the present and the distance [2/19]
Aug. 12th, 2008 12:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
behindthecTitle: The Present and the Distance [2/19]
Author:lolab
Rating: NC-17 overall
Pairings: Panic: Ryden-heavy, hints of everyone, eventual GSF, a bit of Brendon/Shane
POV: Third; varies
Warnings: Character death, violence, angst. Also, angst. Did I mention ANGST.
Disclaimer: They belong toPete each other the island themselves, not me. Fiction, I hope to god. Any similarities to Lost are incidental, as I have never seen the show.
Summary: There is no way to summarize this that doesn't sound ridiculous, so I leave you with my original cheesy!blurb(tm): There are 17,508 islands in Indonesia, about 6,000 of which are inhabited. On August 31, 2008, returning from an Australian tour in the middle of the year's most violent storm to date, a plane carrying Panic at the Disco loses power, veers off course, and crashes into one of the remaining 11,508 islands. This is their story.
Author:
lolabRating: NC-17 overall
Pairings: Panic: Ryden-heavy, hints of everyone, eventual GSF, a bit of Brendon/Shane
POV: Third; varies
Warnings: Character death, violence, angst. Also, angst. Did I mention ANGST.
Disclaimer: They belong to
Summary: There is no way to summarize this that doesn't sound ridiculous, so I leave you with my original cheesy!blurb(tm): There are 17,508 islands in Indonesia, about 6,000 of which are inhabited. On August 31, 2008, returning from an Australian tour in the middle of the year's most violent storm to date, a plane carrying Panic at the Disco loses power, veers off course, and crashes into one of the remaining 11,508 islands. This is their story.
Dedication: bunniesontoast, for un-sticking me, having awesome ideas, being delicious jailbait, for Brylliam, etc. Belatedly, worldofthorns, for reccing and voicemail squeeage. minus_four, for awesomeness and priestsmutfic.
bunniesontoast, for un-sticking me, having awesome ideas, being delicious jailbait, for Brylliam, etc. Belatedly, worldofthorns, for reccing and voicemail squeeage. minus_four, for awesomeness and priestAuthor's Notes: Parts of this chapter totally make me *headdesk*, but whatever; I like the way it ends. Also, I'm taking kink requests -- "kink" being very generalized, i.e. anything you want to see in the fic; I'll try to work in ones I like. (e.g., will not use "I want to see Ryan get attacked by a giant squid!" b/c, LMAO.) P.S. Been listening to tracks from here while I write; it's excellent setting noise. In addition, I've made a pwf photo gallery b/c I just wasn't enough of a nerd already, so head on over for some visualz, yo.
Please refer to the master post for previous chapters, notes, soundtrack listing, etc. I was a total idiot on Chapter 1 and didn't mention the prologue, so, anyone who missed the prologue, READ IT FIRST, IT'S IMPORTANT.
PROLOGUE. (and Chapter 1, while I'm at it.)
2.
All of the wasted time
The hours that we left behind
The answers that we'll never find
They don't mean a thing tonight
--BLG
"I love you."
It's maybe the thousandth time Shane's said the words, but the first since they'd started spending their nights like this, sweaty and glued to each other's skin, falling asleep and waking up with tangled limbs and giggly smiles, always ready to poke fun at each other for what they've so inevitably become.
Brendon hears the words roll over and over in his head after they strike the air between them, and Ryan is the first thing to pop into his mind.
He's not sure why, can't tell if what he's feeling is more regret or disappointment; regret for all the years he's spent -- wasted -- waiting for Ryan to be the one to say those words to him, be the first one to ever say those words to him in that context.
Disappointment because he knows now, Ryan never will.
It's over, a voice in his head whispers gently, trying to let him down easy, not wanting to agitate the other voice that's so close to screaming I know, I know.
He says it back, and Shane never asks if Brendon means it the same way Shane does.
+++
When Brendon watches Jon Walker, Jon fucking Walker fall to pieces right before his eyes, it's kind of like losing Shane all over again -- and really, he hasn't finished losing him the first time.
It's registered; he's certain of that. He might slip into denial still at some point, but right now, he's aware. Five hours crying out the last ounce of moisture in his body gave him enough time to process Shane, gone enough times in his head to finally believe it; five hours spent driving his fingers deep into the sand like he was trying to crawl out of this nightmare reality, making fruitless fistfuls of the grains, desperate to hold onto something solid, and watching, helpless, as it slipped through his fingers every time.
He hasn't done this, like Ryan has. Death. His grandparents on both sides are still alive, and the last funeral he'd attended was age thirteen for someone in their church he'd never met. He'd never given much thought to what it would feel like, but he's pretty sure if he had, his predictions would've been nothing like this.
This -- this is no dream. His subconscious wouldn't have the power to concoct something this bad, this real, this terrifyingly acute: Jon draped over Tom's body (Tom's body, not Tom, not Tom, not anymore how is this happening), crying in a way Brendon's never seen before because, well, he's never seen Jon cry before. He's seen him sad, hurt, even angry, but never cry.
It hurts to see it. Hurts not just inside but like knives and beatings too; goes straight to the bone. It makes Brendon's stomach turn and twist, and the anger he'd built against Jon shifts, mutates, turns on him until Brendon's more angry at himself, angry that he can't be angry at Jon right now, angry at himself for feeling the desire to rush to his side and take Jon in his arms when all he wants to do is effect merciless revenge at the universe for taking the only chance life ever gave him at that kind of happiness.
It doesn't end there, either.
There's Spencer too -- Spencer, to whom Brendon's felt strangely connected since it started, being the first thing he saw, being the one who saved him (though right now Brendon doesn't want to be saved, hates Spencer too, wishes he'd just left him, because if there's one lesson the past hours have taught him, it's that there are things worse than death). There's Spencer, trying to pry Jon away and hold him and keep him tight against Spencer's body, but Jon's fighting him off, fighting everything but his own instincts that keep him glued to Tom's side in vain, as though his pain, his touch, will be strong enough to bring Tom back.
Brendon thinks if anyone's touch were magical enough to restore life, it would be Jon Walker's.
But there's no magic here, only hope, thinning by the minute.
"Jon -- "
"Fuck the fuck off!"
"Jon, please, we have to -- "
"Leave me the fuck alone! Just fucking leave us ALONE!!"
Brendon recognizes the emotion in Jon's voice, and suddenly feels like he's watching his five-hour-ago self from a distance, like a dream again, but it's not it's not it's not, everything is real, and when Spencer catches Brendon's eye, crouched helpless beside Jon, his gaze half begging but not daring to, knowing it's too much to ask of Brendon right now -- something inside his mind slips back into place, back to some shred of logic that used to exist before all of this, that tells him something greater than himself exists right now. He knows this shot of rationality won't last, knows his own pain is going to come back and take over him without warning, so he jumps. He jumps on it, takes it, uses it.
Lunging forward across the few steps of space, he drops to his knees beside the tangle of boys on the ground and wraps his body around Jon's, not trying to pull him off or interfere, just keeping him in contact, burying his face into Jon's neck, and Brendon feels words leaving his mouth, doesn't know how they got there or what's coming out until later, until Jon begins to go limp in his arms.
"Hold onto me," he whispers into Jon's salty-damp hair. "Hold onto me and don't let go."
It takes long, heart-racing minutes that drag through the warm, breezy air, a temperature in ugly contrast with the realities they're wrapped (trapped) in, but he keeps it up, keeps spilling the words into Jon's hair until Jon resigns himself with choked, surrendering sobs that fall silent and thunder through his whole body. But he turns, he shifts, he lets Brendon pull him around until they're face to face, wrapped tight around each other and holding on like they're all that's keeping each other afloat.
Because they are.
Spencer hesitates a moment before leaning over, gathering Tom's body into his arms and struggling to his feet. As Spencer's face slips into a ray of moonlight, Brendon can see his eyes, still wet, red around the edges, but Spencer stays silent as ever even though his body is visibly shaking. Brendon can't hear his labored footsteps pad down the beach over the sound of Jon, but something tells him Spencer's not going far. Just far enough to...
Out of sight, out of mind.
If only it were that easy.
Brendon expects Jon to set him off; expects the lump in his throat to resurface, expects his eyes to sting and another impossible flood to start spilling, but nothing happens. The painful tightness in his throat seems to have shifted residence to his chest, and until now he'd thought heartache was a metaphor.
It's only one more impossible reality springing to life tonight, he realizes. One more dream that should've stayed a dream and didn't.
Jon's holding him as much as he's holding Jon now, and Brendon tries to count in his head to keep himself sane. He makes fourteen attempts to count to a hundred before he gets there, his mind slipping off track and sending him into places that make him feel like his heart's going to break out of his chest and the contents of his stomach are going to shoot back up.
Numbers don't work, and he tries music. He tries to write in his head, tries to visualize the little black notes and stems and measures and bar lines, tries to create something new but finally settles on "There's a Reason..." for its sharp, hauntingly spastic melody and uncompromising rhythm, and tries to focus on sense memory, the way the piano feels under his fingers, pliant and yielding, comfort of the most reliable kind.
Death, he realizes somewhere in the last chorus, is like music. Uncontrollable, and unstoppable. It will persist even when we don't.
