Dylan returned to his table while Bryce called Katie outside. He sullenly sank down into the chair and sighed, staring down at the lukewarm buffet food and the still-bubbling fizzy drink before him.
"You okay?" asked Sarah curiously.
The man narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it right now."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the circular table; one by one, the others quietly noticed the empty space beside Dylan. Mrs. Matthews cleared her throat and whispered, "Are you okay?"
"I said I don't want to talk about it!" he snapped, the exclamation coming out louder than he had intended. His mother withdrew and very slowly, the energy shifted away from Dylan, leaving him feeling desolate and alone at the table.
This was the time when Dylan pondered what Bryce had said carefully, where he poured over every word that had escaped either's mouth in an attempt to find, maybe, a hidden meaning beneath their conversation.
There wasn't one. Bryce's message was straightforward – he was tired of Dylan continuously avoiding a problem and he wanted him to address it. But the issue was that he didn't know how. And it didn't help that Dylan didn't know the issue, either.
Dylan excelled at ignoring his feelings; it had become second nature. Parts of his life he preferred to leave behind. 'Why can't Bryce accept that?' he wondered, shuffling his now-cold food on the plate. Brows furrowed in contemplation, Dylan went back to what Bryce had said first –
"I know...so little about you."
'Why was that such a big deal?' Dylan wondered, standing to get another glass of cola from the open bar. 'It wasn't like he didn't know my birthday.' Incidentally, Bryce didn't know Dylan's birthday, only knowing the month from the monthly birthday celebrations at work. It had fallen under the jurisdiction of "Things I Will Tell You Later", and never addressed again.
If Dylan had bothered to tell Bryce, they would've discovered they were a month apart – Bryce being August 18th and Dylan being September 17th. But this was a logical oversight in Dylan's head. It simply didn't appear in the larger picture that he was looking at.
He moved on.
"So what'? So what? That's important to me. How do you think it makes me feel, knowing that I'm in love with someone, and I didn't even know they were allergic to Swiss cheese?"
Dylan tapped his fingers against the bar's countertop. "I did tell him, right?" he wondered openly. No recollection presented itself in his head. 'How can Bryce freak out about something like that?'
Useless facts sprouted up in his head. Bryce learned to ride a bicycle before he even approached a tricycle.
'So?'
He doesn't like brussel sprouts, and has no reason to not like them.
He knows the plot of Jane Eyre back to front, and, following his breakup with Becca, refused to ever touch it. He previously believed Jane Austen wrote the book.
'...okay, so?'
Bryce drew fictional maps and studied topography in his spare time after school.
Architecture hadn't presented itself until the final years of primary school, and he immediately enveloped himself in it. He planned out entire towns, cities even. He became fascinated with the population of cities around the world throughout history.
Bryce liked Arts & Crafts, Art Deco, and Gothic architecture styles the best; he claimed they "presented more character than the others".
'Oh.'
He was once good with the written word. He won a literary contest in primary school for "Best Ending"; the ribbon sits now against a picture frame on their shared bureau. The skill eroded as time went on.
'Oh God.'
The human body had presented an interesting topic when he contracted scarlet fever at age twelve. He wanted to know why his body had failed him, and studied human biology at university as a minor degree. That branched into his odd fascination with slasher movies and medical dramas, which he couldn't sit through.
Bryce' parents had tried to give him an idyllic childhood. He had supportive Soulmate parents, who stayed together, and raised four children and a dog to the best of their ability. In an attempt to see their son succeed, they had encouraged him to develop studious habits that neglected his interests; subsequently, Bryce felt neglected in his creative skills, and left West Ashhey as means of escape.
But Bryce had shared with Dylan the good and bad of growing up in West Ashhey. He recognised growing up in the small hamlet as a fundamental part of him, and had come to accept it. All Dylan had to do was ask about it, and Bryce obliged.
"I'll tell you later, okay?"
Dylan felt his chest hollow out. "Oh," he whispered. He moved on to the next part.
"Why do I still feel like I'm not close to you?"
'Did you really not know that that was important to him?' Dylan's instinct was to say "yes", but doubt cast his answer back into the depths of his mind. He returned to the table, sans drink, and asked openly, "Did I just not want to think about it?"
If it hadn't been clear to Dylan already, the importance Bryce placed on the people he trusted was immense. If he trusted you, you were important. If he liked you, you had an ally forever. If he wronged you, you'd work to gain that trust back, and vise-versa.
"Why do I still feel like I'm not close to you?"
Dylan clenched his jaw and looked down at the table, his dish still in front of him and looking so unappetizing. Licking his lips, he wondered over the phrase. 'Bryce was about to cry.' A cynical little voice in the back of his head laughed.
