Fic: Grace - Chapter 9
Title: Grace - Chapter 9
Rating: M
Fandom: P!atd (Brendon/Ryan)
By the time you hit eighteen, you will not remember your first crush. Hell, in the cynical reality we live in, it’s unlikely you’ll remember your first ever crush at fourteen.
First crushes may last five minutes or five months…I’d say the rest of your life, but that much is incredibly unlikely. Point is, that despite the period of time, you are unlikely to remember this person, this prominent figure who was likely in your life sometime before your fourth birthday and has not been since. Point is, that despite this you will never, ever forget how this person made you feel.
Even if you want to, hell, even if you try.
You will never, ever forget the sweaty palms or the pounding heart or the heat that somehow manages to find its way into every cavity of your body. Won’t forget the watery eyes or the siege of rampaging butterflies with their armoured wings and their mission to make you feel as ill as possible and as unbelievably alive as you’ll ever feel.
It will make you believe in Cinderella, and Beauty and the Beast and all the fairy-tales that end with those three little words that surpass every cliché. Those three little words that are the cause of many an eye roll, and a never ending supply of ‘yea, till the divorce. Fuck happily ever after.’
But what sucks is that as long as that infatuation lasts, you won’t be saying ‘Fuck it’, you’ll be saying ‘Fuck, I want that…want it with him, with her.’
The first time you’ll feel it is when you’re too young to know any better. Too young to understand or acknowledge it as anything more than the need to pull that girl’s hair, or pinch that boy’s arm or watch that kid with the intensity of a dying man looking at his last fuck.
You won’t get it, you’ll just realize that really, there’s nothing quite like it.
Life goes on though, and that tiny child of whom your heart depended on for a while will fall off the face of the earth, and you’ll be left with normal feelings, average happiness and average grief and just the normal, unarmoured butterflies, butterflies with no mission, or direction or purpose. Christ, it’s boring.
It is highly, highly unlikely though, that you will live the rest of your life without a new infatuation.
Most don’t feel anything quite as intense again till high school. Making every chick flick cliché an endless film of reality. Then again, happily ever after is scarcely ever laid bare in these films, only ever implied because the odds of marrying your high school sweetheart are slim to none. Because, seriously, at sixteen you still don’t understand the depth of what you’re feeling. You’re too young to understand what any of it means, too young to make a move or to pounce on the person who is making you feel this way, too young to understand that really, you should never, ever let this person go.
Some people feel something like it everyday, but aren’t capable of feeling it for the same person forever. They’ll be so fucking infatuated with someone new so often that the passion and the intensity loses all meaning, it drains away to the slums of the body. None of it matters.
But, and this is probably the worst one of all, sometimes the person you get sweaty palms for, doesn’t get sweaty palms back. And this, this hurts. This hurts more than bullets or knives or someone ripping the nails off your toes. This hurts like a clawed fist tearing open your ribcage, fisting your heart and wrenching it free, throwing it and watching as the blood dripdripdrips down the plaster walls of the room. This hurts, because as you stand immobile, your ribcage split open in front of you, you can only watch as the butterflies escape, fly off into the distance only to be splattered by some child with clappy, little hands.
I’m being dramatic though, overly so, because sometimes, and it is just a few though, a few find that one person, find that feeling and…and the person that they feel it for does feel the same…and well, if they’re lucky, they keep that feeling, that person, forever. If they’re lucky.
The reigning majority though, at least here in LA, doesn’t want to feel this. Doesn’t want to feel the passion or the fire, doesn’t want the butterflies in their belly to ever have such cause or direction.
It might be out of fear for getting hurt, but mostly, mostly it’s due to greed. The knowledge that hey, if you live in LA, if you’re good-looking, even if you’re not, you are capable of fucking half the city. LA’s slutty like that.
At this point in my life, this is the category I fall under. But things change, and right now they are changing faster than I can keep up.
Ryan makes me want happily ever after more than anything else in the world…just not yet.
*
LA thrives on vices. Thrives on wants and needs and obsession.
It’s unhealthy; however it does explain the numerous Starbucks that seem to pop up throughout the city on a regular basis. Explains the mass amounts of marijuana and ecstasy and cocaine and heroin on tap, explains the obsession with sexuality and lust.
But this is LA, and most people know this before they move here.
