"Ryan, there's someone here with me."

The phone line stills, bewilderment clouding my friend's cognition. "Patrick, I don't know what you mean."

"No one ever does." Hysteria caps my voice, mutilating a laugh while it's at it. "I mean there's someone in this house that I haven't seen in two years that shouldn't be here."

"Two years..." Ryan's words crunch with aposiopesis, rebuilding themselves later. "Wasn't that—"

"Yes, now you need to help me."

Noises from the other end vary, a few ruffling sonatas, a few creaks of the chair below my companion. "How so?"

My tone commits to a brontide, wholly serious. "If you see a man you don't know, that's the one. There are a few new people here, but you'll know him when you see him."

"How am I supposed to—"

I kill the line.

~~~~~

"Brendon! Ryan!" Gerard greets, welcoming the two men into his quite lovely home with a grand smile plasticizing his face.

They're as homosexual as I've seen them, hands like satin in each other — natural and smooth — which suggests that they've finally admitted their obvious feelings for one another, and though I have been rooting for them since the beginning, something sinister maledicts my stomach and warps any sort of affection for them to bile.

Expeditiously after Ryan steps inside, his vision cycles to a mysterious man reclining on the sofa, and his fascination is piqued — but not favorably. His glances are pendulums swinging my way, and without acknowledging anyone else — such as Lindsey and Frank and Pete, the people he's never met — he tugs me aside.

"You saw him, did you?" I prompt.

"The tall one with the gloves?" Ryan gestures around his head in a poor imitation of Dallon's coiffure, and I simply nod.

"That's the one."

My friend's mouth swipes back and forth, disconcerted. "Patrick, I'm glad that you're finally sharing the details of your attack with me, but why the hell is he still here?"

"Because."

Ryan sighs, opting for a different engagement. "What's his name then?"

"Dallon James Weekes."

"Precise." His brows cuff to his forehead in sway.

"You tend to know these things when litigating someone."

"You never filed a lawsuit, though."

"I prefer practices within the mind." I tap my skull twice, gesturing like my mother tells me I should. "I usually imagine him in a cell among grimy prisoners."

"As long as you're content, I'm fine," Ryan confirms, grinning proficiently, but thunderclouds roll in soon after. "But you should tell someone about this. Maybe Gerard should know."

My head strikes to the side, denouncing the proposition. "No way. That's where I draw the line."

"You have to take care of yourself," Ryan prays, creases materializing on his regularly youthful face, which reminds me of the fact that he's the only one who seems to be authentically involved with my worries and will go to great lengths to solve them, but that's not what I need now, even if I normally would regard it as a helpful thing.

The moment people start suggesting what I should and shouldn't do with my life, I have to put my foot down, because I've witnessed what it's like to have someone reign over every aspect of my life and evoke the feeling that I'm being watched, because I am — and, though perhaps accidentally, they have inflicted the obsessions of surveillance in my brain and doomed me to their own OCD diagnosis as a ploy to make me dependent on them.

But I am taking care of myself, contrary to Ryan's thesis, by warding my soul against the terrors of my obsession's antagonist, the thing that orders my compulsions to expunge it, but getting my friends trapped inside my crisis with Dallon isn't taking care of myself, so Ryan would be better off if I didn't.

"I'm trying to."

Dubiety blotches Ryan's mocha eyes, and his words dress in more acerbity than planned for. "No, I don't think you are."

"And how would you know?" I flash, teeth smirched in a swift hatred. "There are some people in the world who aren't good at maintaining themselves, but at least they attempt to do so."

"Patrick..." Ryan's sentence ends there, until a derisive expression inspires him. "Why do you always look at me like that?"

"I'm studying you," I answer, vision still sponging onto him in a narrow streak.

"For?"

Tacit frustration blurs my legibility, but it doesn't carry towards my tone, a tactic I've acquired throughout my exposure to it. "I study everyone, especially their eyes, brows, and composure."

"Why?"

"I've been told I need to improve with facial recognition, but it seems as though I've become the master at it because of that advice."

