the story of a journalist whose high-school friend goes missing. A more atypical twist takes place when she discovers that this friend’s father, allegedly pursued and stabbed to death by members of the government, had invented a time machine.

The rather conspicuous reference to Casablanca and its leading actors, Bogart and Bergman, were erased from later ports (see the 3DO and the Win95 covers); the title also having been sanitized to Toki O Koeta Tegami, or The Letter That Over Came Time. Similarly, allusions to the time travelling theme were much more subtle than in this preciously sinister illustration, whose muted hues and composition bring to mind an Andrew Wyeth landscape.

[starartstudios23]

This is a portrait that I did of the Legendary actor Humphrey Bogart. I used graphite pencil and charcoal for the portrait. Highlights were created by using an artists eraser.

[rochalil-sketchdump]

7/1

Watching film noir today. I’m pretty new to the whole genre but always loved the fashion and the occasional film still I would get in my feed. I’m excited to watch some cult classics.

It’s hard to draw while things are just moving around so much, I have to really try and get a mental screenshot and do my best. At least I now know Humphrey Bogarts face pretty well!

I’ve enjoyed drawing with prismacolors so far! I’m taking away the possibility of erasing and that has helped a lot.

[mocho-v]

No se que hice pero yes

perdoname por añadir weas en la ruleta @cotty-150

Wa

[cotty-150]

Un comic:

[blakelywintersfield]

Joyofsatan.org (JoS) is not based upon LaVeyanism, JoS is literally against LaVeyanism and atheistic Satanism. They repeatedly state this on their website.

JoS follows the Al Jilwah and the Qu’ret Al Yezid as their main texts, they don’t believe in the Satanic Bible by Anton LaVey. JoS is 100% theistic while LaVeyanism is atheist.

So like, what is all of this about then? Unless they just recently bogarted that site from this group described with sources listed? Nazism is referred to twice in the introduction alone, and multiple times in multiple sections. The founder of JoS was married to NSM chairman Clifford Herrington while she was a high priestess in the group. Nothing that you've said seems to line up with this sourced, up-to-date information (the oldest source being about 10 years old and referencing general parts of theological Satanism as a whole).

You can be a queer person of color and still be a Nazi -- "Uncle Tom" is a term for a reason in black culture. You can be a part of a group and still hate that group. We literally deplatformed Milo Yiannopoulos for being a gay man who was also an outspoken white supremacist. Internalized self-hatred is not a new concept and yes any minority can be guilty of it, including women, people of color, and queer people. As for Anton LaVey -- he has a long history of antisemitic preaching. It's in his books. It's in his speeches. It's in his social life. Being ethnically Jewish does not mean he cannot hold antisemitic views, especially if you're not raised Jewish (which he never confirmed what he was raised as, but it's been implicated many times he was raised as Christian). The religion also adopts "alien race" conspiracy theories into its basic ideology, which not only has heavy racist implications ("It's considered by Joy of Satan that most salient of his creations were the Nordic-Aryan race") but also reminds me a little too much of the notorious Church of Scientology.

I've gotta say, your view of Abrahamic religions is extremely Western Christian-based. Islam, Judaism, and Christianity can hardly be grouped together when you get to know some of the base beliefs -- calling any of them anti-gay and anti-women is just... well, a very Western Christian take, especially since there's also modern sects of these religions that are extremely pro-choice, pro-queer, etc. Judaism has its own literal magical practices, too -- saying the religion is anti-Pagan is its own form of ignorance. A lot of modern Pagan religions have appropriated Jewish magic (Wicca especially, but modern Paganism in general is bad about it) so damning the religion on top of taking from it is just. That's literally a core part of cultural genocide, y'know?

There's a lot to unpack here and I just don't have the mental energy right now to collect all the resources to go into this further, but like. Condemning full religions based on shitty sects condemns millions of innocent people in the process, and judging a group of religions based on your relationship with one of those erases the history and cultures of all the others you damn with it. I get it -- Christianity has a lot of very toxic traits that have hurt millions since its conception. The most aggressive forms of it seem to be here in the western hemisphere, too. But I will not denounce other religions I've never been a part of nor know enough about for having a distant relationship with the one that hurt me. I don't believe Satanism is inherently bad either, and I did even say in the tags I wouldn't assume anyone that's a part of the church to be overtly antisemitic, but the fact remains that antisemitism is a core part of JoS.

I'd also like to add -- if you're aware that Jewish people are an ethnicity (Judaism is an enthic religion; race is a social construct based on salient characteristics alone and has no scientific backing; an ethnicity shares history, culture, etc.) then you must be aware that damning Jewish people... is in itself a form of ethnophobia. One we have a specific name for -- antisemitism.

If you have to found your religion based on the hate of another religion, you're simultaneously continuing to let that religion run your life, and inviting violent extremism into your group. I'm sorry if you're a part of this group and just now finding out about its extremist views through a tumblr ask, but like. I'm highly against anti-theism. I'm not a fan of "all religion bad" takes, but I'm also critical of religion as a whole. One of my main drives for leaving Christianity was the fact that separating my personal views from the heavily Protestant, Baptist, and Fundamentalist views that permeate western sects was next to impossible. Even when I'd go into the details of sects I liked, there would eventually be things I'd not be comfortable associating with (in the majority of cases, antisemitism). I'm not about to damn an entire population based on the fact that one guy ties them together.

Judaism is nothing like Christianity, with what little I know about it (and I know more than the average gentile about it). Back before I started learning more about it, I did just lump it in with Christianity and Islam, but everything we're taught about Judaism is wrong. Unless you were taught about the beliefs by a practicing Jew, what you think you know about the religion is probably just. blatantly false. It's kind of fucked up.

I implore that you take a step away from your computer or phone right now and take some time to process this -- I'm assuming the original ask was originally in good faith (albeit a little strange) and that you're probably feeling gobsmacked by my response, and you were originally unaware of these things, which has you upset now. And understandably so! I'd be upset to hear about something as intimate as my religion having unsavory origins or core beliefs. (Hell I have had to deal with that in the past, both with Christianity and when I was in the introductory stages of Wicca.) I don't mean this in a "go outside" kind of way, or a "quit being overly emotional" way -- I mean like. It's okay, it's healthy to give yourself time to process these kinds of things. I say this from experience because my emotions can be so strong I might not fully understand what I say or do when I'm in the midst of feeling them.

I want to believe you came to me in good faith; I want to believe you're a good person, no matter how much of a stranger you are, and giving yourself time to breathe is important. Then do some research -- slowly, but thoroughly. Look at the Wikipedia article. Look at the sources. Check the biases -- the sources and your own. This isn't a misunderstanding or an unwillingness to learn on my end; this is the information I have from cited, peer-reviewed sources. I don't take any pleasure in telling people "this thing you hold close has an unsavory core to it" but I'm also not going to deny the truth. Organized religion is a landmine -- many that sound too good to be true are. This one is no exception.

[incorrectbandofbrothersquotes]

You Better, You Better, You Bet - Chapter 6

Adore You

Ron Speirs x Juliet Fletcher

Summary: Juliet Fletcher reaches a breaking point in her life. When she is at her absolute lowest, she meets Ron Speirs, and something happens between them that neither of them will ever forget.

Word Count: 4.2k

Tag List: @vintagelavenderskies​​​ @how-are-those-nuts-sarge​​​ @iilovemusic12us​​​ @hesbuckcompton-baby​​​ @tvserie-s-world​​​ @whovian45810​​ @50svibes​​​ If you’d like to be added, let me know!

A/N: Hope you guys enjoy this update!

Warning(s): The beginning of this is just a touch NSFW, but nothing explicit. Also, mentions of abuse and later abortion. 

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5

AO3 link

Chapter 6 here we go!!!

Sunlight pooled into the room above the Blue Boar, warming the skin of the two bodies tangled up in the sheets upon the bed. It illuminated for Juliet all the places Ron had touched her the night before, the memory of it as electrifying and sensual as the moment itself. She stirred to look up at his sleeping face, goosebumps erupting over her as she recalled the number of times she’d whined his name as he drew climax after climax out of her. It made her squirm against him now from her spot tucked into his side. No one had ever made love to her like that before, and she found herself hungry for more already. 

To steady herself, she listened to his heart, counting the beats coming steady and strong. It didn’t help quell the ache between her thighs because she just remembered bracing herself against that firm chest as she straddled and rode him. Face growing warm with all the images of their tryst, she shifted again. This time, enough to wake him. 

“Morning,” he said, voice raspy with sleep. “‘M surprised you’re up. Must not have done my job right.” 

“Believe me, you did more than enough,” she returned, pressing her lips to his chest, right beside the faint marks from her fingers. Her own voice was a bit hoarse as well, but she had used it quite a bit during the evening.

“I see,” he smirked. “You want more then.” 

Very few people could make Juliet Fletcher blush, but that made her cheeks burn. He was right after all. Even with everything they had done, she was eager to have him again. And again and again and again…

“Shut up,” she grumbled. 

“Fine,” he said with a shrug. “Tell me what you’d rather I do with my mouth.” 

She giggled at that, biting her lip as she considered his offer. “I want it on mine.” 

True to his word, he said nothing, but pulled her close for a deep, heated kiss. Their lips were still slightly swollen from the night before, but it didn’t stop them. There was no rush this morning, just gentle exploration, soft moans, and slow hands. 

As his mouth trailed from her jawline to her collarbone, he stopped, something on her skin standing out to him - something he hadn’t noticed in the night. A circular, red scar where her collarbone met her shoulder. He gently touched it with his index finger. 

“Birthmark?” he guessed, but something in his gut told him he was wrong. 

She shook her head. “Scar. The cigar was a pretty typical threat for Dad, but he made good on it once when I got carried away with back chat. And Billy wasn’t around.” 

His face shifted just slightly when his jaw stiffened and his mouth turned down. “How old were you?” 

“Ten,” she told him. “I don’t even remember what I said or why we were fighting. But I remember the pain, that’s for sure.” 

He met her gaze. “You’re awfully casual about something like that.” 

“It was so long ago,” she returned with half a shrug. “Honestly, I forget it’s there most of the time. And he’s gone now.” 

The way she averted her eyes told him it bothered her more than she was letting on, but he didn’t pry. Instead, he pressed his lips to the scar in a display of tenderness that nearly took her breath away. It did not erase what her father had done, but it felt more healed than it ever had before. 

After their morning round, they decided they needed food or they’d never be able to keep this up. So they headed downstairs.

Juliet hummed through most of breakfast, which was a stroke to Ron’s ego, but he didn’t mention it. He just watched her pop a bit of food into her mouth and do her little in-seat dance that was fucking precious in his opinion and appreciated that he was with her. It seemed odd that the last time they’d had breakfast, they were perfect strangers. Just a few weeks later, they knew each other...well, intimately. 

“Why the book?” he asked suddenly. 

She looked at him mid-bite into some toast. “Hm?”

“Why did the book make you kiss me?” he said.

“It really wasn’t the book to be perfectly honest,” she said, setting the toast back on her plate. “It was what you did to get it.” 

He cocked his head to the side questioningly as he took a sip of his coffee. 

“The whole making up multiple bidders, and choosing Humphrey Bogart as the winning name,” she explained. “And then how much you paid for it. No one’s ever done anything like that for me before.” 

“No way,” he returned. “Not even when you were engaged?” 

She shook her head. “Arthur was...a very self-centered man. He wasn’t unkind, but he had a role he wanted me to fulfill. And I was expected to do it without him putting in any effort to keep me there. I think...he always thought I was lucky to have him. So he never took on any grand gestures.”

“I’d hardly call bidding on your book a grand gesture,” he replied, unsure what else to say to that. Putting effort into someone you liked? Wasn’t that setting the bar a little low? That felt like the bare minimum. He had always thought of love as two people sort of earning each other, and continuing to prove that they cared. 

“It was to me,” she said, her voice soft and just a smidge quieter than usual. Which told him she was really touched by what he’d done. It didn’t surprise him since apparently the only man who had never let her down was her brother. “Thank you.” 

“Well, don’t get too mushy, I mostly did it so I can make fun of you,” he said, lightening the mood. 

She snorted. “You’ll get loads of material from that, trust me.” 

“You’re not afraid of what I’ll find?” he asked. 

“I’m not afraid of anything,” she shot back, a determined gleam in her eye. 

For a moment, he believed her. She did seem to put almost her whole self out there for the world to see, so ready to take a risk. With the father she had and the heartbreak she’d endured, it would have been especially understandable for her to be afraid of everything and everyone. But she took the world head on, and had even opened herself up to him, without once asking him for any sort of promise for a future. She was so remarkable to him, he just sat back and admired her. Until she froze and the color drained from her face. 

“Jules?” 

She didn’t answer him, she only stared at a spot on the table, eyes fixed on something in the middle. He followed her gaze and saw a small spider, maybe a couple centimeters long, creeping across the wood. 

“Juliet?” 

“Fucking shit!” she cried, leaping from her seat. The chair scraped against the floor before toppling onto its side as she scampered away, pressing her body into the wall on the other side of the pub. “Ron, you have to kill it!” 

He gaped at her, utterly astounded. “Are you serious?” 

Her ghost-like complexion told him she was, but she nodded her head anyway, eyes wide with paralyzing fear. 

“Spiders?” he questioned. “That’s what gets you?” 

“They’re creepy!” she insisted. “It’s perfectly normal to be -”

“It’s the size of a -”

“I DON’T GIVE A GOOD GODDAMN HOW BIG IT IS, RON, JUST KILL THE BLOODY THING!” 

Resisting the urge to laugh, he picked up a napkin and slapped it down over the spider, wiping it away before balling it up and walking it over to a trash bin to dispose of the remains. When the coast was clear, he approached her and she shuddered. 

“Ugh, I still feel it on me,” she said. 

“It never touched you,” he reminded her. 

She scowled. “Look at my face.”

“I am looking at your face.” 

“Does it look like I want to be sassed?” 

“It does not.” 

“Then keep your little opinions to yourself.” 

“Not an opinion,” he returned. “It really didn’t touch you.” 

“What did I just say?” she shot back. 

“You’re being unreasonable,” he said. 

“Okay, and?”

He rolled his eyes. “Let’s just finish breakfast.” 

“No way!” she cried. “I’m not going back over there, what if there are more of them?” 

“There aren’t.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I do, actually, I was just there.” 

“Can’t we just leave?” she asked. 

“Juliet, I promise if there are any more spiders, I will kill them just as swiftly and mercilessly as this one,” he said. “Let’s finish our meal.” 

She eyed him skeptically, as if at any moment he would open up his jacket to reveal a secret stash of spiders just waiting to assault her, but he only held out his hand. Reluctantly, she took it and allowed him to lead her back to the table. He resumed his seat right away, but she inspected hers first. Satisfied there were no more spiders, she sat. 

He sipped his coffee. “So, is it just spiders or all bugs?” 

“Spiders, mostly,” she answered. “Other bugs I can take care of myself.” 

“Why spiders, then?” 

“It’s just a thing,” she said with a shrug. “I can’t explain it.” 

He could have argued there was a lot about her that couldn’t be explained, but decided against pointing that out. He just took another sip of coffee. She reached for her fork. 

“Juliet, wait!” he said urgently. “I think I see another one!” 

She screamed and hurled the fork away from her. It soared over to the adjacent table and clattered onto it before skidding to a stop. She looked over at it, chest heaving with her frightened breaths. Incidentally, it was free of any creatures. She glowered at Ron and the infuriating smirk on his face.

“That’s not funny,” she grumbled. 

“It’s a little funny,” he returned. 

“I loathe you right now.” 

“I can live with that.” 

She snatched his fork from in front of him and used it instead. “You’re a bully.” 

“Eat your eggs,” he replied. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she retorted. 

He shot her a steely look, and she stuck her tongue out at him before taking a bite of her eggs. She chewed and swallowed. 

“That’s a good dad look you’ve got there,” she said. “D’you use it on your subordinates?”

“Dad look?” he questioned. 

“Y’know, the stern look,” she said. “You pull it off well.” 

“You seeing that as paternal is only a little bit disturbing,” he replied. 

“That’s fair,” she conceded. “I didn’t have the best example.” 

“I’d say you probably had one of the worst,” he said. 

“Wouldn’t fight you there.” 

“To answer your question, if my men disappoint me, I make it known, in whatever way the situation calls for,” he said. 

“That’s...vague,” she said. 

He only shrugged again before he changed the subject. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?” 

“I’m actually taking the train to Trowbridge to interview the defense attorney for the Lee case,” she said. “I should be back by this evening, though.” 

“You want some company?” he offered. “We don’t have any training going on today.” 

She blinked. “Really?” 

“Sure,” he said. “Despite your attitude, I kinda like spending time with you.” 

“Flattering,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I actually...would love that. Thank you.” 

Once again, something so basic was - to her - going above and beyond. It was clear to him that Juliet had become accustomed to a certain level of interest in her, and it was low. He hoped to prove otherwise. 

***

Trowbridge was not much bigger than Aldbourne, there was just more going on since it was the capital of the county. Juliet was meeting the defense attorney at his office, and she confessed to Ron she was a bit nervous about the interview. He wasn’t an attorney that worked for the government, he was in private practice. His name was Harvey Cooper, and when Juliet had done some background on him, she discovered he was well-known for cases like the Lee case. He had actually sought out Meredith Fisher when the police report came through about Peggy’s body. There was a lot that could go wrong, but Ron reminded her that there was also a lot that could go well. 

They arrived at the office, where they were greeted by a secretary. Harvey emerged from his office with a smile that would have been more appropriate for a salesman than a defense attorney for a murder case. He shook Juliet’s hand, accepted without question that Ron was her photographer, and took them back to his office. He gave a brief, cheerful tour of the place, explaining that he’d done some updating, but was limited because of the war. Juliet and Ron exchanged a surprised look at the man’s chipper disposition. 

“Well, Miss Fletcher, I must say I’m surprised you’re working this story,” Harvey said as they all took seats in his office, Juliet and Ron on one of the desk, and Harvey on the other. “I read some past issues of the London Pursuit, and saw you were an entertainment writer.” 

“Yes,” she said gracefully. “I got a bit of a promotion, you see, with the majority of the men otherwise occupied.” 

“Sure, sure,” Harvey replied. “Of course, in my line of work, I’m more than aware of what women are capable of.” 

Ron watched Juliet’s careful disguise of her distaste to that remark. She forced a smile and tucked her hair behind her ear, before retrieving her notepad and pencil from her bag. 

“Certainly,” she said. “Which brings me to the point at hand. I’ve spoken to the prosecution about Meredith Fisher’s case, and the evidence is really strong. How do you plan to plead?” 

“Not guilty,” Harvey answered simply. 

“On what grounds?” she asked, unsurprised by that answer. 

“Institutional failure,” he said. 

That took her aback. She blinked for a moment and sat back in her seat. “Institutional failure?” 

“Absolutely,” he said. “Operation Pied Piper was under prepared and under planned. According to my research, no one vetted any of the families who agreed to take in children. If you signed up, you were approved, no questions asked.” 

Juliet’s brow furrowed. “While that’s certainly interesting, it doesn’t absolve Mrs. Fisher of responsibility for her individual actions. No other unvetted family has done this.” 

“But they could have,” he insisted. “I believe Mrs. Fisher is being made into a scapegoat for something that could have reasonably happened to any number of the children who were part of the program.” 

