Seven Minutes.
1187 words. PG. Slight Ryan/Brendon.
Ryan Ross suffers from what one could call mild panic attacks (no pun intended, seriously), but he insists it's just too much stress. His mid-life crisis, come twenty years early.
When Ryan goes into this panicked state, he gets shaky and his heart rate quickens- often causing him to break out in a sweat and start hyperventilating.
This usually happens once or twice a week, but sometimes multiple times a day. The day their first album came out, Ryan was a nervous wreck. He didn't sleep at all the night before, but instead lay there tossing and turning for hours. He finally got up around two and spent the rest of the night on his laptop in the lounge until dozing off in the middle of his 9th game of Solitaire around six.
The day of their first live show was much the same; no one could spend more than 7 minutes in his on-edge presence without getting their head chewed off or wanting to shoot themselves.
He's tried a bunch of different medication; sleeping pills, antidepressants, even some of Brendon's Ritalin once, but nothing really worked. The couple different therapist visits were futile too, and Ryan eventually realized that the only therapist that worked was the brown-eyed boy always at his side, whispering comforting sounds in his ear to wait it out.
The job used to be Spencer's, but then Brendon came along. At eighteen, Ryan realized that, for the six years he'd been doing this, Spencer was kind of clueless. Sure, the books to read and music to listen to Spencer offered him were with good intentions, but it was all nothing compared to Brendon.
Brendon Urie has the hands of a god, and he quickly became Ryan's life support system, his personal savior. In the time it takes Ryan to drive someone insane, Brendon can have him calm again in the next seven minutes.
After just three years, Brendon can nearly smell the attacks coming. Whether that's a gift or a curse, well, no one's decided yet. But the second Ryan's blood starts to boil, Brendon's rushing out of his bunk and into the living room to stand behind Ryan and rub small circles between his shoulder blades. Brendon can be on the other side of a crowded room, talking to someone, but as soon as Ryan starts gasping for air as if choking, Brendon's at his side. Like a magnet, never failing.
"Shh, Ry. It's okay. You're okay." And Ryan's eyes slip shut as he takes a few deep breaths. The people around them watch in amazement at the transformation, feeling foolish for ever considering the Heimlich Maneuver.
It's gotten to the point where, if Ryan starts showing the signs of a throe around Spencer or Jon, they're immediately calling for Brendon and taking two steps back to give them some space.
"Breathe in, breathe out."
---
The first time Brendon had the honor of the experience, he flipped. (Ryan was flipping out because he couldn't find the notebook he'd spent all night writing in.)
"Spencer! What do I do?!" he yelled, fearing for his own life more by the second.
Spencer rushed over, then sighed when he realized what was happening. "Just give him one of those Palahniuk books. Something calm, like Diary."
Brendon didn't have a chance to ask how such a psychopathic book could ever be relaxing before he was digging through Ryan's duffle full of all his books. (And finding his beloved notebook shoved amongst them.)
Ryan tried to give Brendon a reassuring smile as he opened the book to his favorite part, but the forced expression vanished as his face was washed with relief upon feeling his notebook beneath the novel. He sighed, looking up at Brendon gratefully. But after watching him try to read for a minute or so, Brendon realized his nerves were still unsettled from the scare.
"Here, come here." Brendon moved to kneel awkwardly behind Ryan in the booth around their kitchen table. And then he was pressing on Ryan's back, nimble fingers working across his shoulders and the base of his neck.
The tension quickly eased from his muscles, as if Brendon's touch alone had removed a weight from his back.
"Better?"
"God yes. Where have you been all these years? Don't ever stop."
---
One night, somewhere in Arizona, they were lying in a bed in a hotel room. Ryan's mom had called him a few hours before, and he was still laying there restless, uneasy. Brendon was maybe the only one who knew how much these calls stressed him out. The older boy was just lying on his back, clenching his Sidekick in one hand and staring at the ceiling in the dark.
