Fic: Back At One
Parings: Brendon/Ryan, past Ryan/Keltie, mentions of Spencer/Haley and Jon/Cassie
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~7’500
Note: I’m honestly not sure whether people will hate or love this. I do admit that it’s inherently self-indulgent; an attempt to fit recent events into my perception of Ryan. It’s also pretty rough and more experimental than anything I’ve written in a while.
Summary: “Save you?” Brendon’s laugh is hollow and utterly wrong, twisting through a lull in the music. If Ryan never had to hear it again, it would still be too soon. “I’m not superman.”
Thanks to: 
bunniewabbit, who inspired this in the first place; allyndra, who once again stunned me with the sheer speediness of her beta; buildyourwalls and softlyforgotten, who listened to my ramblings without ever once telling me to shut up.
==============
Back At One
_____________
It’s… Jesus, what?
Ryan rolls over with a groan. He manages to open his eyes, and okay, what, it’s still the middle of the fucking night, the bus entirely dark, what the hell is he even—
Brendon blinks at him from up close, eyes black in the lack of light, only his face a vague shape of brighter… whatever. Brendon’s glasses gleam faintly, and, just, Ryan’s too tired for this. For Brendon. He reaches for his pillow and puts it over his face. Since he’s sleepy and slow, he doesn’t react in time when Brendon snatches the pillow away and leans closer, breathing against Ryan’s cheek.
“Fuck off,” Ryan mumbles. It feels like something’s stuck in his throat.
“No suicide on the bus, dickface,” Brendon whispers. “Think of the smell. Besides, suicide by pillow suffocation is lame.”
“I’m thinking of sleep.” Ryan grabs for the pillow, but of course Brendon refuses to let go.
“All you ever do is sleep, these days,” he says plaintively, and Ryan squeezes his eyes shut because this, this is hitting just a little close to home. He thought they agreed not to talk about it, spread a veil of blissful ignorance or whatever. Jon, at least, clearly respects that. Pete sent one ‘fk u ok wat hpnd?’ but once Ryan replied with ‘don’t, okay, just,’ Pete went back to texting him random song lyrics and gleeful pictures of Bronx, Ashlee and himself. Even Spencer, after a narrow-eyed staring match, sighed and pulled Ryan into a hug, and then he never mentioned it again.
Of course Brendon would be the only one to blatantly disregard every fucking barrier Ryan put up.
“Brendon.” Ryan rolls onto his side, and they’re suddenly close enough for their noses to brush, almost. Ryan’s thoughts move at a snail’s pace, and his voice is rough. Because he’s tired. “It’s ass-o-clock in the morning.”
“Three twenty-seven,” Brendon says.
“Ass-o-clock,” Ryan repeats.
“There’s a cricket in the lounge.” Brendon is the king of random topic changes; he could give every police investigator a run for their money. His breath is also ghosting distractingly over Ryan’s lips. Ryan isn’t very sleepy anymore.
It’s not the first time this happens. It won’t be the last time, either. Ryan made a decision long ago not to act on any of those crazy ideas.
“A cricket,” he says flatly. There’s not even a hint of dawn creeping through the windows.
“Yeah.” Brendon nods earnestly. “Imagine being a poor cricket, trapped in a place where you don’t belong, and it’s all so unfamiliar and you’re, like, all alone because you took a wrong turn or something.”
Ryan wonders if Brendon’s trying to hint at something. He stays silent.
“Come on, Ryan Ross.” Brendon exhales, warm air shivering against Ryan’s mouth. “Just, come on. Have a heart and help me save a poor cricket’s life. It’s been chirping for at least twenty minutes.”
For a moment, neither of them moves. Ryan swallows. “I don’t hear anything.”
“That’s because I closed the door to the lounge,” Brendon says. “It would suck if we also had to search the bunks, in addition to the lounge. One room’s enough hiding space for a tiny little cricket.”
It’s not like Ryan isn’t awake already. Spencer’s quiet snores from across the aisle mix with the low hum of the tires slapping the road, Jon’s breathing almost inaudible, and Ryan doesn’t think he could roll over and go back to sleep. Besides, he’s afraid that might motivate Brendon to climb into Ryan’s bunk – or rather, attempt to climb into Ryan’s bunk and inevitably kick Ryan in the shin and cling too tightly and eventually groan and give up because those bunks are just not made for two people. The only reason Brendon still tries is because he’s a stubborn little fucker. Ryan doesn’t think he could deal with that right now.
“If I help you look,” Ryan begins.
“I’m gonna to pretend I didn’t hear the if in that sentence,” Brendon interrupts.
Ryan shifts back under the pretense of propping himself up on his elbows, the top of his head almost touching the bottom of Jon’s bunk. “If I help you look for that cricket, I get coffee in bed tomorrow.”
“Coffee and toast and scrambled eggs,” Brendon says, and Ryan tries not to think of the last time someone made him breakfast in bed. It’s not the same at all.
He swings his legs over the edge of the bunk. Brendon waits a moment too long to step back, his side warm against Ryan’s knee, and then he’s gone. There’s nothing symbolic about it, though. He just waits at the door to the lounge for Ryan to join him before he cracks the door open and drags Ryan after him into the room, quickly closing the gap again. “So it can’t get out,” he says.