She stared at him for a long moment, and Ron watched her. He could see the wheels turning in her head as she tried to make sense of what she was hearing. Ron didn’t quite understand it either - it was a flimsy argument. 

“Are you...are you taking the piss?” she questioned. 

“Not in the slightest,” Harvey said. 

“Mr. Cooper, that argument is generally only used in civil cases for things like job termination,” she said. “This is murder. And it didn’t happen to any of the other children. Mrs. Fisher isn’t a stand in for something that’s been happening nationwide, this is a single instance.” 

“But, if the committee in Parliament had done its job, Peggy Lee would never have gone to the Fisher home,” he said. 

“Why?” Juliet pressed. “Does Mrs. Fisher have a record of violence?” 

“No, but one interview could have told them that she had no children of her own,” he said. “They never could conceive - a naturally devastating thing for a woman. Who would trust her with a child after discovering that?” 

She froze, and Ron watched something flash behind her eyes. A storm was brewing inside her, a hellish anger at the implication there. He didn’t agree with what Harvey was saying either, but that was just the sort of comment that set Juliet off. 

“Your entire argument is childless women being unhinged simply because they are childless,” she said, and there was a strain on her voice to keep it level. “There are plenty of women who cannot have children who do not go around murdering other people’s, myself included. Your head is up your ass if you think this will be an acceptable defense in a court of law!” 

It took Ron a moment to fully absorb what she had just admitted. He wondered for a fleeting second if Juliet was bluffing, but she was too ethical. In situations like this, she wouldn’t lie - not about something so serious. He also wondered if it was something he could ask her about, but that was a conversation for later. 

“Any doctor would diagnose her as unstable,” Harvey said, face darkening. “And I don’t appreciate your tone, Miss Fletcher.” 

“I don’t appreciate your ignorance, Mr. Cooper,” she shot back. “She wasn’t diagnosed as anything except woman, and that was by you, not a doctor.”

“Hold on -”

“So if I - I dunno - leapt over this desk and strangled you,” she cut across him, and Ron held back a laugh. “You would reasonably expect another attorney to argue that it’s the responsibility of the London Pursuit because they should have known, say, that my ex-fiancée was an attorney therefore I’m more likely to kill one? Because scorned women are known to be more furious?” 

“That’s not the same.” 

“It’s exactly the same, only in your case, worse,” she snapped. “A child is dead, and you are making a mockery of the fight for justice.” 

“I’m doing my job -” 

“Your job should entail getting Mrs. Fisher evaluated by a doctor and arguing down her sentence based on her mental capacity,” she returned. “Instead, you are reducing her to a monster because she is unable to give birth.” 

“I’m not -” 

“Even if it were true - which it isn't,” she interrupted him again. “It would still be her own fault for putting her hands on a child!” 

Harvey slammed his hands down on his desk, which prompted Ron to get to his feet, but Juliet didn’t even flinch. She stared that lawyer down as if they were in the courtroom already and she was the cross examiner. She was so unafraid it was almost difficult to believe that just hours ago a little spider had sent her running across the room. 

“Miss Fletcher,” Harvey said levelly, casting a sideways glance at Ron. “You clearly came into this interview with your mind made up about my client and this case. I must ask you to leave.” 

She stood up. “You’re right, I did come in here with my mind made up,” she said. “But that’s because I’ve got the facts. Unlike you, Mr. Cooper, I do not rely on drollery to do my job.” 

“That’s a bold statement coming from a woman -” 

“Do not ever reduce me to my sex, Mr. Cooper,” she snapped. “Yours certainly will not protect you from being intentionally stripped of your dignity.” 

With that, she turned on her heel and swept out of the office. Harvey stood up. He went around his desk and started after her. 

“Hold on, what does that mean?!” he called. 

Ron intercepted him at the doorway, stopping Harvey with a hand to the chest. 

“No,” Ron said simply, with a warning look. It went without saying that Ron had about fifty pounds on Harvey, so if he followed them out, there would be consequences. When that was well understood, Ron went after Juliet. 

She was already outside by the time he caught up, and she was waiting for him. The wind blew her hair, and he was briefly struck by how attractive she looked. He was already aroused by how she did in the interview. When he wasn’t on the receiving end of her ranting, it really was something. It was something when he was, but ultimately more enjoyable when it was directed at someone else. Because he could just sit back to watch her go and admire her. 

“Well done back there,” he said. 

“What an absolute wanker,” she said. “Institutional failure, what a fucking joke. And how insulting for Mrs. Fisher. Everyone deserves a lawyer who takes them seriously. And he clearly doesn’t.” 

He only nodded in agreement. “What did you mean by the dignity stripping comment?” 

“I can’t print anything about this until the trial happens, but believe me, that conversation will be included in the article,” she said. “I’m not normally one to get set on taking someone down, but if he seeks cases like this out just to pull stunts like that, the public should be aware.” 

Her face was red with frustration and her pace had quickened. Luckily, Ron had no trouble keeping up since his strides were longer than hers. His own heart was racing, but mostly out of his excitement about her. When there was a break in the buildings, he grabbed her by the arm and yanked her into the alleyway, pinning her against the wall. He stifled her yelp of surprise with a searing kiss. He wanted to show her how much he felt for her. She was smart, passionate, and annoyingly ethical, but he adored her. Seeing her in action only reinforced just how much. 

She moaned into his mouth before they broke apart for air, but clung to his jacket so he wouldn’t get too far away. Her eyes took a moment to re-focus on him after the dizzying intensity of his kiss. 

“You’re incredible,” he breathed. 

She searched his face for something behind his words, but found him genuine. “Thank you.” 

She bit her lip as she looked him up and down, that hunger from the morning returning to her. She craved him again, and when he smirked she knew he was aware of the effect he had. 

“God, what’s wrong with me?” she sighed, shaking her head. 

“Plenty, but I really like you anyway,” he returned, and she beamed. “You wanna get back to Aldbourne?” 

She nodded eagerly. “God, yes.” 

He turned to get onto the street again, but she pulled him back for another kiss, this one just a little longer than the last. 

It was on the train back to Aldbourne that he decided to inquire about what he heard her say in Harvey’s office. Her head rested on his shoulder as the countryside whizzed by, slowly disappearing as the sun sank behind the horizon. He looked at the yellow glow on her face and couldn’t help himself. 

“You really can’t have children?” he asked. 

She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Oh, crikey, I almost forgot I mentioned that.” 

“You don’t have to talk about it if -”

“No, it’s quite alright,” she assured him as she sat up. “We are sleeping together, so you’ve got a right to know.” She paused and looked down at her lap before continuing. “I was pregnant once. By a man I’d been seeing only a few weeks. But I was nineteen years old and terrified of what life would be like with a child I didn’t really want.” She fiddled with the handles of her bag. “So I made the decision to terminate. Only, something went wrong, and I was told because of the mistake, I’d be unable to have children. That’s the long and short of it.” 

The confession should have been shocking, but he found himself remarkably indifferent. He wanted to know more about it, but the act itself did not bother him in the slightest. 

“Did you tell the father?” he wondered. 

She shook her head. “No. I’d made up my mind and I didn’t want him to try and persuade me to change it.”

“So you went alone?” he asked. 

“No, Billy took me,” she told him. “No questions asked. He was the only one who understood.”

“Understood?” 

“I wasn’t ready for marriage or a child,” she explained. “I had so much more I wanted to do with my life.” She met his gaze. “And I’ve done it.” 

“So, no regrets, then?” he questioned hesitantly. 

She pondered that, glancing out the window before looking back at his face. “Not really, no. I’m not suited for motherhood, anyway.” She bit her lip. “Is that...is that a problem?” 

Honestly, he had not thought much about the future, especially since the war started. It was dangerous to hope. Juliet had awakened some of that in him - some glimmer of faith that he could go to war and come back to her. But children? He had never thought that far ahead, so life without them didn’t feel like a disappointment. He just wanted her. 

“No, not at all,” he replied. 

She visibly relaxed at that, letting out a low breath before easing herself back into his side. Before she got there, he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and made her look at him once more. 

“And by the way, we’re more than just sleeping together,” he said, and he kissed her smile. 

She settled against him and closed her eyes. He draped his arm around her shoulders. They were content.

[weaksauce-or-coolbeans]

Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman from Casablanca, done in dry erase

[vintagevalentinex]

Casablanca

Alright.  So @bovaria and @marvel-ash BULLIED me into writing this.  It’s a Bucky Barnes x Reader fic. :P

I hope you catch the references at the end.

Let me know what you think!

Casablanca by vintagevalentinexx Bucky Barnes x Reader ~1125 words

You wanted everything to be perfect.

It had taken you a few weeks of shopping and purchases from the internet to gather all of the items that you needed.  You had been flirting back and forth with Bucky for a couple of months now, but it had never led to anything.  There were times in the weight room that you thought that he might take the plunge and finally ask you out, but someone was always interrupting.  You had finally had enough.  It was time to take matters into your own hands, and if Bucky wasn’t going to come right out and ask you on a date…well…you were going to make it so he didn’t have a damn choice.

There were so many reasons that you adored him.  From the stories that Steve told you, he had an enormous heart, and was always there for those he cared about, which you had seen him prove time and time again.  He was positively courageous; watching him run directly into the line of fire was something that took your breath away every single time.  His complete selflessness for others was something that you thought was rare, something that maybe only he and Steve possessed.

One of the things you admired most about Bucky was that he had a certain charm that men of today definitely didn’t possess.  While you obviously loved equal rights for men, women, and everyone else, you couldn’t help but become a smiling mess when he went out of the way to hold a door open for you, or insisted that you walked on the inside of the sidewalk.  It was so rare to find anyone with manners anymore, let alone a man who had manners and didn’t treat women like they were pieces of meat.  It also didn’t help that every time you went out you were always flanked by enormous, muscled men.

You slipped on the dress you picked out especially for this evening.  It was beautiful.  Navy blue, littered with white polka dots.  You found the most perfect pair of red patent leather t-strap heels that popped against the dark navy.  You chewed you lip, hoping that he wasn’t doing anything tonight.  Slipping on your heels, you couldn’t help but continue to daydream about him.

While he was fearless, and selfless, and so very damn charming, you knew that there was such a deep sadness inside of him.  You remember how vulnerable he looked when he told you about the way that HYDRA treated him. You remember your heart breaking into tiny little pieces when he told you how they froze him over and over again, reactivating him, making him kill so many people.  And to think about how he was conscious through it all, to know that he was aware of what he was doing even when he could do absolutely nothing to stop it.  They played with his brain like an Etch-a-Sketch, erasing things whenever they wanted.

You gave your hair a final dousing in hairspray, curls perfectly placed. You grabbed your lipstick, ruby red lips staring back at you in the mirror.  Some mascara, a little blush, and a deep breath, and you were ready to seek him out.

You found him training by himself in the weight room, nearly knocking the punching back off of its fastening.  They seemed to go through a lot of punching bags around here.  You popped your head in the doorway, calling out to him.

“Hey…um, Bucky?”

“Not right now, doll, I’m busy…”

“Bucky…this can’t wait.” Not anymore.

He looked up, his jaw going slack as he watched you step through the doorway, revealing your entire look.  He raised an eyebrow as he took you in

“Did ya do all this for me, (Y/N)?  You look great.  Gorgeous. Um…what did you need?”

You smiled.  Got’em. “Well, I was wondering if you wanted to catch a movie with me tonight.  They’re playing a bunch of old classics down at the theater and I thought it would be great to go see one, you know, as long as you don’t spoil the ending for me.”

He returned your smile, running a hand through his hair.

“That sounds great, doll.  Give me about an hour to clean up and we’ll be on our way.”

You sat in the back of the theater, pleased as punch that you were able to get him on agreeing to see Casablanca.  He has dressed up tonight; wearing a suit that just fit him like it was made specifically for his frame.  You had a difficult time keeping your eyes on the screen and not oogling him, but it seemed that Bucky was having just as much trouble.  You were thrilled that they had kept the movie in black and white, your lips curving upwards every time Humphrey Bogart came into frame.  You could feel the heat of Bucky’s arm slipping over your shoulders.  You turned to face him, his face already close to yours.  He whispered softly, the puffs of air emanating from his lips heating your skin.

“Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine…”

You laughed softly, bringing your face even impossibly closer to his.

“I’m so glad we were finally able to go out together, Bucky.  I’ve been waiting for this for such a long time.  I’m so happy it’s finally happening.”

His nose brushed against yours, sending shivers down your spine.

“You have no idea how beautiful you look right now, (Y/N).  When you sauntered into the weight room earlier, I nearly went berserk. I’m sorry I’ve been such an idiot. I should have asked you out a long time ago.  I hope this is the first of many times we get to be together, doll.”

The both of you leaned in at the same time, lips pressing together, and with the fleeting functioning part of your brain you thanked your lucky stars that you were cognizant enough to apply transfer proof lipstick.  It felt like the sun and all the stars were exploding as your lips joined with his, warm engulfing your entire body, lights and shapes passing in front of your closed eyes as you wrapped your arms around the back of his head, pulling you in closer.  He mumbled against your lips, and you smiled as you felt his curve into a grin.  The both of you pulled away slowly, reluctantly.  You stared at him, lips parted, face flushed as e continued to smile at you.

“Were you trying to say something, Bucky?”

He tipped his head down, capturing your lips once more in a heated, chaste kiss.

“…Here’s looking at you, kid.”

[eeveevie]

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (10/18)

Chapter 10: Your Head Always Loses

Madelyn returns to the New England Medical Center, and coordinates with Sergeant Danny Sullivan to keep Nick safe while the hunt for Eddie Winter continues. After delivering heart-breaking news to her partner, she travels to the state house to speak with Hancock and MacCready in the hopes they may have a lead. Later, while mourning their loved ones in a downtown church, Madelyn learns a new truth about Deacon.

“When your head says one thing and your whole life says another, your head always loses.” - Frank McCloud as played by Humphrey Bogart (Key Largo, 1948)

[read on Ao3] x  [chapter masterpost]

April 14th, 1958

By the time Madelyn and Deacon reached the New England Medical Center, the entire plaza had been barricaded, swarms of police vehicles surrounding the building while uniformed officers patrolled the perimeter, denying entry to anyone without hospital authorization. Local newshounds had crowded the emergency bay as well, clamoring for an interview with passing investigators and doctors. The chaos was more than Madelyn anticipated, the police attendance more abundant than she’d seen in recent months. The Boston Police department had been slow to respond to the increase in crime; disappearances, kidnappings and murders, most, if not all related to the gangland fight for territory. Rampant corruption had everything to do with their indifference—nearly the entire city had been bought out by Eddie Winter. She had every right to be suspicious of their presence, unsure of who to trust.

Piper had instructed them to enter through the side entrance, but Madelyn wasn’t convinced they’d be let through. Even if she managed to push forth some charm and use her credentials from the District Attorney’s office, it wasn’t a guarantee. The two circled the crowd, looking for a way forward. While Madelyn scanned the sea of people for a familiar face, she couldn’t help but glance to Deacon, who was uncharacteristically keeping his distance a few paces behind. He had donned his black wig and shielded his eyes, hiding any trace of the man she’d seen in her bed when she awoke just a few hours prior. For all the times he’d shown her comfort in the past, he wouldn’t touch her now, hadn’t done so since she roused from fainting.

The usually chatty Railroad agent was quiet now too, hardly speaking a word as they traveled from her apartment to downtown. Combined with the grief of Jenny’s death, Nick’s fate, and Winter’s whereabouts, Madelyn couldn’t make room in her heart for the turmoil their rift caused her. Separated by a few inches, it might as well have been miles with how her chest was aching. She clenched her fist, nails biting into her palms so she wouldn’t be tempted to reach out to him, desperate as she was to feel his hand in hers.

As they approached the entrance, a police officer predictably held them back with an outstretched hand, silently deferring to the throng of reporters. Madelyn dug through her purse for her identification, but the cop would not take the paper documentation, or give it a second glance.

“My partner is Nick Valentine, he’s a patient here. Jennifer Lands is—” she hesitated—was—and found her voice again. “Please, you have to let us through.”

The officer shook his head. “Ma’am, this is a secure scene. We’ve had enough loonies try and make their way into the E.R. this morning, we don’t need another one.”

He turned away, dismissing her in full. If she wasn’t frustrated before, she was now. Before she could argue or suggest that Deacon make himself useful and distract the guard so she could slip inside, another person came rushing towards them with enthusiasm. The man was shorter than her, and looked fresh out of college, baby-faced without a hint of stubble. He stuck out his arm, correcting his stance when he realized he’d shoved his notepad in her direction instead.

“Buster Connolly with the Boston Bugle,” he greeted in a rushed voice, as if his press credentials weren’t pinned to his coat. “Did you say you were with Nick Valentine? I could’ve sworn I recognized you! You’re the broad he’s always with, right?”

Beside her, Deacon bristled, but remained silent. She smiled politely, used to the microaggressions based on her gender that almost always erased her career accomplishments. Did anybody remember she was a lawyer anymore? Judging by how young Mr. Connolly was, his mishap was forgivable. Still, she was wary of his sudden interest and refrained from greeting him in kind—the Boston Bugle had its own problems with corruption when it came to covering Eddie Winter’s crimes.

Buster anxiously glanced to his notes. “Can you confirm the validity of the rumors that Eddie Winter was shot and injured sometime within the last forty-eight hours, and that there is currently a manhunt underway to locate him?”

Madelyn maintained composure, even as the memory came back in full force, flashes of Winter taunting her as he crushed her windpipe until she found the strength to fight back. Regret gripped at her with vice-like talons—if her aim had been deadlier, Buster wouldn’t be asking her these questions. If she’d had the nerve to kill him when she had the chance, Jenny would be alive.

“No comment,” Deacon answered for her, and she nearly flinched when his hand rested softly on the small of her back.

The young reporter frowned, flipping through more pages. “I have been tracking leads and rumors all across town, following the Valentine Detective Agency’s progress. Seems to me you’re the only ones that give a damn. There’s way more than what the police and media are telling us, but the higher-ups won’t let me publish anything on a whim.”

“I don’t have the same freedoms as that Public Occurrences paper does,” he lamented, practically staring at her in a similar way Dogmeat would when begging for table-scraps. “You gotta help me out. Is what they’re saying true? Is Eddie Winter behind everything that’s gone wrong in Boston?”

Piper’s voice echoed in her mind—freedom of the press—and she nodded.

“Yes,” she responded. “Yes, its all true.”

Buster scrambled to a fresh page, eager to write down the details, but he wouldn’t get a chance. The officer at the side entrance turned to face them again, pointing at her and Deacon.

“Miss Hardy was it?” he questioned, sheepishly. “I’ve been instructed to let you by. Sergeant Sullivan is inside waiting. He’s should be at the nurse’s station.” He instructed, pulling back one of the barricades so they could step through. “I uh…sorry about before.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

Just as Madelyn stepped through the doorway, she looked back to Buster, who was observing the entire exchange from the sidewalk. “Write the article.”

The inside of the hospital was just as bustling as it had been outside, nurses and doctors scrambling to work around the cops and detectives crowding the halls. Last night the emergency room had been a ghost town, but today almost every bay was occupied with freshly injured. In the center of it all, Sergeant Danny Sullivan stood, directing his men to different areas of the building and reading over reports passed to him by passing officers.  

