(For Tay. Obviously. ♡
Warnings: referenced drug/alcohol use
...and angst, angst, angst.)
When Brad's with you, he turns into a cliche. A living, breathing, jealous-wannabe-boyfriend stereotype, complete with boyishly modest good looks and pent-up emotional damage.
Hell, this could just be another movie.
But it's not. He looks at you, and he really feels something; you make him dizzy when you smile, weak in the knees when you laugh, -- no, weak everywhere.
It feels like lightning strikes his heart when you're near him; hell, you're electrifying. It might feel good, if these emotions of his didn't come with such a great amount of guilt. Because, lately, when you smile or laugh, it usually isn't because of him.
It's the other guy, -- so different from Brad, yet so perfect for you.
Brad hates himself for hating him, but that doesn't keep the animosity from sticking around. It just deepens his personal troubles, turning the stormy feeling inside of him into a full-blown hurricane.
He knows he's only worsening the downpour right now, knocking back drink after drink on one of the far ends of your beat-up couch. He knows by now that alcohol does nothing to quell the rage, but everything to drown out the pain. And he'd much rather be pissed than feel that deep, widespread hurt, gnawing right through his laboriously-crafted exterior, down to the bone.
At this point, he kind of figures he has the right to be pissed.
It didn't used to be like this; when he'd call you, seeking solace at your place for the night, there was never anyone there. When he walked through your door, he finally felt it was safe to let his guard down. Blitzed, high, or stone-cold sober, he was always safe with you; free to be weak, afraid. He could wrap his arms around you without fear of judgement, drown in the comfort of your warmth, lost and vulnerable and unlike himself, -- or at least, what everybody else saw. You'd always hug him right back, the only person who could ever show him so much genuine care with a single wordless gesture.
Then you'd lead him inside, pour him a glass of cold water, toss him a blanket, and listen attentively as he poured his heart out or absentmindedly hummed a tune, trying to tell himself that none of the things that made him so miserable had ever really happened at all. Even when he went completely silent, you stayed by his side, just as solemn as you would be if he hunkered down to tell you his entire life story in a single evening. You never pushed him any further, not even once; you just reached your hand out to him, closing whatever space there was between you.
You were there then. And now, you aren't.
Not with Brad, at least. He feels like little more than a bystander as you fawn over your new companion. Hell, with the way you keep touching each other, he figures his presence is practically voyeuristic.
He can't find comfort in your company anymore. Just the light of the TV, the ticking of the clock, and his loneliness.
He sighs, looking back up at the aforementioned clock on the wall. It's well past midnight already; he thinks he best leave you alone, go back to his shitty trailer and his empty bed, where he'd try and try to resist his stash but never work up the guts to flush it all down the toilet.
Resigned and exhausted, he rises to his feet.
Surprising as it might be to him, you notice.
"Where are you going?"
He shrugs. Nonchalant. Cold.
"Home." He spits that word out bitterly, like the nastiest medicine in the world. He reaches for his jacket on your coat rack, not wanting to risk turning around to look at you. Even if the two of you are growing apart, he's still afraid that you'd be able to see right through him.
Much to his dismay, he soon hears your footfalls. You pad towards him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. "So soon?"
He flinches, resisting the urge to shake you off. Your touch just doesn't feel right anymore. "It's late," he says. "We should probably be getting to sleep--"
"You know you can stay here, right?"
With those last words, he feels a hot rush of anger flow through his veins. Maybe it isn't fair, but he can't help it; sure, maybe he could stay, but he wouldn't feel welcome. He'd just be a nuisance.
Just like he is everywhere else, he thinks.
The fact is, he's bitter. As long as you're taken by this new guy, things will never go back to being like they were before. There won't be any more late nights when he swears he could pour his heart out to you at any moment, no more early mornings afterwards when he's able to shamelessly admire you, standing in your pajamas whilst making breakfast for the two of you, turning now and then to smile at him over your shoulder while he strums absentmindedly at his guitar.
Worst of all, he feels like he can't hold out hope anymore. Hope that maybe this eternal in-between phase might blossom into something more one day. Hope that he might truly believe a promise one day, just as long as it's the two of you, promising each other forever.
Pathetic as it was, he had been dreaming of one day making you his wife since he first laid eyes on you when he was fifteen. He could never watch you with another guy in good conscience, all the while thinking such stupid, boyish thoughts.
All these feelings bubbling up inside him make his hands shake. Miraculously, he maintains enough composure to force out two coherent words. "I... can't," he manages from between gritted teeth.
"Can't what?" you ask. Jesus, you're so damn oblivious.
