Message Unseen ➤ RYDEN/BRALLON/JOSHLER

LXXV

Dallon pulls up into Ryan's driveway, leaning one elbow against the dashboard of his car and worrying over the reaction he might get from his best friend when he shows up to drag him out of bed. If he can't get Ryan to realise that this is his last chance to see the love of his life - dead or alive - they're both going to spend every day cursing themselves.

Dallon throws himself out of the car door, still as if in a dream. It feels as though nothing has changed from the moment he found out Brendon was dead, and he's simply going through the motions, floating through a permanent state of 'what the fuck is going on?' But he needs to get a hold of himself so he can convince Ryan to do the same.

"Ryan," he acknowledges when his friend opens the door after hearing the bell, his dark hair sticking to his forehead, purple sliding down from his glassy eyes, "you look like shit. Don't worry though, I expected that."

"Fuck off." Ryan goes to slam the door in Dallon's face but Dallon sticks his foot out and catches hold of the front of Ryan's tank top, noticing how prominent his collarbones have gotten in such a little amount of time.

Dallon yanks Ryan over, ignoring his curse of protest. "Fucking listen to me, pixie-dick. The person you love is dead." It's now that he sees the unshed tears in Ryan's eyes, the ones attempted to be hidden. "But I'm not letting you go too. Sort your shit out; have a cigarette. I don't care, just make yourself presentable."

He pushes Ryan inside and gestures to the sofa in his living room. "I'll wait here. Ten minutes."

"I'm not doing this. You can't make me." Ryan smells his shirt, the one he hasn't changed in a few days, and grimaces. Subconsciously, he knows Dallon is right as always but Ryan is stubborn and in denial.

"Don't make me do something you won't like."

Ryan does exactly as Dallon suggested and lights up a Camel - the type they smoked in shopping carts roaming the city, the pack Brendon left at his house the last time he was here. Ryan's fingers shake. "I haven't even cried yet, Dal."

Dallon hesitates then his voice softens a tad, breaking the uncomfortable silence that washed over them. "Nine minutes."

Throwing his dirty shirt into the hamper, Ryan stomps up the stairs to take a shower. There are supposed to be five stages of grief, but Ryan's going through all of them at once - however, currently it's verging on fury at everyone including himself. He's cranky and ignorant and... selfish.

The water barely registers against his nerves. He stands in the first shower he's taken since the accident, one hand against the tiles, the other still wrapped around his cigarette which has since been put out by the water, hair dripping over his face. His body is pale, almost sickly looking. He wonders what shapes Brendon's would've moulded into when he went through the windshield. He wonders if Brendon's therapist knows he's not coming back.

"Dallon," suddenly he can't breathe, and he's on the floor of the shower, screaming, "DALLON!"

Footsteps rush up the stairs to the bathroom and the door swings open. Ryan's knees are tucked into his chest and he squeezes his eyes shut, desperate not to cry. Don't cry for someone who doesn't love you, he tells himself, but then again, didn't Brendon promise otherwise in the end?

"Ryan," Dallon pulls his best friend toward him, not phased by the bare skin he's seen countless times before since they were children, "I'm here, I'm here. Come on, it's only a few hours; you don't have to stay for the buffet or whatever the hell his mom organised. If you need to leave, we'll go. Please just try today, for me - for yourself."

"What would he even have looked like?" Ryan wonders in a whisper, regaining his breath and letting his hands fall at his sides, numb. "Just lying on the hood of his car; all that glass. Did his tattoos get fucked up? Art shouldn't be destroyed. I want to know if they bothered to shut his eyes."