“What the hell happened?” Deacon muttered, surveying the mayhem.

Madelyn wondered the same, moving to where the Chief Sergeant was dismissing the last of his force. “…and send an extra squad to city hall. Don’t know if the bastard is brazened enough to attack the mayor, but after this…”  

Sullivan rubbed at his jaw, deep in thought before performing a double-take in Madelyn’s direction. Instantly, his expression transformed into one of deep sorrow—a look she was all too familiar with. She wasn’t about to dismiss his sympathy, however, regardless of how new their alliance was.

“Miss Hardy,” he sighed, with a small shake of his head. “I didn’t think we’d be seeing each other again so soon, under such…grim circumstances.” His eyes flickered to where Deacon stood to her left, his hand still pressed against her back. “Is this your…?”

Sullivan’s subtle suggestion made Deacon drop his arm to the side, and she straightened, sucking in a breath so she wouldn’t overreact. In the past, he would’ve jumped at the opportunity to joke about being her significant other. Given the situation, it hardly seemed appropriate now. Nevertheless, the loss of contact left her cold. She steadied her resolve, knowing it was not the time to worry about her tumultuous feelings for the man.

“Sergeant Sullivan,” she greeted with a small gesture. “This is Deacon. I may have mentioned his work with the agency.”

“What is it that you do, exactly?” Sullivan asked, light eyes studying him carefully from head to toe as they shook hands.  

Deacon offered a small shrug, a glimmer of his usual self shining through. “That’s a need to know basis.”

Madelyn redirected the conversation, needing answers to the questions burning in her mind. “What happened?” she asked, voice breaking as she fought back a sudden wave of emotion.

Sullivan released a long sigh. “What we gathered from witness reports is that a group of Winter’s men attacked the hospital just before daybreak. They took hostages, including Miss Lands. A police force showed up, but it was a mix of his pocketed men and straight cops. All hell broke loose as soon as I arrived on scene.”

He pointed to the various medical bays. “We’ve got a few downed officers, two nurses, and one of Eddie’s,” he swallowed, the grim expression returning. “One fatality.”

Jenny.

Madelyn nodded, shifting her gaze to a far corner where the lights were dimmed, curtains drawn tight to prevent entry. Outside, two heavily armed officers stood guard, giving the appearance they were protecting a priceless set of jewels rather than a corpse. Jennifer Lands was precious, however, deserving of such safeguarding. The guilt threatened to suffocate Madelyn as she thought—if only Jenny had been under such careful protection when she was alive.

“Where’s Nick?” she barely managed to ask.

“Safe. He woke up an hour ago,” he explained with a deep frown. “He doesn’t know about…” Sullivan shifted uncomfortably. “He’s under the impression we’re here because it was a failed attack on his life.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t?” Madelyn countered.

“Until Winter is caught, I don’t think any of us are safe,” he responded. The sergeant further contemplated her question, fingers tapping at his chin. “I’d like to move him to a new, secure location, but I’m not sure if he’ll agree.”

At least Sullivan understood who he was working with. Nick wasn’t conscious when she’d set up their arrangement, and even before the Eddie Winter case, had never gotten along with the sergeant or Boston’s finest. Considering he was awaking to a new reality in which Eddie Winter was still free and his fiancé was dead, Madelyn wasn’t sure how her partner would react.

“I’ll talk to him,” she said, realizing she’d be the one to tell him about Jenny’s fate—a heavy burden, but it wouldn’t be right if the news came from anyone else.

Sergeant Sullivan escorted the two around the nurse’s station to the opposite side of the emergency bay, to the farthest room with a door. The blinds in the window had been drawn shut, either to stop bystanders from peeking in, or to prevent Nick from seeing more than necessary. A well-dressed detective stood guard, nodding to his superior as they approached. On the other side of the door, a body stood from the row of waiting-room chairs.

“Blue?”

Madelyn didn’t hesitate to embrace Piper as her friend rushed towards over, arms wrapping around her in a tight circle. The usually sarcastic and chipper reporter was now sobbing, face burrowed in the fabric of her friend’s coat. Madelyn consoled her, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over—if she lost poise now, she’d never be able to face Nick.

“It all happened so fast,” Piper’s muffled voice whispered by her ear. “Jenny—she, she’d stepped out for only a minute and the next thing I knew, Winter’s men were attacking. I shouldn’t have let her out of sight—”

Madelyn hushed her, wanting to take away the blame. If anyone was responsible, it was her—for letting Eddie Winter escape and live out his revenge plot fantasies. Nobody else deserved to shoulder the weight of that blame. Piper slowly pulled away, rubbing at her eyes before releasing a shaky breath. She regarded the two men standing astride with mild discontent but quickly refocused on Madelyn.

“I couldn’t tell Nick,” she spoke, the devastation and exhaustion clear. “He was too delirious, wanting an update on Winter, asking about you…” Piper pursed her lips, preventing herself from weeping once more. “Asking for Jenny.”

There was no stopping the tears now, hazing her vision as she blinked them away so they’d slide down her cheeks. With a small nod, she moved to open Nick’s door, but Piper stopped her, turning her away for one last hushed exchange of words.

“Did—did something happen between you and Deacon?” she asked, glancing over her friend’s shoulder to where he was standing out of earshot with Sergeant Sullivan. Was it that obvious? Madelyn didn’t have the time to explain it was more of a non-event that was causing the palpable tension in the air.

She frowned, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Not now.”

For once, Piper didn’t dig for more information. The two exchanged one last solemn look before Madelyn slowly let herself into the hospital room. The fluorescent lighting wasn’t as harsh in the small space, but the smell of antiseptic tickled her nose. Nick was propped up in the bed, the thick swath of bandages visible through his gown. He was still connected to an IV, and judging by the way his head rolled, they were keeping his pain managed.

“Hey doll,” he rasped, the green of his eyes dull when they slid open to look at her in the doorway. “Why all the tears?” his lips pulled to the side in some semblance of a smirk. “I’ve never felt better.”  

God—she choked back a sob—she was going to break his heart, and her own in the process. Hesitantly, she approached and stood next to the bed, gasping when his hand reached out grasp hers. Her knees were trembling—hell, her whole body was shaking with the overwhelming anxiety of what she had to say. Nick’s eyebrows furrowed, sensing there was something wrong. He studied her face, eyes lingering across the bruises around her neck. But she shook her head, preventing him from speaking.

“Nick,” she gripped his hand tighter, bracing herself to that spot. “I—I’m so sorry—”

He was perplexed. “What? What for?”

Madelyn didn’t miss a beat. “Jenny.”

It was all she needed to say.

Nick squeezed her hand hard—reactionary—and then simply let go. She watched his face, the clench of his jaw as the realization set in. Their eyes met, silently confirming the horrible truth—Jenny, his Jenny was dead. Madelyn had never seen Nick cry, but there was a first time for everything. Silent, as they streamed down his face and left tracks on his skin. She hadn’t known what to expect, but somehow, the subdued reaction was all the more unnerving—like his soul had departed, leaving behind an empty shell.

Then, he asked the inevitable. “Where is Winter?”

Unable to hide the truth from him, she answered honestly. “I don’t know.”  

Nick recoiled, expression swiftly shifting as the anger bubbled to the surface. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I—” Madelyn gaped, stumbling over what to say. “I shot him.”

She left out the details in-between, even though the marks on her skin were clear as day. She continued, struggling to stay in check—quickly spiraling when it wasn’t fair to Nick, who had every right to his emotions.

“I had to help save you,” she explained, tentatively resting her hand against his arm. “He—he got away.”

“He should be dead!” Nick barked, tearing away from her.

Madelyn flinched at the sound of his voice, echoing through the room. She couldn’t deny him the rage, however—he was right—and it was her fault. No explanation or apologies would ever suffice for the grief she’d caused. Nick started to shift from the bed, blinded by his fury.

“I’m going to find that bastard and blow his brains out!”

The door to the hospital room swung open, two nurses shooing Madelyn away as they practically pushed Nick back into the bed, one deftly administering a sedative that had him complacent within moments, and unconscious the next. Piper and Sullivan stood in the doorway, watching intently, parting to make room for her exit. She nearly collapsed in the closest chair but knew she couldn’t succumb to the darkness yet.

“Do you have any leads on Winter’s possible location?” she asked, surprising the two with her demeanor.

“Miss Hardy, I’ve got the rest of my best men working this, and officers on loan from Salem and Nahant combing the city,” he explained, trying to set her at ease. “You don’t need to do the legwork anymore.”

“Yes,” she argued, glancing to Piper who understood the determination and remorse she was carrying. “Yes I do.”

The reporter nodded at the sergeant. “We have our own resources. Our own informants. Blue just might turn up something your best men can’t.”

Sullivan relented with a long sigh. “Please, at least take a police escort—”

“No,” she protested, flicking her gaze to where Deacon was leaning against the opposite wall, expression unreadable as ever. That is, until she spoke, and his lips twisted into a frown. “I need to do this alone.”

The group said nothing, though she wondered if any of them truly agreed with her sentiment. Regardless, she had a plan, and needed to follow through with it.

“I’ve placed my faith in you Danny,” she said, glancing back into Nick’s room with a solemn expression. The sergeant silently nodded, understanding her meaning. “Don’t make me question that choice.”

The Old State House used to be the seat of Massachusetts government, until the New State House was built to replace it, standing tall for over a century. While Mayor McDonough occupied the new building and city hall, the Old State House doubled as a museum and John Hancock’s base of operations. One of the last places of refuge in Scollay Square, the mayor’s brother had built a reputation for himself as a trusted member of society. Still a somewhat shady character—you wouldn’t want to double-cross him—but he took care of his own. Fed the hungry, ran grassroot campaigns for the underprivileged, and was currently running a fierce campaign in an effort to kick the older McDonough from office. While Madelyn had limited run-ins with the man in the past, she knew he was somebody she could trust. Especially when it came to helping Nick and hunting down Eddie Winter.

Of the people, for the people—she regarded the red banner strung from the overhead balcony before entering the building, noting the sign that directed her upstairs if she was looking for ‘the offices of Mr. Hancock’. On the second story landing, she was greeted by a familiar face, though his actions were troublesome.

“Robert?”

MacCready grimaced at the formal use of his name, briefly pausing in his pacing to regard her as he took a long drag of his cigarette. He had never quite looked his age, but right now, he looked even worse for wear.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, glancing around. “Is everything okay?”

“I should be asking you that,” he responded, shaking his head. “Heard what happened at the hospital. To Nick,” he frowned, stopping to frown. “To Jenny.”

“But Eddie Winter is still out there? And here I am, a rat that helped you guys chase him down!” he continued, rushing through his words as he smoked through one cigarette and lit another. “I could be next!”

Madelyn sighed, wringing her hands together as she listened to the fear in his voice. Sullivan had made a similar notion—nobody was safe. As long as Eddie Winter remained free, anybody could be his next victim. She was about to offer her sympathy when the door behind him creaked open, revealing Hancock.

“Look who it is,” he greeted with an easy grin. By his side, a young boy was holding his hand, nervously hiding behind the trail of his red coat. “Did I mention how your pacing is scaring the kid?”

MacCready straightened, flicking his half-smoked cigarette to the ground, snubbing it out with his boot. “Sorry.”

“You ask me to babysit, and this is the thanks I get?” Hancock softly laughed, encouraging the young boy to step out from behind him. He crossed over to the mercenary, gripping his hand instead, switching his curious gaze towards Madelyn.

“This is Duncan, my son,” MacCready explained. “Can you say hi to the pretty lady?”

She smiled, maybe for the first time that day as Duncan waved his little fingers in her direction. “Hello.”

Hancock noticed her disposition and waved her over to his office. “Okay, the grownups are going to chat now,” he teased, earning an eyeroll from MacCready. “Bye-bye Duncan!”

“Bye-bye, John,” the little boy responded. “Bye-bye, pretty lady.”

Hancock hovered his arm around her waist as he led her inside, gesturing her to sit in the large, leather chair before his desk. Instead of sitting in his chair, he leaned against the sturdy oak, and crossed his arms.

“First, I want to offer my condolences,” he said, lips twisting into a grimace. “I know Nicky and I aren’t close, but it ain’t right what they did to Jenny.”

Madelyn nodded, twisting her fingers into the fabric of her dress. “That’s why I’m here, actually.”

“What, for sympathy?” Hancock smirked.

“No,” she furrowed her brows, remembering how difficult the man could be. “For help. Eddie Winter. He’s still out there. I want to know if you know anything, if you’ve heard anything.”

Hancock’s eyebrows jumped up in surprise, but he relaxed. “That’s a big ask, sister. But I’m happy to oblige. Winter is no friend of mine.”

“There were rumors that the police knew Eddie was planning on going after Valentine and Jenny, but it seemed so outrageous that nobody wanted to believe he’s be so brazen to go after a civilian.”

Madelyn knew there was truth to that based on the holotape with Eddie Winter’s vague threat. To hear there was more behind his recorded warnings, that the police knew—she was horrified. Though, it explained why so many corrupt officers showed up at New England Medical Center, only to cornered by Sullivan and his team. Jenny’s death, it seemed, was inevitable.

“I’m going to say something controversial, but hey, its kind of my shtick,” Hancock shrugged. “Did you ever stop to think Jenny was allowed to die, so they’d have something concrete to go after Winter for? This city doesn’t give a shit about mobsters being offed. But a beautiful, innocent dame?”

He cocked his head to the side, raising his hands. “Talk of the town.”

Her gut reaction was to stand and punch the blonde man’s grin off of his face. Reason and sensibility held her back as she thought about what he was suggesting. One person came to mind.

“Do you know anybody at the Boston Bugle?”

“Why?”

Madelyn shifted in her seat. “If we can’t find Winter the old-fashioned way, it’s time to lure him out. Scare him out with what we know. Piper’s tried with her smear campaigns, but it isn’t enough.”

Hancock nodded, understanding where she was heading. “Yeah, I got connections. And if they aren’t willing, I can be…persuasive.”

She stood, grasping his hand in a firm handshake. Surprisingly, the man pulled her into a loose hug, patting her affectionately on the back. When he pulled away, there was a subdued smile pulling at his lips.

“Whatever you need, sister.”

It was late by the time Madelyn left the Old State House, and common sense told her it was best to head home. Yet, she refused a ride from Hancock and neglected to share a cab with MacCready, insisting she would be fine on her own as she wandered aimlessly down the sidewalk. Walking alone in the dead of night in Boston Common—any rational person would call her crazy. Maybe she had a death wish. Or maybe, she was hoping Eddie Winter would surprise her from some dark alleyway and she’d get a second chance at taking him down. Realistically, though, she wasn’t sure if she’d be capable even if with a new opportunity for revenge. That belonged to Nick, and Nick alone.

Madelyn headed west, lingering for a long moment by the park gates. She hadn’t been there since early January, and before then, she had avoided the area ever since Nate’s murder. Instead of drifting towards the spot in the street where she’d lost a part of herself years ago, she stared down at the strip of red brick that signified the Freedom Trail. She studied the bronze plate, frowning at the red paint that had faded over time.

“Dame like you shouldn’t be out this late.”

Deacon. She twisted around to find him leaned against the nearest streetlight, hands tucked deep into his coat pockets. It mirrored their first—second—meeting, albeit the tone and dynamic between them had changed significantly since that cold, snowy night. Even so, she was glad to see him, heart a nervous pitter-patter in her chest when she thought about the circumstances keeping them apart.

“Nice to know you’re still following me around,” she responded lightheartedly, offering a small smile.

He approached—careful measured steps before he was standing in front of her with a similar, hesitant expression. “Of course,” he replied. “Someone’s got to.”

“Come on,” he said next, raising his arm to silently encourage her to link elbows.

Madelyn reciprocated, savoring the sensation, unsure of how long the physical contact would last. They had crossed an unspoken boundary—almost kissed—and now, she feared their bond would never be the same. It was selfish of her to want more, how greedy she felt to have his hands on her body, but it wasn’t meant to be. For now, she’d take what little comfort she could get.

She didn’t ask him where they were going as he led them further away from Boston Common, closer to Trinity Plaza and the library. It wasn’t until they circled the street corner and paused that she realized his intended destination—Trinity Church. The tall building, with its exquisite arches and stonework, stained glass windows shimmering in the moonlight stood as a sanctuary in the center of the Back Bay district. A beacon of hope to many, but to Madelyn, the sight made her anxious.

“Come on,” Deacon encouraged again, gently tugging her along when her feet didn’t budge from the sidewalk. She steadied herself, gripping his arm tight as she moved. If this is where he wanted to go, then she could find the resolve to follow.

Inside, the church was devoid of congregants, the lone priest silently acknowledging the two as they passed through the corridor and between the many rows of pews. Deacon led her towards the front corner of the expansive building, their footsteps echoing off the vaulted ceiling as they went. He stopped before the small dais of burning votive candles and shifted his arm to gently hold her hand. Growing up in a devoutly Catholic home, she was more than familiar with their intended use, and figured Deacon shared a similar upbringing—with all his biblical references and insistence on Railroad safehouse locations being abandoned churches, she’d be surprised if that turned out to be another one of his lies. She was only confused as to why he’d brought them there now. Madelyn couldn’t remember the last time she’d prayed, let alone in a church, and she hadn’t lit a candle for someone since Nate’s funeral. The memory had her trembling, squeezing Deacon’s hand so she wouldn’t collapse to the floor in a fit of tears.

“Remember when I said it couldn’t get much worse?” Madelyn recalled, swallowing the lump in her throat as she watched the flickering flames. “I’m afraid I was lying.”

“I do it all the time,” he responded with a cynic, half-smile and then reached out for a loose taper, passing one to her free hand. She dipped the end into the flame before passing it along to a new candle, watching as the wick ignited.

“For Nick,” she whispered, repeating the action for another name, the prayer silent in her mind. “For Jenny,” her voice wavered as she thought about how fresh that grief was. Some wounds never healed. Her vision was hazy with tears when she spoke again, lighting one last candle. “For Nate.”

Deacon’s grip on her hand tightened and she glanced to him, watching intently as he mimicked her movements, lighting his own candle. She figured that lone flame signified all the Railroad lives that had been lost—friends and colleagues that he couldn’t protect—like High Rise, or Henry.

He sighed. “For Barbara.”

Madelyn stared at his profile, unable to respond. An overwhelming sense of curiosity was begging her to ask—but she remained silent, releasing a shaky breath only when she realized she’d been holding it in. He turned his head, ever so slightly, and she knew he was looking at her through the darkened shades. She could feel the rapid beat of his pulse along his wrist, terrified he would pull away. But he stayed perfect still, just watching her.

“I’m a liar,” he suddenly spoke, not in the usual teasing manner he admitted to. This was anguish—regret. “Everybody knows it. I make no secret of it. Because the truth is, I’m a fraud. To my core.”

She didn’t know what to say, baffled at where this sorrow was coming from. Then again, maybe the events of the last few days, weeks and months had finally caught up to Deacon, and she had been the catalyst. Pushing him too far by asking too much of him, revealing too much of his true self. As if she didn’t have enough regrets.

“When I was young—God, how long ago now—I was…” he winced, eyebrows knitting together. “I was scum. Violent—”

Madelyn interjected. “We all make mistakes.”

