Let Each Who is Worthy Part 1
Let Each Who Is Worthy
Bands: Panic at the Disco (With appearances by Fall Out Boy, Cobra Starship and The Academy Is…)
Pairings: Ryan/Brendon, Jon/Spencer, Jon/Brendon, Jon/Spencer/Brendon, Spencer/Ryan, Panic GSF (Tom/Bill)
Word Count: 88,650
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 (drug use, violent sex)
Summary: “It was probably just some shitty band, you know? I mean, how many high school bands ever go anywhere, what are the odds? But I still can’t help wondering how things might have been different, if I’d joined them. Like. That was a bad time for me, and what if I had found a place where I fit in? Where would I be now?”
Brendon has his religious crisis but never meets Panic! and goes away on his mission after high school.
Thanks to my betas, animealexis who was with me from the start and was a great help, and chaneen and softlyforgotten; I had such a rough time finding anyone and these two stepped in at seriously the last minute and did amazing jobs. Unfortunately a lot of their suggestions came too late for me to work in before posting, but the fic is definitely better for having these three on my side. Big thanks to behindthec for sticking with me as I wrote this and encouraging me whenever I felt like giving up on it. Finally to Muse and the_randomist for Mormon-picking for me. Any mistakes left are mine entirely. Also if any of Brendon’s language/word choice seems strange, it is because he is using the terms the Mormon Church uses.
We have been saved for these latter days
To build the kingdom in righteous ways
We hear the words our Prophet declares
Let each who's worthy go forth and serve
We are as the Army of Helaman
We have been taught in our youth
And we will be the Lord's missionaries
To bring the world his truth
- We'll Bring The World His Truth (Mormon hymn)
Brendon isn’t sure what wakes him-the creaking of the bed frame as Joseph rolls in the bunk above, the bone deep pain along the side he’s laying on, or the slow ache spreading up his opposite forearm into his shoulder. His fist is clenched tight, knuckles pressing hard into the mattress, bracing him on his side. He’s worried he’ll fall if he doesn’t keep himself held up, but he’s not sure where he’s afraid he’s going to fall to. The bed has rails.
He lays in the dark, unsure if his eyes are open or not, unsure if he is awake or not. Belatedly he unclenches his fist and runs his fingers absently over the crescent moon marks left on his palm. The bedside clock reads 5:08 in bright green and he’s so tired, another fifty minutes of sleep isn’t nearly enough to take it away.
It’s already unbearably hot and his mouth is so dry it hurts. The glass he keeps on the bedside table is empty when he reaches for it. He rolls onto his back, staring at the bottom of the bed above him and his eyes adjust to the darkness enough that he can make out the room beyond his bed. The walls are a dull grey, broken only by the window on the far wall. Rain slams against the windowpane, slipping through the cracks in the frame, dampening the carpet just beneath.
Brendon doesn’t really miss home. Summoning the strength to care enough to miss something is really beyond him. But at least at home the house didn’t leak and he didn’t have to boil the water before he drank it. At home his room had posters on the wall, his computer on his desk, his guitar propped against the wall and his books. Here there are no decorative frills, no distractions in the form of televisions, radios or computers, and he only has one book. Only needs one book.
No one else is awake, so he decides to take advantage of the fact and indulge in a long shower. Usually he gets twenty minutes in the bathroom, at most. He follows the rest of his schedule like clockwork, though. Get up, grab a bottle of water (fresh spring, if they’ve been recently supplied, otherwise taken from the local water source), take meds, brush teeth, shower-and no touching himself, either, because even if the other guys do it, and even if no one else would know, Brendon would, and God would.
Instead, he listens to the creaking protest of the pipes and lets the lukewarm water pound against his back. He lets his mind wander as it will, until the medicine kicks in. There has been talk, Elder Fields says, of cutting their losses here and moving on. The official rolls for the town listed their congregation at just over 600 members, but on any given Sunday, only around 40 showed.