Whatever, Ryan thinks. He crosses his arms and squints into the sudden brightness when Brendon switches the light on. There’s no sound but the hum of the engine.
Ryan tilts his head, eyes still narrowed against the light when he looks at Brendon, Brendon in his stupid sweatpants and thin, worn t-shirt. The distant ache in Ryan’s chest is almost habit by now. “I don’t think there’s a cricket in here.”
“It must be in here.” Brendon glances around. “I heard it earlier. I think we just startled it.” He sits down on the couch, hands folded in his lap in a perfect imitation of someone waiting patiently. As if Brendon’s even remotely capable of that.
Ryan snorts, but sits down beside Brendon. The couch, bought a couple of years ago, is comfortable and so used that it sags under their weight, making them automatically gravitate towards the middle, towards each other. With a content sigh, Brendon wraps an arm around Ryan’s waist and sinks against him, face turned so each exhalation is a gust of damp air against the side of Ryan’s neck. The stupid idiot never did know when to leave things be.
After a few minutes of silence, only the bus and Brendon’s breathing, Ryan lets his eyes drift shut, the warm glow of the lamp on Brendon’s face too much right now. It makes him more aware of the comfortable weight against his side, but Ryan’s been fighting this for way too fucking long to care about things like that anymore.
He must have fallen asleep because when Brendon nudges him, one hand flat on Ryan’s chest and the other squeezing his hand, Ryan wakes with a start. Brendon’s looking at him with a triumphant gleam in his eyes, hair pressed flat to his skull on one side. Ryan wonders vaguely if it’s because he’s been sleeping with his head against Ryan’s shoulder. Brendon’s glasses are slightly askew, an imprint of the frame on his left temple.
“Listen,” Brendon whispers.
There’s a chirping sound from their small, built-in kitchen. The first traces of brightness show outside in the sky and Ryan sits up, rolling his shoulders to get the muscles to loosen. He shakes his head. “Shit, there really is a cricket.”
“You should not doubt me, Ross. Especially not in cricket-related matters.” Brendon leans over, and for a moment, Ryan has no idea what he’s doing. Then Brendon’s thumbs dig into the twin knots of tension between Ryan’s shoulder blades.
“Okay, whatever. You’re the master of the cricket, and I’ll never doubt it again.” Ryan lets his chin sink down on his chest while Brendon’s fingers press down harder. He feels faintly drugged and half-asleep. “Just, how did it get in here?”
“Yesterday, when we stopped at that rest stop, probably. Wow, just think.” Brendon’s voice is dark and liquid. “Jon’s need for fresh air got a poor cricket into trouble. I’ll never let him hear the end of it.”
Ryan hums something, eyes drooping close again. He really is tired, all the time.
Abruptly, Brendon pulls his hands away. “Come on,” he says. “You promised me your amazing cricket searching skills in exchange for breakfast in bunk. So c’mon.”
Ryan straightens with a sigh, and he tries not to notice the way Brendon’s looking at his stomach when he stretches, the hungry expression on Brendon’s face. It would be kind of amazing if they could just go back to that time when they both pretended they weren’t aware of the big pink elephant between them. Unfortunately, Brendon doesn’t seem to agree. Not that Ryan’s ever going to ask him. He’s really just not that brave.
Instead, he follows the sound of the chirping, and it’s not that difficult to trace it to a narrow spot beside their microwave. Brendon trails him quietly, walking on tiptoes and probably indulging in a daydream about ninjas or whatever Brendon’s brain comes up with when no one’s looking. And no, Ryan’s not grumpy, thanks. He’s just stating an established band truth.
“A glass,” Brendon hisses. “A glass, we need a glass, trap the cricket and then tell the driver to pull over, get me a glass, please.”
“You do know there’s something like grammatically correct sentences, right?”
“Snob.” Brendon’s tone is affectionate.
“You’re going to tie your tongue into a knot, one of these days.”
“Nah,” Brendon says, grinning. He stands on tiptoes to reach for a glass from the cupboard above the fridge. “You’d miss my tongue too much. I wouldn’t break your heart like that. I mean—”
He breaks off, and it’s easy, so easy to finish the thought. More than it already is.
Ryan considers banging his head against the microwave. It’s a glass door; it would give before he can do any serious damage. He also considers shoving Brendon up against the wall, but only very briefly. He’s too exhausted to make sense even to himself.
“Let’s get the cricket,” he says, rough around the edges.
Brendon appears to hear something in his voice because all he does is nod. After that, they work quietly, efficiently, Ryan pushing the microwave out of the way while Brendon is ready to pounce. The chirping cuts off, and then Brendon has the small, green cricket trapped in his glass.
He slides it across the counter until he can cup his hand over it, turning it quickly before he lifts it up to his face. “It’s just a baby,” he says. The cricket makes a blind leap, smacking against the hand that covers the opening, falling back onto the bottom. Behind the glasses, Brendon’s eyes widen, a stricken expression in them.
