my dearest dear || rylan oneshots, headcannons and more!

𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙪𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨, 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙨

arguments

.

ah, how dreadful. unavoidable. like sick animals, they'd play pretend. as if everything were okay. like a glass container, their stability was under constant pressure, school, learning to heal, sharing a dorm. if it wasn't this, it was that. if it wasn't that, it was this. problems after problems. and that glass entrapment would fill with sand, grain after grain after grain. littering as it slowly tipps the top. eventually, it shatters, tattering to the ground as its sound deafens those around it.

they'd go days without taking to each other, weeks even. ryan had graphic design in the morning and dylan, quantum physics during the afternoon. their schedules already didn't match, so they didn't see much of each other. not much of a problem, right?

right?

wrong.

actions speak, no, scream louder than words.

both ryan and dylan were fragile beings, sensitive. they cared, a little too much some would say.

i'm not a damsel in fucking distress. dylan yelled, face red with stifled anger he tried to conceal it. that's how it started. and the way it ended? explosive, violent even. harmful words flew, and someone would always walk away with tears, and one more point added to the tally. yeah? well, just let me do this much, okay?! let me help you, damnit dylan. the man in question would rip his hand away, gripping his stub as the gritting pain continued. phantom pains, merciless and seemingly unending.

warm tears cascade down dylan's face, as his wrist felt as if it were engulfed in flames. the missing hand felt clenched, everlasting. he couldn't unclench it. his fingers felt as if they were twisted, painfully bound together, as if someone had a rope around them, and tugged, yanked every time he attempted to move them. these aches were no surprise, however, they hurt, and sucked ass. he didn't let ryan help him, as much as he wanted to. dylan's skin felt prickly, as if he'd crash and burn if anyone touched him.

don't you think you've help me enough?

oh. ryan thought.

almost immediately, he could see the regret in dylan's eyes. r-ryan. i—

the man turned his face away, bitter tears streaming. it was his now his turn to cry. ryan felt sour, sour as he helplessly drowned those sour thoughts, sour as he walked into a different room.

he heard the way dylan called after him, the way his voice trembled and shook. he could practically smell the the tears. how salty they were.

he needed time. and wanted to be far away, as far as possible.

they'd work it out eventually. or fuck it out, who knows? speaking of..