It's ages before he notices Spencer's returned, carefully settled himself on the other side of Jon. The commotion's somehow gotten them closer to Ryan, and there's barely enough space between Jon and Ryan for Spencer to fit, but it works like that, it's the only shred of perfection in this chaos, the way they all fit right in this moment, with Jon and Brendon tangled together and Spencer on his back beside them, one hand resting on Jon's hip and the other twined with Ryan's fingers, keeping them all locked, connected, the four of them, and even though Brendon knows he should be terrified, knows he should trust nothing and fear everything, there's a moment when he feels safe, wholly safe, because while nothing else makes sense, it's Jon and Spencer and Ryan and, and him. And they're alive, and together.
And maybe that moment's just the eye of the storm, but they've weathered enough storms together, and they can fucking take this one too.
+++
Brendon shivers when Jon finally stops crying.
The sounds filtering through the silence make him sick for how beautiful they are, when nothing right now should be beautiful. The soft, steady hush of waves against the shore, the nocturnal voices of a million bugs and animals and fuck only knows what else, fusing into a low, distant hum. Those stupid tropical rainforest CDs Ryan's so fond of don't do this justice; right now Brendon feels wrapped in it, cocooned. He can't decide whether it's comforting or maddening that the rest of life here carries on undisturbed, unaffected.
He wants to sleep, but he's afraid of waking up, because he knows there'll be that moment when he first slips back into consciousness, forgets where he is, and reaches instinctively for Shane, and then he'll have to live it all over again in his head, and he can't.
He can't.
He hears Spencer shift to check on Ryan at intervals, and Jon's lashes flutter against Brendon's throat every so often.
This night isn't meant for sleep.
He keeps his eyes closed though, and it isn't until hours later, when Spencer's hand finds his, laces their fingers together and squeezes gently before pulling away, that he opens them to find dawn creeping in around them.
When he pulls himself up, feeling the sand shift and give beneath the blanket under him, he sees Spencer on Jon's other side, sitting cross-legged beside Ryan, staring down at Ryan's face the way Brendon stares at a new piece of music, studying, waiting for it to speak to him. Spencer has one of Ryan's hands nestled in both of his, and after a moment he lifts it to his mouth, pressing a few silent words into the palm, and it doesn't even occur to Brendon that Ryan couldn't possibly hear the words like that. The way they communicate transcends possibility, and Brendon's always envied it.
But it's hard to envy Spencer for anything right now, with the look on his face, that look of dormant panic -- patient, waiting, but poised to explode at the slightest push.
It's not difficult to read that look. Shane; Tom. Spencer's the only one left who hasn't been taken by the suffering he's been forced to witness, twice. It's his turn next, he must think.
Brendon stops the train of thought right fucking there, because Ryan isn't just Spencer's to lose.
Spencer meets his eyes after a long while, still clutching Ryan's hand, massaging gentle circles into his wrist.
"I'm gonna go back to the plane for some stuff," he says quietly.
"No."
Brendon starts at the sound; it'd been so easy to forget Jon was awake.
"I'll go," Jon says flatly, pulling himself up and looking at no one. "You've been working really hard, you need to rest."
"I'm okay, Jon -- "
"No, I'll go."
"Look, it's not like I'm gonna sleep, so."
Brendon holds his breath. Spencer can argue almost anything to the bitter death, has been learning it from Ryan for upwards of fifteen years, clearly -- and right now, Brendon doesn't trust Jon not to fight back.
And that thought freaks him out a little, because there's never been one moment, ever, where he hasn't trusted Jon completely.
"We'll need to find water," Jon says, still looking out over the ocean, his voice a monotone shell of the one Brendon knows. "And make some kind of shelter."
He reaches out for the water bottle he'd opened for Tom the night before, squeezes it tight to keep his hands from shaking, but it's to no avail. He manages to down a few long, fast swigs before replacing the cap and rising to his feet. Brendon watches, ummoving, unused to his role as silent observer, while Spencer stands as well, planting himself in front of Jon and watching him closely, waiting for Jon to meet his eyes. He takes one of Jon's hands in his, planting the other on Jon's shoulder, and leans in to whisper something in his ear. His lips keep moving, but Brendon can't make out a single word, just feels his breath catch in his throat when Jon finally turns into Spencer, letting his face fall against Spencer's neck, and after a few more words, he nods, and Spencer releases him, allowing him to step out into the water.
Maybe Spencer's a little bit magic, too.
Brendon hasn't moved since he first sat up, knees hugged close against his bare chest and his chin resting atop them. He knows he must look small and helpless, because Ryan's always told him that's how he looks in that position, but right now he doesn't care because that's exactly how he feels.
When Spencer drops down beside him, he tries to keep focused on the grains of sand that have brushed onto the blanket, but Spencer's eyes are too strong, too fucking blue, to look anywhere else.
"You want some water?" he asks softly.
Brendon does, he's parched, hasn't had anything to drink since yesterday, but his mind doesn't seem to be communicating very well with his body, and he can't bring himself to nod.
Spencer figures it out anyway, scoops up a fresh bottle and unscrews the cap, holding it out. Brendon drinks, but slowly, carefully, knowing the value of what's spilling down his throat, and hesitant to be greedy.
Ryan will need this more, when he wakes up.
"We've got enough to last for a bit," Spencer says, pushing himself up onto his knees. "I'm gonna try to make some kind of, thing, first. A cover, or something. Ryan should be out of the sun, I think."
Brendon nods automatically, not missing the uncertainty in Spencer's voice, desperate for reassurance, encouragement that he's doing the right thing. Brendon wishes he could offer it.
"Do you want..."
Brendon looks at him again, Spencer's electric blues only inches from his, and it's clear Spencer really doesn't want to have to finish that sentence. Brendon tries to read his eyes the way Ryan does, tries hard, stares straight into them, knowing the unspoken words could've been anything from "to help" or "to talk" or...
He blinks, and it registers.
Anything. Do you want anything.
"I mean," Spencer tries again, "do you need -- "
"I'm fine."
And he tries to ignore the way Spencer winces, because they both know Brendon's not fine and Brendon knows it's insulting for him to bullshit like this, knows it's a blow to the way Spencer's trying so hard to help, but he just -- he can't, he can't do this, not now.
Spencer leans in, pressing his lips to Brendon's forehead. It's several moments before he pulls away, and he doesn't look at Brendon when he stands back up, heading off toward the trees to start yanking aimlessly at vines.
Brendon watches him for ninety seconds before he starts to lose his mind.
"I'm, uh. Water," he announces, scrambling to his feet.
"What?" Spencer peers out from behind a branch, poster-sized leaves framing his face.
"I'm. Gonna go look for water."
"Oh. Um. Do you want to wait? I mean, I could go with you."
"I'm fine."
"Bren, it might not be safe."
"I'm fine."
"Dude, there could be like, animals and shit. We don't know what's out there."
The truth is out there, the nerd portion of Brendon's brain automatically supplies. Inwardly rolling his eyes, he turns around. "What are you gonna do, glare at them to death? We don't have any fucking weapons, Spencer."
Spencer doesn't speak. And it makes sense, really, because Brendon just reached a level of jackass that only Ryan generally attains, and Spencer's M.O. in those moments is stare silently until Ryan sighs an apology. Brendon wants to, he does, he knows Spencer's only trying to look out for him, but at the moment, he doesn't want to be looked out for. At the moment, he kind of doesn't care about getting attacked by black mambas or whatever the hell they've got here, wherever the fucking hell they are. And it's emo and it's immature and it's pigheaded and he doesn't fucking care, not now.
Without another word, he spins on his heel and stalks off down the beach.
All along the shore there's about thirty feet of sand between the shoreline and the, whatever it is, forest that seems to line the island. If it's even an island. Rainforest, if he's being ambitious, but that'd have to be Indonesia and that's just. Well that's just way too fucking far off the plane's course. And that doesn't align with the logic his mind is clinging to, because no one would come looking for them this far off course, and they're going to be looked for, they are.
Even though, in this moment, he doesn't care.
He spends long enough trekking down the stretch of beach, until he locates a good portion where the forest falls open a bit and heads in. His shoes are still wet and squishy, but he doesn't dare take them off. He feels like he's just walked into a fucking zoo exhibit: the sound of waves and ocean air are shut out immediately and he's drowning in the noises of creatures he can't see, birds and insects. Everything's shocking colors, not the dull, muted brown-gray of woods back home. Green is storybook green, National Geographic green; the plants that have colors fucking have colors, like a kid took a ninety-six pack of Crayola and went to town. There's an eerie over-saturation of purity that seems to permeate the place: it's kind of almost too perfect. The ground is uneven, dips and rises unpredictably, but seems to be moving steadily upward. Sharp lines of sun shoot randomly through the never-ending trees, but other than that, everything is canopied by treetops and more of those huge-ass fucking leaves Spencer had been struggling with. Nothing looks like anything he knows: tree trunks are covered in stuff; the ground isn't dirt really but it's brown; he doesn't recognize a single plant and he's starting to forget what direction he came in.
A few hundred feet in, he slips and steps on some kind of reptilian thing that screams bloody murder and inspires some half a dozen other invisible creatures to respond with vocals of their own. It sends Brendon tearing back off through the trees before he can even react, crashing through brush and leaves until he tumbles back onto the beach in a heap.
When he gets back to camp, Spencer's gotten himself a fine pile of vines beside Ryan in the sand, and is in the process of attempting to mutilate a branch bearing a particularly grand collection of leaves. It might be a bit more impressive to watch if he weren't trying to execute said mutilation with his bare hands.