Ryan sighs and looks away. “It’ll be fine. Just, let’s release it at the next rest stop, I’ll ask the driver to pull over.”
“It’s not fair,” Brendon argues. “We just kidnapped it from its family, and it’s just a baby cricket. I’m not sure it’ll survive, out there on its own, in a foreign place.”
Ryan rubs a hand across his eyes and shakes his head. “We got a show tonight. There’s no way we can turn around and take it back.” Brendon opens his mouth, but Ryan is quicker to add, “And a cricket is a very, very bad choice for a pet, okay?”
There’s a pause. Then Brendon lifts his gaze from the cricket to Ryan. “Okay,” he says. He doesn’t sound happy about it, so Ryan reaches out to touch his shoulder, just for a moment. It’s a mindless gesture.
When they get off the bus, the morning air is cool on their skin. Ryan watches while Brendon crouches down, taking his hand away as he cautiously releases the cricket. It immediately escapes into the grass, and Brendon watches it go with sadness in his posture while Ryan stands beside him, studying Brendon’s profile. For all that Ryan’s still exhausted, the fresh air feels good on his face.
When Brendon smiles and scrambles to his feet, Ryan smiles back and doesn’t let himself think about anything, just for a moment. They walk back to the bus side by side.
--
It’s been two months since the last time Ryan talked to Keltie. It was a short conversation, just some practical matters like his visiting rights for Hobo. “As long as we find a way for you to pick her up without me having to see you,” she said, and Ryan didn’t try to apologize again because he knew it would only make her angry and teary at the same time.
He never dealt well with tears. He never dealt well with guilt, either. It’s so much easier to just ignore his own stupidity, how much he fucked up.
Two months later, and Ryan still occasionally catches up with her blog. He feels weird about it, stalking her personal musings for references. There are more than a few. It’s hard, sometimes, not to call her, tell her that the line It’s not you, it’s me has never been more true. He doesn’t, of course.
Ryan owes her that much, at least.
-
June has just begun and Spencer’s backyard is quiet, not so much as a faint breeze stirring the grass. It’s the last week of their break before the festivals start, and Brendon’s the only one who’s missing, on vacation with Shane. Ryan isn’t jealous. Anyway, Shane’s with Regan.
Not that that’s stopped Brendon before.
To be fair, it probably wouldn’t stop Ryan, either. They’re both more than a little messed up in the head, although Brendon’s more messed up about sex than the rest. Sex was never the problem, as far as Ryan’s concerned. Sex always came easily; the hard part was the relationship aspect of things.
Stretched out beside Ryan, Spencer blows out a cloud of smoke and passes the joint on to Jon. “You know how they say that for each year you were in a relationship, it takes you six months to get over it?”
“I’m fine,” Ryan says automatically. He’s not. He’s been worse, though. It’s not… It doesn’t matter, anyway. There’s nothing he can change about the situation. He squeezes his eyes shut so tightly the sunlight fades to black, and still he can feel Spencer’s glare boring into his cheek.
“You’re not,” Spencer states unnecessarily. “You’re completely fucked up, Ryan. When’s the last time you slept for eight hours straight?”
Ryan shrugs. The grass itches under his back, and he feels something press against his fingers. He slits his eyes open just enough to conclude that Jon’s passing him the joint. He accepts it, inhales deeply even though the sweet, smoky air makes his lung feel tight. Tighter.
“Ryan,” Spencer says. It’s his business voice, sharp and serious, the one that means he’s had enough of someone’s bullshit. Ryan can count the times Spencer used it on him on one hand, and it’s why he props himself up on his elbows, nearly choking on the smoke. It’s too hot outside, the sun making spots dance behind his lids when he blinks.
“Spencer,” he says.
Jon smiles at them both, friendly and unassuming. He’s not fooling anyone. “Okay, and I’m Jon.”
“What were you thinking?” Spencer asks, low, even. Yeah, good question. Next question, please.
Ryan sighs. “I wasn’t.”
“That much is obvious. You know,” Jon puts in, taking the joint back from Ryan’s loose grip. “The thing is that we all go through rough times. Spencer and Haley, Cassie and I. But dude, none of us try to sabotage a good thing, deliberately.”
“I didn’t—”
“You were all but begging to be found out,” Spencer cuts him off. His tone is so certain Ryan doesn’t know how to formulate his protest. He didn’t, though, it’s not—That would be just stupid. Maybe the joint is already getting to Spencer’s head, even if they just lit up.
“It’s not like I ever deserved her,” Ryan says, and for all that it’s the truth, he hopes it will sound like nothing but a line. Of course, he forgot the part where Spencer’s known him since they were kids. Ryan should reconsider his best friends forever and everywhere policy. Sometimes, a little distance might be a good thing. Particularly when Spencer is looking at him like he suddenly realized something, and Ryan just really doesn’t want to know what it is.
“Tell me you don't really mean that.” Spencer’s tone is testing, like he already knows the answer.
Ryan turns his head away.
