The Neighbor // Brallon

drunk in love

dallon pov

I once read somewhere that couples who confessed infidelity could find a way to stay together. About 35% of couples who confessed infidelity could work through it.

God, I don't know what I was thinking.

I had just gone out for a beer. That's all I wanted. The kids had been rounded up, I had been responsible and Brendon was nowhere to be found.

A beer.

Never did I thought that I would go into that bar and come out of it throughly fucked. I'm sure that I had that typical sad person look as I sat down at the bar and gestured to the bartender for the strongest of what he had. Two beers later a boy set next to me. He was wearing leather and his hair was greasy. Stubble decorated his chin and his eyes were a gorgeous brown like Brendon's. It didn't take me more than a minute to recognize him as the porcelain boy from the picture. He bought me a drink then another and another until the room was fuzzy and he touched me and I melted.

I stumbled back to the hotel from the bar and the dirty bathroom stall where he said my name. I never told him my name but he knew. I felt guilty. I cried. I felt the trembling of my upper lip and the shaking of my hands and the intense wanting for my razor blades. When i got back it was relatively late, but Brendon wasn't back. I pressed my head against the cold doorframe and cursed myself. Why?

For a while I sat on the edge of the bed waiting for him. The moon was high in the sky. I heard the kids going to bed. I heard pete and Patrick and Spencer all going to bed. I heard the thrumming of my heart against my chest.

He never came.

I stripped of my clothes and laid in bed, tossing and turning and then a tear slipped down the bridge of my nose.

I sat up and put on my pajama pants before trudging down the hallway, passing a janitor cleaning the carpets, and found myself in the lobby.

"Do you guys have any sleep aid?" I asked the woman at the desk. She smiled and went to a small room behind her. When she came back she had a small bottle in her hand, setting it on the counter.

"€2"

I handed her the money and walked slowly back to the room sipping on the cherry flavored liquid. By the time I got back to room the bottle was almost empty and I was finally drowsy. Collapsing on the bed I fell asleep.

The person who wrote the statistic obviously had never been unfaithful. The 35%. They were lucky bastards. Because the look in Brendon's eyes, the way he slowly climbed out of my lap, the way he walked to the closet, the way he pulled my suitcase out of it, the sound the suitcase made as it hit the bed. I'll never forget that.

"Go..." his voice is broken. Sad and shattered. God, I did that to him.

"Bren-"

"Get the fuck out of here!" He screams with tears running down his face.

"Brendon please..."

"Who was it?" His voice is quiet now.

"It's not important," my voice breaks, "I'm sorry, Jesus I'm sorry."

He walks over to me and smells my shirt, my skin, then he looks at me. "Oh my god, you reek of him," his nose crinkles. "Get the fuck away from me!"

*(7 days later)

"I swear to fucking god if any of you ask me one more fucking time how to play a bar chord I will kill you!" I slur, pouring another mini bottle of jack into my coffee cup.

"But Mr. Weekes-"

"Laurel..." I stand up wobbly from my desk, "you're a smart girl," I look her in the eye and rest my index finger under her chin, "use the Internet Kay?"

The class is silent as I take a sip of the coffee/whiskey in my hand. I turn my back to them and wave them away like they're a swarm of flies around my head.

"I'm going to take a fucking nap," I run my eyes and trip over the piano stool that was left pushed out. "And clean up after yourselves god damn it!"

*(12 days later)
I don't remember when or why I started walking home. I think I actually realized how drunk I was and I'm not that bad of a terrible person. I mean... maybe I would actually swerve into traffic. Maybe someone would hit me and be lucky enough to get rid of me. Maybe they'd be saving the world by doing it.

So now I walk with my gig bag and a briefcase full of disheveled paper. My shirt is always untucked, my hair ruffled and tie a mess.

I stopped caring.

When I get home, I don't change. I flop on my bed and fall asleep. I dream of Brendon; his eyes, his smile, his laugh, his obsession with frank Sinatra, his love. Him. I have nightmares of Ryan Ross. He haunts me. His eyes, the way he touched me, the sounds he made. He kills me.

As I walk I mumble to myself. I'm sure people think I'm crazy. I think I'm crazy.

"Dallon!" I trip over a crack in the sidewalk. "What the fuck are you doing?" A car pulls up next to me. It looks familiar, the same make, model. Brendon's car. Brendon's voice.

"M'walking," I slur drunkenly.

"Jesus you're drunk..." I notice his hazards are on and he's getting out of the car.

"What're y'doin?"

"I'm taking you home..." his voice screams pity and disappointment. He gets me in the car and I giggle. I play with the windows and the AC vents, my motor skills severely compensated.

He pulls into my driveway and helps me inside. My house is a mess and it smells like old liquor and piss. I try to climb the stairs but trip over my long legs, he rushes to help me and I let him because I can't tell the difference between my shoe and the tan carpeting. We get to my bed room and he lays me down, helping me out of my wrinkled shirt. His hand goes to my zipper, "HEY! Don't touch me there!"

He rolls his eyes and continues taking of my jeans. Once my clothes are off he rolls me onto my side, "take care of yourself." He turns and walks away from me.

"Bren?"

He stops and stands still for a moment before turning around slowly.

"I'm sorry..."

<3