“These weren’t just mistakes,” he protested. “You have no idea what I did.”

She gave him the chance to explain, and he did, continuing with a heavy sigh.

“Freshman year at Massachusetts Bay, I ran with a gang,” he started. “This was when all the crime families still had their footholds in Boston, and the Gunners had their fair share of crime statistics. We were the University Point Deathclaws—sounds cliché, but we were ruthless. Terrorized South Boston and Quincy just as much as those Gunner bastards.”

“Were you really that bad?” she asked, chest tightening. Madelyn wasn’t sure if it was in fear of the truth, or sadness that he’d held this back from her for so long.

“Worse,” Deacon muttered, turning away. “We kept egging each other on. Started with some property damage, graduated to some beat downs. Then, inevitably, a murder.”

Madelyn refrained from reacting, even though her heart was racing—so loud, she could hear it pounding in her ears. He had to be selling her another one of his lies, but there was a certain level of sincerity in his tone that told her otherwise. It was all true. He didn’t say anything for a long time, fingers twitching in her grasp, unable to look in her direction.

“Believe me when I say I didn’t know what they had planned to do that night until I was called up to help dispose of the body. That was enough for me,” his jaw tightened. “It was his eyes. Those eyes haunt me.”

Deacon continued, the burning candles reflecting off his shades. “As soon as I was able, I turned my brothers in, turned witness for the prosecution, and walked away scot free. It wasn’t fair, but back then, I only cared about getting as far away from the Deathclaws as possible. I broke all contact, transferred to D.C. and moved on with my life.”

“Then one day I found someone,” he said, pausing to release an uneven breath. “She saw something in me I didn’t know was there. Barbara, well, she was…She just was. I didn’t deserve her, but I married her all the same.”

Madelyn swallowed down the pain that burned at her throat, unable to ignore the way her stomach twisted into knots. Another woman—a woman who had loved him, and who he had loved in return. She cursed at the jealous thoughts running through her mind, knowing she had no right to them. Not when she had experienced a similar past—a profound love that had slipped through her fingers, lost forever.

“We were trying for kids,” he admitted, digging the knife in further—but he had no way of knowing that she and Nate had similar plans before his death. “Being with her made me feel like the whole world had a chance. She could do that to people.”

It was incredibly difficult to force herself to speak, to sound genuine. “She sounds special.”

“She was,” he responded. “The Claws found out about where I was, came to get their revenge. There was…blood.”

“I—I’m so sorry,” her breath left her in a strangled gasp. Even though she could infer the answer, she had to ask. “They…they killed her?”

Deacon glanced her way. “Yes.”

“I don’t remember much clearly after that. I know I killed most of them—self-defense maybe, but I must’ve made a big impression. The Railroad made contact, helped me disappear. They were sympathetic, seeing I’d just lost my wife. And, well, what I did afterwards.”

“I had no idea,” she murmured, shellshocked by his confession. He’d killed—found the revenge she’d been denied after losing a beloved—she wasn’t sure if she should be terrified of him, or in awe.

“Nobody does,” Deacon replied, nearly broken. Her heart leapt at the realization—she was the only one that knew. “I don’t even know why I lie anymore. But I can’t tell the truth. Everyone—Tom, Dez, Carrington, you…” he trailed off with a despondent sigh. “They deserve to be in the Railroad. I don’t. I’m everything wrong with this whole fucking Commonwealth, just as bad as Winter’s men who’ve been murdering and corrupting the city.”

“Charmer, you’re—” He squeezed her hand like it was the only thing keeping him rooted to that spot. “I don’t deserve—”

The words died on his tongue, leaving her to speculate what he couldn’t say. Madelyn always knew they were two sides to the same coin but didn’t realize how alike their pasts were. They had walked mirrored paths to end up in that exact moment, clasped hand-in-hand like two converging souls finding their way back to one another. Nothing had ever left her so confused, yet so full of clarity at the same time, every past flicker of emotion she’d held for him validated in one single moment. Fate had brought them together—a cruel fate—but fate nonetheless, and Madelyn didn’t want to let go.

“Why tell me the truth now?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

Deacon’s response was an action—simple enough—the gentle swipe of his thumb across her fingers, over the spot where she should’ve been wearing her wedding ring. She understood immediately, thinking back to the shared moment in her apartment and his hesitation to kiss her. But now, he’d lowered his emotional guard, let her beyond the walls where no one had been in years. He needed her to accept him for who he was—not just devoid of his disguises and gimmicks—but without the lies and stories. All the flaws, the mistakes—he needed her to understand he was still seeking atonement for the past.

So was she.

Madelyn caught him off guard when she turned towards him, gently tugging on his hand so he’d face her properly. He stared at her expectantly, lips parted as if he had something to say. Their conversation still weighed heavily on her mind—she wanted to kiss him, but there was still too much grief consuming her heart. Without saying another word, she wrapped her arms around his torso, pressing her face against his shoulder as she hugged him, hoping it would be enough. Instantly, his arms enveloped her, tucking her tight against his chest as he rested his chin on her head. Wrapped in the warmth of his embrace, she felt at peace, listening to the pounding of his heart.

“I’m in your corner, Deacon,” she said, quietly mumbling the words into his shoulder, echoing a sentiment he’d shared with her before. “I’m with you, till the bitter end.”

[dear-wormwoods]

i think they toned down richie’s personality a lot because of cancel culture. in the book richie is a great person, but he sometimes does offensive impressions/jokes and that’s why his friends began saying “beep beep” to let him know when he’s going too far. bill hader is like a real life richie, kind and complex but also makes some bad jokes sometimes that are labeled problematic. i think they erased that side of richie so the good of his character wouldn’t be lost to the rise in cancel culture

Nah because it’s possible to do impressions and shit without being offensive (BH does this like 90% of the time, he knows how to reel it in). Besides, Richie’s main two characters as an adult are a James Bond-ish British guy and a Southern colonel that sounds like Foghorn Leghorn. They could’ve stuck with that, or had him do celebrity impressions, or other pop culture ones besides Star Wars... they didn’t have to cut an enormous part of his character, they could’ve just left out the dated racist bits and still would’ve had plenty to work with.

There’s literally no excuse for taking layered characters and flattening them down until they’re nearly unrecognizable. Fact is... Ch2 Richie is both a waste of the reason why they cast Bill Hader to begin with and a boring, flat interpretation of the character that relies too heavily on stereotypes and bogarting themes that originally belonged to Eddie. AND if they really cared about preserving the good parts of Richie’s character, they wouldn’t have made him do ooc shit like lying to Ben and bailing on his friends. And if they actually cared about writing an LGBT story they wouldn’t have been so lazy about it.

So they erased almost everything about Richie - good and bad - besides having feelings for Eddie and then erased almost everything about Eddie besides being the object of Richie’s affection & tragedy. No excuses.

[harris-coopers]

Cole Sprouse Reveals the Most Romantic Thing He's Ever Done for Lili Reinhart

Cole Sprouse is about to make you cry so much this weekend. His movie Five Feet Apart hits theaters today, March 15, and it's more intense than all the Riverdale season finales combined. It centers on Stella (Haley Lu Richardson), a high school teenager living in a hospital with cystic fibrosis. She turns her sterile room into a sanctuary, and the nurses and other CF patients into a family. But things turn upside down when she meets a new CF patient living in the ward: Will, played by Sprouse. An attraction soon blossoms—which is a huge problem, because the nurses recommend CF patients avoid all physical contact with each other.

The movie is one part The Fault in Our Stars, two parts Everything, Everything, and all parts weepy. So Cole Sprouse called us up on his way to the airport to talk about romance, pop-culture, and what personally makes him weep. Read our conversation, below.

Glamour: This movie is going to make a lot of people cry. What movie never fails to make you cry?

Cole Sprouse: Up. The first 10 minutes of Up is seriously one of the greatest romances ever. It just really pulls on your heartstrings. The other one that never fails to make me cry is Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I just think it's beautiful. The narrative that two people were so in love, but it ended up going so poorly toward the end that they were willing to erase their memories and live in this blissful ignorance, is really powerful. The movie's extremely well-done. I'm a huge fan of Jim Carrey. Those two movies really hit me hard.

Is there a song that makes you cry?

CS: It's "Claire de Lune." That was a song that meant a lot to me in my first love. During that breakup, I ended up having so many unreconciled emotions I put into that song. It always still gets me to that place.

In the movie, Stella throws Will a pretty epic surprise birthday party. What was your best birthday?

CS: I hired three clowns to come and drink around L.A. with me when I was 22. Laughy Pants, Golden Tulips, and Rex the Impossible were the clowns. My buddies and I basically just drank with clowns with the one criteria that none of us, all night, could acknowledge they were clowns. It just ended up being a really great time. All of us had so much fun, including the clowns. They didn't even charge us at the end of the night because we all had such a blast. It was a really strange, off-the-wall, split-second decision that ended up being one of the greatest, most memorable nights I've ever had.

There's a scene toward the end of the film that's quite romantic. What's the grandest romantic gesture you've ever done?

CS: I really like the road trip date. I took my girlfriend [Riverdaleco-star Lili Reinhart] on a date where we drove to this location deep into Canada, and I surprised her with a big hot air balloonadventure, which was quite a bit of fun. I like traveling quite a bit. I like road-tripping. Those grand experiences always end up yielding the greatest memories—and the greatest romances.

If you're planning a date, what would be on the agenda?

CS: My language of love is quality time. I'm not really the type of person that likes going to a movie and sitting in silence. Maybe a little breaking and entering! Some photography! Who knows?

Stella and Will feel like they could become a classic teen movie couple. What's your favorite movie couple of all time?

CS: I'd say Casablanca. That was, to me, one of the greatest romances ever in the history of film—and so conflicting between Ingrid [Bergman] and Humphrey [Bogart]. I was such a big fan of Casablanca. I was always rooting for them, but in the end it doesn't really work out. Here's to you, kid. Here's looking at you. What can you do?

What movie would you recommend watching right after Five Feet Apart?

CS: Ratatouille or something. Maybe not a movie, but watch Hoarders or Dr. Pimple Popper to really just go the exact opposite direction and completely take you out of your sniffly fit.

You play a teenager both in this movie and on Riverdale. What's the number-one thing you don't miss about teen life?

CS: Feeling so disenfranchised from everyone else. The quintessential puberty experience is feeling like you are alone. You're such an outsider. I think that's the one thing I don't miss. I felt like quite a black sheep when I was a teenager, and I don't feel that way nearly as much anymore.

If you could tell your 17-year-old self one thing, what would it be?

CS: Don't be afraid of college. You're gonna love it. College was a blast. Some of the best years of my life.

Who would you rather be stuck inside an elevator with: Jughead or Will?

CS: Jughead. He has the craftiness to get us out the situation and the resources and the skills. He's a pretty cerebral kid. I feel like he would be a good ally in that situation.

Source: Glamour

[thepatricktreestump]

Reinvent Love

~ a modern day Ryden fanfiction ~

A/N: Happy Pride Month. Here’s a gift from me to you.

               His face was different than I had initially remembered. It’s ridiculous to say, I mean, thousands of people have probably seen his face on billboards and on television screens and in advertisements and even commercials. He’s famous, worldwide rock singer, been on Broadway even, social media celebrity, and teenage heartthrob ever since he stepped on the scene. He was everything I could have been, and I was the one to throw it all away. He steps into the café in a button down dress shirt and that stupid smug smile on his face, cheery and handsome, going up to the counter and ordering a coffee. I didn’t expect to see him here. Ever since I had grown astray from the music business I had moved away to a small city, settled down in a simple apartment with my dogs and some friends, taken to studio work and low budget film productions, decided to find refuge and serenity in the gradual slow-down of my once ambitious and chaotic career. They had told me I had potential but I was too weak, too susceptible, too young. I had barely made it out of high school and I was doing interviews and playing shows across the country, signing my name on the possessions of kids half my age, plucking a bass guitar underneath the blinding stage lights. It was overwhelming. I’m almost glad I left.

               I hide behind my newspaper and try to pry my eyes off of him. I haven’t seen him in years, well, ever since the party. Fuck Adam Levine. I watch as he taps his foot on the floor, whistling a tune as he waits for his coffee, then chatting up the barista, a brunette girl with dazzling blue eyes. I thought he already had a wife. I snort, thinking that has never stopped him. He’s always been a charmer, a flirt, a goddamn beast of a man. He has gotten quite handsome, I do admit. Refined hair and shaven face, more toned, put together, sophisticated. I wonder how it feels to be the only one left. I only stayed for two albums then bailed, went onto create my own, then abandoned that too. I hate him for so many reasons. Maybe it’s because deep down inside I know I will never be as good as him. He’s always had the better voice, better image, better stage presence -it makes me bitter to reminisce. I take a sip of my own drink and then dip my head back down into the article I had been reading. Sure enough his name’s printed on the thing, nomination for a Tony award.

               He decides to sit right across from me three seats and two tables down, by the window, setting his coffee to rest and uncapping the lid, letting the steam waft up to let the drink cool. I’m careful to keep my face covered by the newspaper. Although, I doubt he would even recognize me. I’ve stopped shaving, let my hair grow out, gotten dagger earrings, and my face looks tired. I know because my ex-girlfriend had pointed all these things out to me once she dumped me, ranting on and on about how much I’ve stopped caring. She’s not wrong. I have. He takes a sip of his coffee and then pulls out his phone, swiping through what I assume is his social media feed. He has such a big ego sometimes I just want to slap him. He never used to be like this. He was quiet and shy and nervous, waiting for orders and fidgety, anxiety ridden and worry eyed, looking for direction and desperate for a chance to catch a break. He only ever wanted a way out, and he found it by joining us, abandoning his life for the road and the fame. It’s almost ironic he had stolen my dream from me, decided to take a leap of faith and slowly rise to the top. I remind myself that I’ve stopped caring. It’s easier to cope that way.

               I pretend to be interested in a sport’s column when his voice startles me. “Ryan?”

               I almost spill my coffee. I didn’t expect him to notice me, much less speak to me. “Uh hey,” I attempt to clear my throat, forcing a smile onto my face. It’s awkward. I’ve imagined this almost a thousand times even though I knew the likelihood of it ever happening would only be a thousand more. I guess I was wrong.

               “I hope you remember me,” he chuckles, inviting himself to sit down right across from me, one seat away. It makes my stomach sick.

               “How could I forget?” I try to widen my smile but it comes out misconstrued and broken. I decide to pick up my coffee cup and keep my lips occupied instead. It’s easier than having to carry on the conversation.

               “It’s been a couple years,” he shrugs, taking a sip himself. He’s definitely changed. I can sense it.

               “You know what they say,” I attempt to give a chuckle myself. “Time flies.”

               “I guess so,” he nods.

               “What are you doing here?” I finally ask, cutting to the chase. There’s no way he could be playing a show or doing an interview. This town is too small for that. I thought I had escaped him.

               “Looking for you,” he says it so casually you’d think he was speaking about the weather. I almost choke when I realize what he’s said. He’s playing me like a fiddle, I know it. It’s another one of his gimmicks. There’s no way he could’ve actually taken the time to track me down, pretend like he’s seeking me out. He would’ve called, would’ve sent a message, a text, something. Not this. This isn’t like him at all.

               “Right…” I draw out the word, nodding along. “And why might that be?”

               “I wanted to talk,” he replies.

               “Brendon,” just saying his name hurts. “You didn’t have to come all the way here to do that.”

               He makes eye contact with me and my stomach turns into knots. “We both know why I didn’t send a text,” he whispers in a low voice. Bad memories flood my mind. Fame had always left a sour aftertaste in my mouth. The over obsessive fans and catfish traps were only a reminder of my consequences of leaving. I wish I could erase my past.

               “Do you need someone for bass?” I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you found Nicole.”

               “You stay updated,” his lips curl up in a smile, surprised.

               “Word gets around,” I begin to play with the coffee stirrer poking out the top of my cup.

               “No, I don’t need a bassist,” he shakes his head. “But um, I do need you.”

               “Me?” I try to suppress a smile of my own. Why the hell would he be crawling back to me after all these years? And for what? I try to repress my excitement in order to curb the inevitable disappointment. It’s a technique I’ve been using for years in order to protect myself.

               He downs the rest of his coffee and then sighs, looking out the window for a moment, and then reattaching his gaze on me. “Mind taking this back to your place? I think it would be more preferable for us to discuss this matter elsewhere. Less open,” he decides.

               “Y-yeah,” I agree. I would hate for someone to see us here, together, sharing coffee, exchanging smiles. Rumors start without even a whisper, I can’t imagine a paparazzi photo or social media snapshot. It would be the end for me. For us.

               “Perfect,” he gets out of his seat, pushing the chair back as I do the same, then taking a moment to drink in my presence when I stand up. I don’t know what to think. “You know, I’ve missed you.”

               I pause, taking a breath, looking back at him. “Yeah,” I swallow hard. “I’ve missed you too.”

(continued...)    

           Elwood and Dottie are eager to see a guest at the door when we enter. I almost have to practically pry them off of Brendon they’re so excited to meet him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them this active before. Especially Elwood.

               “What are you doing hanging around that asshole of a director Daniel Adams?” is the first thing he asks when we sit down on the couch at my apartment.

               “I don’t know,” I narrow my eyes. “What are you doing hanging around that douchebag of a security guard Zack Cloud Hall?”

               “Touché,” he respectfully complies. “Guess we both have a tendency to follow dickheads.”

               “Like Shane?” I can’t help but bring up the past. It’s impossible around Brendon.

               “Yeah,” he gives a bitter laugh. “Like that motherfucker Shane.”

               “Hey, why would you meet me at the coffee shop like that?” I ask. “Someone could’ve seen us. There would’ve been drama.”

               “There’s always drama,” he sighs.

               “Not for me anymore,” I shake my head. “I’ve tried to escape it.”

               “It’s inevitable,” he stares around the room. “Nice place. You live alone?”

               “I have the dogs,” I reply. “They keep me company.”

               “Me too,” Brendon smiles.

               “Penny Lane and Bogart,” I point out.

               “You stay updated,” he repeats. I don’t respond. “Nice to know I’m not the only one.”

               “What about Sarah?” I snort. “That Katy Perry lookalike wife of yours.”

               “Ah,” he gives a nod before leaning back into the couch cushions. “Yes, Sarah.”

               “Yes Sarah?” I cock an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

               “Divorce would be bad for publicity,” he simply shrugs. “We decided to keep things low. She moved out a while ago.”

               “You wrote a whole fucking song for her dude,” I retort. “You fell in love with her. And you just let her walk out on you like that?”

               “She found someone else I guess,” he mutters.

               “Don’t we all,” I groan. “My girlfriend did the same.”

               “Sorry to hear that,” he says.

               “So what are you doing here? How did you find me?”

               “I know,” he apologizes. “I’m sorry about that. You’re right, I should’ve at least called or something.”

               “Nobody shows up around these parts. That’s why I decided to live here.”

               “I need you.”

               “You’ve said that before. For what?”

               “I’m caught in a slump, alright? Things have been tough. Ever since you and Jon left, really. Dallon helped me get by for the time being, but now he’s gone too. I’m working on this new album and the lyrics aren’t coming out right. I don’t know how you did it, Ry. I can’t seem to come up with anything.”

               “How the hell did you make Vices and Virtues then?”

