Ever since they’d first formed a band, it had been Brendon and Ryan. Other members had more or less come and gone, with Spencer leaving the original lineup due to a fallout with the rather dramatic lead singer (Brendon). Dallon had dismissed it all at first, saying it was ridiculous, so they enrolled hthis kid called Jon. Obviously, when Brendon left ilvermorny, the whole thing fell apart, until Ryan came to Hogwarts and the two of them managed to convince Dallon to be their bassist. They managed without a drummer for a while, but then Ryan met Spencer again (to Brendon’s original disdain), and there were four of them. However, by this time, Brendon was already somewhat shouldering in on everything, leaving the other band members with the task of recording only and not much creative input. He preferred to work alone, for the most part, and this became apparent when the other members were kind of shut out of the creative process. None of them bothered to complain- Brendon was stubborn, and often too nice about it all to get mad at- so they kind of just stayed silent and added in where they could (where Brendon allowed).

As of late, though, Spencer, Dallon and Ryan were kind of getting fed up, especially Ryan. He felt more affronted about being left out then the other two, because a) the lead singer was his husband and still had no problem with rejecting most of his work, and b) the band was kind of his idea in the first place, and in the early days, he had done the most to contribute. Ryan wasn’t confrontational enough to complain, and kind of satisfied himself by looking on the bright side- he was playing alongside the love of his life, he still made music with the guys, and if he squinted, it was just as fun and they were still a band. Brendon, in contrast, didn’t feel like this. One of his vices was his sense of self-importance that reared it’s head sometimes, and maybe his desire to be in control, so he still felt creatively restricted by the three other guys, particularly Dallon (who was perhaps the one who was most vocal about the fact they were being excluded). He came to a conclusion eventually that he’d try and break away from them, and maybe try and convince them to just be touring members. Brendon wasn’t trying to be malicious by any means, he just profoundly felt they were hindering his music, whether this was true or not.

He figured Ryan would be the hardest to talk to, because... they were married. He was going to try and kick the person he lived with out of a band the two of them had originally formed. In hindsight, the whole thing was ridiculous and kind of selfish of him (Brendon was, technically, firing them, if he squinted enough), but he was adamant. Brendon didn’t know when to bring it up, though, so he eventually just plucked the subject out of thin air after a few hours of just... buttering him up. Brendon was curled up next to him- it was the afternoon, and they’d both just remained in bed practically all day, brendon just constantly pressing affectionate kisses against Ryan’s jaw, hoping to himself that it would take away inevitable hard feelings. ”Ryan?” He began, hesitantly, biting his lip and pulling away to sit up a little, running a hand through his tousled hair. ”I need to talk to you.” He figured that sounded may too serious, and cleared his throat to move on.

”I’ve been thinking recently, how.. How it’s mostly me, writing music and singing and shit, and... I was just thinking, it would make it easier if you were like, officially removed from the process? Cause like... I don’t know, you don’t really make a-” Fuck, that sounded bad. Brendon rubbed his neck awkwardly, not meeting Ryan’s eyes for a second before he straightened up. ”Not just you. Dallon and Spencer, too. You could still, like, play live and all that. Touring members.”

The first time Ryan picked up a guitar, he knew what he wanted to do with himself. Before, he'd really just been listening to his dad's country radio and Blink-182 and miscellaneous punk bands - but a hundred-dollar guitar-and-amp set really actualized his dreams. He showed Brendon that he could sort of play, and it was settled; Brendon was already basically a musical prodigy, had everything they needed to eventually be successful. It was just the two of them for a long time, and Ryan liked to control the singing aspect occasionally in the beginning in that he'd at least try to be the lead on every song unless it was proven that Brendon's voice fit the lyrics better (they usually did - Ryan didn't deliberately try to write as anything but confident, and that's all that Brendon embodied). Mostly, though, they worked together with ease, no real conflicts because both of them were new enough that they didn't have any pre-planned concepts anyway.

Other people bunched themselves in over time, or they naturally separated and rejoined each other; basically the band's history was a mess and not easy to follow at all. Ryan couldn't even tell the full story of their lineup or their existence in general without getting mixed up. Somewhere between all of it, everyone took their own creative direction, and everyone but Brendon managed to stay on at least a similar path. To be fair, Ryan saw it happening; he just didn't have the guts to step in and ask Brendon to try and incorporate his new sound into theirs rather than separate entirely. Because of his own shyness it eventually came between all of them. Spencer was more on his 'side,' for obvious reasons, and Dallon could kind of blend between the two of them but he never just accepted the changes. It didn't draw a noticeable divide, lucky enough, but the difference was palpable whenever they tried to come together to actually make the music.

In an effort not to mess things up entirely, Ryan never said anything. The pop-punk/emo/baroque sound of his earliest songs were in the past completely, but he was still stuck in his gentle indie sound phase - all of these genres, however, he left out of their writing sessions, figuring if he suggested his own writing or composing these days it'd get knocked out. And besides, it's not like he didn't like what they were coming up with (rather, what Brendon was coming up with, alongside few suggestions for improvement). He just wasn't great at playing any of it, and his backing vocals didn't match well anymore. He kept his hopes up, nevertheless, because maybe in the future they'd move on to a new concept that he could go along with again, and all their tastes would be realigned. Or they'd all be able to compromise on ideas. That sounded a little monotonous, though. Ryan tried not to focus on how impossible the band seemed to be these days.

Ryan? In fact, he wasn't thinking about it right then, 'cause everything at home with him and Brendon was fine. They could curl together all day like this any time with no issue (kind of - sometimes someone got a dead leg or whatever) so whatever was happening with the band that seemed like the end of the world suddenly didn't matter so much. Feeling Brendon rise, though, Ryan turned to look at him more closely, registering the vague apprehension in his face and knowing that this was probably not going to be good. I need to talk to you. Definitely not. Ryan's mind jumped to the worst places first, as per usual, and he started sitting up more, too, giving Brendon his full attention - admittedly not much of a change from before, but still.