So maybe it makes sense that not only LA thrives on vices, but so does the majority of its population. So do I. Loretta told me actually, when I’d first arrived here, that I had an addictive personality.
And I do, but I don’t really think of them as vices or addictions, more as wants and needs, like this morning, this morning I need coffee.
Which leads me here, to Starbucks.
Like I said before, the majority of LA has these addictions as well, so maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that Ryan is here too. But I am, coz it’s been a week since our…our argument? Can you call it that? Disagreement. I don’t know.
He’s sitting in the corner, spidery fingers curled around the mug of coffee, seeking a warmth that shouldn’t be needed in the LA heat. There’s not much on the tiny, round table in front of him: a teaspoon, a menu, a sharpie which, from what I can see, he has used to colour in his fingernails, draw on his long, skeletal arm.
I have no intention of going over to him, and from what I can gather he hasn’t seen me yet, hasn’t seen anyone, so absorbed in the cup of coffee, so absorbed in that place inside his head that I just can’t seem to get to. This understood, I have no idea how I came to be sitting in the chair opposite him at his table.
Right.
He still hasn’t snapped out of his daydream and maybe he sorta looks dead. He’s pale enough; those eyes that are normally wide and conscious almost aren’t alive at the moment.
The patterns on his arm are, I don’t know the word, beautiful doesn’t seem right. There are lines that creep up the hair follicles, race their way up his arms, under his K-Mart t-shirt. Lines that, on second glance, make two exceptionally long, jagged trees with branches that seep into his skin and curve around his biceps. Bats are escaping from the hem of his shirtsleeve, maybe (maybe) from the cavern of his armpit. This is all in black, but a white, grey, yellow moon practically shines from behind the toothed branches on his left arm.
“I was going to go to art college,” He’s out of his daydream, is watching me with those almond-shaped eyes. “Didn’t think I was good enough,” he says.
“They’re…they’re pretty awesome.” And okay, that sounds better than ‘beautiful’, less flowery.
“Thank you.” Ryan’s back to curling his hands around the mug of coffee, hands that are covered in the intricate details of tree roots.
Wow, I think, wow. I would never have the patience to do that.
“Uh,” I say, and Ryan looks at me from over the rim of his Starbucks mug. “Uh, about the other day…”
“I’m sorry,” Ryan states, “I shouldn’t have said that about your mother.”
“Right.” I grin.
“Even if it was true.”
My face falls, but Ryan’s eyes are crinkling with amusement. He runs root-hands through his hair, and shoots me a grin that sets off the army of butterflies through my stomach. I want to hit him, or pull his hair.
A subject change is my best option.
“Have you found a new lead yet?”
“What?” Ryan asks, his brow is furrowed, and his head tilts to the side, one hand still clamped adamantly around the cup of coffee.
“New lead, y’know, my replacement for Build God?”
“Oh,” Ryan says, “I’m holding out for someone still.”
“Still?”
“You, dumbass.” And I do feel like a dumbass, but Ryan’s grin is, despite being almost devious, gentle and warm.
Right, I think, okay. “Ah. Well, I haven’t chosen another job yet, y’know.”
“Okay.” Ryan says, and he grins a little more.
And when I look back on it later, I’m pretty sure here is where it all went to shit.
Mostly because suddenly, and don’t doubt it was sudden, because I don’t think either of us were expecting it, suddenly we’re kissing. Like, for real, my lips are on his, and his lips aren’t soft, they’re chapped and warm and taste like the Starbucks coffee he’d just been drinking. They aren’t plush and soft like a girls, don’t taste like fake fruit, aren’t sticky and don’t leave that unpleasant aftertaste of cheap gloss. They’re just…they’re just an extension of his flesh, almost salty, but…but it’s probably the most amazing thing I’ve ever touched in my life.
I think I should be surprised when the fireworks start going off, not behind me or above us, not even on the television in the corner, these illegal stacks of gunpowder are erupting in my stomach, my lungs, my heart. They make the butterflies just seem petty and ineffective. Boomboomboom. And…and fuck, there isn’t even any fucking tongue, this isn’t pashing or making out this is just, this is just our lips pressed together, and suddenly, suddenly he’s ripped away from me.
His eyes are big and wide and his pupils are dilated, he’s shaken, off-course, panic is settling in behind his irises, and before I can even move quickly enough to stop him, he’s pushed back his chair so quickly he’s almost fallen, almost tripped over an influx of emotions that I’ve never, ever seen from him.