Brendon was exhausted, but he had developed a habit of not being able to let slumber take hold until he knew Ryan was okay and resting peacefully. Tonight was no different, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't fall asleep.
"Ry," he whispered, tugging on Ryan's shoulder in the hopes of getting him to roll over and lie on his side, facing him. "Ry, c'mere."
When they were finally facing each other, Brendon slid over until he could wrap his arms around Ryan. Watching the tension ebb away from Ryan's face, Brendon gently massaged up and down his troubled friend's taut back.
"Do you wanna talk about it?"
No answer. Knowing Brendon cared was enough.
---
Tonight, their new CD comes out at midnight, and they've been asked to play a small set at a local bookstore as sort of a preview for the Las Vegas' faithful.
Brendon is sitting on the edge of his bunk, pulling black socks onto his feet and humming softly to warm up his voice.
(They chose to get ready on the bus, for old time's sake.)
They're an hour from show time, and Ryan is curled up in his own bunk, trembling under his thin sheet as he frantically texts Pete on his Sidekick.
I'm so, so nervous. Do you still get this nervous?
Brendon rolls his eyes, imagining the conversation in his head.
(Little does he know, Pete's response is simply, "Find Brendon." The man may not be able to keep his own Sidekick from being hacked, but he sure does know how to read people.)
Brendon abandons his other sock and moves across the tiny hallway to kneel above Ryan in his bunk. Ryan looks up, not at all surprised, and flips his phone shut before pushing himself into a sitting position.
"I'm scared," he whispers, teeth chattering as he collapses against Brendon. Brendon starts to rub his back, then, on second thought, grasps Ryan's shoulders and leans back to look him in the eye.
The younger boy opens his mouth to say something, but instead finds himself leaning forward to press his full lips against Ryan's quivering pout.
(Ryan was always better with words, anyway.)
They stay real still for a moment, then Brendon slowly pulls away. Ryan unintentionally lets out a little whine, his hand still on Brendon's hip.
"We're going to be fine. I promise."
Ryan Ross suffers from what one could call mild panic attacks (no pun intended, seriously), but he insists it's just too much stress. His mid-life crisis, come twenty years early.
When Ryan goes into this panicked state, he gets shaky and his heart rate quickens- often causing him to break out in a sweat and start hyperventilating.
This usually happens once or twice a week, but sometimes multiple times a day. The day their first album came out, Ryan was a nervous wreck. He didn't sleep at all the night before, but instead lay there tossing and turning for hours. He finally got up around two and spent the rest of the night on his laptop in the lounge until dozing off in the middle of his 9th game of Solitaire around six.
The day of their first live show was much the same; no one could spend more than 7 minutes in his on-edge presence without getting their head chewed off or wanting to shoot themselves.
He's tried a bunch of different medication; sleeping pills, antidepressants, even some of Brendon's Ritalin once, but nothing really worked. The couple different therapist visits were futile too, and Ryan eventually realized that the only therapist that worked was the brown-eyed boy always at his side, whispering comforting sounds in his ear to wait it out.
The job used to be Spencer's, but then Brendon came along. At eighteen, Ryan realized that, for the six years he'd been doing this, Spencer was kind of clueless. Sure, the books to read and music to listen to Spencer offered him were with good intentions, but it was all nothing compared to Brendon.
Brendon Urie has the hands of a god, and he quickly became Ryan's life support system, his personal savior. In the time it takes Ryan to drive someone insane, Brendon can have him calm again in the next seven minutes.
After just three years, Brendon can nearly smell the attacks coming. Whether that's a gift or a curse, well, no one's decided yet. But the second Ryan's blood starts to boil, Brendon's rushing out of his bunk and into the living room to stand behind Ryan and rub small circles between his shoulder blades. Brendon can be on the other side of a crowded room, talking to someone, but as soon as Ryan starts gasping for air as if choking, Brendon's at his side. Like a magnet, never failing.