               “I was just trying to copy what you did. Hell, I even took the entirety of Nearly Witches and threw it on there.”

               “I saw that.”

               “Come on. The Young Veins haven’t done anything in years.”

               “I still have gigs,” I argue.

               “What? Playing for your ex’s prom concert and acting as a corpse in a music video? Yeah, that’s a gig alright.”

               “Shut up. I left for a reason.”

               “Look, I need you. At least look over what I have, maybe give me some suggestions.”

               “I’m not rejoining the fucking band. This was your choice, your position, your situation, Bren. Not mine. I don’t owe anything to you. Dig some shit up from my old live journals if you’re really that desperate.”

               “I wouldn’t have come here if I wasn’t desperate.”

               “Obviously.”

               “Look,” Brendon takes a deep breath. “I haven’t seen you in years. I miss you. We used to work so well together. Sure, we had our moments, but look at what we had accomplished. We hit double platinum on an album we made fresh out of high school.”

               “That was in 2005.”

               “Come on. Help me out here.”

               “I don’t want to go back into the limelight. I’m off that shit. No more social media stuff, no more internet, no more fame.”

               “And you don’t need to have that. This can just be you and me.”

               “What do I get out of this? I already have a job.”

               “What? Composing singles you’ll never produce and starring in short films that only work off a low budget? Come on Ryan, I know you’re hurting too.”

               His words are caustic. “I’m fine with it,” I insist. “I’m happy where I am. I don’t need you.”

               “You don’t need me,” Brendon shakes his head. “Yeah. That’s why you left the band.”

               “You were the one who left me,” I remind. “You left me for Sarah and because of that I left you, then Dallon left you, and then even Sarah herself left you. Everyone left you Brendon. For a good reason, too.”

               “I still have Spencer,” Brendon tries to redeem himself, keep his head up high, save whatever dignity he might have left. “And Jake.”

               “Right, and you’re the only one left in the band,” I can’t help but laugh. “Goddammit Brendon, I’m not going to help you and your stupid pity party excuse of a music career.”

               “I’m the stupid pity party excuse of a music career,” he rolls his eyes. “Right, not you. Not at all you. It’s not like I made Broadway or top charts or Grammy nominations or anything.”

               “I’ll have you know I actually went to one of your sparkly gay Broadway shows, yeah. I saw you on stage in your underwear and those sparkly red thigh high boots singing your ass off. You know who I didn’t see there, though? Your fucking wife,” I spit. “Or Spencer or Jake for that matter.”

               “I sing better than you ever will and I make music better than you could ever imagine,” he argues. The tension in the room is unbearable. I want to punch him in the face.

               “There’s that goddamn awful ego of yours again,” I growl. “Just can never seem to control it, can you?”

               “Fucking forget I ever said anything,” Brendon shakes his head, getting up from the couch.

               “Oh I’ll never forget the day you came crawling back to me when everyone in your life finally abandoned you,” I give a bitter laugh. “Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

               “Ten percent,” he offers before he heads to the door. “Take it or leave it.” He rests his hand on the doorknob when I stop him.

               “Make it twenty,” I argue.

               “Deal,” he nods, turning back around with a smile. “I’ll be back for a beer tonight and we’ll discuss details.”

               “Where are you going now, dumbass?” I ask, confused.

               He’s out the door before I can get a response. Fuck him. Fuck Brendon Urie.

               Elwood and Dottie are staring at me as the silence fills the room. I have no idea what the fuck I’ve signed up for but it sounds like a nightmare. I contemplate withdrawing my offer. Like I said before, I don’t owe him shit. But I do miss him. A lot. I wonder how he’s doing, truly. Dottie hops up on my lap and nuzzles her head underneath my hand, begging for a good scratch. It must hurt, having everyone leave you behind, being lost, being scared. I secretly wonder who his wife left him for. I wonder why it took Dallon so long to leave. I wonder how the hell he even made it out alive.

               It’s a couple hours after he leaves when I decide to fix up a sandwich and turn on a rerun of a horror movie on the television while checking my emails and texts. There’s a couple offers, mostly small film projects and a couple asks for help around the studio, playing bass on a single for an upcoming album, some friends reaching out, potential tickets for a hockey game, animal shelters asking for donations. The usual. As much as I hate to admit it, Brendon was right. This was my life now, I was stuck within it, and things weren’t going to get much better than this unless I did something drastic about it. Adopting another dog or coming up with an annual elaborate Halloween costume wasn’t going to solve my problem this time. I had to get my life back together for real.

               I take a bite of my sandwich and look over my schedule. I have a couple shows to play, a business trip or two, and even a road trip with some friends. There’s filming dates and music video shootings, some Skype interviews, volunteer hours, but that’s all. I glance up at the gory scene on the screen, a monster chasing a bloody girl down a dark alley. I need a thrill in my life once again, a new taste, a little bit of a change up. Perhaps this could be good for me. After all, twenty percent is a lot of money, money that I need to pay the bills and keep up with my life. Probably enough and more.

               Unwillingly, I find myself going to my bookshelf and pulling out old notebooks and journals, searching for fragments of song lyrics and poetry. I find at least three spiral bound, two leather bound, and folders full of graphite scribbled loose leaf with refrains and choruses scrawled upon the lines. These dated back to when I had still been with Panic! and the boys, then The Young Veins, and even some projects I worked on with others. Most of them had never been used, much less seen by others. I always picked and chose what I wanted. Lyrics had always been a personal ordeal for me, speaking about mental health or alcoholism or sexual experiences or even marriage. Most of them weren’t meant for sharing.

               I find myself opening up to a page and my breath hitches. “If all our life is but a dream…” I whisper the beginning of the words and I can already feel the tears starting to form in my eyes. I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss what we once had. Northern Downpour was one of my favorite songs I had ever written, a time of my life where I could almost take the moment and put it in a picture frame, the haze of smoke still setting the stage, his lips so soft against mine, the band on break and reveling in our success of the past tour, everything almost perfect. It was bittersweet, and that was what that song had been for me, a bittersweet moment, the flavor of nostalgia, a vintage dream now turned old. I closed the notebooks around me and pushed them back on the shelf. This was no time to revisit the past. Things would never be the same as they had once been. I was a fool to ever think so.

               I’m in the middle of a shower when there’s a knock on my door and I curse. It’s probably him. “Coming!” I shout, but of course, that does me no good. He just keeps pounding on the door like the entitled asshole he is. I groan, trying to quickly dry off my hair before wrapping the towel around my waist and rushing to the door. I open it, and he’s there, sporting a leather jacket and ripped jeans, holding a couple beers.

               “Oh,” he’s surprised at my presence, and an uncomfortable silence blankets over us.

               “I uh, just got out of a shower, give me a second,” I stammer, trying to collect myself. I’m clinging onto the towel for dear life as I gesture him towards the sofa and then make my way back to the bathroom. Probably not the best way to present yourself to your old new business partner. I tell myself that there had never been any professional aspect here, that what we had always done was much more intimate, comfortable, casual. I shake my head and stare in the mirror as I slip a shirt over my body. Things weren’t like that anymore. This was a new beginning. What was done was done.

               I walk out fully clothed and pick up a beer as I sit beside him, popping it open and taking a sip, watching as Elwood plops down across the room from us and decides to take a nap. “I suppose you wouldn’t be so keen to moving out to Los Angeles again,” he clears his throat. “You’re much more comfortable working from here.”

               “Of course,” I narrow my eyes. “I still have other projects and responsibilities. I can’t abandon what I’ve already obligated myself to.”

               “I understand,” he nods. “I figured we could work through phone calls and emails. They are just lyrics after all.”

               “Just lyrics?” I poke fun at him. “Lyrics you can’t seem to come up with.”

               “Come on,” he sighs. “We both know you’re the poetic one out of the two of us. You always come up with such good little sayings and clever satirical spin offs. Don’t you remember all our old song titles and references? It was brilliant.”

               “I’ll give you my email,” I decide, opening up my laptop and scrolling through my browser. “I’m not on my phone that often.”

               “We have about a year until they’ll be itching for me to drop an album,” he informs. “I’m finishing up my tour now so responses might be slow, but after that, I’m down for meetings and revisions. If you want twenty percent like you say, I’m serious about this. You deserve credit as much as I do if you’re going to put in the work.”

               “I don’t want my name on anything,” I reassure. “I only want my cut.”

               “They’re going to know I’m not the one who wrote it,” Brendon insists. “You have a special signature when it comes to these kinds of things.”

               “I don’t want credit, I just want cash,” I restate. “That’s my offer.”

               “Alright,” he takes a swig of his beer and nods.

               “So how do you plan on going about all of this?” I laugh.

               “What do you mean?”

               “All of a sudden your songs go from being filled with catchy choruses about partying all night and living on top of the world to poetic tragedies and metaphoric romances?”

               “I’ll say I took a different approach with this album, tried to go back to my old roots.”

               “Right…” I rest the beer bottle on my leg and stare at my open laptop, possibilities floating through my mind. This was the last thing I had expected to happen today, or tomorrow, or for the rest of my life for that matter. I wasn’t exactly counting on Brendon showing his face around here, or speaking to me, much less wanting to collaborate once again. I’m almost excited.

               “So where do you want to start?” he wonders, and I can’t help but smile.

               It feels so good to talk to him again. To sit on the couch and crack open some beers and just be able to relax. I write and type out ideas and he grabs one of my guitars and starts strumming out melodies, tapping drum beats out on the coffee table, whistling possible interludes and introductions. It feels like old times, minus the marijuana. I ask him if he still smokes, and he says he does, and I tell him maybe he should bring some next time. We decide to make this next album a concept album, one that clashes together our differences, the quiet drawn back simplicity of my life and the boisterous chaotic business of his. It tells a story, these songs, outlining the idea of two worlds once pulled apart now combined, rediscovering the other, intertwining their different assets. Maybe I’ve had too many beers, but it seems a lot like a simile for our situation. I secretly wonder if he notices this too.

               Before we know it, it’s four in the morning and we’ve already outlined a concept for the album as well as a couple good lyric fragments for what could possibility be the first couple of singles. They’re mostly about the pain of rejection, and we share stories about the women we had once loved leaving us, telling us how we were never good enough for them, and using that to build off of. We actually have a lot in common, for how much we’ve both changed. I really have missed him. When we’ve finished all our beers and our voices have gone hoarse, my computer now dead and his fingers callused from playing the guitar strings, we doze off on the couch. It really is like it used to be, stuck on the tour bus with open computers and notebooks, in the early hours of the night, drunken and high, conceptualizing the next big idea. I can’t wait to see what he does with this.

               When I wake up, I’m startled to feel somebody beside me. Then I remember it’s him. He’s taken to sleeping on my legs, which are now definitely asleep. I have to stifle a laugh, his lips parted and messy hair proving quite adorable. I slowly inch my legs up off from his sleeping body and crawl out from the sofa, stretching and yawning. He doesn’t look like he’s going to be up anytime soon. I make my way to the kitchen, sunlight already filtering through the blinds, and decide to make breakfast. I turn up the heat on the griddle and break out some sausages and eggs, start up some toast, and brew fresh coffee. Dottie’s at my heels begging for a bit of bacon and of course I give in. I hear a groggy muffle of noise and poke my head into the living room and laugh at the sight of Brendon dragging himself up off of the couch. “Good morning,” I call out. “I made some breakfast. You can help yourself.”

               “Shit, I have a show tonight,” he groans, running a hand through his hair and staggering to the kitchen. “I’ve got to get a plane to Texas in the next couple hours.”

               “Don’t worry about it, it’s still before noon,” I reassure. “You’ve got time.”

               “Alright. And hey, uh… Sorry, I think I slept on top of you last night,” he apologizes awkwardly. “Totally unintentional, I probably had way too many beers.”

               “Not a problem at all,” I laugh it off. “Just like old times, right?”

               The broken smile he chisels out from between his teeth makes my heart hurt. “Yeah,” he nods, only making my heartstrings ache even more. “Just like old times.”

               We sit down and share coffee, working our way through plates of breakfast. He talks about how the tour’s been going and such, how he picks up interviews whenever he can, how long and boring the endless hours of traveling and waiting can be. “More time for you to email me and work on the new songs then,” I point out. He grins.

               Both of us promise to make this our secret. We’re not telling anyone, not his managers, not my friends, nobody. If word gets out, it would be a craze, rumors of a reunion, fans blowing it up into new conspiracies, and TMZ would probably be bursting through our doors to try and get some footage. We would keep our collaboration on the downlow, and if anyone would ask, we would simply deny. I give him a ride to the airport after breakfast and tell him to have a good trip and play a great show. We exchange numbers and then he says goodbye.

               The next couple of days are empty. He doesn’t respond to my email, or my three missed calls. I assume he must be busy and try not to take it personal. After all, he actually has a life. Unlike me. I take to going out for lunches and watching sports, playing video games on the couch or falling asleep to old reruns, walking the dogs or sending emails back and forth with my director. Brendon’s right about Daniel being a dick. Over the span of this week I truly realize just how much he treats the girls like shit, uses basically everybody, and couldn’t give a rat’s ass about fair payment. I make a mental promise to ditch him as soon as the money from this new project starts piling in and I’m able to support myself.

               My phone rings one day when I’m sifting through the letters that have come in through the mail and I can barely answer it fast enough. I pick it up and of course, it’s not who I hoped it would be. It’s Jeremy Burke, one of my friends. I groan. I was stupid to think it would actually be him. “How’s it going jackass?” I greet him when I pick up the call.

               “Hey,” he laughs at my greeting. “Doing anything tonight, loser?”

               “Not that I know of,” I respond. “Was probably going to watch a couple Game of Thrones episodes while I work through the scripts Daniel sent me. How come?”

               “Burgers at that new bar downtown?” he offers. “My treat.”

               “Count me in,” I grin. “What time?”

               “Nine,” he states.

               “See you then,” I hang up and lean back into the couch cushions. Getting out of the house would be good for me.

               I roll up at the bar a little late that night, but knowing Jeremy, he won’t mind one bit. I stroll in with my usual jacket, striped shirt, and ripped jeans. I give a sly smile to a girl who winks at me as I enter and then slide into a booth across from Jeremy. “Look who finally showed up,” he raises his eyebrows. “And already reeling in the ladies also.”

               “Whatever,” I shake my head, laughing. “Anyways, what have you been up to these days?”

               “Well I got back from a festival last week, recovering from the trip. Saw some pretty cool shows, it was a great line up. How about you? I heard you’re still working on that film thing,” he says, snapping at the waiter to fetch us some drinks.

               “Yeah,” I sigh. “The usual.”

               “How about you take to the road with me? Only a couple of tour dates,” he offers. “You can be a roadie or someshit, get a little breath of fresh air. Come on, Ryan. You need a bit of excitement in your life again.”

               “I’m getting there,” I reassure. He’d flip if I ever told him about what was going on with Brendon. “I just need some time.”      

               “Whatever,” he rolls his eyes. “Anyways, that chick’s been staring at you since you entered. Mind if I wave her over?”

               “Not at all,” I chuckle. “In fact, I don’t think I’d mind taking home a date tonight.”

               “Really?” Jeremy wonders. “And you say you need some time.” He scoffs and I give him a playful slug on the shoulder, taking a sip of my drink.

               “Hey beautiful,” I call out, waving over the cherry haired girl with the bright green eyes. “Mind keeping us company?”

               “Not at all,” she blushes, grabbing her clutch and hopping off the bar stool, strutting towards us in her stilettos and short skirt. She’s not really my type, but I’ve got to hand it to her, she’s hot.

               “She’s a looker,” Jeremy murmurs as she slides into the booth beside me, planting a kiss on my cheek. She’s too easy. I’m not complaining though.

               “What are you boys up to?” she wonders, picking up my drink and taking a sip herself. Cocky.

               “Grabbing some burgers, having some guy talk,” Jeremy shrugs. “How about you? What’s a lady like you doing all alone?”

               “Waiting for someone like him to come along,” she winks, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. Super desperate. I can tell. Me and Brendon used to meet girls like this on the road all the time. Overconfident and overexposed, willing to do anything and everything for their five seconds of pleasure, then off to the next eye candy boy toy.

               “Well you’re in luck,” I smirk. I know how to play the game.

               “How about you get this pretty little lady a drink, hmm?” Jeremy waves over the waiter. “Margarita suit you fine?”

               “Tequila,” she corrects with a smile. “Something strong.”

               I’m about to lean in for a kiss when I feel something in my pocket buzz, and I turn rigid. “One second,” I apologize, fishing for my phone. When I pull it out, Brendon’s contact pops up on the screen and it’s like nothing else matters. “This is important.” I say the words faster than I can comprehend and before I know it, I’m shoving the girl out from the booth and racing towards the exit, picking up the call and out the door, then standing by the umbrella tables outside, barely able to catch my breath.

               “Ryan?” his voice laughs on the other end of the line. “You alright, buddy?”

               “Yeah, just caught me at a bad time,” I reply. “But it’s good, it’s good.”

               “Uh, I can call you back if you want,” he suggests but I shake my head.

               “No, no, no it’s good. I can talk,” I quickly reassure. He laughs again. God, I could get drunk off of that sound, the thought of his smile, the memory of his laughter. I miss him so much already. I close my eyes. I’m thinking absolute nonsense. I have to get my head on straight. “So, what’s up?”

               “Sorry I couldn’t call back, I’ve been busy with tour and everything,” he explains. “But if you want to start emailing back and forth some ideas, I’m totally down. I’ve been thinking, these two characters we’ve created, the simplicity and chaos, maybe we could create a song based upon that concept. An entirety of slow and graceful and classic towards intensity met with hurriedness and adrenaline, you know? Almost like a dance between the two, an exchange of some sort?” He pauses. “I don’t know, it’s stupid, forget it.”

               “No-” I quickly inject. “I love it. I think that’s great. It would make a perfect introduction to the album, setting the stage if you will.”

               “You think?”

               “Of course!”

               Before I know it we’re talking on the phone for fifteen minutes, rambling on and on about this song, how we’re going to totally blow them away, how this is the coolest thing we’ve done since A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out, how this is going to absolutely knock the socks off the critics when there’s someone shaking my shoulders. “Get off the fucking phone, Ry!” I blink and realize Jeremy’s shouting at me.

               “I g-got to go,” I apologize. “Sorry.” I instantly hang up and slip my phone in my pocket and Jeremy’s still shaking my shoulders.

               “What the hell?” he stares at me. “What was that?”

               “I had a business call,” I argue, shoving him off of me.

               “You had one hell of a date tonight, that’s what you had,” he spits. “I could only keep her for so long. She walked out on me, I mean, you. She walked out on you.”

               “I couldn’t care less,” I narrow my eyes.

               “I could!” he argues. “She was smoking hot, dude! If you didn’t want her you could’ve at least told me!” He grumbles. “God, since when did that douchebag director of yours become so important anyways?”

               “Get lost,” I shake my head, storming off.

               “Fine!” Jeremy shouts at me. “I’m going to enjoy my burger and drinks and hot chicks alone at this bar tonight! Have fun with your stupid Game of Thrones episodes and stinky dogs!”

               “Go fuck yourself,” I flip him off as I walk away.

               “Go to hell, Ross,” he hollers back.

               I smirk. All my friends are assholes. I kind of like it that way. It makes me fit right in.