It had been easy enough to see what had happened-most of the townspeople were wary of them, looking at the ground as they passed, mumbling responses. Brendon’s predecessors had travelled through the town quickly, taking the people in a whirlwind, baptising mostly the underage, and moved on without bothering to follow-up. At first, their orders had been to re-activate the members, but Brendon was pretty sure that was a lost cause.
Brendon had thought, when he’d first applied for his mission, that he didn’t really care where he ended up. One place was the same as any other. Living in Brazil for the past eight months has taught him how wrong he was in that thought.
The first five months in Belo Horizonte weren’t so bad. The mission house was nice and dry, and the food wasn’t phenomenal, but it was decent. Brendon spent most of his days doing relief work. That was good-it kept his body busy and he didn’t have to think. Most days the physical exhaustion was enough to knock him out at night.
Since coming to Tapauá, though, Brendon has realised he was wrong. This town lives in abject poverty, and he is doing nothing to help. Elder Fields, being the senior companion, does most of the proselytising. Brendon listens, generally without comment, to all that Elder Fields has to say, and interacts only when necessary.
It isn’t that he is opposed to working with these people-or wouldn’t be, if he had anything to offer. But these people don’t need to be preached at. They don’t need to be baptised. They need homes with four solid walls and a roof that doesn’t leak under the (oh so frequent) tropical storms. They need a water source that isn’t contaminated with waste. They need vitamins and vaccines and a real medical clinic, not the raw brick building at the edge of the rainforest, with its packed dirt floor, forever smelling of excrement and death.
Brendon hadn’t known, before arriving, that people still lived like this in the world. It seemed like something out of a movie or a bad nightmare. Now, he finds himself wondering every day if this is part of his test, and then he wonders, hasn’t he been tested enough.
As he is drying himself, he hears the others moving around and hurries to finish and be out of their way. Elder Fields likes to follow the schedule rigidly, and Brendon finds that it’s best for him, too. Idle time leads to idle thoughts, and all that. His psychiatrist had agreed, when she’d prescribed the Adderall.
Elder Fields reads aloud selections from the Book of Mormon and Brendon doesn’t bother to ask any real questions. He’s been there, done that. He remembers a time when he was passionate about learning and had so many questions, but he can’t remember what it felt like. He looks back on his youth (because he thinks of it like that, he really does-he’s eighteen and he feels like he’s eighty), and can’t believe that he used to be filled with energy and enthusiasm.
He’d said, “The prophet Mormon took the writings of his predecessors-written as inspired by the Lord-and rewrote those records, and Joseph Smith adapted parts of the Bible saying that the translations were lost or wrong…but I don’t understand…how could the Lord inspire all those men to write one thing, then inspire different men to change what had been written before?”
His Sunday school teacher had been frozen, her expression one of muted disbelief, maybe edged in horror. It wasn’t the last time Brendon saw that look. He was taken aside later by Elder Hatchet, spoken to in low tones about how “historical and doctrinal inaccuracies are a test of one’s faith.”
He’d tried different tactics-less antagonistic. Like, he was told that Christianity tried to manipulate the teachings of Christ to suit their own needs and desires. But the Words of Wisdom didn’t explicitly say “no caffeine.” What they said was, “hot drinks are not good for the body or the belly.” Brendon thought that was pretty literal, only then the Church decided it meant no caffeine.
One crisp autumn evening, having just finished with a church service project, the leaders served hot chocolate and hot cider. Brendon had laughed and said, jokingly, something to the effect of wisdom being relative to external temperature. The lecture he’d gotten from his father and two elders had taught him to keep his mouth closed.
Now, Elder Fields reads and Brendon says what he knows is expected of him. He may not feel it, he may still be struggling to believe in it, but he knows what the Book of Mormon teaches. He knows how to teach it to others, in English or Spanish or Portuguese.
