looks like this is the only fic y'all are getting this week.

[behindthec]

i might post later on with official intro bullshit.  maybe.  in the meantime, this is why i shouldn't write when i'm depressed.  (refs to ryan's blog entry linked in my last post.)

Brendon's eyes have scanned over the envelope sixteen times. He's counted. It's all he can do right now, count. His fingers are trembling so hard he can't open it, that's what he tells himself, or what he imagines he'd be telling himself if he could form thoughts.

The image of the three envelopes on the sofa -- flat and crisp-white and sterile, too sterile to be reassuring, like a hospital -- is the only image that's been in Brendon's head for the past twenty minutes. It's the last memory he has of his life when he thought Ryan was still part of it, and he'll cling to it as long as he fucking can, to the point of madness if that's what it takes.

Three, laid side by side, one marked "everyone," one marked "Dad" (to be left unopened at his father's grave, per the instructions outlined in "everyone"), and one marked "Brendon".

The latter shakes in Brendon's shuddering grasp: seventeen times.

At eighteen, he opens it.

There is no introduction, no "Dear Brendon." Brendon likes it better this way (likes it, like there's anything likable about this, anything that isn't horror, anything that's not destroying his body from the inside), without formalities. It makes it seem less real. Anything that makes this less real is okay with him right now. Without any heading, it could be a strip from Ryan's stash of neon green post-its, bitching him out for drinking the last of Ryan's Capri Sun.

A voice inside Brendon's head starts, he'll never bitch you out again, and Brendon deep-breaths the shit out of the voice before it can go any further, forcing his eyes to the page ripped out of Ryan's notebook.

The only page Ryan's ever let him see of it.


there's a box behind the sofa in the lounge that has every notebook i've kept since i was thirteen. it's yours. i hope if you read enough maybe someday you will understand why i never touched you, why i never said it back, and why i never looked into your eyes.

i won't say i'm sorry because now it would feel like sarcasm. but i am.

brendon boyd urie you taught me not to be afraid (don't even try to use that to blame this on yourself, this wasn't fueled by bravado). you taught me smiling doesn't make me weak, and you taught me if you want to kiss you should kiss, and if you want to cry you should cry, and if you want to live you should live.  and i did.  every second i spent with you, that was living.  everything else, existing.

i wanted to tell you then, the night we stood knee-deep in the ocean with your fingers curled around the back of my neck and my hands on your hips. you made me promise to stay and watch the sunrise with you, i complained it was hours away, and you whispered in my ear, "i hope the moon forgets to go down."

i've loved you since the day we met. if nothing else, know that i have been yours since before we could breathe, and i'll be yours long after we've stopped.

ryan