He watches Spencer's back for several minutes, not wanting to disturb, and listens to him spew filthy swear words at the branch until he shoves it aside with a sigh.
"Jesus fuck, Bren," he spits when he turns around. "You scared the shit outta -- " His forehead creases as he takes in Brendon's appearance, which Brendon suspects is less than stellar. "What happened?"
"I stepped on a lizard," he explains quietly.
Something passes over Spencer's face that looks like it really wanted to turn into laughter, but whatever it was, Spencer bites it back, crawling out of the mess of trees and brushing off his hands.
"No water?"
"No."
Spencer nods, bending over to pick something off the ground. "Jon found snacks."
Brendon takes it, turning the package over in his hand: a vending-machine sized bag of trail mix. His stomach grumbles in anticipation, but he shakes his head. "Save it."
"Brendon."
"I'm fine."
"You need to eat."
"Save it for Ryan. He'll be starving when he wakes up."
There's the horrible, heart-sinking syllable, if, that lies unspoken in the air, and Brendon knows Spencer can feel it too.
"Ryan can hunt for his own damn trail mix," Spencer says with a tiny smile, and it's a feeble attempt to keep the moment light, Brendon can see right through it, but he doesn't say a word. "Go on. Eat it. Not negotiable."
Arguing with Spencer is not worth it ninety-nine percent of the time, and something tells Brendon this is not that one percent.
"Where's Jon?" he asks as he takes a seat next to Ryan and rips open the package.
"Making another trip."
It's so strange now, talking. It feels so pointless, and wrong. It feels wrong, talking like it's nothing, like they're in the bus lounge and Jon's inside at the gas station picking up everyone's favorite because he knows what they are without having to ask, and it's just. It's wrong. It feels like Brendon's giving himself permission to be okay, even to appear okay, and he's not.
He finishes the bag in four bites, but he doesn't feel any better.
"Do you want another?" Spencer asks hesitantly. "We've got chips, too -- "
Brendon shakes his head, firm and sharp. He can't bear the sound of his own voice now. It sounds nothing like he knows his voice to sound, and it makes him shiver to hear it.
"I can go with you, when I'm done. If you want. Or... you know. If you want to just be alone. It's. Yeah."
His voice trails off, and Brendon doesn't encourage him with a response.
Spencer gives up after a moment, stepping back into the trees and getting back to work. Brendon watches him, fighting a thousand urges at once -- to follow Spencer and help; to crawl up against Ryan and sleep for days, years; to scream at the top of his lungs until Shane appears in front of him, smiling and solid and alive.
Fighting so many urges makes his breath short, his mouth dry, his head dizzy.
He turns and heads back down the beach, finding his patch of open trees, and the contrast of still-fresh familiarity draws him in at once. It's different this time, eyes alert and trained to the ground at each step he takes, following the path he'd broken down the first time.
The lizard is where he'd left it.
He figures it's not hurt because it's moved to a rock, limbs intact, everything symmetrical and eyes bulging with awareness. Brendon crouches down beside it, propped up on his elbows as he stares into its eyes, only minimally concerned whether it's going to spit poison or spew blood from its eye, the way he's seen on TV.
"I'm sorry, buddy," he whispers. "You're a trooper. I'm impressed."
He's silent for a long moment, during which he contemplates the possibility that he's either losing his mind (it was just a matter of time, Ryan's always said), or really in a dream just as he suspected all along, because he's pretty sure he's supposed to be on a plane from LaGuardia to McCarran right about now, seatbelts fastened and chairs in their full upright position, tray tables stowed away -- but instead he's on a deserted island somewhere unidentifiably north of Australia and he's talking to a lizard.
He considers the possibilities, the impossibilities, for seven more minutes, until he's convinced time has stopped, and it makes him feel oddly safe.
He doesn't know how much time passes if it passes at all. He keeps talking, tells the lizard about the first time he met William Beckett and how William's mouth is really so much better suited for things other than lead vocals, and how fucking hilarious that night was, except of course for the part where he puked all over Tom's duffel bag and Tom didn't speak to him for a whole week until Jon convinced him otherwise. He sings "Behind the Sea," soft and whispered, nearly drowned by the steady noise around him, and tries to channel Ryan's voice because he misses the fucking hell out of it, and he figures the lizard deserves a memory of the song as it's meant to be. He moves on to the Beatles, his mouth parched by the time he's halfway through Sargent Pepper's, and he's sung straight through two meals the lizard's made out of things that have crawled onto his rock and he's resisted making Beatles jokes both times and he thinks for him that's really fucking amazing.
Losing his mind isn't nearly as unpleasant as Ryan had always threatened.
But the walls of his escape begin to wear thin, and his time-ceasing theory shatters when he starts to notice the rays of sun disappearing, fading off in groups and he's just climbing to his feet to start back, or start somwhere, when a rustle behind him snaps his head around.
He holds his breath as the sound gets louder, trying to remind himself that there are things worse than death, and it's not until the sound of his name hits the air that he spills out a breath, shaky and relieved and angry all at once.
"Brendon?" Spencer's head half-appears for an instant, veiled behind a branch. "Brendon, are you -- "
Their eyes catch, and Spencer lunges forward, hovering in Brendon's space.
"Where the fuck have you been?"
"Right fucking here, I haven't moved!"
"You've been gone for like, six hours! We've been looking everywhere, fucking shit, Brendon, we thought you were hurt! Why didn't you fucking tell me where you -- "
"No -- no, no." And Brendon can feel his voice starting to crack, can see the mess that Spencer's crumbling to, panicked and infuriated, but he pushes it aside. "No, no, you don't. You do not get to be angry with me, not when -- "
"Brendon -- we thought -- " His voice is choked now, the words less spoken than sobbed. "Jesus, we thought you were fucking dead!"
"Well I'm NOT! I'm fucking NOT, okay? So fuck you, you're still the luckiest son of a bitch here, okay? No one you love is fucking gone, so just -- "
"Bren -- "
"No. No. You do not get to be angry, Spencer, you still have Ryan and you have us and you have no FUCKING idea what this feels like, so don't think you get to fall apart like the rest of us and act like you've lost someone too, okay? Because you fucking haven't!"
He's gone then, pushing past Spencer and retracing his steps as fast he can until he meets the sand, and finally, finally, he kicks off his shoes, tearing off down the beach in a sick deja vu of the night before, the first hint of sunset breaking out over the horizon, and he can hardly breathe for how thirsty he is, can hardly see straight through exhaustion and hunger, but he keeps running until he reaches the wall of cliffs, only this time he doesn't stop.
Climbing up the bank, over the rocks and sand, he makes his way up to the platform of the first cliff, adjusting to the even ground, the sandy-rocky-grassy surface under his feet. It's not until he draws in a breath, steadies his balance, and plants himself on the ground a few feet from the edge, legs crossed Indian-style, that it strikes him.
[ Track 3 ]
He's high up enough that the breeze is stronger, the air cooler, and the sight before him -- impossible.
He can see out over the whole ocean, down over the island and the white crests of waves, and out into the entire sky, splashed with shocking lines of fire-orange and bright pink, shades of purple and yellow and everything in between, practically fluorescent, as the red half-circle of sun slips gradually into the slowly darkening expanse of water.
It's perfection. It's fucking perfection, and Brendon hates it, hates how anything could have the nerve to be perfect now, now, when his world has just crashed down around him.
He spends a long time there, or so it seems, trying to steady his breaths and keep the tears from spilling. He succeeds until one pointed memory strikes him unbidden, and then it's over.
"Hi."
It takes a moment for the sound to break into his consciousness, so the shock value is lost in the journey.
He doesn't have to turn around to know it's Jon.
Jon doesn't expect him to, either; doesn't wait for acknowledgment, just slowly steps forward and plants himself down beside Brendon, mirroring his position. Brendon wishes his hair were just a little longer, long enough to cover his eyes right now, because he knows it must be obvious they've been busy, red and swollen and still wet. But Jon doesn't look at him, just stares out at nothing in particular, at the ocean and the sunset and maybe the faint clouds in the distance, outlined in glowing oranges and reds.
Their knees touch, and Brendon's fingers twitch with the urge to place his hand on Jon's knee, wanting to just crawl into his lap and be protected, insulated, the way Jon will do for any and all of them after a rough show, his solid touch stroking through hair or lightly down backs, kneading tight shoulders or smacking an ass just to get a reaction, a grin, a chuckle.
Brendon wonders how long it'll be before he'll smile again.
"I found your suitcase," Jon says quietly.
Brendon doesn't care. His suitcase is full of Shane's t-shirts and socks and underwear and he doesn't want that in his head, or in front of him, or anywhere near him, as much as he craves it.
"I, uh -- your glasses, we can use them to make like, fires and stuff."
Brendon doesn't care about making fires, either. A brief thought flashes through him, the thought that he cares in the context of Ryan, and if Ryan's sick, he'll need fires, and they'll need to cook him things, and keep him warm, but that's all. Besides that, fuck fire. It doesn't matter. He doesn't want to eat and he doesn't care to be warm.
Brendon doesn't know what makes him say, "Spencer probably hates me."
He must. He really must. All that time they could've spent looking for water, they spent looking for Brendon, and now the day's gone and it's too late.