They don’t speak for a while, just passing the joint around. Ryan isn’t so delusional as to believe the conversation over. Spencer’s a stubborn bitch – not much better than Brendon, in fact, and wow, isn’t that a glorious thought, Spencer and Brendon butting heads, thick skull against thick skull. But then, Ryan probably isn’t one to judge.
He takes another drag.
“If you need time,” Jon says eventually, just throwing it out there before he falls silent again. His tongue is turning sloppy on the consonants, like it always does when he’s starting to feel the buzz. Ryan feels like repeating it quietly to himself because he likes the loose, relaxed way Jon said it.
“Ryan?” Spencer asks. Oh, right.
“I don’t need time.”
“You don’t need time?” Spencer asks. Sometimes, Ryan admires his ability to call someone an idiot without actually using the word. Now is not one of those times.
“No,” Ryan says. He rolls over onto his stomach, forehead on his crossed arms. This close, he can smell the grass. (Grass, haha, oh God.)
Spencer shifts subtly closer. His hand settles warm and heavy on the small of Ryan’s back. It’s kind of unfair, how Spencer can stay completely focused even when he’s mildly high. “I think you do.”
Ryan raises his head just enough to squint at Spencer. The imprint of brightness stays behind his lids when he blinks. “What, you think I should spend a month in a convent, or what? Take a vow of silence and ponder my own being and, like, purpose on earth?”
“Don’t make it sound bad, hey.” Jon huffs out a breath. “My brother did it. Said it was cool. It’s kind of an artsy thing to do. Should fit you. Dude, a convent with monks and nuns. That’s funny, right?” His smile is lopsided.
“God’s dead,” Ryan says. Tiredness is creeping up his spine, like it often is these days, and Spencer’s touch isn’t helping.
Jon yawns. “So is Nietzsche.”
Beside Ryan, Spencer is tense as if he’s still waiting for his chance to get a comment in. In the end, he moves his hand up to rest between Ryan’s shoulder blades, silently supportive. Ryan closes his eyes. His whole body is heavy, confused, and his skin feels too small to contain his organs and bones and lungs and heart.
--
Brendon returns from his vacation tanned and relaxed, smiling wide and beautiful as if he knows he’ll own the world, one day. He’d be a shitty ruler, Ryan thinks, banning some of the greatest movies ever made, with no appreciation for truly fucked up art. Brendon’s brain isn’t wired that way.
The last day before festival season hits, Brendon shows up at Ryan’s door with two tickets for a concert by a band Ryan has never heard of. Brendon claims to have listened to a couple of songs on their MySpace, but something about his posture suggests he really just longs to be an invisible part of the crowd for a change, shove at people who jab their elbows in his side, jumping with the beat, sweat-soaked and free because, yeah, it’s not like Ryan forgot how they used to do that, back when they had little money and big dreams.
Since Ryan couldn’t decide what to wear until Brendon pretty much wrestled him into an outfit, they get to the club slightly late. It’s not the kind of concert that comes with a supporting act, so they enter right into the middle of the intro, people already crowding around the stage. When Brendon grasps Ryan’s wrist to pull him into the mass of bodies, it’s no different from all those other times, except for… except for how Ryan has to blink for a moment, blink and adjust. Heated, humid air makes his throat dry up. The bass is thumbing in his veins.
Strobelight flickers above their heads, reducing everything to black-and-white stills. Brendon is caught up in a wave that carries them closer to the stage, pulling Ryan along before the backslash pushes Brendon up against Ryan’s chest, their bodies close, too close and hot. Ryan is uncomfortably aware he’s hard. It’s the price to pay for his self-imposed celibacy, probably; not getting laid in close to four months must be some sort of personal record.
He doesn’t think it’s something he should be proud of. He’s not sure.
Brendon twists into him, breath tickling Ryan’s ear as he raises his voice over the music. “The pianist is shit,” he yells, and Ryan wonders if this is on purpose, the closeness. If Brendon’s aware of it, pushing like he always does.
Ryan turns his head, nose pressing into Brendon’s cheek because heat wavers all around them, strangers forcing them together. “Guitar is pretty good, though. And the singer isn’t bad.”
“Better than you,” Brendon retorts. “Which, hi, not that difficult.” His smile presses against Ryan’s ear for a moment, and then Brendon turns and really shoves himself up against Ryan, legs slightly apart. Their hips knock together and Brendon must feel how Ryan’s hard and he does; his gaze flicking down for a moment and then back up, eyes dark and smiling. The strobelight makes him seem alien and too familiar all at once, reducing him to a cutout.
Ryan takes a quick step back, the heel of his boot landing on another person’s shoe. He twists with an apologetic expression – superfluous because it’s a concert and these things happen. When he turns back, Brendon is right there again. He never let go of Ryan’s wrist, and funny how Ryan notices only now. “Brendon,” he mouths, trying to shake his arm free.
Brendon holds on, leaning in again. His expression is delighted and confused and fuck, why can’t he just—Just. Yeah. “What are you afraid of?” Brendon asks. His lips drag over Ryan’s earlobe, down the line of his jaw, and Ryan can’t fucking make himself move even though he should, oh God.
“I’m not,” he gets out, and it’s too late and too breathless, hardly audible over the singer’s wailing. He’s nowhere near as good as Brendon.