Before I can react he’s out the front door and down the street and out of my line of sight.
Well, fuck, I think, and the last of the fireworks are burning out with a sizzle and a wheeze. They’re the retarded ones, the ones without the motivation to actually explode, and fuck, I think.
Fuck.
I finish my coffee, I finish Ryan’s, I pocket the sharpie he left behind in his rush to escape and pray to the God’s I don’t believe in that no one saw what just happened. I don’t think I want to wake up to any front-page Brendon-Urie-scandal at the moment. Almost don’t think I’d be able to handle it, coz I’m fucking confused as is.
Fuck, I think, because something in me is still whirring and buzzing and alive, something that is getting closer and closer to my cock.
Fuck, I think, and then I go to Audrey’s.
*
“I think I kissed him,” I say, twenty minutes into a round of Dance, Dance Revolution.
Jon scrunches his face up a little, stares up at me from under his growing bangs, an action that sorta reminds me of Ryan. He squints, before his eyes widen and he asks, “Ryan?”
I let loose a terse nod, hardly noticeable if you don’t know me all that well, just, Jon does know me that well, and he whistles, low and long like they do in the old-fashioned films.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Why would you tell me if it wasn’t a big deal?” Jon asks, and this, this is a very good point. It’s not like I tell him about my…my escapades with Audrey or any of the other girls I fuck.
I just shrug in reply, rub angrily at my bleary eyes. Maybe if he thinks I’m really tired he’ll let me fuck off and pretend I never said anything…maybe Wizard of Oz really happened, and the red, sparkly shoes I keep hidden in the back of my closet will suddenly snap to life and take me home.
Wherever the fuck that may be.
“You like him?” Jon asks me slowly, a hand rubbing at the back of his head.
“I…do you remember your first crush?”
Jon shrugs, casts me a strange look and moves the hand at the back of his head down his neck, as if he isn’t exactly sure what to do with it.
“Neither do I,” I say, and Jon just laughs aloud at that.
“But…Ryan makes me feel like I’m young and…and I don’t feel like me when I’m with him. I don’t talk right, I don’t act right, I don’t do what I’m supposed to and…”
“And that scares you.” Jon finishes for me, a grin so wide that it strains across his teeth. I like Jon.
“Maybe.”
Jon just cracks up laughing, it’s all warm and hearty, not anything like Ryan’s gentle, melodic one, and did I say I liked Jon, coz really I don’t. He’s kinda an asshole really.
But for that matter, so am I.
“You’re such a moron, Bren.” And I don’t just not like Jon, I really sorta hate him.
Stupid Jon.
“I don’t know about my first crush,” Jon starts, and he shoots me another wide grin. “But there was this girl in my freshman year of high school, Daisy Stuart. She was really fucking hot…smart and nice too. I, y’know, liked her for the whole of highschool, freshman through senior. Like, all I’d think about was her, all the time, she was just, brilliant. Amazing. I never said anything, and we only spoke once or twice in passing. I graduated without telling her.”
Jon’s voice is unnaturally quiet, gentle and poignant almost. “I was invited to her funeral two years later. Turned out she’d been dating this asshole who beat her up and shit…”
“I’m…” I start, but Jon just holds up a hand, pays my interruption no heed.
“Her sister said that she’d liked me all through highschool.”
Jon’s eyes are slightly more glassy than normal, the way the light hits them, well, it almost looks like he could cry. He won’t though, because Jon’s stronger than most people, and from what I can see, I think he’s probably cried enough about her already.
“I was pretty fucking pissed at myself, I mean, if I’d asked her out, if we’d been together instead of the fucker she was with…well, maybe…” But he trails off, and I know he won’t say anything more about her. Can’t maybe.
“Point is, Brendon, is that, I dunno, you’re gonna gain shit all if you don’t put yourself on the line sometimes.” He laughs. “I think…to be honest, I’m not sure if there was a point in the first place.”
“Point is,” Jon will say later that night, Thai-take-out dinner and 19 games of Mario cart later, “point is you shouldn’t let Ryan slip through your fingers.”
“And on Loretta’s behalf,” Jon says, “you shouldn’t let Build God go either, coz…well…you just, you can’t let anyone else win your fucking Oscar.”
