Graveyard Blues [Brallon]

Digging

[anyways I broke my toe so fun fun]

Hayley finds an odd sense of comfort in Brendon. She holds some comfort in me, but not nearly as much and I understand why. She's texting both of us in a group chat frantically while she's in class, reviewing the directions we left with her for our single low-maintenance pet.

Brendon had bought a hamster a month ago. He said it would make the house look more normal, but I watch it fling its shit out of the cage on a daily basis. It makes me look sane in comparison, not the other way around.

I don't have an irrational fear of airplanes like he does. It bugs him, because he doesn't understand why I don't fear death or plunging to earth at high speeds. I have to fake it each flight for his sake, and he knows it.

He's texting Hayley back with shaking hands. He's tapping his foot against the seat in front of him, and every now and then he adjusts the bands around his wrists that are intended to prevent extreme bouts of motion sickness. They don't work very well, but I don't bring it to his attention.

"Remember that one comedy show we watched on Netflix," he puts his phone down to look at me, "when the guy went to the doctors for a Xanax prescription because he had anxiety or something, and his friend told him to say he gets a little nervous on airplanes?"

I vaguely recall it. The story ended crudely. "Yes."

"Maybe I should invest in a Xanax prescription."

"You're perfectly healthy. You don't go on plane rides often. I don't see a need for them." Maybe I should look into getting Hayley some Xanax. She always seems to be on edge.

Cameras flash from behind. It's an inescapable pain, but it could be worse. I could be photographed for appearing in the century's most gruesome murder spree. I don't mind it, but Brendon does. It makes him incredibly uncomfortable.

He reaches into his carry-on backpack and pulls out two pairs of pitch black sunglasses, one for each of us. He turns around and sneers at the paparazzi before settling back into his original position and resting his head on my shoulder. He doesn't need to pretend as much, because he does love me, but he tends to play it up whenever people are watching us through a lens. I don't understand why, but I don't argue it.

More shutters go off as I press my lips to his hair and wrap my arm around his shoulder. It's a common sign of affection. Plenty of photos of my performance in various forms of the action have circled around the internet. They look normal. It's weird to see them through my eyes.

"I love when the plane gets delayed for three hours." He mutters lowly with a pained smile.

Usually, we would just wait it out and deal with the media buzzing around, but I'm exhausted. I want to get to my seat, and I want to sleep and watch the ground fly by. I grab his hand and tug him to his feet, and in the other I swing my bag over my shoulder and take his as well. "We'll catch another flight. Let's go."

They follow parallel and start hollering the closer we get to the reception desk, asking about movie deals, or why Taylor was spotted leaving my house the other day. I could easily lie and destroy her life, but I won't.

Louder and louder, they test my patience by asking about my destination, how I'm doing, if I've gotten a contract, if the false rumors are truly false. It's irritating, but tolerable. It could be worse.

Brendon grip tightens as one of the interviewers hollers above the others. "Dallon! Do you have any comments on your criminal record surfacing?"

Everyone else joins in and I buy a new set of tickets as fast as humanly possible. The receptionist is too nice, and she invites us to stay in their break room until our flight boards in an hour, and promises to let us on last and in private. Before I can say anything, Brendon accepts the invitation, and we find ourselves in their break room five minutes later.