They have breakfast and ten minutes later it comes back up in the toilet. Brendon’s still bowed over the porcelain when Elder Fields passes by. “Looks like you’re sick again,” he says unhelpfully, his tone saying do something about it, and Brendon would, if he could, but the only real medicine in this town is the medicine Brendon brought with him, and it doesn’t do anything for whatever keeps cycling through Brendon’s weakened immune system.
His mouth is dry again, and there are only two bottles of water left in the storage room. He sips from his bottle slowly, but no matter how many times he does, it doesn’t seem to quench the thirst. He really doesn’t want to go back to drinking the boiled water.
There’s something ironic, Brendon is sure, about the fact that he’s living in a rainforest, the air so thick with humidity that he feels like he’s walking through water when he steps outside, and he can’t find any quality drinking water. Something. But Brendon has never been good with literary terms, and what does it matter, anyway. The thought strikes him as amusing one second, but before he can be moved to laughter by it, it has passed. Brendon can’t remember the last time he laughed.
Brendon still can’t keep anything down when President Alfaro comes three days later. He confirms what Brendon and Elder Fields and the others already knew in the back of their minds. They are being relocated for now, while the situation in Tapauá is reassessed. Elders Aaron and Lawrence are being sent back to Belo Horizonte, Elder Fields to another village further north along the river, where he will join another group and Brendon…
They’ve noticed his repeated illnesses, and while usually overcoming them would be seen as a sign of spiritual strength, they have decided that in this case a relocation would be best for all involved. There are some new missionaries in Chicago, who haven’t lived in a big city before, and someone experienced and down to Earth, like Brendon, will be good for them. Someone “with your excellent moral fibre, Brendon,” leaving aside the fact that his Spanish language skills will be helpful.
Brendon thinks, We believe in the gift of tongues, prophecy, revelation, visions, healing, interpretation of tongues, and so forth, the seventh article of faith. He thinks, apparently, that the Holy Ghost’s ability to inspire a person to spontaneously understand and/or communicate with a person in another language must not be working so well these days. He saw how Aaron just barely scraped by, memorising his testimonial in Portuguese.
This mission is his duty, Brendon knows. He applied in the first place because it was what was expected of him, and now he will go where he is told, as is expected of him. He goes back to Manaus with President Alfaro, and thinks the whole while about the fact that fifty years ago, this man wouldn’t have been allowed to hold the priesthood. Brendon thinks he himself might just be the worst person to be sent to these boys.
In his head, he hears his father, telling him that every day is a test. Brendon closes his eyes at night and prays for his test to end. He doesn’t even know exactly what that would mean, anymore.
Ryan’s going a little stir-crazy. Two weeks ago, he wouldn’t have thought it possible, he’d been worn so thin from school and work, but now he’s losing it. School’s out until the second week of January, and without the insane schedule he keeps-juggling his two majors, turning in either a paper or an art project practically every day of the week-juggling two jobs is like a cakewalk.
“What you need,” Jon says, waving a mostly empty plastic bag enticingly, “is to relax, Ryan Ross.”
Ryan rolls his eyes, because he’s gotten at least that comfortable with Jon’s drug use. Not comfortable enough, however, to join him in it. He taps his fingers uneasily on the windowsill and says, “Is your store still looking for more seasonal workers?”
Jon does not look impressed. “No way. It’s three days before Christmas. Also, I’m not sure that it’s more caffeine that you need.”
Ryan doesn’t want to work at Starbucks, anyway. He wants Spencer back. It feels weird that now, after spending a year biding his time at UNLV so that he and Spencer could go away to college together, they’re separated at Christmastime. It’s the first Christmas they’ve not been together in over a dozen years.
He’s already read the first two novels for the American Literature class he’s taking next quarter, and he’s been messing around with a mixed media project when he isn’t waiting tables at the café downtown or running registers at Target. Christmas traffic means more hours, for which he is infinitely thankful. But there are other people who want hours, too, and who have seniority, so he still finds himself with more downtime than he knows what to do with.
