Ryan's not really happy, hasn't been in a while. He looks the part, though, puts on a smile and forces out a laugh or two to show people he's fine.
On the inside, however, everything is different. Inside he's miserable; inside he's weeping tears of pure, bitter sorrow. Sometimes it gets to be too much to keep inside, like a bathtub filling up to the point of overflowing, spilling secrets all over the dirty tile floor. All that he's kept bottled up inside bursts out, tears and sobs and shivers. He'll curl up in a room alone, bite his sleeve, sob into the fabric, let every little sound out to mingle with the dust in the air in hopes of drowning out his own vicious thoughts. This, however, is only when he's alone, safe in his solitude. When someone else's presence interrupts his plans to fall apart, everything is fine. Nothing is wrong.
But it's all an act. A cover-up. A mask, marvelous feathers and spot-on details and gorgeous embroidery embellishing something so dismal. It's a show of sorts, a magnificent production of immense proportions to tune out the underlying despair. He's a performer and society is his stage. It's not until he's backstage, no costume, no makeup, no spotlight, that he's the actor without a script; however if a fan should crowd him he'll hold out for an encore.
The very thought of this almost makes Ryan laugh. How has no one noticed? How has no one seen through his façade? It's a blessing and a curse to be so good an actor that no one realizes he needs help. No one sees his pain, no one sees his scarred thoughts, and no one sees his permanently unhappy emotions. And, certainly, no one sees the way his long fingers wrap around the grip of a gun, his index gracing the trigger.
Ryan holds the gun to his head, the muzzle pressed against the soft brown of his hair. He should be scared, he knows. His hand should be trembling; his breath should be ragged, coming out in short gasps as tears make their way down his colorless cheeks. Instead he's almost anticipating it, the end. He wants this. It really is for the best.
And if anyone else is hurt by this, then so be it. Everyone in his life has hurt him before. They've all made him bite his lip until it bled, hold his breath until dizziness struck, trying to keep quiet as he cried. They've all made him lock himself away in dark rooms, pull at his hair and stomp his feet, scream to invisible audiences until his throat was torn and the sounds were echoing off the walls. They've all given him his share, and now it's their turn to feel his too-familiar depression, the hot tears and constricted throats, the choked sobs and hopeless whimpers, the burning regrets and dreadful despair.
They deserve to feel what he's felt. They deserve to cry his tears. Voice his screams. They deserve to know how he feels as he pulls the trigger.
He knows it's not normal. Normal people don't think about their end, let alone causing it. Normal people don't dream about guns to the head. Normal people don't prefer this form of stress-relief. Normal people don't dream about what will happen once it's all over. Normal people don't wonder who will cry when they hear the news. Normal people don't go to sleep crying or wake up feeling like dying.
Then again, Ryan's never considered himself particularly ordinary, anyway.
So he braces himself. Takes a deep, disturbingly confident breath. Sets his finger marginally firmer on the trigger. Closes his eyes. Feels a sick half-smile spread over his lips. And prepares for it all to be over.
But there's a noise, the telltale click of a door opening, and before Ryan can open his eyes to see who had found him, he feels the gun being knocked from his hand. Ryan looks down in time to watch it hit the floor several feet away. He looks up.
Brendon stands beside him, out of breath, eyes wide and mouth agape. Ryan stares at him, wonders why he came home from work early, why he bothered reading the note Ryan had left, why he didn't just let Ryan carry on with his plan. But before he can put any of these thoughts into words Brendon is pulling him close, one arm wrapped tight around his waist and the other reaching up to run a hand through Ryan's hair.
Only seconds pass before Ryan does something he hasn't done in what seems like forever. He buries his face into Brendon's neck, presses his nose deep into the heat of his skin, and cries, his tears dampening the shoulder of Brendon's shirt, and if he's not mistaken, Brendon is crying, too. Ryan muffles his rutted breaths and loud wails as best he can although they cut through the air nonetheless. He hates hearing them, his sobs, his cries, hates hearing how broken he sounds, how wrecked he seems. He can barely hear Brendon whisper into his ear, "Shh… It's okay, don't… Don't cry…"
Brendon pulls away to look at Ryan, into his red-rimmed, watery eyes, and he sets his hands comfortingly on Ryan's thin shoulders. His voice is shaky when he says, "Don't ever do that again. You don't— I'm here, Ry. You can— you know you can talk to me, right?"
Ryan nods his head, although he's not entirely sure it's true.
Brendon opens his mouth to speak again, but when no words form he pulls Ryan into another embrace.
And for the first time in a long while, Ryan feels safe.