               The rest of my night is spent emailing back and forth with Brendon, and I couldn’t have wanted it to go any other way. I made a cup of coffee and ignore my missed calls from Jeremy, and instead begin to come up with new ideas. Although, most of our emails aren’t about lyrics. It’s all catching up. Brendon tell me stories about tour, the new cities and crazy fans, ranting about Kenny throwing popcorn in his face and Zach being a dickhead. I tell him about my experience at the bar and Jeremy, as well as some films I’m working on and an update on my dogs, plus some old stories about volunteering at an animal shelter. It feels like we might be good again, like we’re friends again, that this could work. It’s about six in the morning when I think he falls asleep on me, and I laugh, waiting on him for a couple minutes before falling asleep on my own. I close my computer and finish up the rest of my coffee, then head to my bed and watch as Dottie curls up at my feet. I can’t remember the last time I got a night of sleep that good.

               I spend the following weeks in a daze up to my show. I’m sending strings of emails back and forth, filling up notebooks with revisions and edits, excited more than ever for this project. I promise myself that from now on, I was putting my best foot forward, and I was going to do everything in my power to make this album rise to the top. I didn’t even give a shit that my name wouldn’t be on it, that I had already vowed to take zero credit, or that I would even get any profit. I just wanted to be able to make music with my best friend again. That’s all I could ever ask for. Before I know it, I’m half drunk and on stage, playing a show with Zee Zerizer in Los Angeles, looking into a crowd of smiling teenagers and a sea of phone flashlights. I know that somewhere, in some city in America, he’s doing the same thing right now, and that only makes me smile more.

               After the show I go out for drinks with the gang, get even more drunk, and proceed to pass out in a hotel room bathtub half naked, but I couldn’t care less. The hangover the next morning is miserable, but judging from the twitter feed, it was a night that nobody would forget. I take a cab back home and then spend the rest of the day sleeping, too lazy to open up my laptop and too tired to get anything to eat. I ignore the buzzing of my phone and even the later knocking on my door. Nobody can interrupt this, the serene calm happiness that blankets over me, the sweetness of knowing that everything is going to be okay.

               I’m eating lunch on the couch the next evening when I’m scrolling through my Instagram and a certain name catches my eye. It’s Brendon, livestreaming. I remember back in 2014 when he would Periscope almost every week, making margaritas with Sarah in the kitchen or going skateboarding throughout the city, talking to fans and answering their questions. It was good to see his face again, nice to know how he was doing. As much animosity and grudges I was holding against him at the time, I still wanted to know that he was okay. Now, I was relaxing on my sofa and pulling up his feed, rolling my eyes at the sight of him dancing in his studio to some stupid Drake song. He had always been a character. He takes a drink of some beer, ends up rolling a joint, and talks about some wild tour stories he’s already shared with me. He seems happy, relaxed, one of his own dogs sitting on his lap, the glow of the studio light framing his face. I want to see him again. I need to.

               It’s been about a month since we saw each other last, since the phone call of the night of the burger bar bail, and throughout the course of the next couple emails, we decide to meet each other again. This time, halfway, in a city right between mine and his, in a small hotel room near the outskirts of downtown, where we hope and pray that fingers crossed, nobody will see or find us. It’s a three day weekend, just me and him, and we’re going to hopefully start putting the words to music. He’s sent me a couple different samples he likes, as well as audio recordings of him playing around with the lyrics, but we both know that until we actually sit on a couch and piece it all together, we won’t know for sure if it clicks or not.

               “There he is!” he gives a goofy smile as I enter the hotel room, and I can’t help but let one surface on my face as well.

               “Good to see you,” I reply, surprised when he gets up from the couch and envelops me in an embrace. It feels so nice, I almost don’t want it to end when he takes a step back and retreats to the couch.

               “I brought all sorts of stuff,” he gestures to the table where a variety of weed is displayed along with several drinks. “I figure we take it easy and take our time. We have several days, so there’s no need to rush into things. We work when we want to.”

               “Yup,” I pick up a joint and light it, breathing in the smoke before exhaling. “God, that’s good.”

               “It’s been a while,” he agrees. “You and me, that is.”

               “What do you mean?” I ease into the couch, raising an eyebrow. “Smoking or writing music?”

               “All of it,” he shrugs, picking up a cigar and lighting the end, taking a puff. “Talking, hanging out, smoking, making music…” He’s thinking of something else but he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. I already know. “Just being together.” He takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe in the atmosphere, then sigh. “It’s nice.”

               “Almost like how it used to be,” I give a soft laugh and he nods slowly. I can tell he’s reminiscing like I am.

               “Almost,” he whispers.

               We fill the room with smoke and laughter, guitar chords and the humming of melodies, stitching together the body of a song on his laptop screen, playing it over and over again through headphones and earbuds, searching for the perfect sound. Before I know it, we’re dozed off on the sofa again, except this time, somehow, our limbs are tangled together in a soft embrace. My head’s resting on his chest and his arms are wrapped loosely around my hips, and I don’t even remember when we decided to lay down, but I’m too tired and too stoned to care. We’re safe here, we’re okay here, we’re together here. I give a sleepy smile at the sound of his snores, nuzzling my head closer to him. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been this close, his body pressed up against mine.

               In the early morning when I flutter my eyelids open, I’m still half asleep. A mess of notebook pages and empty chip bags scatter the table along with two dead laptops and the lingering smell of marijuana. I’m on the couch, the room is dark and still, a body is pressed up close to my own, and his face is only but centimeters away from mine. I don’t know how we got here, but we did. His warm breath blows onto my face through his parted lips, eyes closed, soft exhales comforting, quiet snores amusing. I almost think I want to kiss him. He looks so sweet, so handsome, so perfect like this, calm and still and sleeping. It feels like decades since I’ve seen him like this, and now that I actually think about it, it honestly has been. I miss the way his mouth feels on mine. It’s been so long I can barely control myself. So I don’t. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m inching closer to his face, our lips barely touching, my heart racing. What the fuck is happening is what I am asking myself but it’s too late. I know I’m not supposed to be doing this but I kiss him anyways. It’s simple and sweet and soft and wonderful and when I pull away, his eyes flutter open and I can barely breathe. I’ve fucked up for good this time. Shit.

               “Ryan?” his hoarse voice calls out my name, staring at me as he slowly pulls himself out from his sleep, giving a funny sort a smile.

               “Y-yeah?” I stammer out, scared and nervous and afraid he might shove me off this couch and yell at me to leave like I had done to him the day he offered the possibility of this moment even happening to me.

               “Did you just kiss me awake?” he tilts his head to the side, staring at me now, lazy smile still plastered on his lips. “Because correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty damn sure you did.”

               “Maybe…” my voice fades out quietly and I try to pry my eyes away from his but I can’t.

               “Almost like how it used to be,” he murmurs. “Huh?”

               “Almost,” I mumble back, making us both grin.

               “Come here,” he cups my cheeks with his hands and kisses me, with such fervor and passion. My mind is spinning and I feel the higher than I ever was last night. I’ve missed him so much I’ve almost forgotten what this feels like, to kiss someone you truly love. I don’t want it to end, but he pulls away, reminding me that there’s this thing called breathing, and I can’t help but release a winded chuckle from between my lips. “What?”

               “Nothing,” I shake my head, still laughing. “I um, I’ve missed you. You know?”

               “I know,” he gives a small smile, staring into my eyes. “Believe me. I know.”

               “This is overdue,” I agree, looking up at him, goddamn goofy grin stuck on my face.

               That entire day we decide to snack and work, grabbing room service and locking ourselves in for hours, really going at it. We’re almost finished with two whole songs. By the way Brendon’s talking, it might even get fully recorded, edited, produced and released in a handful of months. I’m ecstatic and can barely wait. All he has to do is get home to the studio and physically record and play the music, but besides that, we have it all written down and placed perfectly. We also have plenty of fragments of other songs and even more ideas for the album. When we work though, it’s obvious there’s been a change. He rests his head on my shoulder or in my lap. I wrap my arms around his waist or end up holding his hand. We share smiles and kisses on cheeks and foreheads. It’s different, us.

               Tonight we play our favorite songs over the speakers and drink a shit ton of alcohol. There’s nobody to stop us. We dance around like fools and stuff our face with junk food and order almost every dessert on the room service menu. Surprisingly, we don’t get a single complaint. We over excessively lip sync the entirety of Queen’s classic Don’t Stop Me Now and then proceed to have a rather sloppy make out session to What Do You Want From Me, his tongue slipping in my mouth as the guitar riffs flood the room. The rest of the night is fuzzy, but all I remember is the taste of him on my lips. Clothes are being shed, words are being exchanged, and we’re gravitating towards the bedroom, Pink Floyd still playing in the background. He’s pushing me into the mattress and running his hands all over my body and the rest is forgotten in the bass lines of Nirvana’s Heart-Shaped Box and the faint lyrics of the second verse of an Arctic Monkeys hit single.

                I wake up to his lips and his body and him beside me, in this hotel room bed, all mine. It smells like beer, sex, weed, and rock and roll. I don’t mind one bit. I pull his body close to mine and press my lips to his neck, relishing the taste of his skin. I don’t ever want to forget what he tastes like ever again. My small frame aches as I curl up closer to him, but the knowingness that what I’ve craved for all these years has finally been fulfilled makes every dull pain in the joints of my bones and tender bruises on my skin worth it all. It reminds me of times when I would wake up in the middle of the night from bad dreams and flashbacks, him there to remind me that everything would be okay. I had a rough life before I took to moving out of my home. Especially when my dad had died, that’s when I needed Brendon the most, and he was there for me. But having my heart broken, leaving him behind, abandoning the music dream, keeping to myself, that’s probably the second time I needed him the most honestly. I was glad to have him back now, even if it was only for one night.

               We both curse instantly when the freezing cold shower water hits us both, jolting us out of our haze of a hangover. Showering together was something we had grown accustomed to after our many years on the road, especially after fucking in the tour bus bunkers in the middle of the night and being forced to wake up super early for interviews. The boys never really cared, would occasionally make a faggot joke or point out a hickey, but flipping them off and investing in a hefty collection of scarves during the Pretty. Odd. era of the band did the trick. God, as much of a literal pain in the ass as it was, I did miss touring and playing huge festivals, getting barely any sleep and signing kids’ shit, that whole ordeal. Especially with Brendon by my side. It felt like being on top of the world.

               Both of us down cups of coffee and get back to work, must mostly share occasional kisses while plucking out rhythms on our acoustic guitars. It’s a lazy Sunday, a sit around and do nothing kind of day, and there’s no one I would rather spend it with than him. I flip through the channels on the television and we settle for an 80’s classic before curling up together and making commentary back and forth. We make note of some of our favorite quotes and write them down, an old thing we used to do back in high school in order to come up with witty lyrics or song titles. It’s something I’ve done mentally but haven’t had a chance to do out loud since I left the band. It makes me smile. We’re on commercial break when all of a sudden, Brendon turns off the television. “I want to make a sex song,” he declares matter-of-factly, making my eyebrows raise.

               “I thought you already did,” I retort. “Miss Jackson?”

               “No, something nitty gritty, something to fuck to,” he shakes his head.

               “The Good, The Bad, and The Dirty? Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off? Casual Affair? House of Memories?” I begin listing off the ones on the top of my head.

               “What? Are those all the songs you jack off to when you’re busy thinking about me?” he smirks.

               “Oh shut up,” I laugh.

               “I was thinking something with an old school vibe,” he says. “Like in those movies, you watch the couple turn up the radio and make out, then take it to the back seat. Classic 80’s shit, right? I want to create that moment in a song, the whole backseat lucky night after a trip to the diner and the roller dome. Catch my drift?”

               “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off meets Breakfast Club meets Dirty Dancing and Footloose,” I turn to look at him and we both break out into stupid grins. “Fuck yeah.”

               “Imagine all the references,” Brendon’s face lights up. “That’s a goldmine right there.”

               “Think of all the samples we could choose from, that would make such a cool introduction.”

               “It’s like the song that would replace Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing in an alternate universe. Except sexier and even more iconic.”

               “That’s the perfect description for it.”

               “It doesn’t even exist yet.”

               “Yet,” I remind. “Yet.”

               He kisses me fiercely before we take to flipping our laptops open and searching for the perfect quotes to intermingle into the lyrics of this upcoming song. This is going to be by far his most memorable album yet. I know it.

               We relish the rest of the time we have together, seeing as we’re slowly approaching the end of our three day weekend hotel room stay. Before I know it, we’re packing up our things and cleaning up the hotel room, promising each other that we’re going to keep up the emails and phone calls and whenever we get a free chance, come back to this city and do it all over again. He even invites me to come over to the studio and says that if we’re particularly sneaky, I might even be able to record some bass tracks for the new album. It’s probably illegal, he says, the whole not crediting me for all the work I’m putting in, but I tell him I couldn’t care less. Just imagine if the press caught wind of this. It would blow up and I would never get a chance to go outside and grab coffee in peace ever again. Much less check Twitter or Instagram.

               The ride back home is glorious, one of my favorite CD’s blaring with the windows down, sun shining on my face and hair blown back, a cigar poking out my lips. I don’t think I’ve had that good of a time since Z’s Prom, and even then, that was nothing compared to this. I secretly wonder if we’ve reached an unspoken arrangement that we’re back to normal, back to how it used to be, back to being lovers rather than enemies. Maybe I’m making this all up in my head. I’m too wrecked too care. I’ve fallen too far down already. Fuck trying to postpone or avoid disappointment. I’ve stopped trying to hold myself back at this point.

               I would’ve thought returning to my apartment would be lonely or boring, but it wasn’t at all. I was glad to see Elwood and Dottie again, and sift through my mailbox and voicemails, sit on the sofa and take midday naps and edit script scenes. It was comforting almost. That week, Brendon and I call almost every day. Usually in the afternoon all the way up into the late hours of the night. We’re not really working at this point rather than reminiscing old times and pouring out forbidden confessions, expressing our once secret thoughts and yearning to see each other once again. Most of the time I fall asleep listening to his voice, or he does mine. I would have thought it to be something that only happened in stupid romantic novels or bits of over glorified love poems. It’s worth every single unprecedented charge to my phone bill that month.

               I end up actually going out for burgers at that dumb bar with Jeremy the next week and then have a lengthy conversation about whether it’s better to invest in headlining festivals or starting up tour dates for over the summer. He’s been playing small shows and been debating about taking the whole thing to another level. I always encourage him, tell him I’m here if he needs me for anything. The burgers actually aren’t half that bad and the only chicks in here tonight are already talking up some other guys. Lucky for me, because if I pulled another ditch on a date, Jeremy might smack me over the head this time.

                I’ve been avoiding Daniel on purpose and instead investing all my time in Brendon and his project. He’s sent me demos of the songs he’s recorded so far, and I’m super stoked. They sound even better than I had expected, and he even added a couple little twists of his own on the tracks, which I love. That night on his livestream he tells the fans that he’s been working on a little something for them and that it’s going to be a special surprise. I find myself smiling at the screen like a fool, probably like the other thirteen thousand fans watching, and so I decide to click off right after his talking dies down and he takes to sipping a beer and headbanging to whatever nonsense he’s playing on his radio with five o’s website.

               “You should come over when you get some free days to my place,” he insists over the phone that night. “Nobody’s home but me.”

               “It’s a couple hours of a drive but yeah, I’ll consider,” I joke.

               “I miss you,” he croons. “I don’t have anyone to cuddle me to sleep anymore.”

               “Uh huh,” I roll my eyes. “Need another hotel weekend?”

               “More like week,” he insists. “Come on Ry, it’ll be fun.”

               “You just want to fuck me,” I tease.

               “Maybe,” he admits. “But I also want to do so much more than just that.”

               “Like what?” I prod.

               “How about you come on over to find out,” he challenges.

               “Guess like I’ll just have to,” I sigh sarcastically. “Otherwise the anticipation and unknowingness would eat me up alive.”

               “I’m about to eat you up alive the next time I see you,” he replies. “It feels like fucking forever.”

               “All in due time,” I remind. “I’m going to see if I can take the next week off and head over. I don’t think it should be a problem. I’ve been slacking lately anyways, I don’t even think Daniel’s going to notice.”

               “He’s too far up his own ass to notice,” he snorts. “Come on, you’ll be fine.”

               “I do miss you,” I slowly nod my head, curling up on the couch with Elwood in my lap as I readjust the phone to my ear. “I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

               “Alright,” he sounds content and I relax. “Don’t rush, take your time. It’s not like I’m dying without you or anything.”

               “Must’ve been dying for a quite a long time then. Last I checked you went a couple years doing just fine without me,” I unintentionally insult.

               “Shut up and kiss me you idiot,” he laughs. Then he suddenly stops, silence on the other end of the line. “Oh wait, that’s right, you’re too fucking far away to do so.”

               “And who’s fault is that?” I retort.

               “The one who said he wasn’t moving to Los Angeles to be with me,” he argues.

               “You literally came bursting into a coffee shop with a desperate proposal and a couple beers, how was I supposed to know we were magically going to go back to how it was?”

               “Take a leap of faith, Ry. Maybe you’ll actually go somewhere.”

               “Uh huh.”

               “Like my bedroom if you’re lucky enough.”

               “Go to sleep, Bren. You’re probably drunk.”

               “Drunk on your love.”

               “Goodnight dumbass.”

               “Sweet dreams loser.”

               He hangs up and leaves me to fill up my empty apartment with delayed laughter, my heart aching to see him once again. He’s not wrong, it has been a while. I turn on the television and watch an old sitcom before dozing off. I dream of old times, being on a stage, flower decorated microphone stands and tambourine in hand, strumming on acoustic guitar strings and peeking through shaggy haircuts, scrawling down lyrics about the sun and the moon being in love. He hated the idea of a Beatlesque vibe, hippie aura, folk styled music. I loved and craved it. I still think he’s an idiot for refusing to add the songs to the current setlist. Personally, one of my favorite albums I’ve ever created. Him, not so much. He was always more of a heavy bass, electric guitar, party playlist kind of guy.

               I leave Elwood with one of my friends and pack Dottie in the backseat the next morning. I grab some snacks and an iced tea from a gas station, fill up my tank, and snatch an e-cigarette. Road trips will always be something held close in my heart. I turn the radio up and roll the windows down, then head towards the highway just past sunrise, leaving Brendon a voicemail that I’m on my way. “Ready or not, here I come” is what I had told him with a soft chuckle. The ride there is fairly nice, light rain for part of it, but it’s actually not bad at all. He has a nice place, a little hard to find, but that’s alright. After all, he already was forced to move out of his dream house due to those goddamn awful over obsessive fans. I knock on the door and when he opens it up, he pulls me in and gives me a huge hug and a kiss on the forehead.

               “Hey you,” I blush.

               “Hey yourself,” he grins. “Took you long enough to come over.”

               “It was overnight,” I narrow my eyes. He tousles my hair and laughs before catching my lips in a kiss, then taking me by the hand to his kitchen, where he’s prepared some salads and sandwiches as well as mixed some drinks for us.