"Shh, Ry. It's okay. You're okay." And Ryan's eyes slip shut as he takes a few deep breaths. The people around them watch in amazement at the transformation, feeling foolish for ever considering the Heimlich Maneuver.
It's gotten to the point where, if Ryan starts showing the signs of a throe around Spencer or Jon, they're immediately calling for Brendon and taking two steps back to give them some space.
"Breathe in, breathe out."
---
The first time Brendon had the honor of the experience, he flipped. (Ryan was flipping out because he couldn't find the notebook he'd spent all night writing in.)
"Spencer! What do I do?!" he yelled, fearing for his own life more by the second.
Spencer rushed over, then sighed when he realized what was happening. "Just give him one of those Palahniuk books. Something calm, like Diary."
Brendon didn't have a chance to ask how such a psychopathic book could ever be relaxing before he was digging through Ryan's duffle full of all his books. (And finding his beloved notebook shoved amongst them.)
Ryan tried to give Brendon a reassuring smile as he opened the book to his favorite part, but the forced expression vanished as his face was washed with relief upon feeling his notebook beneath the novel. He sighed, looking up at Brendon gratefully. But after watching him try to read for a minute or so, Brendon realized his nerves were still unsettled from the scare.
"Here, come here." Brendon moved to kneel awkwardly behind Ryan in the booth around their kitchen table. And then he was pressing on Ryan's back, nimble fingers working across his shoulders and the base of his neck.
The tension quickly eased from his muscles, as if Brendon's touch alone had removed a weight from his back.
"Better?"
"God yes. Where have you been all these years? Don't ever stop."
---
One night, somewhere in Arizona, they were lying in a bed in a hotel room. Ryan's mom had called him a few hours before, and he was still laying there restless, uneasy. Brendon was maybe the only one who knew how much these calls stressed him out. The older boy was just lying on his back, clenching his Sidekick in one hand and staring at the ceiling in the dark.
Brendon was exhausted, but he had developed a habit of not being able to let slumber take hold until he knew Ryan was okay and resting peacefully. Tonight was no different, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't fall asleep.
"Ry," he whispered, tugging on Ryan's shoulder in the hopes of getting him to roll over and lie on his side, facing him. "Ry, c'mere."
When they were finally facing each other, Brendon slid over until he could wrap his arms around Ryan. Watching the tension ebb away from Ryan's face, Brendon gently massaged up and down his troubled friend's taut back.
"Do you wanna talk about it?"
No answer. Knowing Brendon cared was enough.
---
Tonight, their new CD comes out at midnight, and they've been asked to play a small set at a local bookstore as sort of a preview for the Las Vegas' faithful.
Brendon is sitting on the edge of his bunk, pulling black socks onto his feet and humming softly to warm up his voice.
(They chose to get ready on the bus, for old time's sake.)
They're an hour from show time, and Ryan is curled up in his own bunk, trembling under his thin sheet as he frantically texts Pete on his Sidekick.
I'm so, so nervous. Do you still get this nervous?
Brendon rolls his eyes, imagining the conversation in his head.
(Little does he know, Pete's response is simply, "Find Brendon." The man may not be able to keep his own Sidekick from being hacked, but he sure does know how to read people.)
Brendon abandons his other sock and moves across the tiny hallway to kneel above Ryan in his bunk. Ryan looks up, not at all surprised, and flips his phone shut before pushing himself into a sitting position.
"I'm scared," he whispers, teeth chattering as he collapses against Brendon. Brendon starts to rub his back, then, on second thought, grasps Ryan's shoulders and leans back to look him in the eye.
The younger boy opens his mouth to say something, but instead finds himself leaning forward to press his full lips against Ryan's quivering pout.
(Ryan was always better with words, anyway.)
They stay real still for a moment, then Brendon slowly pulls away. Ryan unintentionally lets out a little whine, his hand still on Brendon's hip.
"We're going to be fine. I promise."