He can see Jon watching him closely out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't turn. He knows he can't hide when he looks into Jon's eyes, can't put up any fronts. And right now, walls and fronts and hiding, that's all he has.
"B, he's -- " Jon sighs. "Don't you get it? He's... he's seen what we've gone through. He's scared shitless of feeling what we've felt. And -- it's not just Ryan he's thinking of. He fucking loves you, Brendon. I -- I love you."
Brendon can't handle emotion in any context right now, can't say it back even though the words are right on his tongue. He's got to hold himself together, keep his distance or he'll lose it, and suddenly, finally, finally, he has a momentary understanding of the mystery that has been Ryan Ross for the five years he's know him.
"He loves you too," Brendon says instead.
"I know," Jon whispers, dropping his eyes to the ground.
"No, like." Brendon looks up then, studying Jon's profile. "He really fucking loves you. Total man-crush for like three years now."
Jon cracks a weak half-smile before looking up. "Yeah?"
Brendon nods. "But if you ever tell him I said that, I think he'd kill us both."
Jon's smile widens for a split second before fading altogether, and when his eyes lock with Brendon's, Brendon doesn't feel exposed, falling, helpless the way he'd expected. He feels safe. He feels like he's being kept safe.
"I didn't mean it," Brendon croaks, feeling the choking lump return to his throat. "I didn't mean what I said to him -- "
"I know."
"I love him."
"I know, B."
"Does he?"
"Yeah. He knows."
For a long time, neither speaks, and their gazes drift apart, back to the safety of open space before them, and Brendon's heart pounds for the unspoken words lodged in his throat.
"He." Brendon pauses, weighing the risk of letting the name hit the air. "Tom. He knew."
Jon flinches, but doesn't break. "I should've told him."
"You did, Jon."
"I should've told him every day."
"He knew."
Brendon hears him draw in a breath, long and careful and a little ragged.
"Shane knew, too," Jon says.
And suddenly Brendon admires Jon's ability to hold himself together, because hearing the name really does hit like a gunshot, but he's not going to fall apart, he's not, he's not.
"...Bren?"
It's only now Brendon realizes how hard he's been squeezing Jon's hand, but he can't seem to let go.
"You don't have to be strong for me," Jon whispers, and it's enough.
It's enough that the first choked sob breaks out from Brendon's lips and he's throwing himself at Jon, head smushed against Jon's chest, and Jon is warm, so warm, and smells like sand and ocean and Jon, dirty and sweaty but still Jon, and his arms are stronger than Brendon remembers, holding him close so he couldn't get away even if he wanted to.
Brendon wants to say it then, but he wants to say it looking into Jon's eyes, wants Jon to know it, wants to see him hear it. When he finally pulls back, Jon lets him, keeping their hands firmly clasped.
"I love you," Brendon says. "So fucking much. I'm sorry, I'm sorry I said -- "
"Shut up, I love you too," Jon says without hesitation, and before Brendon can say another word, Jon leans forward and presses the lightest of kisses to the corner of Brendon's mouth, chaste and quick and soft, sweet enough that Brendon's eyes fall shut, and when he opens them, Jon's still watching him.
"Don't die," Brendon says stupidly. "Ever."
"I'll do my best."
And just like that, conversation is possible again.
Brendon knows, now. He understands it doesn't mean he's okay, doesn't even imply it. But something in him can breathe again -- just a little, but it's a beginning.
So far off yet right before their eyes, the red crescent of sun dips a little lower, sinking into the horizon. Brendon squeezes Jon's hand for strength, not trusting the words to come out right, or at all.
"He always wanted to photograph the perfect sunset."
He feels Jon's eyes on him, but keeps his own forward, already sensing the tentative sting of tears.
"So did Tom," Jon whispers.
"It's not right."
"No."
But there's something right in this: the admission, the mutual acknowledgment that this is wrong, that life has cheated them and the ones they loved from everything they deserved. And it's not vindication, not even close -- but it's something. Not enough, but something.
There's only a sliver of sun left when Jon breaks the silence.
"Come with me?" he offers softly, fingers curling tight around Brendon's.
Brendon doesn't have to nod, only follows as Jon pulls them both to their feet.
It's strange, to Brendon, not being alone on the walk back. The unending strip of beach had become his in this short time, in his frantic, dizzy trips up and back, served him well in his escapes, and he'd never taken his time. Never stopped to look out at the water, never had the comforting lines of Jon's silhouette to steal glances at; never watched the damp sand squish and mould around his feet.
In another world, another life... it might have been the kind of peace he'd been searching for his whole life.
Spencer's still at work when they get back, and it's kind of insane what he's done to the place, insanely amazing. The vines are holding branches together that meet in a triangle over Ryan and a tangle of blankets on the ground. Draped across the top are more blankets, and surrounding the sides is a vast collection of the giant leaves he'd struggled with so hard.
When they approach, Spencer's occupied with spreading ointment from the first-aid kid over the cut on Ryan's head. Ryan is as Brendon remembers, no more, no less. His heart can't decide whether to leap or sink.
On the one hand, no news is good news.
On the other... the longer he's out...
No.
Just, no.
No.
Spencer stands when he sees them, but doesn't approach, just stands there, planted awkwardly beside the makeshift shelter, eyes fixed unreadably to Brendon's.
Brendon keeps walking slowly toward him, hoping maybe everything between them will sort itself out by the time he's there, but it doesn't matter, because the moment he's within arm's reach, Spencer's yanking him forward and holding him tight against his chest and Brendon's arms curl automatically around him, clinging tight as he can with no clothes between them, no fabric to grab onto. Spencer's warm too, like Jon, solid but soft, and Spencer doesn't really go around tossing out hugs the way Brendon and Jon do, so it's easy to forget how good it feels to be in his arms.
Brendon doesn't ever want to forget that, ever again.
"You're a dumbass, you fucking dumbass," Spencer whispers into his hair. "I love the shit out of you and don't you fucking forget it."
Brendon nods, squeezing tears back into his eyes. "I love you too. I'm sorry."
"Shut up, just. Shut up. I've got you."
And Brendon shuts up, because Spencer's right. Spencer's always right.
He stays, letting himself be held, letting Spencer stroke his hair and his back, and it's so easy to get lost in it that he almost doesn't hear the words that break into the moment.
"Get a room already, what the fuck."
They separate at once, glancing automatically toward Jon, but Jon's eyes are elsewhere, lower, and bugging out of his head.
Brendon jerks his head around to the ground beneath the shelter roof, and Spencer follows suit, and for the first time since it started, Brendon hopes to god he's not dreaming.
Half dazed and half awake and one hundred percent amused, Ryan blinks up at them through a tired smirk, his massive hazel eyes the most beautiful thing Brendon can remember seeing in twenty-one years.
2.
All of the wasted time
The hours that we left behind
The answers that we'll never find
They don't mean a thing tonight
--BLG
"I love you."
It's maybe the thousandth time Shane's said the words, but the first since they'd started spending their nights like this, sweaty and glued to each other's skin, falling asleep and waking up with tangled limbs and giggly smiles, always ready to poke fun at each other for what they've so inevitably become.
Brendon hears the words roll over and over in his head after they strike the air between them, and Ryan is the first thing to pop into his mind.
He's not sure why, can't tell if what he's feeling is more regret or disappointment; regret for all the years he's spent -- wasted -- waiting for Ryan to be the one to say those words to him, be the first one to ever say those words to him in that context.
Disappointment because he knows now, Ryan never will.
It's over, a voice in his head whispers gently, trying to let him down easy, not wanting to agitate the other voice that's so close to screaming I know, I know.
He says it back, and Shane never asks if Brendon means it the same way Shane does.
When Brendon watches Jon Walker, Jon fucking Walker fall to pieces right before his eyes, it's kind of like losing Shane all over again -- and really, he hasn't finished losing him the first time.
It's registered; he's certain of that. He might slip into denial still at some point, but right now, he's aware. Five hours crying out the last ounce of moisture in his body gave him enough time to process Shane, gone enough times in his head to finally believe it; five hours spent driving his fingers deep into the sand like he was trying to crawl out of this nightmare reality, making fruitless fistfuls of the grains, desperate to hold onto something solid, and watching, helpless, as it slipped through his fingers every time.
He hasn't done this, like Ryan has. Death. His grandparents on both sides are still alive, and the last funeral he'd attended was age thirteen for someone in their church he'd never met. He'd never given much thought to what it would feel like, but he's pretty sure if he had, his predictions would've been nothing like this.
This -- this is no dream. His subconscious wouldn't have the power to concoct something this bad, this real, this terrifyingly acute: Jon draped over Tom's body (Tom's body, not Tom, not Tom, not anymore how is this happening), crying in a way Brendon's never seen before because, well, he's never seen Jon cry before. He's seen him sad, hurt, even angry, but never cry.
It hurts to see it. Hurts not just inside but like knives and beatings too; goes straight to the bone. It makes Brendon's stomach turn and twist, and the anger he'd built against Jon shifts, mutates, turns on him until Brendon's more angry at himself, angry that he can't be angry at Jon right now, angry at himself for feeling the desire to rush to his side and take Jon in his arms when all he wants to do is effect merciless revenge at the universe for taking the only chance life ever gave him at that kind of happiness.
It doesn't end there, either.