Brendon’s tongue flicks out against the corner of Ryan’s mouth. Ryan almost misses it when Brendon points out, “You’re shaking.”
“I’m cold,” Ryan protests. He tries to get his body back under control, wants to retreat again, but there’s nowhere he can go, bodies everywhere, and sweat prickles on the back of his neck. The bass beats in time with his heart.
“Oh, don’t feed me that bullshit, asshole.” Brendon gives him a smile, genuine, hopeful, and it makes something uncurl in Ryan’s stomach, heat and fear in one beautiful package. Brendon’s mouth is pressed to a sensitive spot below Ryan’s ear, Brendon’s tone challenging now. “You want this, you want me. You’ve been wanting me for ages.” Brendon lifts his head, gaze open. “And you know I want you.”
There’s this stupid saying about centuries passing by in just one moment. It sure feels like that to Ryan, seconds stretching like gum while they’re staring at each other. Ryan could give in, just for tonight, could let himself—
Fuck.
This time, when he takes a step back, he actually manages to put a few inches of space between them. He’s still hard, his dick pressing up against his jeans, and there’s no way Brendon won’t be able to tell. Brendon’s hard, too. Quickly, Ryan flicks his eyes back up. He has to yell over the music, and shit, are they making a scene here? No one’s paying attention to them. “I love you too fucking much to risk it, okay?”
“What?” Brendon’s expression clouds over. Ryan balls his hands into fists, refusing to repeat himself, and Brendon’s grip tightens around his wrist for just an instant before he lets go. Ryan has to strain to understand him. “You know that’s completely messed up, right? Relationship aren’t automatically doomed to fail.”
“Are you trying to save me?” Ryan yells.
“Save you?” Brendon’s laugh is hollow and utterly wrong, twisting through a lull in the music. If Ryan never had to hear it again, it would still be too soon. Brendon shakes his head, closer again, hair tickling Ryan’s neck and voice too serious, too earnest. “I’m not superman. I’m not trying to save you, Ross. I’m not that good. You’re the only one who can do it, and you know it.”
It’s an effort to look away, shut off all thoughts of how easy it would be because Ryan knows better by now. It’s never easy. “I thought we’re here for the music.”
When Brendon replies, after a heavy pause, he looks tired, as tired as Ryan feels. “Yeah,” he says, and then he turns away to face the stage. He doesn’t look at Ryan even once for the remainder of the concert. It doesn’t hurt.
--
Her lips are glistening with some kind of gloss, hair perfectly styled and gleaming when they pass under a streetlamp. Ryan forgot her name. She links their arms together, and he remembers with a bright flare of pain how Keltie always said that the only women who link arms are the ones who have to be bought somehow, and how that was kind of sad. Keltie was never the type to be bought; she fought him on bills and show tickets because she never wanted to owe him, or anyone.
It used to frustrate him.
Ryan glances over at the girl, more a woman, probably. He’s pretty sure she’s wearing expensive lingerie under her short dress, picked out especially for the show, in the hopes of catching one of them afterwards, at a bar, somewhere. There’s a good chance it’s red lingerie. It makes him think how especially in the summer, Keltie preferred sportswear – snug, black or white underwear that wasn’t particularly sexy except for when he got to undo the bras, push the panties down her legs. After all this time (five months, shit), the memory shouldn’t hurt so fucking much anymore.
Ryan stops, and so does the girl, a questioning expression on her face. Even though he knows it’s not fair, isn’t directed at her at all, he suddenly hates her. “I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his arm free. “I can’t do this.”
She opens her mouth.
He turns away quickly, almost running, embarrassing and stupid and so utterly messed up that he’s surprised when he makes it back to the hotel without falling down even once.
There are a couple of fans in the hotel lobby. He sees them out of the corners of his eyes and walks past quickly, ignoring their calls, pretending not to hear. The elevator is blessedly empty, and he leans his forehead against the mirror. Up close, his eyes look haunted. It reminds him of Brendon’s expression when Ryan told the guys he was leaving while the girl was waiting near the table, smiling.
It’s better this way, though. Safer. It is, and if Ryan repeats it often enough to himself, he’ll even start believing it. It’s obvious that Brendon doesn’t.
The silence of the hotel room envelopes him like a thick blanket. He stretches out on his bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling while he waits for Spencer to get back. It will be a while, most likely; they have fairly clear rules about groupies and how much privacy they can count on even when they’re sharing rooms. Not that Spencer or Jon have made use of those rules anytime in the last few years.
Ryan listens to the soft ticking of Spencer’s clock, a piece of home no matter where they go. His brain is buzzing, but he tries not to linger on any ideas, memories, for too long.
When Spencer gets back, he’s already scowling as he slips in through the door. “She gone?” he asks. He brings along a waft of cigarette smoke and sweat and grease, as if the seats and the table of the bar soaked into his clothes.
“I didn’t bring her here,” Ryan says, sitting up. He feels strangely lost in the width of the bed, even though it’s just a twin. “Ditched her on the way over.”