               Lunch is nice. We throw playful insults back and forth. But we know deep down, we deserve it. Nothing could hurt more than the years that had separated us before. It’s a love-hate relationship, what we share. It always has been. Dottie gets along well with Bogart and Penny Lane, which is good, because I don’t know what I would’ve done if she didn’t. She’s probably the only person I love more than Brendon, which is ironic, but honestly, the saying is true. A dog is a man’s best friend, more than any human ever will be. We end up shifting to the couch and laying on top of each other, him playing Grand Theft Auto and me resting my head in his lap. He asks if I want a turn and I decline. I’m not even staring at the television. Instead I’m staring upwards at his face, the change of expressions, the way he gets excited or intense or surprised or frustrated. I hate everything about him because it’s everything that makes me love him even more. It’s a paradox. It’s inevitable.

               It’s not even past noon when we end up having sex. Then having more sex. And even more sex. It’s almost like we can’t get enough. I joke that we have to make up for all the years I’ve missed out on him, and he rolls his eyes before attacking my neck with his mouth. He’s leaving marks everywhere and I’m warning him to stop, but he’s reckless and careless and he’s not even listening. He tells me I’m not leaving anytime soon so there’s no reason to worry, making me the one to roll my eyes this time. He’s so goddamn irresistible. That night we order take out and grab tubs of ice cream and eat in the bedroom after a warm shower and an agreement that we’re turning in for the night. It’s so nice to just chill, not having to do anything or even say anything, simply being in the presence of the other. It’s one of the most comforting things I could ever experience.

               The next morning, I wake up in a daze trying to figure out where I am, and as soon as I realize it, the biggest, stupidest, goofiest smile surfaces onto my face. I curl up closer to the warm body that’s wrapped in my arms, amused at the usual soft snores that he emotes, running my fingers through his hair. He’s definitely sleepy, and I find it almost surprising that I’ve been waking up before him in the past. I’ve always been the one to sleep in while he’s the early morning bird. I think it’s the fact that I subconsciously already know that I want to watch him sleep, and I laugh to myself. It’s stupid things like this that I thoroughly enjoy about being in love. It’s these sort of things that help inspire me, encourage me, make me want to create again, make music again, follow my dreams again. A part of me wonders if why I stopped caring was because I had lost everything in my life that had made me have hope, which was me being in love. Specifically, with him.

               His eyelids flutter awake and he groans, and I nudge him slightly. “Come on,” I whine. “Wake up, sleepy pants. Let’s go get coffee.”

               “Five more minutes,” he grumbles, and I relent.

               It’s oddly satisfying to see him this calm, this quiet, this peaceful. I’m used to his boisterous behavior and overbearing happy-go-lucky attitude, wild stage antics and overexcitement, not the soft sleepy boy that I see in my arms. I give him a kiss on the forehead and tell myself I would let him sleep forever if it meant my arms weren’t going to fall asleep and I didn’t have to take a piss. I let him sleep for ten more minutes before finally kicking him out of his own bed. I need my caffeine and I need to really fucking pee. Dottie follows me at my heels, and another dog, which surprises me at first, but then I realize is the sweet little Bogart. A little voice in me whispers the temptation of the idea of doing this every single morning, every single day, being able to live here, be with him, love him forever. It terrifies me and encapsulates me at the exact same time. I refuse to think about it. It’s too dangerous. Fuck what I said about trying to avoid disappointment. I’m doing it again, this one last time. For something like this, it’s an instant free pass. Anyone else would do the same. Thoughts such as these are too good to be true.

               That morning we dance around the kitchen and make homemade waffles, playing his favorite Frank Sinatra album on a vinyl, and sharing laughter and kisses and throwing batter at each other playfully. We’re making such a mess but we couldn’t give a single shit. The dogs are howling happily and barking and jumping around, the sweet smell of fresh breakfast in the air, and freshly poured orange juice in two tall glasses. We sit on the sofa and eat, keeping to ourselves, but staying together just the same. He rests his legs over mine and leans back, drizzling syrup over the golden squares and giving me a goofy smile. So much for working on music. We’re too busy falling in love all over again.

               “I want to go out and do something,” he pouts after playing a couple hours of Outlast on the sofa, tossing his controller to the side. I’ve been replying to emails beside him.

               “Then go,” I shrug.

               “No,” he shakes his head as if I don’t understand. “With you.”

               “Very funny,” I roll my eyes. “You know we can’t be seen together, much less go out together. Where would we even go anyways?”

               “To a music store,” he suggests. “Or maybe to grab some coffee.”

               “We have plenty of music here and we can brew coffee if we need it,” I narrow my eyes. “We don’t have to go out.”

               “But think about a nice car ride, getting some fresh air, maybe even walking the dogs,” he insists.

               “You know as well as I do that no matter how much we might want to, we can’t,” I sigh. “Let it go, Bren.”

               “How about we ask Pete for those giant llama costumes? Then we can go wherever we want, nobody has to see our faces, you know?” he smiles.

               “You’re batshit crazy,” I laugh.

               “As if you aren’t,” he gives me a kiss on the lips and then pulls away, staring at me with puppy dog eyes. “Come on Ry, it’ll be fun. Even if people do see us, I don’t give a shit anymore, alright?”

               “I do,” I argue. “So just drop it, okay? I’m not going to go out in public with you.”

               He pulls back even more, hurt expression on his face. He looks almost offended. “Why are you so ashamed to be with me?” he asks. “Why don’t you want your name on anything? Why do you want to keep us a secret? Why are you always so scared of everything?” He looks like he might cry.

               “Have you forgotten everything that happened or are you stupid?” I say the words faster than I can comprehend. I instantly regret saying them as soon as they leave my mouth. Fuck.

               “So what?” he tightens his jaw. “All of a sudden you want to keep bringing up the past? Are you ever going to let it go? I thought we were over this.”

               “We were,” I get up off the couch. “Then you wanted to start recreating mistakes.”

               “Mistakes?” he grabs my wrist as I begin to walk away, stopping me. I turn back and shrug him off of me, facing him who’s still sitting down. He looks up at me, even more hurt than before. “W-we were a mistake?”

               “Shit Brendon, are you blind?” I run my hand through my hair in disbelief and frustration. “Do you know how much press and paparazzi and fucking interviews and fanfiction we had to go through? Do you remember all the comments and signs and harassment? Do you really want to repeat all of that over again?”

               “Do you think I care?” he retorts. “You’re worth it, Ry. You’re worth every single bit of it, all of it, I couldn’t care about the fans or the press coverage or any of that.”

               “This is your life now, Brendon. You chose this. Everything you do, all eyes are on you, waiting for a moment to ridicule you, your entire reputation is on the line every single time you step outside that door. And you want to throw it all away for me?” I shake my head. “I’m not going to let you do that and I’m not going to take in any part of it either.”

               He takes a deep breath and looks away, stays quiet. He does for the rest of the night. I don’t know if he wants me out of his house, but I give him time to settle down and breathe. He’s not the type to get angry or hold grudges for more than a couple hours, especially with me, so I think we’ll be good. Instead I sit on the couch and browse through the channels until I find a hockey game, and then pop some popcorn in the microwave and sit on the sofa with Dottie as I watch it. I think he’s taking a shower or a nap. It’s probably what’s best for him. He decides to join me towards the end of the game, resting his head on my shoulder, still silent. I don’t say anything, but keep my eyes fixed on the screen. I don’t know which of us is to apologize, so neither of us do. Until the game ends that is.

               “We have a whole week,” he states after I pick up the remote and shut the television off. “What do you plan on doing at my house for a whole week if we’re never going out?”

               “Relaxing, working, sleeping, eating-”

               “Then what?”

               “Then I go home back to my old routine and wait around for your emails and phone calls.”

               “And then what?”

               “I don’t know,” I think hard. “Uh you’ll probably get around to releasing the album and I’ll be playing a handful of shows and we’ll still be calling and stuff.”

               “And then what after that?”

               “Hell, I don’t know!” I finally sigh, leaning back. “What do you want me to say?”

               “That’s the thing,” he points out. “What are we going to do? Constantly hide ourselves from the world? Pretend like this isn’t going on? Sure, I’ll release this album. But what about the next one? What about all our calls and emails and visits? What about days like these? What about when I go on tour and I’ll never have a chance to be alone for months on end?”

               It’s my turn to be quiet now. I don’t know what to say.

               “What happens after this, Ry?” he looks at me, desperate. “I need to know that this isn’t just another phase, this isn’t just some daydream to attempt to recreate what once had been, this isn’t a temporary craving, this is for real.”

               “W-were you actually serious?” I stammer. “When you first asked me to move out to LA with you?”

               “Of course I was,” he responds. “I thought maybe we could…” His voice fades out and he looks down, as if preparing to say the next words, rehearsed lines in front of a bathroom mirror, replayed in his mind on a loop. “I thought maybe we could be together. For real.”

               “You want me to live with you?” I whisper, wary.

               “I want us to be free,” he insists. “I want us to be able to love each other freely, not care about whatever the people say, be able to wake up next to your handsome face every morning. Imagine it, Ryan. You and me and the dogs, back to making music together, smoking and drinking, having a grand old time. You can still play shows, you can do your own thing, hell, you can even still tag along with that douchebag director of yours and beg to act in his short films. But please, no matter what you do, please don’t leave me. Alright?”

               “I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” I tell him. “I thought you wanted Sarah.”

               “Everyone’s left me,” he confesses. “Everyone, even Sarah. And now all I have is you. I’m not going to let that go again. Leaving you and watching you leave the band was one of the biggest regrets and mistakes of my life. Thinking that we couldn’t be together just because of what others would think or say is ridiculous. I’m never going to let anything or anyone stand in the way of me loving you. I promise.”

               “It’s only been a couple months,” I argue.

               “I know, I know,” he closes his eyes, nodding. “But I’m telling you, all those years you’ve been gone, you’re all I’ve ever thought about and you’re all I’ve ever wanted. Take a chance Ryan. Take your leap of faith. Just trust me on this one. I can’t possibly be the only person here missing what we had, cherishing and enjoying what we have, and being terrified it might all be gone. I don’t just want you for your lyrics or your company, I want you for you.”

               “I took that chance when I kissed you that morning,” I tell him. “When you were still sleeping and my mind was reeling and I decided that maybe I would throw it all away to have the chance to kiss your lips one last time.”

               “Yeah, you did,” he gives a small smile.

               “That terrified me,” I admit. “But I did it, and in that moment, I let go of everything. I lost everything.” I pause. “But in the same token, I gained everything I could ever need. And that was you.” I look at him. “You’re my everything.”

               We kiss again and this time I’m not holding back. I think of the possibility of this every day. There are no boundaries or protection or attempts at avoiding disappointment. There will be none. He has given me everything I could ever wish for. Homemade breakfasts and time with dogs and watching sports games and playing music, sharing cups of coffee and puffing out smoke from between our lips, late night sex and holding each other as we fall asleep, exchanged phone calls and messages. We end up having rough sex for hours before falling asleep on the couch exhausted and tired by early afternoon. Everything seems right for once. I couldn’t be happier.

               Although, as soon as we step out the door the next day, I’m terrified. I don’t think I’m quite ready. I’m already a deer in the headlights anytime I’m out on tour and kids are racing up to me asking for selfies and autographs and spitting out a seventy-five words a second presentation on how I’ve changed their lives forever. Not to mention the social media mentions and tags. So when we go out for coffee the next morning, his fingers interlaced with mine when we walk down the sidewalk holding hands, my heart is thumping so hard I think it might fall out of my chest. My eyes are flitting around, nervous, anticipating some mob of girls or throng of paparazzi to jump out at us any moment. It doesn’t happen though. Brendon must sense this, because he squeezes my hand, giving me a soft smile, and I force one out too. It’s hard though.

               I stammer out an order when we get to the counter, and the barista looks at us funny, like maybe she’s seen our faces together before somewhere, but she doesn’t say a word. Instead she nods and grabs our names before Brendon tugs me towards the end of the counter. We sip our drinks and sit down, Brendon going on and on about some new action film trailer that dropped, but I can’t seem to follow his words. My anxiety is holding me hostage. Ironically, I can’t help but feel a sense of panic when I’m around him. My mind is screaming the question “what if someone sees us” even though I already know everyone is probably looking. I think I hear a camera shutter and I flinch. My mind is playing tricks on me.

               “Hey, you alright?” Brendon tilts his head, frowning slightly.

               “I don’t know,” I admit, looking down. “I just, this is new…” I start fidgeting with my thumbs. “The whole us, in public, and stuff.”

               “It’s going to be okay,” he puts a hand on my arm reassuringly. “I’ll be right here beside you.”

               “Y-yeah…” my voice drifts off and sure enough, when I look up, there’s someone standing beside us.

               She’s a teenage girl with a pixie cut and rubber bracelets lining her arms, a black hoodie and ripped jeans, huge gauges, holding a bright purple phone case. “Hey I’m so sorry to interrupt but I saw you guys when I walked in and I’m a really big fan and I’ve been listening to your music for literally forever and I just-” she goes on and on and I start to feel faint, almost dizzy.

               “Of course!” Brendon’s voice jolts me out of my daydream and I blink back to reality. “Come on Ry, let’s pose for a picture.”

“Oh my god thank you so much you have no idea how much this means to me, holy shit,” she rambles on even more, opening up her camera app. The words don’t even process in my mind before he leans in with a cheery smile and a bright flash blinds my vision and the girl grins and waves goodbye before racing back to her table. I don’t know what to think.

“She was nice,” Brendon sighs. “See? Not so bad, right?”

“W-what did you tell her, again, exactly?” I stammer out.

“How we’re still friends and we’re hanging out,” he shrugs. “That’s okay, right?”

“Right,” I nod slowly. I take a sip of my drink but it only makes me feel twice as sick. My head is spinning.

“You don’t look so good,” he points out. “You need some fresh air?”

“Maybe,” I pale. “Uh sure.”

The idea of going outside makes me even more sick. That girl probably tweeted out that picture to everyone, put the address of the coffee shop on there too. It will make headlines of Alternative Press by tomorrow morning, I’d almost bet fifty bucks on it. As soon as we step out, I hold my breath, terrified a bunch of people are going to be snapping pictures and running up to us too.

My brain immediately recognizes that I’m not in my small town anymore. People are bustling on the streets, on the sidewalks, everywhere. I feel so claustrophobic and uncomfortable. Brendon squeezes my hand in reassurance, walking me down the sidewalk, our drinks in hand. I’m still stuck on that girl, that photo, the possibility of everything going south. What would my friends say? Wasn’t Brendon’s plan to make sure nobody knew about his divorce with Sarah? And what would happen if news articles started saying I’m part of the band again? I’m not, I’m only writing the lyrics, right? I start to feel as if I’m about to faint.

“You okay?” he sits down on the bench outside the café and my hands are still trembling. I’m afraid that if I try to sit down my legs are going to give out and I’ll end up tumbling down onto the sidewalk and skidding my face with the pavement.

“S-sorry I just…” I stammer out, him slowly helping me sit down. I haven’t had my anxiety this bad since I don’t know when. “I wasn’t r-ready for that I g-guess.”

“It’s alright,” he soothes me, rubbing small circles on my back and taking a sip of his coffee. “Small steps, little things. We can head home if you’d like to. If uh, if that would make you feel better.”

“I don’t think I can do this,” I confess, squeezing my eyes tight.

“It’s okay we can have more time,” he insists. “Maybe we can try going out again tomorrow.”

“No, I mean that. That. The going out thing, the being public thing,” I explain. “I thought you didn’t want them to know about your personal life, your romantic life, the divorce.”

“I just told you yesterday, I’m so in love with you Ryan. I don’t give a shit anymore. I’m tired of hiding. I want them to know about us,” he looks hurt. “I thought you wanted that too. I thought that we agreed.” He looks off into the street and sighs. “You’re all I have, you know.”

“It’s just such a big city,” I whisper. “There’s so many people. It’s overwhelming.”

“I know,” he sighs. “It’s alright though, we can do this.”

“Maybe you can. But I can’t,” I admit. I get up from the bench and begin to walk away and he grabs my hand, concerned.

“Ry, don’t say that,” he begs.

“It’s true,” I come to a breaking point, tossing my drink to the ground, frustrated. It feels like Cape Town all over again. “I was so stupid to think we would ever even work out.”

“Just give it time-”

“Oh I’ve given it plenty of time,” I seethe. “A couple years, actually.”

A camera flash blinds us both and we freeze. I’m a goddammit idiot forever thinking going outside for fresh air would be a good idea. Brendon’s head whips around to stare at a handful of paparazzi growing closer. “Let’s go,” he grabs my hand but I jerk it away, still angry.

“I can walk on my own,” I grumble, walking past him and the paparazzi, ignoring the questions they’re raining down on me, paying no attention to Brendon following behind.

Of course I had to make a scene, getting up from the bench and throwing my drink and refusing to hold his hand. The paparazzi decides to lose us after a couple blocks and Brendon has stopped trying to talk to me from behind. When I get to his house, I realize I can’t open the door and stand there like a dumbass waiting for him. Okay, so maybe I didn’t think this entire thing through. I’m so caught up in the moment the only thing I can think about is distancing myself. Taking Dottie and driving home, ignoring his calls and emails, hoping to forget about him. It would all blow up then blow over and it would be done.

“You could’ve just told me,” he says when he walks up to me on the porch. “We didn’t have to do this in public.”

“What?” I can’t even meet his eyes, instead staring at my shoes.

“Break up,” he answers and my stomach does a flip. Yeah I knew we were arguing and yeah my current plans were extreme but I didn’t actually process the idea of splitting up so soon.

“Oh,” I become silent. Fuck. I really didn’t think this through.

We both stand there, avoiding eye contact, not really sure what to do with ourselves. He clears his throat awkwardly and reaches into his pocket, fumbling for the keys. The door opens and as soon as I step in I feel like I’m about to puke. I walk into his house and made a beeline to the bathroom. This entire day has been a fucking train wreck. “Hey Ryan-” he calls out for me but I’ve already locked the door and slouched down, holding my head in my hands. Suddenly I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m hearing his voice from underwater. My vision is fuzzy. I feel like I’m having a panic attack. My entire body is shaking and I don’t know what to do anymore. I can feel him knocking on the door behind me but it feels as if it’s in slow motion.

I slowly start to resurface, gasping for air and feeling my heartbeat begin to settle. My thought process becomes molasses. Thoughts about the picture and paparazzi and going out in public begin to drift off to the corners of my mind. I stagger up and wash my face in the sink, looking up at the bloodshot eyes and pale lips that stare back at me. I make my way to the door and jostle the knob before unlocking it and staggering out to the couch. It’s quiet. I curl up with a blanket and watch as Dottie slowly approaches me and then hops up to join me, nuzzling her head underneath my arm. I let out a heavy sigh. I wonder where Brendon is or when he’s going to come out to talk to me. A part of me doesn’t want to know.

I end up falling asleep on the couch. I wake up in the middle of the night, and Dottie’s not beside me anymore. Instead, it’s a boy with messy black hair and parted lips and soft features. He’s in his underwear and an oversized sweater and he’s clinging onto me, with his head on my shoulder. It’s him. I close my eyes and hold him tight, giving him a kiss on the forehead. I love him, I really do. I don’t want to give up on us. Not yet.

But somehow, I feel like I might have to.

When I wake up in the morning, I go out to the kitchen and Brendon’s there, staring at his phone with a blank expression on his face. I already know. “It’s uh, it’s up. Isn’t it?” I clear my throat. He’s already smoking a joint.

“Yeah,” he silently hands his phone to me and my stomach drops.