There's Spencer too -- Spencer, to whom Brendon's felt strangely connected since it started, being the first thing he saw, being the one who saved him (though right now Brendon doesn't want to be saved, hates Spencer too, wishes he'd just left him, because if there's one lesson the past hours have taught him, it's that there are things worse than death). There's Spencer, trying to pry Jon away and hold him and keep him tight against Spencer's body, but Jon's fighting him off, fighting everything but his own instincts that keep him glued to Tom's side in vain, as though his pain, his touch, will be strong enough to bring Tom back.
Brendon thinks if anyone's touch were magical enough to restore life, it would be Jon Walker's.
But there's no magic here, only hope, thinning by the minute.
"Jon -- "
"Fuck the fuck off!"
"Jon, please, we have to -- "
"Leave me the fuck alone! Just fucking leave us ALONE!!"
Brendon recognizes the emotion in Jon's voice, and suddenly feels like he's watching his five-hour-ago self from a distance, like a dream again, but it's not it's not it's not, everything is real, and when Spencer catches Brendon's eye, crouched helpless beside Jon, his gaze half begging but not daring to, knowing it's too much to ask of Brendon right now -- something inside his mind slips back into place, back to some shred of logic that used to exist before all of this, that tells him something greater than himself exists right now. He knows this shot of rationality won't last, knows his own pain is going to come back and take over him without warning, so he jumps. He jumps on it, takes it, uses it.
Lunging forward across the few steps of space, he drops to his knees beside the tangle of boys on the ground and wraps his body around Jon's, not trying to pull him off or interfere, just keeping him in contact, burying his face into Jon's neck, and Brendon feels words leaving his mouth, doesn't know how they got there or what's coming out until later, until Jon begins to go limp in his arms.
"Hold onto me," he whispers into Jon's salty-damp hair. "Hold onto me and don't let go."
It takes long, heart-racing minutes that drag through the warm, breezy air, a temperature in ugly contrast with the realities they're wrapped (trapped) in, but he keeps it up, keeps spilling the words into Jon's hair until Jon resigns himself with choked, surrendering sobs that fall silent and thunder through his whole body. But he turns, he shifts, he lets Brendon pull him around until they're face to face, wrapped tight around each other and holding on like they're all that's keeping each other afloat.
Because they are.
Spencer hesitates a moment before leaning over, gathering Tom's body into his arms and struggling to his feet. As Spencer's face slips into a ray of moonlight, Brendon can see his eyes, still wet, red around the edges, but Spencer stays silent as ever even though his body is visibly shaking. Brendon can't hear his labored footsteps pad down the beach over the sound of Jon, but something tells him Spencer's not going far. Just far enough to...
Out of sight, out of mind.
If only it were that easy.
Brendon expects Jon to set him off; expects the lump in his throat to resurface, expects his eyes to sting and another impossible flood to start spilling, but nothing happens. The painful tightness in his throat seems to have shifted residence to his chest, and until now he'd thought heartache was a metaphor.
It's only one more impossible reality springing to life tonight, he realizes. One more dream that should've stayed a dream and didn't.
Jon's holding him as much as he's holding Jon now, and Brendon tries to count in his head to keep himself sane. He makes fourteen attempts to count to a hundred before he gets there, his mind slipping off track and sending him into places that make him feel like his heart's going to break out of his chest and the contents of his stomach are going to shoot back up.
Numbers don't work, and he tries music. He tries to write in his head, tries to visualize the little black notes and stems and measures and bar lines, tries to create something new but finally settles on "There's a Reason..." for its sharp, hauntingly spastic melody and uncompromising rhythm, and tries to focus on sense memory, the way the piano feels under his fingers, pliant and yielding, comfort of the most reliable kind.
Death, he realizes somewhere in the last chorus, is like music. Uncontrollable, and unstoppable. It will persist even when we don't.
It's ages before he notices Spencer's returned, carefully settled himself on the other side of Jon. The commotion's somehow gotten them closer to Ryan, and there's barely enough space between Jon and Ryan for Spencer to fit, but it works like that, it's the only shred of perfection in this chaos, the way they all fit right in this moment, with Jon and Brendon tangled together and Spencer on his back beside them, one hand resting on Jon's hip and the other twined with Ryan's fingers, keeping them all locked, connected, the four of them, and even though Brendon knows he should be terrified, knows he should trust nothing and fear everything, there's a moment when he feels safe, wholly safe, because while nothing else makes sense, it's Jon and Spencer and Ryan and, and him. And they're alive, and together.
And maybe that moment's just the eye of the storm, but they've weathered enough storms together, and they can fucking take this one too.
Brendon shivers when Jon finally stops crying.
The sounds filtering through the silence make him sick for how beautiful they are, when nothing right now should be beautiful. The soft, steady hush of waves against the shore, the nocturnal voices of a million bugs and animals and fuck only knows what else, fusing into a low, distant hum. Those stupid tropical rainforest CDs Ryan's so fond of don't do this justice; right now Brendon feels wrapped in it, cocooned. He can't decide whether it's comforting or maddening that the rest of life here carries on undisturbed, unaffected.
He wants to sleep, but he's afraid of waking up, because he knows there'll be that moment when he first slips back into consciousness, forgets where he is, and reaches instinctively for Shane, and then he'll have to live it all over again in his head, and he can't.
He can't.
He hears Spencer shift to check on Ryan at intervals, and Jon's lashes flutter against Brendon's throat every so often.
This night isn't meant for sleep.
He keeps his eyes closed though, and it isn't until hours later, when Spencer's hand finds his, laces their fingers together and squeezes gently before pulling away, that he opens them to find dawn creeping in around them.
When he pulls himself up, feeling the sand shift and give beneath the blanket under him, he sees Spencer on Jon's other side, sitting cross-legged beside Ryan, staring down at Ryan's face the way Brendon stares at a new piece of music, studying, waiting for it to speak to him. Spencer has one of Ryan's hands nestled in both of his, and after a moment he lifts it to his mouth, pressing a few silent words into the palm, and it doesn't even occur to Brendon that Ryan couldn't possibly hear the words like that. The way they communicate transcends possibility, and Brendon's always envied it.
But it's hard to envy Spencer for anything right now, with the look on his face, that look of dormant panic -- patient, waiting, but poised to explode at the slightest push.
It's not difficult to read that look. Shane; Tom. Spencer's the only one left who hasn't been taken by the suffering he's been forced to witness, twice. It's his turn next, he must think.
Brendon stops the train of thought right fucking there, because Ryan isn't just Spencer's to lose.
Spencer meets his eyes after a long while, still clutching Ryan's hand, massaging gentle circles into his wrist.
"I'm gonna go back to the plane for some stuff," he says quietly.
"No."
Brendon starts at the sound; it'd been so easy to forget Jon was awake.
"I'll go," Jon says flatly, pulling himself up and looking at no one. "You've been working really hard, you need to rest."
"I'm okay, Jon -- "
"No, I'll go."
"Look, it's not like I'm gonna sleep, so."
Brendon holds his breath. Spencer can argue almost anything to the bitter death, has been learning it from Ryan for upwards of fifteen years, clearly -- and right now, Brendon doesn't trust Jon not to fight back.
And that thought freaks him out a little, because there's never been one moment, ever, where he hasn't trusted Jon completely.
"We'll need to find water," Jon says, still looking out over the ocean, his voice a monotone shell of the one Brendon knows. "And make some kind of shelter."
He reaches out for the water bottle he'd opened for Tom the night before, squeezes it tight to keep his hands from shaking, but it's to no avail. He manages to down a few long, fast swigs before replacing the cap and rising to his feet. Brendon watches, ummoving, unused to his role as silent observer, while Spencer stands as well, planting himself in front of Jon and watching him closely, waiting for Jon to meet his eyes. He takes one of Jon's hands in his, planting the other on Jon's shoulder, and leans in to whisper something in his ear. His lips keep moving, but Brendon can't make out a single word, just feels his breath catch in his throat when Jon finally turns into Spencer, letting his face fall against Spencer's neck, and after a few more words, he nods, and Spencer releases him, allowing him to step out into the water.
Maybe Spencer's a little bit magic, too.
Brendon hasn't moved since he first sat up, knees hugged close against his bare chest and his chin resting atop them. He knows he must look small and helpless, because Ryan's always told him that's how he looks in that position, but right now he doesn't care because that's exactly how he feels.
When Spencer drops down beside him, he tries to keep focused on the grains of sand that have brushed onto the blanket, but Spencer's eyes are too strong, too fucking blue, to look anywhere else.
"You want some water?" he asks softly.
Brendon does, he's parched, hasn't had anything to drink since yesterday, but his mind doesn't seem to be communicating very well with his body, and he can't bring himself to nod.
Spencer figures it out anyway, scoops up a fresh bottle and unscrews the cap, holding it out. Brendon drinks, but slowly, carefully, knowing the value of what's spilling down his throat, and hesitant to be greedy.
Ryan will need this more, when he wakes up.
"We've got enough to last for a bit," Spencer says, pushing himself up onto his knees. "I'm gonna try to make some kind of, thing, first. A cover, or something. Ryan should be out of the sun, I think."
Brendon nods automatically, not missing the uncertainty in Spencer's voice, desperate for reassurance, encouragement that he's doing the right thing. Brendon wishes he could offer it.
"Do you want..."
