This is my first fic that I've actually published on wattpad (also I write short chapters) have fun
Suffixes are entertaining things. They can completely change the meaning of a word with two or three letters. Like to liked, love to loved. They can change completely the meaning of how you perceive relationships and lives. Like I said, suffixes are funny things.
Brendon POV
The dressing rooms at our venue were the backstage of the backstage. The room was large and empty, save a couple tall chairs, mirrors, and a closet. It was were where I usually went first before a concert (The makeup person- I didn't remember her name was long gone). Then, I'd go to wherever the rest of the band decided to warmup and try not to fuck up my hair and makeup. Usually, that plan didn't work too well.
"Hey, Brendon." I hear a soft voice greet me from the entrance of the airy room. It's Ryan- not that I needed his voice to identify him. He could have walked down the hallway, I still know it would be him just from his gait. I glance over from the large, brightly lit mirror in front of me and twist in my chair to face him. His brown hair is falling into his face, and I'd like to brush it away, but I don't move towards him, opting to stay in my seat.
"Hey, Ryan. What's up?" I respond nonchalantly, eyes flickering over his body, but not lingering. He's got on a black shirt with a dipping v neck, and a colorful scarf over it. A brown jacket rests over his shoulder and grey jeans adorn his legs, hugging them tightly. It's hard not to stare.
"You ready yet?" He asks shortly and impatiently, and his uncharacteristic sharp tone reminds me that we're not in a relationship. Not anymore, at least. He meets my eyes with a fierce look, as if affirming my thoughts, but drops the gaze after a moment, instead looking at his white laces.
"I'll be out in a minute," I reply, my voice wavering slightly despite my best efforts. I turn back to the mirror and focus on my dark hair, pushing it out of my face. Anything to avoid eye contact as he leaves.
Ryan's footsteps recede down the hallway, and the lingering feeling he leaves me with is not a good one. With a soft sigh, I run a hand through my hair once again, and reach to take a drink of my beer, only to find that it's empty. Oh well. It's not like I can't find another. I quickly pull on a jacket and glance at my hair and outfit one last time before I follow the sound of Ry's footfalls through the weaving hallways that could be considered a maze.
Instead of following him directly to the warm up room, I take a sparsely used, narrow hallway to a catwalk that sat over the stage, one similar to the catwalk near me that was previously used for lighting. Its a miracle I even noticed the dilapidated hallway leading to the metal path, far above the eyes of the passing audience. From my perch high above, I observe the growing crowd, watching people trickle into the large, open field to watch the opening band or find good seating where they can. People walk in groups, some with fingers laced together and others laughing at something their companions might have said. Colorful towels decorate the grass, drawing my attention to each family or group of friends. Essentially, it was the ideal concert setting.
I've been up here for awhile, I realize with a jolt and practically sprint down the stairs, metal clanging under my feet. It quickly turns into the thud of wood as I skitter around corners, hoping the rest of the band hadn't noticed my absence for too long. Hoping, as well, that I can find my way back to the rest of my bandmates. After what feels like hours, I finally reach the warmup room, out of breath. I regain some of my composure before pushing the door open. I'm met with the overwhelming smell of cigarettes and I cough into my elbow for a moment, lifting my eyes through the smoke and focusing on the rest of my bandmates in various states if frustration/ panic.
"Brendon, where the fuck have you been?"