I’ve been thinking recently, how.. How it’s mostly me, writing music and singing and shit, and... Ryan kind of anticipated this in the back of his mind all the time, but still. He didn't think the conversation would ever happen. As he realised what Brendon was bringing to light he let the elbow propping him up go out, resting against the cushions again. I was just thinking, it would make it easier if you were like, officially removed from the process? Ryan wondered how he got the words out, mostly. Wouldn't have been able to himself. 'Cause like... I don’t know, you don’t really make a- Ryan sort of bristled, watching Brendon catch himself and thinking that it was best he stopped there. Not to mention the fact that he was deliberately not looking at Ryan. That was probably for the best, too. He was very good at putting on a blank expression and was doing that now, but for Brendon, that was probably the same as Ryan looking outright pissed. Not just you. Dallon and Spencer, too. You could still, like, play live and all that. Touring members.

Ryan paused for a long time, staring at Brendon like he was waiting for the punchline, then rolled to the side so that no part of their bodies were touching anymore. "That's great," he said to the ceiling. "That's really good. You know, I have always wanted to be a touring member for the band I started." He realised he sounded kind of childish responding like that when Brendon was making an honest proposition and looked over again, his lips pursed somewhat apologetically. He dropped his voice to a softer level momentarily. "I'm sorry." He sighed to himself, shaking his head disbelievingly, but not really. This wasn't a shock or anything - he just thought the end would come more naturally, definitely not by Brendon himself. "You're not going to, like - try to compromise or anything? Or go solo rather than kicking everyone else out? Have you even thought this through?"

To be fair, Brendon had been thinking about this for a while, and most of his points were, on the surface, pretty valid. The problem only appeared when one remembered that Ryan had been the practical founder of the band, that most problems he cited like ‘lack of bandmate contribution’ had been orchestrated by his own unwillingness to accept other ideas, and his desire to have full control sort of arose from the lack of control he’d had over his life in his late teens and early twenties, surfacing as a way of making up that lost time, and making him feel more grounded. That, and he was just sometimes downright too proud and stubborn for his own good. It was rare now that he admitted to somebody else’s good idea, and when he did, it was begrudging, and minimal as possible. Nobody was perfect, and Brendon’s vices were kind of deeply set in a way that made him appear selfish, and disregarding of other people’s input and feelings. He didn’t realise it himself- in his head, what he was trying to do made complete sense, and he even thought it’d make Ryan happier- he foolishly thought that if he was happy, ryan was bound to follow suit, which was short-sighted, and he thought maybe Ryan could work on his own long overdue music projects. No matter his reason, his handling of the situation definitely didn’t help his cause.

Because Ryan generally caved to what Brendon wanted, within reason, Brendon had kind of thought before going into this that it would go pretty smoothly, and there would be no hard feelings or bad blood, because that would definitely not equate to a healthy relationship. Then again, neither did kicking his husband out of their band. Brendon wasn’t really a team player to begin with, maybe because he’d been isolated for a lot of his childhood as the youngest of his siblings and the stereotypical gay reject to his parents, but that was probably looking too deep. Because of this trait, he found it difficult to compromise with people, or even listen to what they were saying, because he had so much to say himself. This, at his best, made him charming, and at his worst, stubborn and insufferable. Brendon was aware of this, but often couldn’t stop himself butting in at the worst of times and saying something that was probably better left unsaid. For example, now, when he almost said that Ryan didn’t contribute at all.

Brendon never expected Ryan to readily agree, but he was still uncomfortable at Ryan’s flat facial expression, knowing that this meant he was just pissed. He almost reached to take his hand, but Ryan moved away so they were completely separate, and he felt a little rejected. Ironic, really. He bit his lip, looking away awkwardly but determined to argue his point, clearing his throat. Ryan spoke before he could continue. That’s great. That’s really good. Brendon looked up, and Ryan was staring at the ceiling. He remained silent. You know, I have always wanted to be a touring member for the band I started. “It’s not always about where you start, Ryan. It’s the fact that you don’t do anything in the band anymore. Nothing would even change.” That was way too harsh, but Brendon kind of just grit his teeth, really not wanting this to be an argument but also accepting the inevitability of it all.

I’m sorry. Brendon raised an eyebrow. You’re not going to, like- try to compromise or anything? Or go solo rather than kicking everyone else out?” ”What’s the difference? I’m the lead singer, I make the band.” Again. Shortsighted, arrogant even. Brendon was rarely this uptight about things, but this potential argument had him on edge. Have you even thought this through? He scoffed. ”Have for a while, actually. The last album- I wrote literally everything. You guys still played. What difference does it make?”

It did make sense, really, to split up after such a long time of being in different mindsets but working on the same projects. Ryan, however, rarely cared about the sensible side of things if he could help it. Particularly when it had to do with Brendon. In that case, he cared more about whims of the heart, all manifesting through things like him giving flippant 'ok go's on songs Brendon would write that purely centered around drinking/partying/clubbing/etc. Pretty simple to pretend like he hadn't written it from personal experience and it was just a description of any random made-up scenario. The downside to that was actually listening to Brendon singing it, over and over again, more feeling each time as if it affected him too. That was particularly worrying. So it wasn't just that the music was taking a different direction - it was the fact that sometimes it seemed like Brendon was delving into his personal struggles without letting anyone else in on it, maybe hurting himself in the process. But Ryan tended to overthink, and this was probably-definitely one of those cases.

His contribution, then, when he wasn't writing lyrics, was accomodating Brendon's words with his own attempt at composing, writing the tabs out and asking for the okay when they were done and usually getting it on at least a handful of verses. Choruses he rarely got the go ahead on. Still he used the permission he got to try and musically depict the real-life experience; if Brendon was going to write what happened, Ryan would play a sound that translated how it hurt. Of course there were overlays of something happier that made it all easier to listen to, more like something you'd play with a group of friends than something you'd listen to alone in your room, but still. Close attention got the message across, sometimes. This way Ryan wasn't ever too left out of the creative process, just very much separate, and taking forever to figure out just the right tune helped him to forget the solitary work.