Brendon looks at him again, Spencer's electric blues only inches from his, and it's clear Spencer really doesn't want to have to finish that sentence. Brendon tries to read his eyes the way Ryan does, tries hard, stares straight into them, knowing the unspoken words could've been anything from "to help" or "to talk" or...
He blinks, and it registers.
Anything. Do you want anything.
"I mean," Spencer tries again, "do you need -- "
"I'm fine."
And he tries to ignore the way Spencer winces, because they both know Brendon's not fine and Brendon knows it's insulting for him to bullshit like this, knows it's a blow to the way Spencer's trying so hard to help, but he just -- he can't, he can't do this, not now.
Spencer leans in, pressing his lips to Brendon's forehead. It's several moments before he pulls away, and he doesn't look at Brendon when he stands back up, heading off toward the trees to start yanking aimlessly at vines.
Brendon watches him for ninety seconds before he starts to lose his mind.
"I'm, uh. Water," he announces, scrambling to his feet.
"What?" Spencer peers out from behind a branch, poster-sized leaves framing his face.
"I'm. Gonna go look for water."
"Oh. Um. Do you want to wait? I mean, I could go with you."
"I'm fine."
"Bren, it might not be safe."
"I'm fine."
"Dude, there could be like, animals and shit. We don't know what's out there."
The truth is out there, the nerd portion of Brendon's brain automatically supplies. Inwardly rolling his eyes, he turns around. "What are you gonna do, glare at them to death? We don't have any fucking weapons, Spencer."
Spencer doesn't speak. And it makes sense, really, because Brendon just reached a level of jackass that only Ryan generally attains, and Spencer's M.O. in those moments is stare silently until Ryan sighs an apology. Brendon wants to, he does, he knows Spencer's only trying to look out for him, but at the moment, he doesn't want to be looked out for. At the moment, he kind of doesn't care about getting attacked by black mambas or whatever the hell they've got here, wherever the fucking hell they are. And it's emo and it's immature and it's pigheaded and he doesn't fucking care, not now.
Without another word, he spins on his heel and stalks off down the beach.
All along the shore there's about thirty feet of sand between the shoreline and the, whatever it is, forest that seems to line the island. If it's even an island. Rainforest, if he's being ambitious, but that'd have to be Indonesia and that's just. Well that's just way too fucking far off the plane's course. And that doesn't align with the logic his mind is clinging to, because no one would come looking for them this far off course, and they're going to be looked for, they are.
Even though, in this moment, he doesn't care.
He spends long enough trekking down the stretch of beach, until he locates a good portion where the forest falls open a bit and heads in. His shoes are still wet and squishy, but he doesn't dare take them off. He feels like he's just walked into a fucking zoo exhibit: the sound of waves and ocean air are shut out immediately and he's drowning in the noises of creatures he can't see, birds and insects. Everything's shocking colors, not the dull, muted brown-gray of woods back home. Green is storybook green, National Geographic green; the plants that have colors fucking have colors, like a kid took a ninety-six pack of Crayola and went to town. There's an eerie over-saturation of purity that seems to permeate the place: it's kind of almost too perfect. The ground is uneven, dips and rises unpredictably, but seems to be moving steadily upward. Sharp lines of sun shoot randomly through the never-ending trees, but other than that, everything is canopied by treetops and more of those huge-ass fucking leaves Spencer had been struggling with. Nothing looks like anything he knows: tree trunks are covered in stuff; the ground isn't dirt really but it's brown; he doesn't recognize a single plant and he's starting to forget what direction he came in.
A few hundred feet in, he slips and steps on some kind of reptilian thing that screams bloody murder and inspires some half a dozen other invisible creatures to respond with vocals of their own. It sends Brendon tearing back off through the trees before he can even react, crashing through brush and leaves until he tumbles back onto the beach in a heap.
When he gets back to camp, Spencer's gotten himself a fine pile of vines beside Ryan in the sand, and is in the process of attempting to mutilate a branch bearing a particularly grand collection of leaves. It might be a bit more impressive to watch if he weren't trying to execute said mutilation with his bare hands.
He watches Spencer's back for several minutes, not wanting to disturb, and listens to him spew filthy swear words at the branch until he shoves it aside with a sigh.
"Jesus fuck, Bren," he spits when he turns around. "You scared the shit outta -- " His forehead creases as he takes in Brendon's appearance, which Brendon suspects is less than stellar. "What happened?"
"I stepped on a lizard," he explains quietly.
Something passes over Spencer's face that looks like it really wanted to turn into laughter, but whatever it was, Spencer bites it back, crawling out of the mess of trees and brushing off his hands.
"No water?"
"No."
Spencer nods, bending over to pick something off the ground. "Jon found snacks."
Brendon takes it, turning the package over in his hand: a vending-machine sized bag of trail mix. His stomach grumbles in anticipation, but he shakes his head. "Save it."
"Brendon."
"I'm fine."
"You need to eat."
"Save it for Ryan. He'll be starving when he wakes up."
There's the horrible, heart-sinking syllable, if, that lies unspoken in the air, and Brendon knows Spencer can feel it too.
"Ryan can hunt for his own damn trail mix," Spencer says with a tiny smile, and it's a feeble attempt to keep the moment light, Brendon can see right through it, but he doesn't say a word. "Go on. Eat it. Not negotiable."
Arguing with Spencer is not worth it ninety-nine percent of the time, and something tells Brendon this is not that one percent.
"Where's Jon?" he asks as he takes a seat next to Ryan and rips open the package.
"Making another trip."
It's so strange now, talking. It feels so pointless, and wrong. It feels wrong, talking like it's nothing, like they're in the bus lounge and Jon's inside at the gas station picking up everyone's favorite because he knows what they are without having to ask, and it's just. It's wrong. It feels like Brendon's giving himself permission to be okay, even to appear okay, and he's not.
He finishes the bag in four bites, but he doesn't feel any better.
"Do you want another?" Spencer asks hesitantly. "We've got chips, too -- "
Brendon shakes his head, firm and sharp. He can't bear the sound of his own voice now. It sounds nothing like he knows his voice to sound, and it makes him shiver to hear it.
"I can go with you, when I'm done. If you want. Or... you know. If you want to just be alone. It's. Yeah."
His voice trails off, and Brendon doesn't encourage him with a response.
Spencer gives up after a moment, stepping back into the trees and getting back to work. Brendon watches him, fighting a thousand urges at once -- to follow Spencer and help; to crawl up against Ryan and sleep for days, years; to scream at the top of his lungs until Shane appears in front of him, smiling and solid and alive.
Fighting so many urges makes his breath short, his mouth dry, his head dizzy.
He turns and heads back down the beach, finding his patch of open trees, and the contrast of still-fresh familiarity draws him in at once. It's different this time, eyes alert and trained to the ground at each step he takes, following the path he'd broken down the first time.
The lizard is where he'd left it.
He figures it's not hurt because it's moved to a rock, limbs intact, everything symmetrical and eyes bulging with awareness. Brendon crouches down beside it, propped up on his elbows as he stares into its eyes, only minimally concerned whether it's going to spit poison or spew blood from its eye, the way he's seen on TV.
"I'm sorry, buddy," he whispers. "You're a trooper. I'm impressed."
He's silent for a long moment, during which he contemplates the possibility that he's either losing his mind (it was just a matter of time, Ryan's always said), or really in a dream just as he suspected all along, because he's pretty sure he's supposed to be on a plane from LaGuardia to McCarran right about now, seatbelts fastened and chairs in their full upright position, tray tables stowed away -- but instead he's on a deserted island somewhere unidentifiably north of Australia and he's talking to a lizard.
He considers the possibilities, the impossibilities, for seven more minutes, until he's convinced time has stopped, and it makes him feel oddly safe.
He doesn't know how much time passes if it passes at all. He keeps talking, tells the lizard about the first time he met William Beckett and how William's mouth is really so much better suited for things other than lead vocals, and how fucking hilarious that night was, except of course for the part where he puked all over Tom's duffel bag and Tom didn't speak to him for a whole week until Jon convinced him otherwise. He sings "Behind the Sea," soft and whispered, nearly drowned by the steady noise around him, and tries to channel Ryan's voice because he misses the fucking hell out of it, and he figures the lizard deserves a memory of the song as it's meant to be. He moves on to the Beatles, his mouth parched by the time he's halfway through Sargent Pepper's, and he's sung straight through two meals the lizard's made out of things that have crawled onto his rock and he's resisted making Beatles jokes both times and he thinks for him that's really fucking amazing.
Losing his mind isn't nearly as unpleasant as Ryan had always threatened.
But the walls of his escape begin to wear thin, and his time-ceasing theory shatters when he starts to notice the rays of sun disappearing, fading off in groups and he's just climbing to his feet to start back, or start somwhere, when a rustle behind him snaps his head around.
He holds his breath as the sound gets louder, trying to remind himself that there are things worse than death, and it's not until the sound of his name hits the air that he spills out a breath, shaky and relieved and angry all at once.
"Brendon?" Spencer's head half-appears for an instant, veiled behind a branch. "Brendon, are you -- "
Their eyes catch, and Spencer lunges forward, hovering in Brendon's space.
"Where the fuck have you been?"
"Right fucking here, I haven't moved!"