Spencer sits down on the other bed, knees pressed together, mouth a thin line. It’s how he holds himself when he’s really unhappy with something. “That was a pretty shitty thing to do.”
“There were people around,” Ryan protests. “Cars passing, and, like. It’s not like I left her alone in some dark alley or whatever.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Oh.” Ryan exhales and averts his eyes to the ugly hotel carpet, a strange beige pattern that wouldn’t look out of place in an eighties movie.
Spencer folds his hands and says, quietly, “Brendon.”
“We’re not—” Ryan shakes his head. “Brendon and I, it’s not… I wouldn’t do that to him. Or the band.”
“Because you fuck up every relationship you had, and will inevitably fuck up every relationship that lies in your future.” It’s a deadpan delivery.
“Stop it, Spence. It’s not. It’s just, okay. That’s just how it is, and I’m not stupid.” Ryan lifts his gaze, and he loses the staring match, looking away while Spencer’s eyes are still focused and angry.
“Okay,” Spencer begins slowly. “Let me tell you something, Ryan. You’re kind of an asshole, sometimes, but you’re my best friend. Wanna know why?”
Ryan lifts one shoulder and continues studying the wall.
“Trust me, it’s not because you look good in a rosevest.” The covers rustle as Spencer shifts up to lean against the headrest. “It’s because you’re smart, and talented. Because you get my sense of humor, and because you’ve never let me down, even if we clash sometimes. I could make you a list, if you want. Sharpie, pen, whatever you prefer. But you know what makes me really fucking angry?”
Ryan lifts his other shoulder.
“That you believe I mean all this,” Spencer says. “But you’d never believe it yourself.”
“What’s this, a therapy session?” Ryan sinks back onto the bed and closes his eyes. He doesn’t really want to think about this stuff. It doesn’t matter; it’s just Spencer talking out of his ass because he does that quite frequently, even if he’d never admit it.
“Maybe you need one.”
Ryan slits his eyes back open for a sharp glare. “I’m not a fucking nutcase.”
“You kind of are. Not obviously, but. In some areas. You’re fucked up, relationship-wise.” Spencer rolls off his bed, sprawling headfirst on the mattress beside Ryan. Their shoulders are touching. Spencer’s eyes are fond, and Ryan finds it impossible to look away.
“And you think discussing my childhood with some paid professional will help.”
One corner of Spencer’s mouth curls up. “Dysfunctional family background. Maybe that’s why you were always waiting for the other shoe to drop, even though Keltie so obviously loved you. Maybe that’s why you don’t believe things could work out between Brendon and you.”
Ryan exhales in a rush. “Spencer.”
“Think about it.” Spencer shifts closer, reaching over Ryan to drag the blanket up over both of them.
“You’re gonna stay with me?” Ryan asks dryly. It falls a little flat. “Like old times?”
Up close, Spencer’s smile is brilliant. “Shut up and sleep, Ross. Maybe you’ll see clearer in the morning.”
Ryan snorts, but he moves over to make room for Spencer, kicking his pants off. It’s a long time before he falls asleep, though, even as he tries to keep his mind blank and empty. A close church keeps announcing the time in intervals of fifteen minutes, and it’s nearing a quarter to three by the time Ryan finally drifts off. The last thing he remembers is the betrayed look in Brendon’s eyes.
--
Breakfast is a quiet affair. Brendon is curled in on himself, picking at his cereal and refusing to look at anyone. It’s not fair that Ryan’s trying to save their friendship, and it still feels like Brendon is slipping away.
Spencer isn’t much better, grumpy because he’s never been much of a morning person, and Jon is downing his coffee with badly-veiled greed. Ryan pushes a bite of scrambled egg over to the other side of his plate. He doesn’t raise his head when he asks, “How do you do it?”
On the periphery of his vision, he can tell that Spencer glances over at him. “Again, in English?”
“I mean, relationships.” Ryan clears his throat. Across the table, Brendon’s spoon stills, no longer stirring milk and soggy cereal. “Just, how do you keep from messing up? How do you… You know.”
“Make it work?” Spencer sounds less grumpy now, more awake. Jon even goes so far as to set his coffee down. He’s smiling a little, faintly.
“We mess up,” he says. “Well, maybe Spencer doesn’t, because he’s awesome and all, but I do. The thing is just, I believe that Cassie and I, we just might last. I think it’s possible.”
“Oh.” Ryan lifts his eyes long enough to find Brendon staring at him, his gaze steady, expression hopeful and defiant at once. His hair is sticking up in the back, dark circles under his eyes. Their eyes lock for a second, Ryan’s breath stuttering in his throat, and then Brendon’s looking back down at his bowl. There’s the slightest hint of an upwards curl to his mouth.
--
Ryan hasn’t done much writing lately. In between Brendon’s cautious distance and the realization of how Spencer always seems more settled when he gets off the phone with Haley, how talking to Cassie makes Jon’s smiles widen, Ryan spends a lot of time staring at the ceiling of his bunk. It feels like taking a step back, not forward, when he crawls out of bed one night and curls up on the couch in the lounge, notebook in his lap, only the soft glow of the lamp and the buzzing of the wheels to keep him company.