So when Brendon sprung this on him he didn't really have a response prepared, even though it completely made sense. He'd just been accepting the nonsensical organization of their band for so long that now it was normal to him. It’s not always about where you start, Ryan. He hadn't even finished making his point and already Ryan was trying desperately not to straight-out say "shut up" to him. He felt thirteen again like when they were trying to pick a band name, for fuck's sake. It’s the fact that you don’t do anything in the band anymore. Nothing would even change. Little too far to turn back and pretend he wasn't angry already, so Ryan just let himself get more pissed at that, fingernails pressing crescents into his palms. "Bullshit. More like you're not letting any of us do anything. Consider the possibility that your 'creative direction' isn't - isn't the best one to take." He had a second to hate himself for stumbling over his words, hesitating on them, before they were rolling past that. Stupidly, he apologised, quickly wanted to take it back.

What’s the difference? I’m the lead singer, I make the band. Ryan's brow lowered for the first time, genuinely taken aback by Brendon's words. He knew Brendon could get like that, but not... this bad. Like, genuinely arrogant, not just self-confident. He watched him, still angry but now a little curious, wondering exactly what the change stemmed from. Maybe he was just disappointed that something he'd clearly been stewing over hadn't gone over as smoothly as he wanted, whatever. Ryan reminded himself that he was totally supposed to be mad at Brendon, not worried about him, shook his head to clear it. Have for a while, actually. The last album- I wrote literally everything. You guys still played. What difference does it make? Ryan didn't speak for a second, wondering what 'a while' meant. He imagined Brendon on stage, thinking about it between songs, noticing everything he was unhappy with about the band and adding it onto whatever mental list of reasons he had to break them up. He imagined Brendon writing, already knowing when he brought it to the rest of them they'd be opposed or conflicted somehow. It probably wasn't that active, but Ryan felt a little silly for not beating him to bringing it up.

He supposed he couldn't argue about the lead singer thing. Even when Ryan was the main writer, people were asking Brendon about the lyrics just because he was singing them, asking what they meant to him and why he wrote them. And as much as he wanted to say something genuinely hurtful, like 'the difference is that you can't make it on your own' or whatever, he didn't want to actually make Brendon feel bad. He sucked in a heavy breath, considering, before standing up abruptly and holding his arms out dramatically. "Sure. You think you're better off flying solo, go ahead. You'll run out of material eventually; can't write about your own personal tragedy like it was a party forever. I'm out." Ryan pushed the door with his back and then circled around, meandering into the living room and shaking his head disbelievingly. It was a long time coming, really, but given such a long time, he thought Brendon would find a smarter way to go about doing this. And he'd kind of broken his resolve to try not to be hurtful.

When Brendon was writing songs, he never really thought how the lyrics would affect the rest of the band, then his close friends who would hear the music first, then the wider audience- it was more simple with the fans, because Brendon had never really spoken about his troubles with addiction in the past in public, but with his friends, they all knew. When they heard lyrics like ‘i’m not as think as you drunk i am’, ‘we’ll stay drunk, we’ll stay tan’, ‘champagne, cocaine gasoline’ and ‘drunk pre-meds and some rubber gloves’, amongst many others, they all kind of cringed, knowing the connotations and immediately growing concerned about Brendon, but didn’t say anything, because they knew he’d immediately be on the defensive. Maybe it was his way of coping, they thought. Brendon himself didn’t really know why he wrote about it so much, because even when he sang songs like ‘don’t threaten me with a good time’ live, though a kind of bitter taste rose in the back of his mouth, he almost felt... Wistful. He didn’t really talk about it, but it was hard to tell people who were worried about him that he actually did enjoy partying, and getting wasted, and everything that came with it in the heat of those moments. Maybe this was dangerous- it wasn’t like he didn’t know what it would do to him if he started again, but he missed it, sometimes, on Saturday nights when his friends were just having a few drinks like people normally did, or New Years, when he had to stay home or it was too much for him, or at events he attended of any kind that served alcohol. It was difficult for him- it would be so easy to just order a drink, down it quickly, and nobody would notice. But he knew that one would turn into three, then six. He knew that. But sometimes he didn’t particularly care.

Brendon often pondered talking about this with Ryan, but he knew it wouldn’t go down well, because he wouldn’t understand. Plus, he didn’t seem to care much about the explicitly alcohol-orientated lyrics he brought forward in most songs, even in the song he’d written for their wedding. ‘Share one more drink with me’- ironic, considering their circumstances. All this considered, he stayed quiet about it, and poured it all into his songs, to almost relive memories. Brendon tried not to think about it too much. Lately, though, he’d felt more defensive over his music, and this was why he wanted the band to himself- he’d be free from disapproval, frustration amongst band members, criticism, and those typical concerned glances he got whenever he even mentioned a memory, or rather a few broken pieces of a memory, to do with the time when he’d gone out to party like how his songs described. Brendon hated it, he wanted out. Or rather, he wanted them out. He loved the band, Sure, but he’d kind of made up his mind. The fact he was maybe being a little- no, very- selfish didn’t occur to him. It wasn’t just his band.

Bullshit. Brendon blinked back into reality, wincing just slightly. More like you’re not letting any of us do anything. Scowling, he bit his lip, looking away to steel himself and then turning back with purpose. ”Sorry, which album has performed the best? The one you wrote, ten years ago, or the one I wrote last year?” A low blow, Sure. But Brendon felt like he needed to back himself up. Consider the possibility that your ‘creative direction’ isn’t- isn’t the best one to take. No, he thought immediately, wringing his hands and watching Ryan intently. He never intended this to go as it did, but it was too late to take anything back or back out. Brendon had to push on, even if he knew now from Ryan’s expression and voice that he was angry. It was alarming, though, when Ryan stood up- was he going to leave? Brendon raised a hesitant eyebrow and opened his mouth as if to say something, but Ryan beat him to it.