Rating: M
Fandom: P!atd (Brendon/Ryan)
By the time you hit eighteen, you will not remember your first crush. Hell, in the cynical reality we live in, it’s unlikely you’ll remember your first ever crush at fourteen.
First crushes may last five minutes or five months…I’d say the rest of your life, but that much is incredibly unlikely. Point is, that despite the period of time, you are unlikely to remember this person, this prominent figure who was likely in your life sometime before your fourth birthday and has not been since. Point is, that despite this you will never, ever forget how this person made you feel.
Even if you want to, hell, even if you try.
You will never, ever forget the sweaty palms or the pounding heart or the heat that somehow manages to find its way into every cavity of your body. Won’t forget the watery eyes or the siege of rampaging butterflies with their armoured wings and their mission to make you feel as ill as possible and as unbelievably alive as you’ll ever feel.
It will make you believe in Cinderella, and Beauty and the Beast and all the fairy-tales that end with those three little words that surpass every cliché. Those three little words that are the cause of many an eye roll, and a never ending supply of ‘yea, till the divorce. Fuck happily ever after.’
But what sucks is that as long as that infatuation lasts, you won’t be saying ‘Fuck it’, you’ll be saying ‘Fuck, I want that…want it with him, with her.’
The first time you’ll feel it is when you’re too young to know any better. Too young to understand or acknowledge it as anything more than the need to pull that girl’s hair, or pinch that boy’s arm or watch that kid with the intensity of a dying man looking at his last fuck.
You won’t get it, you’ll just realize that really, there’s nothing quite like it.
Life goes on though, and that tiny child of whom your heart depended on for a while will fall off the face of the earth, and you’ll be left with normal feelings, average happiness and average grief and just the normal, unarmoured butterflies, butterflies with no mission, or direction or purpose. Christ, it’s boring.
It is highly, highly unlikely though, that you will live the rest of your life without a new infatuation.
Most don’t feel anything quite as intense again till high school. Making every chick flick cliché an endless film of reality. Then again, happily ever after is scarcely ever laid bare in these films, only ever implied because the odds of marrying your high school sweetheart are slim to none. Because, seriously, at sixteen you still don’t understand the depth of what you’re feeling. You’re too young to understand what any of it means, too young to make a move or to pounce on the person who is making you feel this way, too young to understand that really, you should never, ever let this person go.
Some people feel something like it everyday, but aren’t capable of feeling it for the same person forever. They’ll be so fucking infatuated with someone new so often that the passion and the intensity loses all meaning, it drains away to the slums of the body. None of it matters.
But, and this is probably the worst one of all, sometimes the person you get sweaty palms for, doesn’t get sweaty palms back. And this, this hurts. This hurts more than bullets or knives or someone ripping the nails off your toes. This hurts like a clawed fist tearing open your ribcage, fisting your heart and wrenching it free, throwing it and watching as the blood dripdripdrips down the plaster walls of the room. This hurts, because as you stand immobile, your ribcage split open in front of you, you can only watch as the butterflies escape, fly off into the distance only to be splattered by some child with clappy, little hands.
I’m being dramatic though, overly so, because sometimes, and it is just a few though, a few find that one person, find that feeling and…and the person that they feel it for does feel the same…and well, if they’re lucky, they keep that feeling, that person, forever. If they’re lucky.
The reigning majority though, at least here in LA, doesn’t want to feel this. Doesn’t want to feel the passion or the fire, doesn’t want the butterflies in their belly to ever have such cause or direction.
It might be out of fear for getting hurt, but mostly, mostly it’s due to greed. The knowledge that hey, if you live in LA, if you’re good-looking, even if you’re not, you are capable of fucking half the city. LA’s slutty like that.
At this point in my life, this is the category I fall under. But things change, and right now they are changing faster than I can keep up.
Ryan makes me want happily ever after more than anything else in the world…just not yet.
*
LA thrives on vices. Thrives on wants and needs and obsession.
It’s unhealthy; however it does explain the numerous Starbucks that seem to pop up throughout the city on a regular basis. Explains the mass amounts of marijuana and ecstasy and cocaine and heroin on tap, explains the obsession with sexuality and lust.
But this is LA, and most people know this before they move here.