He couldn't find an answer, or he couldn't find logical reasoning as to why he had blatantly ignored it. "Next," he mumbled pathetically.
"You might be softer, but you're still Dylan from a year ago. Someone so untouchable, who doesn't let anyone in. Someone who's so afraid of being vulnerable that you go to great lengths to avoid it. You're not alone in the world anymore, Dylan."
The words felt freshly spoken. They stung, to the point where Dylan excused himself and departed for the toilet, to throw water on his face in the hopes of calming down. But what stared back at him from the bathroom mirror was an insomniac, with red eyes and dark rings hanging beneath his eyelids, looking so exhausted and drained of life.
He threw more water on his face. The image continued to stare Dylan down; desperately, he turned up the temperature and wet his face again, which burned against his skin, turning his cheeks red. Now water dripped down his chin and followed his neck to his shirt, wetting his collar.
But still what looked back at him was a hollow, unhappy shell of a man.
Dylan leaned forward, over the bathroom sink, and watched as the mirror began to fog up from the heat of both the still-running sink and his own breath.
"Dylan?" The man in question turned and locked eyes with younger brother David. Black leather clung to his arms and hung limply at his sides. "You sick or something?"
Dylan immediately turned away. "N-no," he replied. "I just...needed a moment."
"Okay," David replied, shrugging, leaving Dylan alone, again, in the bathroom.
Dylan stared back into the mirror. Steam continued to rise from the now-shaking faucet that rattled against his hands. "Okay," he mumbled, finally turning the faucet off and filling the bathroom with silence. Now Dylan's breath felt too loud. "I don't have a good answer, do I?" he wondered, reaching for a paper towel to dry his face.
'Yes you do. Fucking address it,' his mind snapped.
He wiped his face dry slowly, breathing carefully to clear his head. Tossing the paper towel into the bin, he addressed his reflection and whispered, "You're not the person I want to be." Inhaling with an unsteady breath, he continued, "Is that enough?"
Something inside him said it wasn't. Something else said it was progress.
Slightly satisfied, Dylan wiped his face, turned on his heels, and headed for the door.
"Dylan," came a surprised voice. Dylan shut his mouth tightly, his jaw placing pressure on his teeth.
And Dylan was suddenly face-to-face with his father.
Mr. Matthews was dressed in a pale blue buttondown, with a thin black tie hanging limply against his chest. His pants were black with pinstripes, and his shoes were aged black leather. His hair had faded, now hanging around his ears and the back of his head. His teeth remained crooked, but now were stained yellow by tobacco. A pair of black glasses hung, folded, against his collar.
Dylan froze.
His father looked astonished at seeing his eldest son, and stepped back once. "How are you, my boy?" he asked, clasping Dylan's hand in his; he sounded uninterested. "Heard you've gotten a Soulmate. How are they?"
All Mr. Matthews got was a look of despised pain, because that's all that Dylan could muster at the time. Internally, Dylan was both panicking and screaming. Mr. Matthews asked more questions concerning Dylan's life in his absence, but Dylan remained quiet, seething with rage of all the things he wanted to say to his father.
"All right then," Mr. Matthews continued, taken aback by the silence. He began pushing past Dylan for the toilet. "If you'll excuse me – " he said, sidestepping his son and entering the bathroom.
Dylan was, evidently, holding his breath, and let forth a heavy sigh as his whole being shook. He had intended to tell his father how much he hated him, how much he hated that the man broke his mother's heart. He wanted to say that, because of him, his abandonment had resulted in a negatively shifted mindset that Dylan regretted, that the two life goals he had were his father's fault, and his fear of turning into him had changed him drastically.
He was more devastated that his father appeared to have no remorse for his actions.
'Okay.'
Dylan returned to the event room and sat down in his chair. His food was gone, but he didn't notice. His first instinct was to warn his mother. "Mom – "
"I know, sweetie." Mrs. Matthews seemed serene, undeterred even, from the present situation. She spoke with Aunt Bee calmly, her words flowing easily.
He tugged on the woman's arm gently. "...aren't you mad at Dad?" he asked quietly.
Mrs. Matthews sluggishly looked to her son and explained, "I'm still mad for him breaking my heart, sweetie. But I'm not mad for him being here."
"Why?"
She licked her lips, eyes dropping to Piper, lying beside her on the floor. "Because there's nothing I can do. He's here. I might not like that he's here, but he's here."
Dylan blinked. "I...I don't understand."
Mrs. Matthews excused herself from conversing with Aunt Bee and shifted in her seat before looking to him again. "Sweetie, what your father did, to me, is terrible. Unforgivable to some people, even." She paused. "I know your cousins won't forgive him for it." She wiped her fingertips under her eye and sighed. "But sometimes, I do miss him. But..." Mrs. Matthews paused, collecting her words thoughtfully. "...what ended up happening...that's, just...something I can't change."