Sure. You think you’re better off flying solo, go ahead. You’ll return out of material eventually; you can’t write about your personal tragedy like it was a party forever. I’m out. Brendon bristled visibly, his shoulders tensing and his expression shifting from annoyance to obvious anger, his jaw clenching as if trying to hold his tongue. But he didn’t. ”You can’t say that as someone who’s written about the same fucking person for over ten years. That’s pathetic.” In the moment, he didn’t regret it. “And, ‘personal tragedy’? You know there’s a reason those songs are happy, right?” His voice was uncharacteristically venomous, and he waited for a few heartbeats until what he’d said finally reached his own ears, and his stomach dropped. He felt distantly sick.

It wasn't easy to hear the subject matter of Brendon's work, even if it did show his immense talent for writing and composition. Ryan was critical of everything no matter who produced what work, so of course he'd had much practice with scrutinizing Brendon's work in the past - not intentionally as direct as he happened to be, truthfully, but he was just awful at any kind of candid communication - and these days he couldn't give anything. Brendon knew how to lay out his thoughts now, and do so in a manner that wasn't really uber-poetic and pretentious (which was more Ryan's approach) but in a new way, where you could tell the distinctions between his songs and their older releases, where you could hear his clear-cut personality just through the diction alone. The one thing Ryan ever really wanted to criticize was what Brendon was singing about, but of course it wasn't plausible that Brendon would leave out the truth, the core of his work. Plus he would have no alternatives to offer up; what else would Brendon write about? He had plenty of hardship if that was what he wanted to sing about, but one of his biggest issues if not the shouldn't be ignored just 'cause Ryan wasn't comfortable hearing it.

Admittedly, that in itself was the most unfair part of it all. Worse than Brendon barring most outside contribution, worse than Brendon wanting change... Ryan had never grown to just accept that he could openly talk about what he went through. He semi-understood, because - the fact played like a broken record - he grew up with the struggles of alcoholism. He could hear about it occasionally when it was acceptable for him to vehemently try to comfort Brendon on the subject right after/during. He could even respond and have a full conversation, if no one else was around and if Brendon sort of walked on eggshells with the details of it all (not just because he hated to hear about Brendon's pain that he couldn't fix, but also because it brought a new level of insight as to what his father had been going through, what he'd been blind to). So, when they were on stage and he had to endure three minute songs about all of it back to back, sometimes cheery-sounding like Brendon was willing to dive back in to all the hurt he was left with, it was just hard to deal. Ryan wasn't built to put up with even momentary discomfort, evidently. None of it was about him, though; he just never considered his selfishness until after he'd made a mountain out of a molehill every. Single. Night.

He was sort of a hypocrite for it, too. Ryan's own music often dwelled too much on him and Brendon, sometimes he focused on his father but in a way that turned tragedy into something marketable. Other times he made up feelings and stories he couldn't personally relate to, or wrote about beautiful things that he couldn't fully understand himself, or made metaphors so convoluted that no one would fully grasp other than himself; all things considered, he didn't fit with Brendon creatively anymore. The resolve made sense. Brendon was writing stuff that was actually good, for one thing, stayed genuine even if it hurt, and Ryan kept losing sight of that. It's like if they were to actually split up, Brendon would be losing dead weight anyway, but of course Ryan was beside himself. Why play anything if they weren't playing together? Why try anything new when they could do what they'd always done? The answer to that was simple; they'd both changed so much over time that they weren't doing the same thing anymore anyway. They'd basically split the band without making a formal statement about it. This was just addressing the elephant in the room.

Sorry, which album has performed the best? The one you wrote, ten years ago, or the one I wrote last year? Fuck. He had a point. Kind of. Brendon was sort of insulting himself by comparing his own work to basically a high schooler, very much degrading his own skill level, but Ryan got the point nevertheless. He was indeed far more successful (though Ryan knew said "high schooler"'s achievements were fair enough, too, so this wasn't a huge blow to his pride). Ryan was off towards the door anyway, no argument on his tongue for that point in particular just because he really couldn't compete with the facts, trying desperately not to look too struck by defeat. It felt weird, wrong that they were saying these kinds of things to each other with the intent to win something or whatever - he wasn't used to it. They argued plenty, bickered more, but it was all small stuff usually. Even if it wasn't, they were over the conflict quickly, and nothing truly harmful was ever exchanged with full knowledge of what they were saying. This was a little different. Ryan, personally, was kind of out for blood because he sensed danger in the prospect of being booted from his own band.

Just as he got to the doorway, though, Brendon upgraded to a new level of angry, and Ryan didn't quite come to a full stop but he tossed a flippant look over his shoulder. You can’t say that as someone who’s written about the same fucking person for over ten years. That’s pathetic. That, Ryan stopped at. His expression softened marginally and his anger shifted to something slightly more unnerved, not so sure how to feel about what Brendon was saying, but he was definitely unsettled. And, ‘personal tragedy’? You know there’s a reason those songs are happy, right? Ryan's fingertips were hanging lightly on to the doorframe, almost bracing himself but timidly. Yeah, he did know, unfortunately, or at least he kind of did. More accurately, he'd entertained the possibility that Brendon wanted his old lifestyle back, or just a part of him did that was powerful enough to sway the rest. Ryan had turned so only his profile was facing Brendon at this point and he couldn't actually bear to look all the way round again, for fear of seeing what his features read to accompany his final question, but he just sort of shook his head dismissively. Decidedly, they weren't going to discuss 'those songs' any further.

"I didn't realize you had such a problem with me writing about you," he said slowly, voice quieter but still on edge. "I mean. I guess it is kind of pathetic. Being in love with someone, composing nearly whole albums about them... I figured if the feeling was mutual it wasn't too pathetic, but maybe that was stupid thinking." Ryan wasn't quite that dramatic, though, and he wasn't going to disregard a lifetime's worth of commitment to one another just to get hurt by Brendon saying one dumb thing. He knew Brendon loved him, too. This all just felt... cold. Not like them. And while the less aggressive part of him wanted to ask what was going on with them, the other just wanted to lay the blame somewhere. The obvious choice was Brendon. "What the hell is wrong with you?" Very broad question, but he threw an arm out swiftly to indicate he meant more 'right now' than in general.