Brad doesn't answer. Instead, he pulls on his coat and opens the door, escaping into the cold.
He doesn't expect you to follow, calling after him with concern in your voice. To be quite honest, he really wishes that you wouldn't.
"Brad?"
He tries his best not to answer, but that's sort of hard when you're chasing after him, for God's sakes, practically begging for him to talk to you. "Brad... please. Where are you even going?"
Annoyed, he whips around, fire flashing in his eyes. That look seems to surprise you, causing you to stumble back a bit.
And yet, he doesn't seem to be worried about scaring you when he tells, letting all the frustration within him erupt. "Jesus!" he yells. "Why don't you just stop being fake and leave me alone?" Shaking, he looks down at his sneakers, kicking a loose pebble across the pavement.
"Come on," he continues, his voice quieter, but no less severe. "I know you want to. Run."
But you don't run. You remain rooted to your spot, your own body beginning to tremble. For whatever reason, he's obviously hurt. But you're not going to baby him and act like he hasn't hurt you, too. If nothing else, you and Brad were always honest with each other.
Or at least, you thought you were.
"Fake?" you ask, your voice cracking. You take a step closer to him, trying to stand tall. "What about me seems so "fake" to you, Brad? I'd never lie to you. Ever. I thought you trusted me more--"
"I do trust you," he spits back. "That's the whole damned problem. I trust you more than anything, and you know it. You're just too scared to walk away and leave me." He stops kicking at the pavement, allowing himself to meet your eyes. "Well, I don't care. Go ahead and leave me. I can promise you that it's nothing new."
You shake your head, tears beginning to prick at your eyes. God, he's scaring you. "What the hell are you talking about?" you demand. "Why would I want to leave you? Do you want me to leave you?"
He shakes his head. "Jesus Christ! No! No, I don't!"
At this point, you're letting the tears flow freely. You can't even remember a time he's yelled at you like this before now, and you still have no idea what you've done to upset him. "What is it then?" you ask weakly. "Tell me what you're seeing that I'm not."
He sighs, clenched fists falling to his sides. At this point, he's all but ready to surrender. Yet, your icy stare grabs hold of him and doesn't let go.
"I know that you're pretty much ready to be done with me," he starts, "because of your new... boy toy."
Those last two words are daggers, coated in venom. They make sure that you end up just as pissed as he is.
"Are you serious?" you yell. "God, Brad! You can't do this! What are we, sixth graders?"
He doesn't respond, staring back at you blankly.
"I care about you," you continue, "but I am allowed to love other people. It's nothing that you haven't done before."
He snaps to attention at that. When he speaks again, his voice is much less severe, -- soft, even. "Love?" he asks. "You--"
You place your hands on your hips, fed up. "Yes, Brad," you say. "I'm falling in love with him. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
He hangs his head. "Not... particularly." He looks back up at you, hoping he can form just one sentence that might aid him in explaining all of this. Any attempt to do so is fruitless; all that will come from his mouth now is a mess of stammers. "I--"
Shaking with anger, you step closer to him. "What is it?" you ask. "What do you want from me?"
"I--" Finally, he stops, seeming to give up. "Dammit."
Before you can even tell what's happening, his hand is on the side of your face. And then his mouth is on yours, -- hard, angry, kissing you in a way that seems so passionate and meaningful. Your eyes drift close as everything slowly falls into place.
Oh.
You feel like an idiot, considering how obvious it all seems.
After what seems like an eternity, he pulls away. As soon as he backs away from you, you can already see the look in his eyes, -- they flash with regret. "I love you," he finally manages, sounding utterly broken. "And I'm sorry."
With that, he begins to walk away, leaving your heart breaking. Not sure what else to do, you grab his hand, helplessly calling his name once again. "Brad."
Reluctantly, he turns around. "What?"
Desperate to keep him here, you wrap your arms around him, pulling him to you. "I love you, too," you mutter, burying your face into his shoulder. "I'll make him leave for the night. Just please, please stay."
He stays quiet, trying to make sense of all this as he breathes in the scent of your hair. Finally, he speaks again, and you can hear the scared little boy in his voice. "What are we gonna do?" he murmurs.
"I don't know," you answer quietly. "We'll think about it tomorrow. Just please..." You pull away, looking up into his eyes. "I need you here tonight."
Knowing that he truly has no choice, he nods. "Yeah," he manages. "Alright."
You manage a shaky smile as you pull away. "Good," you say. "You know, you can always have the couch..."
Your hand slips into his as you pull him along with you, back towards your house. "...and I'll take the floor."