The blizzard outside is enough to keep him from going out, even if just to the bookstore or a movie. He’s getting used to the weather here, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to venture forth into the snow and wind unless he has to. The new neighbours downstairs apparently have no such qualms.
There are four of them, sometimes going out all together, other times only in pairs. They’re always dressed in nice but inexpensive looking suits, and they all ride bikes. Mostly students live in the building, but these guys look young enough to be recent grads. Jon reasons that they’re probably either really energy conscious or too broke to afford a car.
Ryan starts making up a story about them in his mind-four brothers who’ve just lost their parents, facing their first Christmas alone, barely bringing in enough to keep their heat on. He sighs again, maybe for the fifth time in as many minutes, and presses his forehead to the frosted windowpane.
“You know,” Jon says conversationally, but there’s something hiding underneath the casual tone, something that makes Ryan tense in anticipation. Not the good kind, either. “Maybe you just need to get laid. Work off some of that extra energy…” He makes licking the paper of his joint look downright lascivious.
Ryan stands abruptly, going to the hall closet and jerking out scarves and hats and mittens, tugging on his boots and coat. Jon tracks the movement, eyes heavy and amused, and just the wrong side of mean. “I’m going out,” he says, and slams the door behind him.
Fucking Jon Walker. Ryan wouldn’t have thought, when he’d first met Jon six months ago, that the guy was capable of being such a complete and utter dickhead. He’d thought, at the time, that there had never been a kinder, less assuming guy in all the world. Jon’s trying really hard to show Ryan how wrong he’d been.
It’s actually colder out than Ryan had originally assumed, but he doesn’t feel like going back now, so he grabs a coffee at the Starbucks on the corner and sits in the store, scratching out random ideas on a napkin.
Since moving to Chicago, he’s already filled up another book with lyrics and he and Jon have been coming up with some pretty awesome musical accompaniment. Jon fits better with the band than Brent ever did. But no matter how good the music is, no matter how much Ryan invests himself in the lyrics, he knows it isn’t enough. Jon’s got a nice voice for backup and Ryan can hold a tune for the most part, but neither of them are singers.
Every time he writes a new song, he remembers the email. He’d printed it out when he’d first received it, because, well, no matter what it said, just getting the email back was an accomplishment, right?
Ryan had kept it taped to the inside cover of his lyric book at the time, even though Spencer had gone on about how torturing himself wasn’t going to do them any good. He doesn’t keep it in his notebooks any longer. He’s long since memorised what it says.
you’ve got a unique sound & some awesome lyrics, btu stage presence is evertything man. hit me back when u find ur frontman
Sometimes, when Ryan thinks about it, he imagines Pete Wentz’ stupid, smiling face, and wants to punch something. All the same, he knew then, and still does now, that Wentz was right. Ryan has tried. He’s met some people, first at Spencer’s insistence, and then some friends of Jon’s from the Chicago scene, and some of them have even been good.
The problem is that whenever it gets to the point when he’s supposed to hand over his lyrics, he just can’t bring himself to do it. Maybe Pete would understand that. Pete was fucking lucky. Ryan hasn’t managed to find his Patrick just yet.
He ends up scratching out some really whiny, self-indulgent shit that he won’t even bother showing to Spencer (but still can’t bring himself to throw out) and it’s starting to get dark out, so he decides to head back. A few of his friends are throwing holiday parties-quiet, toned down, intellectual dinners. There might be a bit of wine, but no one will expect him to drink it. It will be good to socialise with someone who isn’t Jon.
One of the new guys is sitting on the stairs when Ryan gets back. The guy is kinda small, swallowed up by his jacket, hood tugged up and tied tightly under his chin. He’s studying his shoes intently, but looks up when Ryan starts up the steps.