Dylan frowned and sunk into his seat. "...wish you had told me that before," he grumbled.
His mother smiled, but just for a moment. "You know the saying, 'time heals all wounds'?" She scooted closer to Dylan, her expression turning more melancholic. "Time...doesn't heal everything. There's just a point where the pain becomes...duller. More manageable, I should say. People don't forget things like this. But...forgetting it is, in my opinion, different than moving on from it."
Dylan's frown intensified. "Why didn't you say that sooner?"
"It's hard to change feelings, sweetie," she told him. "I didn't want to force you into moving on; everyone moves on in their own time."
He sank further into his chair. "God dammit," Dylan muttered, burying his face in his hands. "How do you know if you've moved on?"
Mrs. Matthews shrugged. "Sometimes, it just...sort of happens. Other times, it's more complicated." She shifted again in her chair, facing straightforward. "I know you're still mad at him, but being angry at what he did won't change things. I've told you this." Her eyes drifted towards her son again and finished with, "I'm not saying you should completely forgive your father. But, he's still your father. And right now, all you need to do is address that it happened, that it affected you...and you move on from it."
He sank further into his chair while she attended to a tired terrier. Dylan felt an uncomfortable lump in his throat before he pulled out his phone. He had neglected to notice the time – almost two hours since Bryce had departed from Dylan's family reunion.
Bryce?
hi
can i come back inside its turned
hot outside
I'm sweating like a pig
hi
I don't have all the answers, but I
got some.
Really?
yeah
and?
Overall
i don't think im a good person
wow that is not what i was
expecting
why do you say that? ?
Because I've basically been an
asshole to you and I don't want tobe that anymore and I don't knowhow not to be
Because you're right, I didn't
want you to get close to me. WhyI don't know.
...
what were some of the answers
you came up with?
I'm an asshole for not telling you
anything.
i'm an asshole for not being more
considerate of how you felt
And im sorry for making you feel
bad
htose aren't answers, dylan
Dylan audibly swallowed, blinking back a burning sensation behind his eyes before messaging back Bryce.
Please help me.
Bryce, please. I don't know what
to do.
Let me ask you this first:
okay
why should I stay?
A shaky breath descended into Dylan's lungs, his limbs momentarily freezing. On the impulse, and because he couldn't bear to type out why, he called Bryce.
"Yes?" he answered, quite calmly.
"Why are you doing this?" Dylan gasped, covering his mouth to shield his words from the surrounding relatives.
"Because you experienced it yourself; Soulmates don't have to stay together. I don't want to, just, coexist, in the same flat as you, and I don't want to feel abandoned again, Dylan. And I know you don't want to feel that way, either. You know that I'm all in. And even if you don't, here it is now: I love you with my dumb, mushy heart and I want to spend the rest of my stupid life with you and only you. I know you're messed up and I don't want to change that about you. Everyone's messed up. But I want to spend my life with you because you're messed up in your own nice way. I love you for you."
Dylan sighed. Unbeknownst to him, his Glow lit, but only for a moment. Longing washed through him briefly, and Dylan hung up the phone. Standing without a word, he left the room and headed out towards the front lobby.
Bryce caught sight of his Soulmate exiting the front doors and approaching him. "Why'd you hang up on me?"
Dylan sat down beside him and rested his head on Bryce's shoulder. "Ask me something. Something you want to know. Something. Anything."
"What?"
"Do it."
Bryce clenched his jaw, more than half of him expecting those four words he'd become accustomed to, before asking, quite earnestly, "What's something you don't like?"
Dylan's first impulse was to say "I'll tell you later", but he bit his tongue and forced out, his words hoarse, "I hate dark chocolate. I – it's jus – it's so gross."
Bryce's eyes watched Dylan's face carefully. "What?"
"I really hate dark chocolate," Dylan repeated, his eyes meeting Bryce's. A thin line of mist had cluttered around his eyelashes, and the man quickly wiped them away. "It's...uncomfortable," he admitted.
"The chocolate?"
"No, this," he confessed, gesturing between the two. "Well – yes, but, also this."
Bryce sighed and pressed his forehead gently against Dylan's. "You don't know how much this means to me."
"I...I-I didn't have answers. I don't have anything you asked for, though," he whimpered.
"No, not that," Bryce whispered back. "That you tried for me. That you made the effort. That you're trying to open up." Bryce briefly chuckled and kissed him. "You don't know how much that means to me."
Dylan exhaled slowly and pressed his forehead up against Bryce's again. "Does this mean we're okay?" he asked with bated breath.
"Right now, yeah," Bryce mumbled. Dylan sighed in relief and snaked his fingers between Bryce's. "To me, we're okay."