So maybe it makes sense that not only LA thrives on vices, but so does the majority of its population. So do I. Loretta told me actually, when I’d first arrived here, that I had an addictive personality.
And I do, but I don’t really think of them as vices or addictions, more as wants and needs, like this morning, this morning I need coffee.
Which leads me here, to Starbucks.
Like I said before, the majority of LA has these addictions as well, so maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that Ryan is here too. But I am, coz it’s been a week since our…our argument? Can you call it that? Disagreement. I don’t know.
He’s sitting in the corner, spidery fingers curled around the mug of coffee, seeking a warmth that shouldn’t be needed in the LA heat. There’s not much on the tiny, round table in front of him: a teaspoon, a menu, a sharpie which, from what I can see, he has used to colour in his fingernails, draw on his long, skeletal arm.
I have no intention of going over to him, and from what I can gather he hasn’t seen me yet, hasn’t seen anyone, so absorbed in the cup of coffee, so absorbed in that place inside his head that I just can’t seem to get to. This understood, I have no idea how I came to be sitting in the chair opposite him at his table.
Right.
He still hasn’t snapped out of his daydream and maybe he sorta looks dead. He’s pale enough; those eyes that are normally wide and conscious almost aren’t alive at the moment.
The patterns on his arm are, I don’t know the word, beautiful doesn’t seem right. There are lines that creep up the hair follicles, race their way up his arms, under his K-Mart t-shirt. Lines that, on second glance, make two exceptionally long, jagged trees with branches that seep into his skin and curve around his biceps. Bats are escaping from the hem of his shirtsleeve, maybe (maybe) from the cavern of his armpit. This is all in black, but a white, grey, yellow moon practically shines from behind the toothed branches on his left arm.
“I was going to go to art college,” He’s out of his daydream, is watching me with those almond-shaped eyes. “Didn’t think I was good enough,” he says.
“They’re…they’re pretty awesome.” And okay, that sounds better than ‘beautiful’, less flowery.
“Thank you.” Ryan’s back to curling his hands around the mug of coffee, hands that are covered in the intricate details of tree roots.
Wow, I think, wow. I would never have the patience to do that.
“Uh,” I say, and Ryan looks at me from over the rim of his Starbucks mug. “Uh, about the other day…”
“I’m sorry,” Ryan states, “I shouldn’t have said that about your mother.”
“Right.” I grin.
“Even if it was true.”
My face falls, but Ryan’s eyes are crinkling with amusement. He runs root-hands through his hair, and shoots me a grin that sets off the army of butterflies through my stomach. I want to hit him, or pull his hair.
A subject change is my best option.
“Have you found a new lead yet?”
“What?” Ryan asks, his brow is furrowed, and his head tilts to the side, one hand still clamped adamantly around the cup of coffee.
“New lead, y’know, my replacement for Build God?”
“Oh,” Ryan says, “I’m holding out for someone still.”
“Still?”
“You, dumbass.” And I do feel like a dumbass, but Ryan’s grin is, despite being almost devious, gentle and warm.
Right, I think, okay. “Ah. Well, I haven’t chosen another job yet, y’know.”
“Okay.” Ryan says, and he grins a little more.
And when I look back on it later, I’m pretty sure here is where it all went to shit.
Mostly because suddenly, and don’t doubt it was sudden, because I don’t think either of us were expecting it, suddenly we’re kissing. Like, for real, my lips are on his, and his lips aren’t soft, they’re chapped and warm and taste like the Starbucks coffee he’d just been drinking. They aren’t plush and soft like a girls, don’t taste like fake fruit, aren’t sticky and don’t leave that unpleasant aftertaste of cheap gloss. They’re just…they’re just an extension of his flesh, almost salty, but…but it’s probably the most amazing thing I’ve ever touched in my life.
I think I should be surprised when the fireworks start going off, not behind me or above us, not even on the television in the corner, these illegal stacks of gunpowder are erupting in my stomach, my lungs, my heart. They make the butterflies just seem petty and ineffective. Boomboomboom. And…and fuck, there isn’t even any fucking tongue, this isn’t pashing or making out this is just, this is just our lips pressed together, and suddenly, suddenly he’s ripped away from me.
His eyes are big and wide and his pupils are dilated, he’s shaken, off-course, panic is settling in behind his irises, and before I can even move quickly enough to stop him, he’s pushed back his chair so quickly he’s almost fallen, almost tripped over an influx of emotions that I’ve never, ever seen from him.
