CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Brandon
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Brandon
“FOLLOW YOU” — brING ME THE HORIZON
Six Years Ago
The guys have congregated in our practice room.
Grayson and Eric sit across from each other with their acoustics out, fingers idly picking at the strings while Tony sits behind his kit, tapping out a rhythm like he’s waiting for something to catch. Inspiration must’ve struck while Grayson was gone.
This is the kind of noise I like to have in the house—writing songs, figuring out the music, letting it fill all the empty spaces. Only this time, something feels different. It’s not drowning everything out the way it used to.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, and for the first time since joining the band, I feel like I’m watching everything happen instead of being truly part of it.
Grayson strums a progression, pauses, then tries something else. “Which one?”
Eric hums, nodding. “The darker one, definitely.”
They play through the darker line again, this time with Tony adding a beat—something slow and deliberate.
It sounds good. Really fucking good.
Normally, I’d already be in the middle of it—chasing the rhythm, pushing it to be something incredible. Instead, I’m lingering on the sidelines, thinking about the girl with the dark hair and the magic fucking mouth.
Grayson’s little sister.
I’d almost managed to forget about it while he was gone, but now? Having him here in the house, having him almost walk in on us—it makes the guilt roll over me in tsunami-force waves.
Tony looks up at me, catches me staring, and squints. “You look guilty.”
Eric snorts knowingly. “Maybe he just got back from committing a crime.”
I’m trying to keep it together. Trying to not give myself away.
“I’m not a fucking felon, Tony,” I say, forcing some humor and normalcy into my voice.
Grayson laughs without looking up from whatever he’s scribbling on his pen pad.
“Grab your bass,” he says. “Check your problems at the door, and let’s write this song before I start charging rent for that corner.”
As if it were that easy.
Regardless, I push off from my doorframe and step into the room, grabbing my bass from its stand. Once I sit down, Grayson and Eric start strumming again. I let muscle memory take over and fall into the rhythm they’re building.
What I thought wasn’t there before fills my soul immediately as I pluck at my strings.
When the last chord hums, Grayson looks up at us, clearly pleased.
“See? Magic.”
I want to tell him fixing his messes is basically my full-time job, but I keep my thoughts to myself. I just fucked his sister’s mouth—or maybe the other way around. I don’t feel like I’ve earned the right to say much of anything.
“What should we call it?” Eric asks. “The song, I mean.”
“Needs lyrics,” I mutter.
“Oh yeah?” Grayson asks with a raised brow. “You volunteering to write them?”
Thus far, we’ve only played songs he’s written. I’ve never protested—never felt the need to. Grayson is an impeccable lyricist. I’ve also never been tempted to write anything before. Riffs and progressions, little lines here and there—sure.
But I’d be lying if I said there weren’t lyrics brewing under the surface now—especially since she’s been here.
Grayson watches me for a beat longer, then smirks. “Didn’t know you had words in you, man. Just killer basslines.”
I shrug, turning my focus back to my strings. “Didn’t know I did, either.”
The words leave my lips, and I realize—it’s the most honest thing I’ve said all day.
Grayson taps the pen against his notebook, thinking.
“Alright, B,” he says. “Hit us with something.”
I hesitate.
This is a bad fucking idea.
The guys are all watching me now—not too closely, not suspiciously—but enough that my pulse starts to quicken. I clear my throat and continue staring down at my bass. I know it’d be stranger if I refused outright at this point.
“It’s… not really finished,” I say, hoping they’ll come off it. “I don’t even have it written down.”
It’s the truth. I’ve thought about it—the words that describe the way being around Johanna makes me feel—but I’ve never put pen to paper the way Grayson does.
“So?” Tony says, throwing one of his drumsticks at my leg. “Grayson shares his unfinished, unplanned garbage with us all the time!”
Grayson rolls his eyes and throws it back at him. “Rude.”
“Contrary to Tony’s less-than-delicate phrasing,” Eric says. “We won’t judge. Just tell us what you’ve got so far. Maybe we can help.”
I gesture for Grayson to hand me his notebook and pen. He passes them over, and I pause for a second longer than necessary before I start writing.
Her smile’s a warning sign
One last chance to claim what’s mine
She’s a flame you can’t extinguish
Even through all the anguish
Save me from myself
I’m going straight to hell
But I’d do it all again
Just to feel her burn me once
I finish the last line and stare at the page, sparking the internal debate on if I really want them to see this.
Before I can overthink it, I toss the notebook onto the table between us.
Grayson picks it up, leans forward with his elbows on his knees, and fixes his eyes on what I wrote like it might disappear if he blinks.
The room feels suspended as I hold my breath, waiting for him to react.
“Jesus,” he murmurs finally, then passes the notebook to Eric.
Eric doesn’t smile. Just looks at the notebook, his eyes tracing the last line like he’s trying to decipher the hidden meaning he already knows is there. After a few painstaking moments, he passes it to Tony.
I know I’ve really fucked myself when his grin fades, too—just slightly. The jokes drain out of him as the realization clicks into place. I feel it the second it happens.
Tony clears his throat.
“That’s… intense, man,” he says. “Brilliant, but fucking intense.”
“It’s good,” Eric adds quietly, lifting his gaze to meet mine. “Really good.”
Our eyes hold for a beat too long—a silent understanding passing between us that settles heavy on my chest.
“Can’t believe you’ve been holding out on us,” Grayson beams, oblivious as ever. “Where’d you get the inspiration? I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.”
Tony shifts a little too quickly on his stool and almost falls over.
Eric reaches out at the same time, fumbling to steady Tony while also shoving the notebook back onto the table like it suddenly weighs a hundred pounds.
My face burns.
I fight the urge to hide behind my hands—or worse, to just come clean and blow everything up right here.
“Inspiration comes from a lot of places, man,” Eric says once Tony’s upright again.
“Yeah,” Tony adds a little too quickly. “You know—pain. Existential dread. General angsty young adult shit. Band stuff.”
“Very true, Tone.” Grayson nods, satisfied. “Well, wherever you’re getting it from, B—keep it up.”
He has absolutely no idea what he’s encouraging, but I know without a doubt—Tony and Eric do. They read the truth for what it is—a confession, not just a song.
I’ve crossed a line, and I’m not sure I can un-cross it.
I’m not sure I want to.