Besides Ryan’s tendency to use extravagant metaphors, or sometimes unnecessarily complicated vocabulary with a more open, even ethereal edge to his songs as opposed to Brendon’s use of more fiery, passionate but sometimes straightforward lyrics, there was one thing that kind of chiefly separated their writing styles. Ryan, see, didn’t really write about himself, and if he did, everything was kind of guarded under three layers of tightly woven metaphors. Instead, he tended to write about other people and their effects on him, on action rather than being. For example, his father, or more often Brendon, because that’s where he drew a lot of his muse. Brendon usually took it as a compliment, and songs like Northern Downpour held a special place in his heart (though songs like Cape Town set him kind of frowning out of nothing but confusion). As opposed to Ryan’s indirect but insightful approach, Brendon used ‘I’ and ‘we’ much more, writing from experience and action rather than observation and emotion, for the most part. Brendon was motivated by such things, and though he did write a fair few love songs, most of his music varied- about the darkest and brightest times of his life, about the parties and extravagance, then the demons he never shied away from.

When he did choose to write songs about other people, his cast of characters to choose from was vibrant- ex-lovers, people who, in a different life, would have perhaps been potential lovers, old friends, family, about a God he didn’t believe in and people that meant more to him than he could ever describe without music. Brendon had no skeletons in his closet; he’d dressed them up and put them into songs. This was why he was defensive, and independent. Sure, he’d allow strangers to hear it, but they all dismissed his party anthems as just that. No deeper meaning. Everything made more sense when he could control all the details. He felt that nobody had the right to his own personal tragedies and happiest memories. Even Ryan. Brendon didn’t know how to say this to him without hurting his feelings, so he just kind of dodged around it, even if that meant more aggressive and harsh ways of deterring Ryan from the band. He couldn’t really tell if it was working that way, but Ryan was definitely angry, so he supposed that was going relatively well.

Ryan was at the doorway, and Brendon was on edge, his shoulders tensed and his jaw clenched. He didn’t like this at all. This wasn’t like them. They argued, sure, like every couple, but they were just silly things, regular harmless bickering. If not, it was resolved in less than a day (because Brendon needed attention and Ryan couldn’t stay mad). This, though, was a step over that line. What he said about the songwriting was a step over the line, he could see it in Ryan’s eyes. I didn’t realise you had such a problem with me writing about you. Brendon cringed internally, feeling sick. Of course he didn’t have a problem with it. But it was too late to back down- his pride forbid it. I mean. I guess it is kind of pathetic. Being in love with someone, composing nearly whole albums about them... An unseeming rush of affection hit him at the worst possible time and he shook it away as quickly as he could. This was the man he was in love with. What was he doing?

I figured if the feeling was mutual it wasn’t too pathetic, but maybe that was stupid thinking. Brendon was almost stunned at the implication there, and speechless for a second. Did Ryan just genuinely doubt that Brendon loved him, and express that doubt to his face? He was... unspeakably angry, and struggled to control that, trying to keep his face straight. ”What the f-” He paused. “What the fuck did you just say?” Brendon kind of drew back against the headboard, suddenly cold. ”Jesus Christ. Fuck off.” What the hell is wrong with you? That was rich, coming from him, Brendon thought, but said nothing. ”Fuck off, Ryan. You can’t just say that to me and expect me to forget it. We’re fucking adults now, we’re not in high school any more.”

For once Brendon was the one who'd said the wrong thing, said what he didn't mean, and Ryan meant to keep that upper hand - he really did - but that resolve quickly failed. Of course he knew and believed Brendon loved him, had all along. He wasn't the type to just sit around if he was wasting his time; he was fairly direct when he needed to be, especially when it concerned him being bored of a situation. And it'd qualify as wasting his time if he was just lying through his teeth for years, to make Ryan feel better or to avoid awkwardness or something. So, yeah, Ryan had pretty clear-cut knowledge on Brendon's feelings towards him: strong enough to keep him from running whenever they cuddled close for hours straight, so firm that even when Ryan was a total idiot (like now, actually) he stuck around, so blind that he could ignore all the qualities that normally drove people away. He didn't have any doubt in Brendon's affections at all, but he was looking for any chink in the armor at all to stab at. That one was pretty much off-limits, though, he quickly realized.

What the f- Ryan took that moment's pause to register panic. His indignant countenance disappeared, guard coming down as he prepared to take it all back. What the fuck did you just say? His stance loosened and he looked to the floor, nervous. "All right, low blow," he admitted of himself, not even totally audible to himself. He gripped either arm in a cross over his chest, suddenly very conscious of his lankiness and general physical existence, and he kind of wanted to disappear. He didn't have the energy to continue arguments for this long. The tension from their conflicts lasted a long time but they usually only exchanged a few stupid short-sighted words. This had already reached the usual limit and now was beginning to exceed it - as a matter of fact, Ryan was kind of worried that his impulse reaction had kind of fucked them up for a long time coming. "Worried" may even be an understatement in itsel

Brendon recoiled and Ryan stepped back too, as if Brendon had actually asked for some space. Jesus Christ. Fuck off. Still aggressive despite definitely not actively wanting to be anymore, Ryan threw out a last attack, then it was all gone. He wanted it to be over. Brendon could probably say anything and he wouldn't get any more angry than he had been, like the peak had been reached and it was all downhill from here. Actually, all he could think about was his certainty for how Brendon felt about him now. It was his own fault for trying that weak attack earlier, accusing Brendon of not loving him on the same level he did Brendon just because of a simple jab at his writing, and now he was totally on a different page. Not to mention inappropriate. Here he was thinking about how in love they were while 1. they discussed splitting up from their lover-led band and 2. they got gradually more pissed at each other talking about the reasons for/against said split. Ryan felt like the biggest dumbass in the world. Probably true.