Before I can react he’s out the front door and down the street and out of my line of sight.
Well, fuck, I think, and the last of the fireworks are burning out with a sizzle and a wheeze. They’re the retarded ones, the ones without the motivation to actually explode, and fuck, I think.
Fuck.
I finish my coffee, I finish Ryan’s, I pocket the sharpie he left behind in his rush to escape and pray to the God’s I don’t believe in that no one saw what just happened. I don’t think I want to wake up to any front-page Brendon-Urie-scandal at the moment. Almost don’t think I’d be able to handle it, coz I’m fucking confused as is.
Fuck, I think, because something in me is still whirring and buzzing and alive, something that is getting closer and closer to my cock.
Fuck, I think, and then I go to Audrey’s.
*
“I think I kissed him,” I say, twenty minutes into a round of Dance, Dance Revolution.
Jon scrunches his face up a little, stares up at me from under his growing bangs, an action that sorta reminds me of Ryan. He squints, before his eyes widen and he asks, “Ryan?”
I let loose a terse nod, hardly noticeable if you don’t know me all that well, just, Jon does know me that well, and he whistles, low and long like they do in the old-fashioned films.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Why would you tell me if it wasn’t a big deal?” Jon asks, and this, this is a very good point. It’s not like I tell him about my…my escapades with Audrey or any of the other girls I fuck.
I just shrug in reply, rub angrily at my bleary eyes. Maybe if he thinks I’m really tired he’ll let me fuck off and pretend I never said anything…maybe Wizard of Oz really happened, and the red, sparkly shoes I keep hidden in the back of my closet will suddenly snap to life and take me home.
Wherever the fuck that may be.
“You like him?” Jon asks me slowly, a hand rubbing at the back of his head.
“I…do you remember your first crush?”
Jon shrugs, casts me a strange look and moves the hand at the back of his head down his neck, as if he isn’t exactly sure what to do with it.
“Neither do I,” I say, and Jon just laughs aloud at that.
“But…Ryan makes me feel like I’m young and…and I don’t feel like me when I’m with him. I don’t talk right, I don’t act right, I don’t do what I’m supposed to and…”
“And that scares you.” Jon finishes for me, a grin so wide that it strains across his teeth. I like Jon.
“Maybe.”
Jon just cracks up laughing, it’s all warm and hearty, not anything like Ryan’s gentle, melodic one, and did I say I liked Jon, coz really I don’t. He’s kinda an asshole really.
But for that matter, so am I.
“You’re such a moron, Bren.” And I don’t just not like Jon, I really sorta hate him.
Stupid Jon.
“I don’t know about my first crush,” Jon starts, and he shoots me another wide grin. “But there was this girl in my freshman year of high school, Daisy Stuart. She was really fucking hot…smart and nice too. I, y’know, liked her for the whole of highschool, freshman through senior. Like, all I’d think about was her, all the time, she was just, brilliant. Amazing. I never said anything, and we only spoke once or twice in passing. I graduated without telling her.”
Jon’s voice is unnaturally quiet, gentle and poignant almost. “I was invited to her funeral two years later. Turned out she’d been dating this asshole who beat her up and shit…”
“I’m…” I start, but Jon just holds up a hand, pays my interruption no heed.
“Her sister said that she’d liked me all through highschool.”
Jon’s eyes are slightly more glassy than normal, the way the light hits them, well, it almost looks like he could cry. He won’t though, because Jon’s stronger than most people, and from what I can see, I think he’s probably cried enough about her already.
“I was pretty fucking pissed at myself, I mean, if I’d asked her out, if we’d been together instead of the fucker she was with…well, maybe…” But he trails off, and I know he won’t say anything more about her. Can’t maybe.
“Point is, Brendon, is that, I dunno, you’re gonna gain shit all if you don’t put yourself on the line sometimes.” He laughs. “I think…to be honest, I’m not sure if there was a point in the first place.”
“Point is,” Jon will say later that night, Thai-take-out dinner and 19 games of Mario cart later, “point is you shouldn’t let Ryan slip through your fingers.”
“And on Loretta’s behalf,” Jon says, “you shouldn’t let Build God go either, coz…well…you just, you can’t let anyone else win your fucking Oscar.”