He writes about a tightrope walker so afraid of the end of the line that he never really finds his balance, and how the only thing that makes him get out from behind the curtains are the screams of the crowd. Talk about emo, huh.
When he shows it to Brendon, he keeps his hands in his pockets and his upper body angled away. Brendon doesn’t immediately look up, scanning through the draft twice before he puts the notesheet down. His face is as blank as his voice. “Thought you were past hiding behind my voice.”
“What makes you think I want you to sing it?” Ryan asks. He’s not sure what his expression reveals, but Brendon’s eyes soften suddenly, and he shifts closer on the couch.
“This isn’t your pitch.”
Ryan shrugs. “I can learn.”
“Yeah.” Brendon is silent for a moment before he leans over, resting one hand on Ryan’s shoulder. It’s warm even through the thick cotton of Ryan’s shirt. “You know what bugs me?”
“No.” Ryan swallows. “What?”
“If I told you I loved you, you wouldn’t believe me. Not really.” Brendon leans back into the cushions, but his hand doesn’t leave Ryan’s shoulder. He looks exhausted. “Not even after all this time.”
Ryan has to avert his eyes, opting to stare up at the nondescript ceiling. He takes a shaky breath, and his voice isn’t entirely steady. “It’s just a bad idea. Brendon, it’s—We’re both so fucked up, and you know it. I’m a mess when it comes to relationships, you’re messed up about sex. Guess our parents didn’t do us much of a favor, in those respects.”
“Well, no, it’s not so healthy to be taught that sex before marriage is a sin.” Brendon pauses and slides lower on the couch, thighs apart. Ryan’s eyes flick down before he can help it. It’s not fair, this whole thing; he always thought of Brendon as a background soundtrack to his life, but of course Brendon’s too much of a frontman to let himself be tied down to that role forever.
Silence presses down on them. It doesn’t last long.
“You know that I only ever had sex with fans?” Brendon asks.
Ryan turns towards him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Brendon’s smile is self-deprecating. “Not the best way to learn, huh? I could hardly ask them to teach me, that would’ve been embarrassing.”
“I guess,” Ryan says. He fights to keep his mind blank.
“I’m willing to learn, though.” Brendon twists around, and suddenly he’s too close again, impossible to ignore. “How about you?”
“I.” There’s a new tightness in Ryan’s chest, and he’s not sure what it is, want or hope or despair. “Yeah.”
Brendon’s face lights up, and Jesus, it’s not fair how he just does that, how effortlessly he affects Ryan, so fucking much. “Yeah?”
“Spencer said I should go into therapy.” It doesn’t hurt to say it, surprisingly.
“Well.” Brendon tightens his grip on Ryan’s shoulder, and he doesn’t look away, his gaze doesn’t even waver. “Pete did it. So did Gerard Way. You’d be in good company.”
Ryan nods. When Brendon draws him near, he doesn’t fight it, comes easily and rests his forehead on Brendon’s shoulder. He inhales, and Brendon smells of bunks and sleep, of hope.
--
He’s buzzed into the apartment (office?) without having to give his name and climbs the stairs to the second floor, each step an effort. Maybe this was a mistake. He repeats his opening statement in his head, My name’s Ryan Ross and I’m incapable of keeping a relationship. He thought it was a smart thing to begin with. Now, it sounds stupid.
One of the two doors is ajar, and Ryan pushes it open cautiously. It looks like a normal apartment, shoes arranged on a shelf beside the entrance, jackets slung over a coat rack. “Hello?” Ryan calls out.
“In the kitchen,” comes the reply. He recognizes the voice, Kathy Willow, from their phone conversations. “You want jasmine tea? Coffee?”
Ryan exhales on a slow breath. Too much time with Jon has turned him into a coffee elitist; he doubts a therapist will be able to prepare him a decent cup that’s not too watered down. “Jasmine tea would be great,” he says, following the sound of movement through what appears to be the living room – two armchairs facing each other, a small table, no TV set – into the kitchen. Kathy turns with a smile, wild red hair curling around her face. He’s surprised to find that she’s wearing an outfit that is just one step below what lawyers tend to be wearing, black pants and a grey blouse where he expected a wide hippie skirt or something. It’s not like clichés aren’t accurate a lot of the time.
“Ryan, I take it?” she asks.
“Yeah.” He shakes her hand. “Hi, Kathy.”
“Tea will be ready in just a minute,” she says. Her eyes are sharp, nearly as blue as Spencer’s. “A client of mine brought it back from Thailand, it’s really good tea.”
“Okay.” Ryan thinks of his opening statement. It seems even more stupid now.
“You want to take a seat already? Get comfortable? Whichever one of the armchairs you prefer, I don’t care.”
“I… Yeah.” He nods and doesn’t ask why he’s not supposed to lie down on a couch. Isn’t that how these things go, usually? He should have called Pete.
Instead of voicing his questions, Ryan returns to the living room. He chooses the armchair that lets him look out of the window, at a large chestnut tree with leaves that are already turning yellow. Then he tries to control his breathing.