The man before me cocks his head, asking, "Is this an autism thing?"

"So what if it is?" I vent a bit too obnoxiously.

"Then that's all right," Ryan contends, securing himself from my spite, "but is your resistance towards seeking help also an autism thing?" When I don't respond, he tows me into the nearest room and closes the door, lounging in the chair as I stand in front of him.

My lips blear with furtiveness, and another reply endeavors to settle him. "I'm not at liberty to say."

"Oh, come on!" my friend exclaims, hands elevating. "You have full volition over yourself, so why don't you use it?"

"Because I really don't have full volition over myself, and you should know that."

An exhale whistles through Ryan's lungs, and his hand mows the coffee shades of his hair with a distressing mien. "I'm sorry, Patrick."

"It's okay." My voice is dim and submissive, typical of my partial lies toted through anxiety of telling people how I really feel, and once again, it's successful.

"No, it's not okay," Ryan negates. "I'm a terrible friend to you, when the definition of a friend is someone who assists another person, but I'm not doing that."

"You're trying your best," I allow, somewhat perturbed by Ryan's insistence.

"And that's a fine example of the effect it has on you." His mouth adheres to the air, pausing before he sends the next portion of his speech. "You learn to accept the pittance that you're given, because you know that you'll never get more, and that's not your fault; it's mine."

"I said it's okay."

"I'll try to upgrade, yeah?" Ryan's demeanor is sullied with prospect, and I'll definitely be spoiled by guilt if I don't grant him something.

"Whatever, if that floats your boat."

My friend's face forms a depression, his hope stomped upon by my pessimism. "You don't sound very excited."

"That's because I'm used to being ignored."

"Everyone can adapt," Ryan implores, truly eager.

"Not me."

He groans, pushing back in his chair. "Have some faith."

As my companion corrugates his arms, I wobble on my feet uncomfortably with a concession on my tongue. "Faith isn't my specialty."

"Obviously."

Ryan doesn't notice my hardship, though he promised only minutes before that he would pay close attention to my needs, and I suppose I couldn't have expected so much from a mere person, because even when they go so far as to ensure things, the notion is forgotten soon after, so I only glue my limbs to my hips and halt as my friend's apprehension continues.

"Are you elated for Christmas at least?" Ryan grieves, completely neglecting his assurance that he'd act in a friendly way around me, but I suppose part of it may be my fault, because I've been described as stubborn far too often for it to be nondescript, but even so, it's reneging on our pact, so my standing is mostly disgruntled.

I shrug without an opinion on the subject, murmuring, "I guess."

Letdown spurns Ryan's face, and I fidget from his foiled impression. "Is that the best you can do?"

"Probably, yeah."

Mild laughter smokes the house, a tad originating from the ferocious Dallon Weekes, and noticing the mournful twitch on my lips, Ryan rises and escorts me out of the room to meet the rest of the people.

"Consider telling Gerard, won't you?" he whispers on our way out, a bit too close for my liking, but he backs up after.

"Maybe."

"Okay." A beam espouses my friend's geniality, and he delays to absorb its full power. "That's all I wanted."

I don't reciprocate any form of communication, only follow Ryan into the living room, where Gerard has already opened a bottle of sparkling apple cider and is pouring it into champagne glasses for Lindsey to distribute amongst the guests.

Pete snares my attention, desisting his activity with Frank to stare longingly at me. As I trudge over, he pats a seat on the couch next to him and invites me to sit. "What was that all about?"

I glance over at Ryan, then at Dallon, who is heartily chatting with Lindsey about the various sciences of wine, as if he's some sort of oenophile without a prior interest in those beverages before. "We were just...catching up."

"Did you have a good time?" Pete shifts over so that he's more properly addressing me, his extremity leashed onto the back of the couch.

"Yeah" flows as a reflex,but we both know it's biased. I just don't have the courage to tell him.

~~~~~

A/N: beedo beedo now someone knoe

current vibe: when my friend recorded me singing so I could get my rubber maggot back

~Duhkoota