"You've been gone for like, six hours! We've been looking everywhere, fucking shit, Brendon, we thought you were hurt! Why didn't you fucking tell me where you -- "
"No -- no, no." And Brendon can feel his voice starting to crack, can see the mess that Spencer's crumbling to, panicked and infuriated, but he pushes it aside. "No, no, you don't. You do not get to be angry with me, not when -- "
"Brendon -- we thought -- " His voice is choked now, the words less spoken than sobbed. "Jesus, we thought you were fucking dead!"
"Well I'm NOT! I'm fucking NOT, okay? So fuck you, you're still the luckiest son of a bitch here, okay? No one you love is fucking gone, so just -- "
"Bren -- "
"No. No. You do not get to be angry, Spencer, you still have Ryan and you have us and you have no FUCKING idea what this feels like, so don't think you get to fall apart like the rest of us and act like you've lost someone too, okay? Because you fucking haven't!"
He's gone then, pushing past Spencer and retracing his steps as fast he can until he meets the sand, and finally, finally, he kicks off his shoes, tearing off down the beach in a sick deja vu of the night before, the first hint of sunset breaking out over the horizon, and he can hardly breathe for how thirsty he is, can hardly see straight through exhaustion and hunger, but he keeps running until he reaches the wall of cliffs, only this time he doesn't stop.
Climbing up the bank, over the rocks and sand, he makes his way up to the platform of the first cliff, adjusting to the even ground, the sandy-rocky-grassy surface under his feet. It's not until he draws in a breath, steadies his balance, and plants himself on the ground a few feet from the edge, legs crossed Indian-style, that it strikes him.
[ Track 3 ]
He's high up enough that the breeze is stronger, the air cooler, and the sight before him -- impossible.
He can see out over the whole ocean, down over the island and the white crests of waves, and out into the entire sky, splashed with shocking lines of fire-orange and bright pink, shades of purple and yellow and everything in between, practically fluorescent, as the red half-circle of sun slips gradually into the slowly darkening expanse of water.
It's perfection. It's fucking perfection, and Brendon hates it, hates how anything could have the nerve to be perfect now, now, when his world has just crashed down around him.
He spends a long time there, or so it seems, trying to steady his breaths and keep the tears from spilling. He succeeds until one pointed memory strikes him unbidden, and then it's over.
"Hi."
It takes a moment for the sound to break into his consciousness, so the shock value is lost in the journey.
He doesn't have to turn around to know it's Jon.
Jon doesn't expect him to, either; doesn't wait for acknowledgment, just slowly steps forward and plants himself down beside Brendon, mirroring his position. Brendon wishes his hair were just a little longer, long enough to cover his eyes right now, because he knows it must be obvious they've been busy, red and swollen and still wet. But Jon doesn't look at him, just stares out at nothing in particular, at the ocean and the sunset and maybe the faint clouds in the distance, outlined in glowing oranges and reds.
Their knees touch, and Brendon's fingers twitch with the urge to place his hand on Jon's knee, wanting to just crawl into his lap and be protected, insulated, the way Jon will do for any and all of them after a rough show, his solid touch stroking through hair or lightly down backs, kneading tight shoulders or smacking an ass just to get a reaction, a grin, a chuckle.
Brendon wonders how long it'll be before he'll smile again.
"I found your suitcase," Jon says quietly.
Brendon doesn't care. His suitcase is full of Shane's t-shirts and socks and underwear and he doesn't want that in his head, or in front of him, or anywhere near him, as much as he craves it.
"I, uh -- your glasses, we can use them to make like, fires and stuff."
Brendon doesn't care about making fires, either. A brief thought flashes through him, the thought that he cares in the context of Ryan, and if Ryan's sick, he'll need fires, and they'll need to cook him things, and keep him warm, but that's all. Besides that, fuck fire. It doesn't matter. He doesn't want to eat and he doesn't care to be warm.
Brendon doesn't know what makes him say, "Spencer probably hates me."
He must. He really must. All that time they could've spent looking for water, they spent looking for Brendon, and now the day's gone and it's too late.
He can see Jon watching him closely out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't turn. He knows he can't hide when he looks into Jon's eyes, can't put up any fronts. And right now, walls and fronts and hiding, that's all he has.
"B, he's -- " Jon sighs. "Don't you get it? He's... he's seen what we've gone through. He's scared shitless of feeling what we've felt. And -- it's not just Ryan he's thinking of. He fucking loves you, Brendon. I -- I love you."
Brendon can't handle emotion in any context right now, can't say it back even though the words are right on his tongue. He's got to hold himself together, keep his distance or he'll lose it, and suddenly, finally, finally, he has a momentary understanding of the mystery that has been Ryan Ross for the five years he's know him.
"He loves you too," Brendon says instead.
"I know," Jon whispers, dropping his eyes to the ground.
"No, like." Brendon looks up then, studying Jon's profile. "He really fucking loves you. Total man-crush for like three years now."
Jon cracks a weak half-smile before looking up. "Yeah?"
Brendon nods. "But if you ever tell him I said that, I think he'd kill us both."
Jon's smile widens for a split second before fading altogether, and when his eyes lock with Brendon's, Brendon doesn't feel exposed, falling, helpless the way he'd expected. He feels safe. He feels like he's being kept safe.
"I didn't mean it," Brendon croaks, feeling the choking lump return to his throat. "I didn't mean what I said to him -- "
"I know."
"I love him."
"I know, B."
"Does he?"
"Yeah. He knows."
For a long time, neither speaks, and their gazes drift apart, back to the safety of open space before them, and Brendon's heart pounds for the unspoken words lodged in his throat.
"He." Brendon pauses, weighing the risk of letting the name hit the air. "Tom. He knew."
Jon flinches, but doesn't break. "I should've told him."
"You did, Jon."
"I should've told him every day."
"He knew."
Brendon hears him draw in a breath, long and careful and a little ragged.
"Shane knew, too," Jon says.
And suddenly Brendon admires Jon's ability to hold himself together, because hearing the name really does hit like a gunshot, but he's not going to fall apart, he's not, he's not.
"...Bren?"
It's only now Brendon realizes how hard he's been squeezing Jon's hand, but he can't seem to let go.
"You don't have to be strong for me," Jon whispers, and it's enough.
It's enough that the first choked sob breaks out from Brendon's lips and he's throwing himself at Jon, head smushed against Jon's chest, and Jon is warm, so warm, and smells like sand and ocean and Jon, dirty and sweaty but still Jon, and his arms are stronger than Brendon remembers, holding him close so he couldn't get away even if he wanted to.
Brendon wants to say it then, but he wants to say it looking into Jon's eyes, wants Jon to know it, wants to see him hear it. When he finally pulls back, Jon lets him, keeping their hands firmly clasped.
"I love you," Brendon says. "So fucking much. I'm sorry, I'm sorry I said -- "
"Shut up, I love you too," Jon says without hesitation, and before Brendon can say another word, Jon leans forward and presses the lightest of kisses to the corner of Brendon's mouth, chaste and quick and soft, sweet enough that Brendon's eyes fall shut, and when he opens them, Jon's still watching him.
"Don't die," Brendon says stupidly. "Ever."
"I'll do my best."
And just like that, conversation is possible again.
Brendon knows, now. He understands it doesn't mean he's okay, doesn't even imply it. But something in him can breathe again -- just a little, but it's a beginning.
So far off yet right before their eyes, the red crescent of sun dips a little lower, sinking into the horizon. Brendon squeezes Jon's hand for strength, not trusting the words to come out right, or at all.
"He always wanted to photograph the perfect sunset."
He feels Jon's eyes on him, but keeps his own forward, already sensing the tentative sting of tears.
"So did Tom," Jon whispers.
"It's not right."
"No."
But there's something right in this: the admission, the mutual acknowledgment that this is wrong, that life has cheated them and the ones they loved from everything they deserved. And it's not vindication, not even close -- but it's something. Not enough, but something.
There's only a sliver of sun left when Jon breaks the silence.
"Come with me?" he offers softly, fingers curling tight around Brendon's.
Brendon doesn't have to nod, only follows as Jon pulls them both to their feet.
It's strange, to Brendon, not being alone on the walk back. The unending strip of beach had become his in this short time, in his frantic, dizzy trips up and back, served him well in his escapes, and he'd never taken his time. Never stopped to look out at the water, never had the comforting lines of Jon's silhouette to steal glances at; never watched the damp sand squish and mould around his feet.
In another world, another life... it might have been the kind of peace he'd been searching for his whole life.
Spencer's still at work when they get back, and it's kind of insane what he's done to the place, insanely amazing. The vines are holding branches together that meet in a triangle over Ryan and a tangle of blankets on the ground. Draped across the top are more blankets, and surrounding the sides is a vast collection of the giant leaves he'd struggled with so hard.
When they approach, Spencer's occupied with spreading ointment from the first-aid kid over the cut on Ryan's head. Ryan is as Brendon remembers, no more, no less. His heart can't decide whether to leap or sink.
On the one hand, no news is good news.
On the other... the longer he's out...
No.
Just, no.
No.
Spencer stands when he sees them, but doesn't approach, just stands there, planted awkwardly beside the makeshift shelter, eyes fixed unreadably to Brendon's.
Brendon keeps walking slowly toward him, hoping maybe everything between them will sort itself out by the time he's there, but it doesn't matter, because the moment he's within arm's reach, Spencer's yanking him forward and holding him tight against his chest and Brendon's arms curl automatically around him, clinging tight as he can with no clothes between them, no fabric to grab onto. Spencer's warm too, like Jon, solid but soft, and Spencer doesn't really go around tossing out hugs the way Brendon and Jon do, so it's easy to forget how good it feels to be in his arms.