Fuck off, Ryan. You can’t just say that to me and expect me to forget it. We’re fucking adults now, we’re not in high school anymore. Ryan pursed his lips, staring across the room, still feeling stringy and uncomfortable and intrusive. He tried to stay still, knowing full well his body language was painfully transparent even when the rest of him was so unlike that. "Okay," he said simply, and his voice was completely different, like the fight was over. It wasn't, he was pretty sure of that, or it wasn't unless Brendon was suddenly okay with Ryan saying 1,000 shitty things in the span of one minutes. He was supposed to be saying sorry, but his mind was still in seven different places, and the most important happened to be something Brendon had said just a few moments ago - definitely nowhere near an apology yet. His voice was quiet when he continued, not confrontational but more curiousity, concern. "You can't say the songs about you getting fucked up are happy for a reason and expect me to forget it, either." He wasn't expecting a response. He just didn't want those words to float in the air anymore - addressing them seemed to send them not quite out of mind, but to the back of his busy head.

Ryan stood there stupidly another couple of seconds before going on, reserved. "Is that part of it? Part of why you want to split up, I mean. So you can write that, without..." He trailed off, unsure how to put it. Well, he knew exactly how, and he could probably write the real question on a sticky note - so you can write those songs without people who care being there watching you - but out loud was a different, more hurtful story. "...without us caring, I guess." He was pretty sure it probably wasn't a huge part of the breakup at all, or maybe it was, whatever. Either way he needed Brendon to know he'd likely always get a little emotional over those kinds of songs. "Whether I'm in the creation process with you or not, I'm gonna care, you know. When the lyrics about clubbing and drinking still sound wistful... I mean... nothing's going to change." This was all he could really give input about. Them 'going in different creative directions' - that was something he had no control over.

Even if what Ryan had said, he didn’t mean, it was still awful and kind of shocking to Brendon that he would even go there- what he perceived to be the love that neither of them ever doubted, the steadfastness of his adoration and respect and vice versa. No matter how heated and tense the arguments had become, no matter how hard things got, they always knew that they’d work it out somehow because what they felt was so strong and what they experienced was so real and intense that neither of them ever dared to question it, simply because they saw no reason to. Brendon was in love with him, head over heels, had been for about half of his life, and the notion that Ryan would even question that was jarring. And infuriating. It was this that made him the most angry, thinking it not only ridiculous, but a step way too far over the line. Maybe Brendon had passed it already with the comment about pathetic songwriting, but Ryan merely implying that he doubted Brendon’s love was too much for him to just let go. Brendon wasn’t known for holding grudges, but he was honestly angry for the first time in quite a while.

Not only angry, but hurt, because he honestly didn’t know at first if this was anger speaking or actual honesty brought forth by the intensity of the situation. His common sense told him the former, but the even slight possibility it was the latter crushed him. He wondered how Ryan could ever doubt that, when he’d done so much to show and tell him otherwise- Brendon liked to think he was affectionate enough, even if it was sometimes more physically orientated. It had always been Ryan who was better with words, which was kind of ironic now, because not only was Brendon suggesting, no, coercing Ryan into leaving the band’s creative force completely, but he had said that his lyrics were ‘pathetic’. He wanted to take this back as soon as it left his mouth, but now he didn’t, too stirred up by Ryan’s comment, so he just let them remain in the air, hoping in his moments of genuine hurt that Ryan took them to heart.

Alright, low blow. Brendon rolled his eyes skyward, unable to even look at him, trying to keep himself calm, but his knuckles were white and he was probably disproportionally angry for the situation. He then inhaled, reprimanded Ryan, still with a tone of genuine disbelief that his husband had, again, even said that. Okay. A pause. Brendon’s eyes widened, and then he reached up and dragged his hands over his eyes and down his face, shaking his head slowly. ”Just, okay? That’s where you’re meant to apologise. How fucking dare you-" He swallowed thickly. ”You don’t actually think I don’t love you, right? Because it’s not fucking funny.” Another long pause, and Brendon let his arms drop to his sides, exhaling.

You can’t say the songs about you getting fucked up are happy for a reason and expect me to forget it, either. Brendon went quiet. He had no comeback for that, and suddenly felt unwanted guilt grip him at the shoulders and freeze him into immobility. He didn’t expect Ryan to forget it, nor did he expect him to understand- if he tried to explain how he missed it, why he missed it, and how much, Ryan would never understand. There was no point. Is that part of it? Part of why you want to split up, I mean. So you can write that, without... Hesitant, tense, he said nothing for a second, then opened his mouth to speak too late. Ryan was continuing. ...Without us caring, I guess. he laughed nervously. ”It really isn’t that big a deal,” He murmured, artfully changing the subject. ”You never write anything anymore, so there’s nothing for me to reject.”

Whether I'm in the creation process with you or not, I'm gonna care, you know. When the lyrics about clubbing and drinking still sound wistful... I mean... nothing's going to change. For a long time, Brendon didn’t respond, just considered Ryan’s words in his head. He knew that his husband would always worry, nothing he could say would ever change that. So he just decided to be honest, and held his breath for a second before just shrugging his shoulders almost defeatedly. ”I miss it,” He admitted. He let Ryan process it. ”That’s what people don’t understand. Sure, what came with it was awful, but the drinking? The actual- parties? Nights out, whatever? It was fucking fun, okay? What I can remember, was- crazy. And I do miss it. I struggle with that shit every day, so I write about it because it’s what most of my life has been dominated by.”

Ryan was still paying for his misguided judgment, thinking he could even try to use their connection as a vantage point in the argument, and in trying not to obviously overreact his mind drifted to those dumb safety pamphlets you'd find in the pocket of the seat in front of you on an airplane. He read them every time even though they always said the same thing, and the little comics had these utterly calm people in the most extreme of situations. Some orange cartoon-skinned yellow haired woman with wide eyes but an otherwise blank face climbing out of an airplane that had dropped into the ocean minutes ago; a businesswoman depicted somehow being able to remember to take her heels off before going down the slide that takes her away from a slowly sinking aircraft. In the face of the terror that was Brendon being hurt by him, Ryan tried desperately to emulate those people in similarly harrowing situations: he kept his features flat, eyes narrowed to avoid giving away his own distant sense of hopelessness.

