You're on vacation with your boyfriend when you meet him. You're on a walk, cooling off from the upteenth fight you and asshat have had lately, wondering why the hell you thought shit would get better if only you'd go together to Hawaii to "reconnect." You'd rather reconnect the door with the door frame as you left, slamming it shut. You go to the beach, calming down as you watch the sunset, sun still keeping you so warm, covering your brown eyes with your hand. You forgot your damn sunglasses. Prick.
You hear a man and a woman, realizing they are a couple as their whisper-shouting argument gets clearer as they come closer; she almost shouting, him far quieter. "Brendon, I can't believe... I thought those were jokes!... You can't seriously expect me to be ok with that." You're instinctively on her side--he probably fucked up big time, pulled some entitled male bullshit and hurt her seriously.
But as they come closer, you can hear him, too. "I've never lied... Remember that....I told you then...last year."
"Come the fuck off it. I mean, maybe it'd be one thing if it were just in your early teens, but you... last month?!? You can't expect me to be ok with you being a faggot." With that word, the sympathy you had for her largely drains away, replaced with a slowly bubbling anger towards her instead. It sounds like he cheated, which obviously is not ok, but it seems like that's not really what she's upset about: the homosexuality or bisexuality is.
She shouts, he talks a bit more, but you're too busy thinking to pick up on it all, and besides, you're feeling like an...auditory voyeur. You don't want to hear his humiliation, and you wonder if she'll regret her words later, or feel righteous. You breathe a sigh of relief as she storms off, unsure if you should just pretend you heard nothing, or give him a concilliatory smile, or what.
You see him on the verge, then he tips over into it, and ok, you should try to help: it looks like he's having a full on panic attack. You pull the hairband off your wrist, pulling your black hair into a ponytail as you walk over to him. "H-hey, you ok?" you say awkardly; he sure doesn't seem so, that's why you're coming over, and you feel like a bit of a dunce. He looks too white to be native, but you wonder if there's some Hawaiian heritage there when you get close enough to see the flower tattoos on his arm, and take in his features, the wide nose and...whoa, those lips. Those are way too plump for a white boy.
He gets even more flustered, embarrassed, which just sets his anxiety off more. "Hey, B--" you cut yourself off from saying his name, worried that the knowledge you heard a lot will just make it worse for him. Your heart hurts when you see how hard he's trying not to cry. "Let it out, but try to breathe, nice and slow, ok?"
"Shitshitshit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you--"
"Honey, it's no bother, why don't you just breathe with me. Would that help?" He nods, back of his hand wiping away tears, and you breathe deep and slow, wanting to take his hand but worried that that would be too weird.
You want to hug him as he calms down, gulping for breath slowing to almost normal, shaking leaving him, a few tears flowing over, but stemming. He seems so tough and frail at the same time; it's strange. He's not a short guy, average height, but slim, and his state makes him seem smaller. Once he's relatively calm, he seems vaguely familiar, but you can't place why. He's a gorgeous boy, a really beautiful young man, at any rate, and the thought makes your cheeks heat up.
"Well, that was an awkward first meeting, huh?" you joke, smiling shyly at him.
He nods. "I feel like a dick."
You shake your head. "Don't worry about it. I was feeling peckish, if you wanted some company still?" You nod towards the nearby cafes and restaurants lining the street.
"Yeah, sure. I'm Brendon."
"Where'd you want to go?"
"This is my first time here. Is it yours?" He shakes his head. "Do you have any recommendations?"
"I know a few places we can try."
He points out a couple and you go with his second suggestion, and sit inside by the window.
"Those are Hawaiian flowers."
"Yeah. Hibiscus and plumeria."
"Are you part-Hawaiian?"
"Yeah, my mom's side is half-Polynesian. She was born in Hawaii. I'm mostly white though."
"Can I?" you ask, bringing your hand near his arm. He assents, holding his arm out, scooting closer to the table, and you reach out, stroking.
"They're so vibrant for a tattoo. They're really beautiful, Brendon." He beams at that. "My parents are both biracial," you add. "My mom is white--Scottish, and Carribean, and my dad is Jamaican and Japanese."
He smiles, looking over you again, as if your skin and features make sense now, but it doesn't feel weird.
You also run over the piano keys after looking back at him for the ok, getting a smile in return, that you give back twofold. You tell him you used to play as a kid. He did too, and still does, he says, in a band in the states, but they've toured a lot of places.
It finally clicks. "Panic at the disco, right? I thought you seemed familiar. That closing the goddamn door song?"
You look again at his tattoos, thinking about what you'd get to show your backround if you got tattoos yourself, as he starts humming the song, and you join in. You don't know it well enough to sing the words, but you know the tune, and remember the video. He was so campy in it. His fingers start drumming on the table, and you follow him for a bit, then brave placing your hand over his. His hand feels way too soft for a musician--you think guitarists would have tough hands. He gives a sly smile, entwining your hands, and you start to feel warm, fluttery.
Your phone rings, and you figure you should answer it when you see it's your boyfriend. It's late, and he'll just get more pissy if you don't. You try for a cheery "Hey, Dan-" but he cuts you off.
"Don't you 'oh hey, Daniel' me when I can see you all over that guy, y/n."
"What the fuck Daniel, are you spying on me? And I'm not all over him, we're just talking." You're not one to be a doormat, and you hate how he's the guy to try to make you one, but he had gotten close to getting away with it before tonight.
"Not spying, I'm *concerned* about my girlfriend. Who, apparently, is too busy slutting it up--"
You hang up before he can finish. "Brendon, can we get out of here. Like, now?" Now it's your turn to feel anxious. You so don't want to deal with dickhead's shit anymore, and you're worried about where he is. You want to grab Brendon's hand again, but you don't want to start anything, when he could be anywhere, in any mood.
"Yeah, sure. What's wrong?"
"Ummm...my ex, he's here, and I want to get the fuck away from here."
He looks concerned. "Yeah, sure...has he--nevermind, we barely know each other. You don't have to tell me."
Has he hurt you? Yes. Not in the way most people would get: he's never hit you in the face, punched you, used a weapon, or anything like that. But his words, attitude, possessiveness, and how he treated you in bed--but you can't tell Brendon any of that. You don't want to lay it on him, let alone feel like telling it to a near stranger. Your best friend didn't get it, didn't see the problem, when you tried to tell her, so what was the point?
You're wondering about Brendon, as he hails down a taxi, about the fight you overheard between him and the woman who probably is an ex now, hopefully, for his sake if nothing else. He seems...he really puts you at ease. It's hard to put your finger on it--he seemed almost absentmindedly flirty with you at the cafe, and he'd come here with a girlfriend, but apparently... You think he'd come across as gay to a lot of people, but he seemed to swing both ways.