Brendon doesn't ever want to forget that, ever again.
"You're a dumbass, you fucking dumbass," Spencer whispers into his hair. "I love the shit out of you and don't you fucking forget it."
Brendon nods, squeezing tears back into his eyes. "I love you too. I'm sorry."
"Shut up, just. Shut up. I've got you."
And Brendon shuts up, because Spencer's right. Spencer's always right.
He stays, letting himself be held, letting Spencer stroke his hair and his back, and it's so easy to get lost in it that he almost doesn't hear the words that break into the moment.
"Get a room already, what the fuck."
They separate at once, glancing automatically toward Jon, but Jon's eyes are elsewhere, lower, and bugging out of his head.
Brendon jerks his head around to the ground beneath the shelter roof, and Spencer follows suit, and for the first time since it started, Brendon hopes to god he's not dreaming.
Half dazed and half awake and one hundred percent amused, Ryan blinks up at them through a tired smirk, his massive hazel eyes the most beautiful thing Brendon can remember seeing in twenty-one years.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 05:28 pm (UTC)Just...bah.
You rule too hard.
It's just silly.
xD
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 05:34 pm (UTC)ily.
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Date: 2008-08-12 06:08 pm (UTC)I look like an idiot, tears in my eyes and so on.
This is so heartbreaking and so amazing. I love it so much.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 06:13 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 06:37 pm (UTC)Jon breaking brings such gravity to everything, esp when we're seeing it through bden's eyes.
and until now he'd thought heartache was a metaphor. - it's lines like that which make me stop and just feel it (and it kills btw, tyvm :P). idk how you do it.
The part where they're all connected and stuff gives me a little bit of... optimism? idk.
and makes me think of gsfThe sounds filtering through the silence make him sick for how beautiful they are, when nothing right now should be beautiful. and He can't decide whether it's comforting or maddening that the rest of life here carries on undisturbed, unaffected. - It's awesome how you keep juxtaposing the beauty of the island and stuff with what's happened and how they're feeling and just. yeah. epic.
"What are you gonna do, glare at them to death?" - if anyone could...
There's the horrible, heart-sinking syllable, if, that lies unspoken in the air, and Brendon knows Spencer can feel it too. - heart sinking indeed :/ except...
"I'm sorry, buddy," he whispers. "You're a trooper. I'm impressed." - oh bden. First taste of Island Cuteness(tm)!
A brief thought flashes through him, the thought that he cares in the context of Ryan - aww. *smishes bden*
He's got to hold himself together, keep his distance or he'll lose it, and suddenly, finally, finally, he has a momentary understanding of the mystery that has been Ryan Ross for the five years he's know him. - I just love that bit, with the Ryan insight.
"He always wanted to photograph the perfect sunset." - I totally thought I'd made it through this one without tears in my eyes. Fuck you. lol.
"Get a room already, what the fuck." - RYANNNNN. He is now able to put the 'ry' in 'ryden' :D
and on that note: This is perfect and I have epic love for it, and you by default I guess :P
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 06:46 pm (UTC)AHAHA GSF REF, YES, THAT IS WHAT I WAS HOPING FOR. XD
tysm bb. i think that stuff comes to me b/c i've felt that kind of overwhelming grief, and just having to watch life carry on around you, and watch people be happy, and knowing it feels so WRONG. so yeah.
<3 <3 <3
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Date: 2008-08-12 06:39 pm (UTC)That's all I'm saying.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 06:47 pm (UTC)also,
:PPPPPPPPPPPPP
<3
mmmmmmmmm, matching erections. *misses your brencers liek whoa*
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 07:31 pm (UTC)You have me ar too emotional throughout this, it's amazing, I love it.
Ryan woke up, Im really happy.
They way you show all the boy's relationships is really good, idk what to say, it really blows me away this story does.
More soon?
-Jimmy
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 08:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 07:39 pm (UTC)Oh my god!!!! YAY! Ryan's awake!!! He's alive!!!!
And... group hug fest!!!! ahhhhhhh
but, but, but... all sad stuff... =[ poor boys!!!
okay that was probably the most non-coherent comment I've ever left in my entire life. this story is amazing and beautiful, keep up the good work!!! <3
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 08:55 pm (UTC)group hug indeed. group *everything*, someday. ;)
tysm, bb. more soon.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 08:20 pm (UTC)fdhgioedshgir!
amazing as usual, you are srsly so unbelievably good at writing. I fucking love how you go and do research to get the story just right.
so insanely well done, I love it and I love you<3.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 08:57 pm (UTC)i won't lie, the research is fun. i'm totally obsessed with my own story. LOL. but i'm so glad you enjoy! :D
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 08:25 pm (UTC)I was getting worried.
Ohhh this is so emotional and fucking INTENSE and bloody BRILLIANT.
I fucking love you right now.
:D
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 08:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 08:58 pm (UTC)<3
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 08:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 09:23 pm (UTC)And the Brencer moment (that is what I'm calling it.) was so perfect!
I loved it so much! :D
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 10:39 pm (UTC)ty bb.
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Date: 2008-08-12 09:40 pm (UTC)I'm just aching for more of this. Please, please, please update soon.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 10:40 pm (UTC)more in a week-ish. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 09:43 pm (UTC)<3
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 10:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 09:52 pm (UTC)finally!
arh, this is good, i cant wait for more :)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 10:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 10:09 pm (UTC)this is beautiful and i love it and i cant wait for more. <3
Ry has woken! yay!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 10:43 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 11:40 pm (UTC)Lovelovelove this ;]
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 11:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 11:52 pm (UTC):)
I love this story. Like so much.
Its seriously the greatest thing ever, usually when I cry during the first chapter, I stop, cuz sadness makes me sad, ya know? But this is amazing:D
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-12 11:59 pm (UTC)thank you so much! i'm glad you keep reading. it will get better, i promise... and worse again, but ultimately better. :)
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-13 12:19 am (UTC)On the other hand, it's starting to get cute and make me smile in many places as well, in an 'aww, they're hopeful and slashy together' kind of way.
I certainly can't wait for Chapter 3. ^-^
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-13 01:49 am (UTC)fuck
rendered speechless
the emotions and imagery are so perfect, i can kind of just get lost in it. I love a bit of angst, and the hurt is just so real and so amazing.
GSF hints also make me very happy indeed =]
incredible job. can't wait for chapter 3.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-13 11:02 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-13 02:42 am (UTC)This is one of my favorites ever.
I feel really bad for everyone. I just pray that there are no more deaths, I need happiness.
The ending made me jump for joy, literally. *huggles Ryro*
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-13 11:02 am (UTC)*huggles ryro also* (threesome tiem!)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-13 02:48 am (UTC)As much as I hate the fact that Shane and Tom are dead, I think it's more realistic that not everyone survived. My boys are still intact and Brendon still loves his Ryan, so I'm good.
I'm kind of excited about the inevitable group beach sex. lol *waits patiently*
Oh and I love you for the House lupus joke in the first part. Hilarious.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-13 11:04 am (UTC)er, who said anything about group sex on the BEACH, now? ;) you may need a little bit more patience... but that's all i'm sayin'. ;)
(no subject)
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From:AAHHHHH
Date: 2008-08-13 04:02 am (UTC)Re: AAHHHHH
Date: 2008-08-13 11:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-13 04:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-13 11:07 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-13 07:00 am (UTC)i'm sorry, that moment called for over-excited caps.
you're an amazing writer, more soon plzkthx :DD
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-13 12:41 pm (UTC)Oh my goodness
Date: 2008-08-13 07:18 am (UTC)Seriously one of the single best things I've ever read, and I don't say that lightly.
This is so obviously well thought-through and beautifully written and... every moment is just wonderfully emotional.
I didn't think I'd be sad when Shane went (I expected it, considering that it would be a Ryan/Brendon fic to end) but I really, really was. I cried. For Tom also. I even cried for Zach *laughs a bit*. I love how you characterize them, it's simply uncomperable to anything of the sort that I've read.
Thank you for being so... I lack words.
And for making Ryan wake up by the end of the chapter (it was all I hoped for).
Re: Oh my goodness
Date: 2008-08-13 12:45 pm (UTC)yeah, i guess i do imply that it's largely ryan/brendon, but really it does kind of end as a group thing. basically i ship everyone. heh. that will become more obvious as the story goes on. :)
thanks again. lovely comment. <3
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-13 07:33 am (UTC)Your descriptions of emotions are so fucking well done. I am drooling to see the psychological development when they are trapped on an island (wow, I sound like a nerd), how their feelings change and ahem, yes, I saw the GSF in the pairings so my mind is all, HELLO, GSF, LET'S MAKE OUT. I am intrigued to see how we get there. And now Ryan is awake, thank god. There are a thousand ways the plot could go from here, which is something I really love. It shows how much depth this has, how multi-layered this is.
And this comment is beginning to look like a novel, so... lol, that's me done for now. I can't wait for more.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-13 12:47 pm (UTC)i am so glad you're intrigued. i'm writing as i go (this isn't completed in the least), so i'm kind of intrigued too. LOL. never written anything quite like this. and they all have such vastly different personalities, so yeah, the psychological development/interaction will be really interesting to explore.
<3!