He was able to keep from immediately jumping to apologies, holding some sort of high ground even though he was kind of over their 'fight' and more interested in moving past it, compromising. Instead he was acting a little callously, and he recognised in Brendon's face alone that his unresponsiveness was worse than his instinct to make up for everything and beg for forgiveness. Ryan shifted his attention to the wall, feigning deep interest in the eggshell paint shade just to avoid watching as Brendon lost more and more respect for him. Just, okay? That’s where you’re meant to apologise. How fucking dare you- When he broke off momentarily Ryan finally looked back, animated for a frame of a second when he considered responding. Not the best choice. You don’t actually think I don’t love you, right? Because it’s not fucking funny. "I know," he murmured immediately, out of the energy to finish saying exactly what he knew, but anyway he meant that he knew exactly how Brendon felt. And he knew it wasn't funny. But his natural reflex to respond to that, however out of the blue, was kind of amusing, so Ryan's lips quirked slightly up on one side when he said, even quieter, "I love you, you know." It was stupid timing. He hadn't even meant to - his own eyes turned to the ceiling quickly and he killed the small self-loathing smile that had formed in the past half minute.

It wasn't funny for long, though, and in fact disappeared from his mind moments later when he uncomfortably shifted the topic back to Brendon's words. Brendon, however, didn't seem to want to confront the fact that he'd mentioned missing the 'old days.' Ryan got that, he did, but he also couldn't just leave it alone. None of this was under his jurisdiction, probably. He hadn't even been there. Brendon suffered through it, mostly, while he had yet to move east, but he had still seen the disease take a hold on someone else, so maybe he did sort of have an understanding of how it worked. He doubted his father was having any of he 'fun' Brendon was alluding to. Then again, even Brendon may be misinterpreting or misconstruing what exactly had happened. The mind played tricks on people sometimes; it made us believe the good times were better than they were, that the hard times were more bearable than they had been in the moment. Made us believe that being able to die from an addiction was fun when there existed facilities to cater to said addiction. Ryan tried to squash the image that sprung to life in his head of Brendon in a bar, looking like any normal drinker, but really it was his sixth visit that month, that week, that day.

It really isn’t that big a deal. You never write anything anymore, so there’s nothing for me to reject. That wasn't what Ryan was talking about. He didn't come down on Brendon for dodging confrontation yet, though, and just continued, effectively ignoring what he'd said (although it was very true; Ryan had hit a sort of slump, not interested in writing especially when the rest of his collaborators were moving towards a genre that he himself had no fancy or inspiration for). When a silence followed his words he thought maybe addressing it all was too much for the time being, and maybe they should just cool off for a bit, so he started to bail. Having stood still as a statue for several moments Ryan shook himself slightly, then let his uncertainty translate into his features before starting to speak. "I-it's okay, we..."

I miss it. Ah. Not what he'd expected. Brendon clearly knew that, because judging by his expression he wasn't done but he knew Ryan needed to get that through his head. Ryan didn't, really, but he stared on as if he was accepting of the fact that Brendon could admit his attachment to the past. That’s what people don’t understand. Sure, what came with it was awful, but the drinking? The actual- parties? Nights out, whatever? It was fucking fun, okay? Ryan set his jaw and sort of dropped down beside Brendon, finally sitting again and letting his shoulders go slack. He didn't stay level with him, though, putting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, scrubbing over his admittedly slightly worried face to avoid showing too much concern when it wasn't wanted. What I can remember, was- crazy. And I do miss it. I struggle with that shit every day, so I write about it because it’s what most of my life has been dominated by.

"And you can't talk about it, 'cause." Ryan was nodding, but cynically, suddenly hating himself more than before. It wasn't that he was saying Brendon couldn't talk about it as in he wasn't allowed to - he must not have felt like he could. And, what Ryan didn't say out loud but was pretty obvious, because Ryan had never been entirely receptive to anything Brendon had to say about drinking. Unless it was about recovery, he tended to accidentally sound like a huge fucking asshole. Ryan knew it, too, but only retroactively. He let his face rest in his hands for a few absent moments, not speaking but considering, until finally he did lean back, facing Brendon fully this time. "I'm sorry, baby. I get it - just." He restarted, eyebrows knotting together. "Touring is fine. Being on the tour ensemble is fine, I mean, you're right, it's basically all I'm doing now, so. It's just that... you writing that stuff by yourself... I don't want you to feel like you have to be alone, you know?" It all seemed so. Irrelevant. Ryan shook his head again, wishing he had any sort of clarity, and tried again to make Brendon understand that he wasn't trying to sound so unreasonable. "I know it's not your main reason to want to make the music yourself. I - I hope you know that you don't have to push people away from the personal stuff, is all. I'm always here for you."

I know. Brendon stopped. Of course, this had been exactly what he had wanted to hear- that Ryan knew how Brendon felt about him, that he loved him no matter what (even though his respect for his husband had kind of plunged in the short space of time it took for him to use their relationship as a vantage point)- but he didn’t feel any less angry, didn’t mean he wasn’t still hurt by even the accusations he knew deep down were baseless and futile. Even so, it kind of wounded his surety, and suddenly for the first time he was insecure about how affectionate and loving a husband he actually was. It hadn’t happened before, they’d always been on the same page, but now he was suspicious. Was this really just a heated in-the-moment low blow, that, however hurtful, had no meaning or malice behind it, or was it Ryan being honest, finally finding the courage to say what he really meant? Brendon knew, really, it was the latter, but even the notion had him a little caught off guard.

Brendon was about to say something, to try and mend the tatters of what he wanted to be a short conversation and then an agreement, but Ryan was smiling and for the second time his anger surfaced as an expression of affronted indignation crosses his features, any wish to end the argument swept away by his astonishment at how Ryan was practically smirking. ”Is this a fucking- joke to you?” He all but spat, overcome by his bitterness but also wanting to get the hell away from his husband, drawing back in a gesture akin to a disgusted recoil. I love you, you know. His eyes rolled skyward and then he narrowed them, wondering how on earth that was appropriate in this situation. Maybe before, but not now. The last thing he wanted to do was sing praise and affection. But he did know. Brendon didn’t need to be reassured that Ryan loved him, he needed Ryan to be assured that Brendon felt the same. The whole situation was a mess.

