My favorite throam quotes

Volume 3: II, chapter 2

Savage

I try to sound sleepier than I am: for the past twenty minutes I've been listening to Brendon moving about the house. Wondering when to get up, what to say, how to behave. I wonder if he slept at all because I didn't.

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But in some ways, maybe he's a little bit right: Brendon and I both know all the shit we've put each other through, but we seem to be... okay. We're not okay, of course we're not Okay with a capital O, but we're okay with what's happened. The unchangeable past. And like he said, that past cannot necessarily be justified, but we have to accept it, anyway. As fact.

Because it happened. And we can either remain angry about it or just accept that we have to live with it.

We have to live with it. And we're okay with the unpleasant fact.

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And he smiles happily, and I realise that he's forgotten how ugly it got with Brendon and I towards the end. How we were just trying to tear each other apart.

Savage and brutal.

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I think back to the two of them on stage, Brendon's hand on Dallon's chest, recall that spark of anger in me that I wasn't entitled to, especially now if we want to be friends, regardless of how forced that title may be.

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"Wow, that is gay."

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Sisky and I have stepped right into the very heart of the His Side family, however. I can't help but feel like I'm intruding.

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Watch me trespass because I can.

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He sighs when he sees me, but he doesn't sigh at me. And that's something.

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"You guys!" she repeats, her voice breaking. She's wide-eyed and pale. She looks at Jon, and her eyes are full of unshed tears. It's bad. Whatever it is, it's bad, and a hundred different scenarios run through my head and – "Ian's in the hospital."

The silence that follows, I find, is the deafening kind.

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They look broken, like a limb's been torn off.

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I wish he'd cry. He'd look more human if he did. I'd feel less worried about him if he did.

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Fuck, I'll take anything but his tears. That's the one thing I've never been able to stand: if he cries.

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"Hey, listen," I say, making the mistake of reaching out and touching his arm gently. He instantly pulls back as if he's been burned.

He lifts his hands in clear rejection. "Don't fucking touch me, alright?"

I try not to take it personally. I can't

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There are a few things I know well in this world, and Brendon Urie is one of them. Or used to be. In some ways still is.

This isn't about me at all. This is all him.

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I try to remember my place, but it's hard with my fingers in his hair, carding softly, tracing patterns at the bottom of his skull, my fingers moving in soothing, soothing circles.

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Make him feel better no matter at what cost.