The Other Girl

1.

The liquor burns his throat, leaving that bitter sinful taste on his tongue, similar to how he made his chest feel these days. This was not how he was supposed to spend his Friday night.

He was bitter, to say the least. Bitter about how it started, how it happened, how it ended. To him it wasn't fucking fair. He knew he wasn't his forever boy but hell, he was a fake-it-till-you-make-it type of guy and he was persistent to the point of obsession, so he sure as hell would try. And as persistent and he may be, it still didn't fucking work.

He should've seen it coming. He'd seen him talking with a pretty young girl after one of their concerts, being all too friendly and all too happy for his own liking. He hushed him with soft kisses late that night, whispering reassuring sentences into his ear. He fell for it, hook, line, sinker.

He saw her at shows, almost always front row. She was sweet and calm and collected, just Brendon's type. But he still ignored it, blinded by desperation and expired hope, trying his best to believe he wouldn't, no he couldn't leave him.

He found out when he came home early and saw him fucking her brains out on their brand new faux leather couch. He was so shocked he just closed the door.

The break up was a calm storm, a whirlwind of emotions only they could feel. He was in pain, he was hurting, he was so dead inside he could feel his chest burning with pain left behind. But he never said anything, just told them to be on their way and he wished them a nice life together. He wished he had gotten mad at him, thrown something, yelled at him, made him hate him. Made the burning flicker of desire burn out in his chest. Instead he poured gasoline on it and threw in a lighter for good measure.

So he drinks to ease the pain, he drinks to let go. It burns, yeah, but at least its not in his chest. He's in a motel room off the Vegas strip, writing down anything that crosses his mind and letting silent tears fall from his eyes.

'Dammit Brendon'