Kathy joins him a mere two minutes later, carrying to large cups of steaming tea that fills the room with a delicate, slightly spicy scent. She sets one down in front of Ryan before sitting down in the armchair on the other side of the small table. Her expression is relaxed, voice unobtrusive. “Shall we get the introductions out of the way?”
“Introductions?” Ryan asks.
“Yes.” She wraps her fingers around her cup, bright against the dark blue porcelain. “As you know, everything you say in here is treated with utmost confidentiality. It only ends where very grave issues like murder are concerned, and a court order might force me to give out some information.”
“Oh, wow.” Ryan is startled into a laugh. It’s really not that funny, but… murder really isn’t on his list of things to discuss. “No, it’s nothing that bad, I promise. Just… relationship stuff, I guess. Dysfunctional family background, as a friend of mine put it.”
“Well, good.” Her grin is genuine. “I didn’t mean to imply anything, really, but it’s easier to get this out of the way right at the beginning.”
“I get it, yeah.”
“So.” She sets her tea down and leans back, openly watching him. “You want to tell me why you decided to come here?”
Ryan clears his throat and sips at his tea. It’s too hot and burns his tongue.
--
He nearly bails out on his second appointment. After Kathy’s initial introductions, he just didn’t know how to start, and while she asked a few questions, she didn’t appear to mind the silence. “I can only help if you want this,” she told him, just before he left. “I’m not going to force you to talk. You have to want it.”
The only reason Ryan goes back is because Brendon’s at his place that day, just hanging out in front of the TV. When Brendon glances at the clock and asks if he should drop Ryan off, Ryan is too weak to tell him he doesn’t feel like going, that it’s not helping. So he goes.
By the fifth session, he almost doesn’t think about canceling anymore. He keeps up the bi-weekly sessions when they go back on tour, and while it’s not the same over the phone, it’s still the first time he has to put into words the experience of finding empty, dusty bottles behind rows of books, of falling asleep to the sound of screaming in the hallway, slamming doors, before his mother walked out the house and never looked back.
For all that Spencer’s been there for most of that, he never had to be told. Ryan didn’t think it would make a difference, but… It sort of does.
--
It’s Kathy’s idea, and at first, Ryan declines. Then he finds himself alone on the bus, Spencer and Brendon off for an interview and Jon on a quest for a place where he can watch some playoff game or whatever. He’s such a dude, sometimes.
Ryan’s notebook is shoved under his pillow, and he pulls it out slowly, digging through his bag for a pen because Brendon keeps stealing all the ones that lie around the bus. He probably has a breeding farm by now.
All Ryan finds is a pencil, and that’s almost a good reason to give up on the idea. Just as he gets comfortable with that, his brain calls him a coward, in a voice that sounds remarkably like Spencer’s. With a sigh, Ryan begins writing a letter he doesn’t think he’ll ever send.
--
I always thought you deserved better and I still think you do, deserved much more than a guy who didn’t even like himself.
--
Jon is murdering The Clash. Slowly, torturously. When Ryan tells him so, Jon glances away from the screen long enough to send him a glare, and Ryan laughs as he sinks back onto the carpet. Beside him, Brendon is yelling encouragements – “Jon Walker, don’t let the game beat you!” – and insults, as if he can’t quite decide whether to be on Jon’s side or on Spencer’s. Without even thinking about it, Ryan rolls closer to him.
Brendon falls quiet.
Time doesn’t stop. The game is wailing on, Jon cursing over a missed note and Spencer triumphant on the couch. Brendon slowly turns his head, and Ryan concentrates on how the vibrations of the engine echo in his stomach. When he reaches down, it feels natural to lace their fingers. “Okay?” he whispers.
Brendon’s smile is slow to emerge, but when it does, it’s brilliant. “Yeah. Not like I haven’t been waiting for a decade or so.”
“We didn’t know each other a decade ago,” Ryan feels obligated to point out. It doesn’t stop him from shifting even closer, Brendon’s eyes nearly black in the muted glow of the screen.
Brendon jerks his head. “Details, Ross.”
“Yeah.” Ryan grins suddenly, stupidly. His body feels light, and the road beneath them stretches on forever. He doesn’t glance at Jon or Spencer because right now, Brendon’s the only one who matters. When Ryan pushes closer, Brendon doesn’t retreat. “Do you trust me not to fuck this up?”
“I do.” Brendon’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Do you?”
Ryan tightens his grip on Brendon’s hand. “Getting there.”
“Good enough for me,” Brendon says, and then he laughs abruptly, happy and bright. For such a small guy, he’s fast and agile, and before Ryan even realizes what’s happening, Brendon has pushed him over onto his back, sprawling over his chest with his weight grounding Ryan. Vaguely, Ryan’s aware of Jon missing a whole chunk of notes, of Spencer watching them. He doesn’t care.
There are no fireworks when he pulls Brendon down for a kiss. No fireworks, but a low hum of certainty, of purpose. Brendon kisses him back without hesitation, just like Ryan knew he would.
=== finis ===
Not quite a soundtrack, but a bunch of songs that accompanied me while I was writing this: Back At One (EP).