There’s pictures of us on AP’s newest online article, of fucking course, just like I called it. A video up on TMZ. Even a Twitter hashtag with that dumb ship name Ryden or whatever. It makes me absolutely sick. “Are you kidding me?” my voice goes hoarse.

“We both knew it was going to happen,” Brendon gives a slight shrug. “It doesn’t bother me, Ry. But um, I know that you, you might not handle it as well.”

“No shit,” I scroll through another article and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. No amount of mental preparation could ever make me ready for this. I wish I never left the house that morning. I wish I never went to visit Brendon. I wish I would’ve just stayed at home in my little boring, pathetic, stupid life and just ignored him at the coffee shop the day he interrupted my newspaper reading.

“Well what do you want to do?” he stares at me, blowing out smoke from between his lips, dark eyes pondering what I’m about to say.

“I want to go home,” I simply tell him.

He looks twice as broken at my response. “Okay.”

We don’t say much as I pack up my things and get Dottie situated in my car. In fact, we don’t talk at all. We just exchange goodbyes with a nod and before I know it, I’m back on the road again, heading home. I don’t know if this is the end. There’s still so much we haven’t decided upon. Him using the lyrics in his new album, how he’s going to go about producing it, things like that. I don’t know if he’s going to call me or email me, and I don’t know if I have the guts to reach out to him.

I go straight to my bed when I get through the door, Dottie following at my heels, and check my phone. I already know I’m not going to respond to anyone who’s called or texted. It’s all about the press coverage anyways, I already know. Daniel might just drop me. I don’t really care at this point. Even Helena reached out for me. “Fuck my ex,” I mutter. “Probably is just glad to know I’m single again.”

That’s when I realize about a week later that throughout all the notifications on my phone, mostly bullshit sympathy and people dying to get some inside information on the drama, Z has texted me. All of a sudden I feel bad for even saying what I had said about Helena, or any of my exes for that matter. Even though we broke up, Berg has been my best friend throughout all this chaos. She doesn’t deserve my hate. “Hey,” I pick up right away even though I promised I was going to distance myself from everyone and everything. So much for that.

“Hey, how are you doing?” her voice is soft, concerned, careful.

“You heard. Didn’t you?” I stare off at a wall.

“It’s been over a week, Ryan. Everyone heard,” she replies flatly. “Look, if you need someone to talk to-”

“Come over,” I insist.

“What?” she’s confused.

“Come over,” I repeat. “Tonight.”

“Okay,” she swallows hard. “Talk to you then.”

When she comes to my place, I tell her everything. We drink glasses of wine and I pour out the entire story, all that had happened with me and Brendon from when we first met to when I walked out his door. She sympathizes with me verbally, but after a few glasses of wine, physically. She’s putting her hand on my shoulder and then on my knee and making these eyes, these sad, longing, nostalgic kind of eyes, and I can tell she’s missing what we had too. And that’s my next biggest mistake. Because once I kiss her, I can’t just stop there.

We’re drunk and we’re hurt and we couldn’t give a shit. By the end of the night we’re in my bedroom and we’ve had really shitty pity sex. The bottle of wine is long gone and she’s going on about her latest ex as well. We’re both broken and fucked up and lost. She’s my best friend for a reason. But this, it feels wrong. It feels like an act of impulse, an act of not knowing what to do, an act I’m going to regret. I think about Brendon and I’m already wrapped up in guilt. Not even two weeks separated and I’m already sleeping with someone else, my ex and best friend much less, already confessed our entire relationship and spilled secrets over a couple glasses of wine. Fuck my life.

“Why do you care?” she asks, curling up next to me underneath the sheets.

“What do you mean? Like why do I care about you?” I tilt my head to the side, confused. We’re both slowly drifting off to sleep.

“No. Him. Brendon,” she clarifies. “Why do you care if the media finds out? If people begin to start rumors? If the paparazzi snap a couple photos? If you really love him that wouldn’t bother you.”

“But it does,” I argue.

“Exactly,” she points out. “Why?”

“I don’t… I don’t really know,” I admit. I did really love him.

“You can’t hide forever,” she insists. “And maybe you didn’t quite get it when he explained it to you the first time, so let me.” She caresses my face and gives a weak smile. “When you find someone, that special someone, you don’t let anything get in your way. Whether it’s other people or publicity or whatever might try to pull you apart, you need to be stronger than that.”

“Did you think we weren’t strong enough?” I look at her, curious and somber.

“No Ry,” she shakes her head slightly, smile coming out even more damaged. “I think we just weren’t meant to be.”

“Yeah,” my voice fades out, looking away. I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss us.

“But you and him,” she insists. “I think that you found each other again for a reason.”

“A mistake,” I pout.

“No,” she reassures and then pauses. “But um, us hooking up tonight, uh, that was a mistake.” She laughs and then recovers. Her tone turns more serious. “Look Ry, you can’t go against your instincts. When you were apart you missed each other so much. And then you were reunited and you flourished. Like you said, you felt on top of the world, and I’m sure he did to. Making music again, loving each other, just being together… it’s what you’re meant to do.”

Z’s words stick with me for a while after that. Brendon doesn’t call and so I don’t either. My inbox stays void of his name. I drink coffee alone. I don’t check the news or the internet. I ignore everyone around me, even Z, who tries to call several times and even leaves a couple voicemails. I don’t bother listening to them. I already let her in too much, I can’t let her know even more. I need space. I need time to think. Dottie must know something’s up, and Elwood too, because they’ve been giving me extra love and affection this week.

About a month passes and eventually I do have to talk to Daniel, because he’s my employer, and I absolutely dread what’s going to come out of his mouth. It’s probably the fifteenth call this week when I pick up and I can already hear the sarcasm dripping from his voice. “About done fooling around with your emo boy toy?” he taunts.

“Cut it out,” I scoff.

“No really,” he insists. “Are you done or should I consider yourself extracted from the project? Because I don’t need that kind of bad publicity around my work.”

“I’m still on for the project,” I argue. “I need cash, I need work.”

“Well I don’t want you seeing him anymore. I don’t care if you’re off the press or the papers or photos and shit, absolutely off. No more going off and seeing him or arguing or any of that. You’re my worker and you abide by my rules. If you want to argue, consider yourself fired,” he states. “And hey, pick up your goddamn phone, will you? I’m sick of it going to voice message.”

“Fine,” I spit. “And by the way, I dumped his sorry ass a while ago. Don’t worry about it.”

“Good to hear. See you next shoot,” and with that he hangs up. God, he’s such an asshole.

That’s when, of course, I get the fucking notification. He’s livestreaming on Instagram. I quickly ignore the notification and shut off my phone, trying to push him out of my mind. Half of me wants to go running back to him, but another promises that I’m done having my heart broken and playing these types of games. Perhaps I’m just not a relationship type of person and I’m meant to be alone. Maybe Z was just talking nonsense to try and make me feel better. I should’ve just ignored his call that night at the bar with Jeremy, taken home that cherry haired girl for the night, stuck to flings and not caring about all that romance shit. The things I write about in my songs are meant only to be lyrics, not reality. They were simply dreams, fragments of poetry, wishes put into words. I needed to face the truth.

The next couple of weeks are dry. I’m really hurting, and pushing myself away from others doesn’t help. Even after I reach out to Jeremy and try to hang out for the night, go to see a movie and grab some drinks, I still feel empty and dull. We only make small talk. I start calling Z, and when she asks why I haven’t talked to Brendon, I can’t really give her a pinpoint answer other than I’m lazy and afraid of confrontation. She’s patient and understanding, and talks me through rough nights. I start meeting Daniel for some projects, help with the shooting and cinematography, whatever other bullshit he’s too lazy to do himself. I’m there, I’m interacting with people, and I’m doing things, back to my old life. But it doesn’t feel the same. Not at all.

“Did you hear?” Jeremy’s the one who brings it up, when we’re a couple beers in, playing pool at a bar.

“Did I hear what?” I narrow my eyes, unamused.

“They’re coming to town,” he replies, addressing the ball before hitting a stripe across the table.

“Who? Fucking Santa Claus?” I scoff. He’s kicking my ass at this game.

“No, your ex,” he corrects.

“Z or Helena?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Him, Ry. Brendon,” he states. I blink at him.

“Like, this city? Here?” I tilt my head, unsure.

“He put it on the list of tour dates. He’s coming next month. Playing that little venue down by the liquor shop a couple blocks across from your place. Tickets are going quick so I’d score some if you plan on going,” he shrugs. “I don’t know, in case you wanted to see how he was doing or something. I think it’s odd he’d pick here out of all places. Probably his first time playing in a place like this.”

“He’s never done a gig here,” I agree. “Weird.”

“Probably to see you,” Jeremy prods, and although I can tell he’s joking, it still makes my heart stop. “Probably wants you to come out and see the show.”

“Right,” I roll my eyes and take a lousy shot. What if it was his intention though?

“I mean, why else?” he asks. “It just wouldn’t make sense.”

I go home that night and search up his stupid tour on my computer. Apparently he’s doing a string of dates before dropping his next album. I scroll through his Twitter and that’s when my heart stops. All of his tweets this entire past month, while we’ve been apart, are quotes. Not just any quotes, song lyrics, all written by me. Fragments of the things I have given him, written him, emailed and spoken over the phone. And he’s signed them all from the sun. My heart aches.

Before I know it, I’m buying a ticket. I don’t dare tell Jeremy. When Z mentions that he’s visiting my city I don’t say much to her either. She claims this is my chance, my moment, my opportunity at redemption, but I just shake it off. Even if I am going, I don’t know how to gain his apology, to make things right. Yeah, I do miss him and I’m anxious to see what he’s doing with the things I have written him, the song lyrics on the next album, what’s to come. However, I’m indifferent towards the idea of reuniting us just the same.

When I can’t sleep, I find myself reopening my computer and going to my email. “I miss the moon.” Right before I’m about to send, I falter, saving it to my drafts instead. I drown myself in alcohol and hide within the clouds of cigarette smoke. Every night I debate whether or not I should click send. I feel like the entire world has its eyes on me, waiting for my next move, wondering if I’ll take the chance. He had always encouraged me to take the leap of faith. Perhaps I just have an inevitably bad case of pistanthrophobia.

Sure, Sarah was part of it, but it wasn’t really why I had left the band. This was something different. This was why we had broken up. This was why we weren’t talking now. I was always too scared, too afraid, too uncertain. I was never brave enough to trust him, to accept myself, to let others see me for who I was. I just wanted someone to love, but he wanted someone to show off, or at least that’s what I had thought. But no. He needed someone to love, someone to love openly and freely and with pride. He didn’t want to keep hidden what we shared. It was what had happened before and what had happened now, and both times I had shied away, afraid and scared and nervous and confused.

Ticket in hand, oversized hooded jacket hiding my face, shifting eyes, I stand outside the venue along with a string of hipster emo teenage girls and goth punk boys. Arms crossed over chest parents and bored older siblings stand beside them, clearly only there for supervision and transportation. I get in just fine, sticking towards the nosebleed section, but staring at him from afar as he sings the songs and performs. I can tell he’s searching for me. His eyes scan the crowd, he seems distracted, and he even stumbles on some of the words here and there. He’s doing backflips and funny impersonations, cussing and making speeches, dancing and taking off his shirt like a fool. I miss him. My heart aches as I watch him sit at the piano and belt out a ballad. As he finishes up the show, I have to hold back tears. I wish I was up there with him.

People start to file out, and I’m surveying the area for a while, trying to find a way to sneak backstage. There’s security everywhere, so I doubt I’ll get to the pit, much less to where I need to be. I’m almost tempted to shoot him a text. I’m lingering by a merch table for a good half an hour when a teenage boy comes up to me, donned in messy fringed hair and dark eyeliner. “Uh hey,” he gives a small smile. “I know this is uh, a weird question, but would you be Ryan Ross by any chance?”

“Um…” I stare back at him, his wide eyes and eager expression making me anxious.

“No sorry, it’s okay,” he laughs nervously. “You just looked like him, I don’t know. Sorry for bothering you. Have a great night.”

I watch as his expression fades, embarrassment turning his cheeks bright red, disappointment starting to arise. There’s no use in hiding. I should stop. Brendon’s right. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

“Uh wait!” I call for him as soon as he turns his back towards me. He flips around, raising an eyebrow. “Um, yeah. I am actually. Ryan.” I swallow awkwardly. “Sorry, I was just surprised.”

“Oh,” he lights up instantly. “Awesome. I’m a huge fan and I’m glad to see you playing music again. I went to the Z Berg Prom a while back and had a great time. I’m glad to see you came to the concert.”

“Wow, thanks. And uh, yeah. Me too,” I give a small nod.

“Well hope to see you at another one!” he gives a wave and then walks away, leaving me puzzled. He didn’t ask for an autograph or a picture. He simply just asked me a question, gave me a compliment, made small talk, then left. It was almost comforting. I let out a small sigh of relief and then pull back my hood, running my hand through my hair. I can do this.

I get strange stares and a couple whispers and points as I make my way through to the door of the venue. I know where the tour bus will be, maybe I can sneak back there and wait for Brendon to appear. Maybe if I told the security I was one of his friends or relatives they would escort me to see him. I can see the flashes of cameras and hear the sounds of shutters as I walk outside, but I don’t mind. In fact, I give a small wave and a smile as I walk past the groups of people. I was done lingering in the shadows. I was ready to be open and be proud of who I was.

Sure enough, he’s outside the venue towards the back, a barricade separating him from the throng of fans, going through and signing stuff, taking pictures, and even giving hugs. I race towards the crowd as fast as my feet can take me, not giving a single shit about how strange I may look. I need to get to him and I need to make my move. I’m squeezing through the crowd, shoving people out of my way, ruthless and desperate. As soon as I make it to the barricade, I shout his name as loud as I can, waving my arms at the black haired, brown eyed, overexcited hyperactive broken-hearted boy standing just several feet away. He does a double take, staring right at me, awestruck. “Ryan?” his jaw drops.

He drops the Sharpie marker and the poster he’s holding midway through giving an autograph and races towards me, and before I can even process what I’m doing, I’m capturing his face in my hands and pressing his lips on mine. We’re kissing. In front of thousands of fans. With a metal barricade between us. Outside, in public, absolutely exposed. And I couldn’t care less. We kiss and kiss, tongues slipping into each other’s mouths and fingers tugging on locks of hair, passion replacing unspoken words. We’re drowned in camera flashes and videotaping, screaming teens and people pointing, absolute mayhem and chaos unleashed around us. But here, in my arms, interlaced in our embrace, shared between our lips, it’s peaceful. It’s tranquility and serenity and comfort and quiet. We construct our own world, compose our own melodies, write our own stories. We do not care who decides to enter, who sings along, or who wants to read. I am open doors, I am full volume, I am an open book. From this moment on, I am nothing but me, authentically and genuinely me. And part of being me is loving him.

“Holy fuck,” he catches his breath when we pull away and we both burst out into laughter like fools.

“I love you,” I blurt out and he grins.

“I love you too,” he replies, capturing me in another kiss.

Security doesn’t know what to think. Fans are squealing and going wild. I feel like time is in slow motion as we make out the second time. Before I know it, he and the fans around me are carrying me over the barricade and placing me into his arms, and everyone’s laughing and smiling and having a grand old time. There is no shame, no guilt, no regret here. I am completely and fully free.

“I took the leap of faith,” I tell him happily. “I trust you.”

“You don’t care about the cameras? The paparazzi? The rumors? The press coverage?” he stares at me, still confused and puzzled. “Ry, you don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” I reassure, tears surfacing in my eyes, giving a laugh. “I care about you. Alright?”

“Fuck,” he closes his eyes and blushes. “This is too good to be true.”

“Well you better believe it,” I chuckle. “Cause you’re stuck with me now.”

“Oh yeah?” he raises an eyebrow, amused. “I like the sound of that.”

“Despite what I may say or do, I could never leave you Bren,” I confess. “No matter how many times I hide or run away, I’ll always come back to you. Somehow, someway.”

“Whether Seattle or Cape Town or LA or even here, in a little run down city like this, I will be there and I will find you,” Brendon promises. “I’ll be here for you. I will always love you.”

               “Our love might be confusing and broken and different but that’s okay,” I reassure. “I want it and need it just the same.”

               “Reinvent love,” Brendon whispers, placing a kiss to my forehead. “It’s okay. We’ll reinvent love. Together.”

               “Together,” I repeat, kissing him back. “We must reinvent love.”

[cotty-150]

Español: ...dibujando algunos de mis personajes al estilo rubberhose

nada importante.

English: ...drawing some of my characters in the rubberhose style

nothing important.

[wub-fur-radio]

In Like a Lemon, Out Like a Lime ² (The Long-Awaited Fabulous Sequel)

Ten years ago this week, in late March of 2012 back in the now only dimly-remembered before times (before the war… before the pandemic… before the failure of American democracy…), we released a mix of garage rock/punk/etc. tunes entitled, for no reason other than that it was late March and we like citrus fruits, “In Like a Lemon, Out Like a Lime.” Over the course of the intervening years it has become one of our all-time favorites and so, at long last, we present the long-awaited and fabulous sequel… An eclectic mix of 18 indie/garage/punk/rock tunes featuring many of the beloved artists who appeared in the original mix — Ty Segall, Colleen Green, Together Pangea, Gentleman Jesse, Mean Jeans, The Hussy, Cloud Nothings. Seth Bogart, Japandroids — as well as a number of excellent new entrants including Ditches, Shaylee, and Chris Brokaw.

N.B. For those wishing to compare and contrast (or just hear some more cool tunes), the (still excellent) original citrus-flavored 2012 garage rock mix can be found here.

▶︎ Listen on Mixcloud (or scroll down to use an embedded player below)

Running Time: 59 Minutes, 54 seconds

Tracklist

Maybe We'll All Die (3:08) — TV’s Daniel | Austin, TX | 2019

Bad Looks (2:37) — Green/Blue | Minneapolis, MN | 2022

What It’s Like (3:01) — Together Pangea | Los Angeles, CA | 2022

Dawn's Lips (3:10) — Seth Bogart | Los Angeles, CA | 2020

Feel Good (2:55) — Ty Segall | los Angeles, CA | 2021

Out of This (2:13) — Ditches | Stockholm, Sweden | 2020

Erase/Her (1:58) — The Hussy | Madison, WI | 2019

Out of Our Tree (3:09) — Kiss Boom Bah | Philadelphia, PA | 2020

Get Off the Road (1:42) — Teenage Cavegirl | Austin, TX | 2021

Time Warp (2:31) — Mean Jeans | Portland, OR | 2019

Become Nothing (3:13) — Gentleman Jesse | Atlanta, GA | 2021

Health (3:06) — Shaylee | Portland, OR | 2022

You Don't Exist (3:59) — Colleen Green | Lowell, MA | 2021

All These Things (3:48) — The Soundcarriers | Nottingham, UK | 2022

A Longer Moon (2:49) — Cloud Nothings | Cleveland, OH | 2021

VFTA (3:24) — Vacation | Cincinnati, OH | 2021

The House That Heaven Built (Live) (5:58) — Japandroids | Vancouver, BC, Canada | 2020

The Heart of Human Trafficking (7:14) — Chris Brokaw | Cambridge, MA | 2021

Embedded Mixcloud Player