At least he wasn’t smiling anymore. Brendon was tired, but now he was being accused of glorifying his quote-unquote ‘personal tragedy’- and there was so much he wanted to get off his chest, and Ryan had never been a great listener when it came to this topic in particular, but- he didn’t care. If he didn’t say anything now, he’d just- ironically- bottle it up. So he let it all go on him, all usual apprehension for Ryan’s reaction gone, no longer caring about how he felt expected to walk on eggshells around a ‘sensitive’ subject that was mutually agreed taboo between them. Ryan would just have to deal with it. So he cut in on his husbands stuttering and said exactly how he felt, not holding back for somebody else’s sake. The whole time, he didn’t look at him, just scowled when Ryan dropped down beside him and only looked distastefully at him when he realised that Ryan couldn’t even look at him either. After he was done, there was a pause, and it was cold, and the feeling of repulsion he felt wasn’t one he had experienced before. He hoped to god it was temporary, but all he wanted to do then was get the hell out of there.

And you can’t talk about it, ‘cause. At least Ryan was somewhat self-aware. Brendon nodded curtly. ”You’re not the easiest person to talk to about this shit. And I get it, but- who else do I have? All our friends drink, and Joey- he’s got his own problems, and-” He stopped, shaking his head. I'm sorry, baby. I get it - just. He didn’t react, only wondered whether Ryan did actually get it or was just telling him what he thought he wanted to hear. Touring is fine. Being on the tour ensemble is fine, I mean, you're right, it's basically all I'm doing now, so. It's just that... you writing that stuff by yourself... I don't want you to feel like you have to be alone, you know? At least... No. Brendon wasn’t sure what he wanted any more. He rested his head in his hands for a moment, before straightening slightly with a sigh. ”I do have to be, though, don’t I? Some of the stuff I have to say, you won’t want to hear. It’ll be too familiar, or not familiar enough, and it’s not your fault, but I can’t talk about this with you all the time, as much as I want to, or as much as you want me to.”

I know it's not your main reason to want to make the music yourself. I - I hope you know that you don't have to push people away from the personal stuff, is all. I'm always here for you. Brendon almost sneered, but instead just dragged his hands down his face and stood up, walking towards the door and folding his arms protectively across his chest. ”Whatever. You have a funny way of showing it.”

Ryan sort of wished Brendon was less expressive, but then if he wasn't able to see the total disappointment/rage/indignation mix on his face, he'd probably be acting even more like an idiot. So he wasn't sure. In any case his only thought process for the time being was fuckfuckfuck. Is this a fucking- joke to you? Ryan's mental response was a very certain 'fuck no, my face is just stupid and I'm sick of myself,' or something like that, but it was hard to explain that he responded to his own ridiculousness visibly. He ended up not answering at all. Distantly he wondered if any of their friends were like this behind closed doors, too, or maybe he and Brendon were just desperately messy. Well, not Brendon, necessarily. It tended to be Ryan that started these things. After all he could recall the beginning of this conversation - Ryan was the one to initially respond so inappropriately.

You’re not the easiest person to talk to about this shit. Ryan hated himself. He really did. Avoiding meeting Brendon's gaze he thought back to all past confrontations about the subject - and then he was thinking how his dad died years ago, how he hadn't actively lived with him since he was, like, fifteen, how he should be over it all by now. Anyone mature could approach the problems Brendon had without a bias, total empathy, the only thing in their mind being a goal to help him. Ryan did want to help, but he was caught in his own wave even after all this time. And I get it, but- who else do I have? All our friends drink, and Joey- he’s got his own problems, and- With only a few words Ryan felt how trapped Brendon must feel, understanding immediately at least on the surface. Their friends drank, yeah, but even if they didn't, half of them had been there when it all started. They weren't helpful then, and no one had changed enough to be entirely helpful now. Joey he was sure was over everything, after all he'd invited Brendon countless times to come to him for help, but of course Brendon was too considerate and too worried for Joey's well-being to do that. Ryan couldn't convince him otherwise, either.

So, he was alone. It didn't look like it, and everyone tried to make him feel like he wasn't, but if Brendon felt utterly alone, then he effectively was. I do have to be, though, don’t I? Some of the stuff I have to say, you won’t want to hear. It’ll be too familiar, or not familiar enough, and it’s not your fault, but I can’t talk about this with you all the time, as much as I want to, or as much as you want me to. "It is," he said quietly, without thinking, but it was barely audible anyway. He didn't elaborate right then, just stared at his hands while they continued, and through it all Brendon didn't appear to be receptive to any more of his bogus outreach. Ryan didn't exactly blame him, but it was frustrating that he couldn't fix all of his own issues and Brendon's instantly, that it seemed to get worse every time he tried to. He looked on sort of mournfully as Brendon dragged himself away, evidently over the failed efforts. Whatever. You have a funny way of showing it.

When he reached the door Ryan panicked. "It is my fault," he said quickly, slightly less quiet than before, and he felt sick. "I'm not just saying that. I don't want - pity, or whatever, I mean it. It's my fault I can't... get over everything. You need me, or anyone, and I can't be there for you because of my own issues. It's selfish." He paused, staring straight ahead and then shifting his gaze to Brendon, suddenly very present. "I'm sorry. For that and- all of this." More softly, but because he felt he needed the emphasis, Ryan repeated it: "I'm sorry, Bren. I really am." It felt way too real and he almost considered dodging the seriousness of the situation by saying something dumb like 'maybe I just won't buy the next goddam album,' but he was out of energy and that was definitely not going to take the tension out of the air. He went slack against the cushions, looking at the ceiling. "I want to, though. I want to be there." There was a certain desperation in his voice that he wanted to stomp out or hide otherwise - this was way too vulnerable, even when he was talking to the person he trusted most.