“Oh,” the guy says. “Hey. I’m not trying to be creepy or anything. Could you let me in? I really live here. I just moved into 1C.”
Ryan nods vaguely as he unlocks the front door. “I know. What are you doing out here?” He holds open the door for the guy, who hurries to his feet and gives Ryan a grateful smile as he passes.
“I forgot my keys inside, and I got separated from my roommates,” he explains. He stomps his feet a few times on the runner in the hall and stands there shivering. It isn’t much warmer inside the hall than outside.
Ryan isn’t a douche bag, unlike some Jon Walkers who shall remain unnamed. The guy looks frozen through, and Ryan can totally sympathise. Locals seem to take the cold in stride, but this guy looks, like Ryan, as though he’s from some place that made him unaccustomed to winter. Bringing him upstairs will not only make Ryan appear neighbourly, but will have the added bonus of meaning Ryan won’t be alone with Jon.
“Wanna wait for them upstairs?” Ryan asks.
“Uh…” The guy looks at him with wide eyes, like Ryan just asked if he wanted to torture some kittens or something. “Well…I probably shouldn’t.”
Ryan raises an unimpressed brow. “Whatever. It’s cold down here.”
“Yeah,” the guy says slowly. “Maybe a few minutes would be alright.”
Ryan shrugs and fights the urge to roll his eyes, at least until the guy can’t see it anymore. He leads the way up to the third floor. “I’m Ryan, by the way,” he says as he unlocks the door to 3A. “That’s Jon.” He points to where Jon is lounging in the exact spot Ryan left him on the sofa, watching a South Park re-run.
The guy just stares at them for a couple seconds before he gets the point. “Oh. Oh, I’m Brendon,” he says. He finally pushes his hood back and he’s got a pretty face-big eyes hidden behind red framed glasses and full lips that look in need of chapstick-and rather unfortunate hair.
Jon gives them both an assessing look, and Ryan suddenly gets that this might look like he was planning to take Jon’s advice, and went out to pick up some guy. “Brendon’s one of our new neighbours downstairs,” Ryan says, in a warning tone. “He got locked out.”
“Ah,” Jon says, and doesn’t appear entirely convinced that’s all there is to it. Frankly, Ryan doesn’t care. “Dude, you look fucking frozen.”
Brendon flinches and takes a hesitant step back towards the door. “I just. I’ve never been someplace it snowed before,” he says at last, which isn’t much of an answer, but it’s enough to be going on.
“Want some coffee?” Ryan asks, undoing his scarves and hanging them in the closet. Brendon’s still standing there, unmoving, wrapped up to his chin. “You can take off your coat.”
“That’s okay,” Brendon says and gives Ryan a small smile that looks painful. It makes something in Ryan’s chest ache, inexplicably. Ryan has enough problems with Jon and Spencer; he doesn’t need random guys with bad hair making his chest hurt, too. “I, uh. Don’t like coffee.”
“I can make some hot chocolate,” Jon offers with a ready smile. For all his faults, Jon is really good at reading people. “I’ve got a secret recipe.” He smirks at Ryan as he adds, “I’ve been told it’s orgasmic.” Brendon makes another uncomfortable face and Ryan throws his wadded up gloves at Jon’s face.
“I don’t really like hot chocolate, either,” Brendon practically whispers. He swallows hard.
“Dude, who doesn’t like hot chocolate?” Jon asks teasingly, but Ryan sees the panicked look in Brendon’s eye.
“Hey, come into the kitchen. We’ll find something you like,” Ryan says. Jon gives him a look behind Brendon’s back, eyes wide and demanding what the fuck were you thinking? That’s not fair, because Ryan couldn’t tell the guy was going to be a huge freak just from looking at him.
Brendon turns down Ryan’s offers of soda, beer and tea before finally saying, “Water’s fine. I’d like some water.”
Ryan gets down a glass and turns on the faucet. “Sorry. We don’t have a filter or anything.”
“It’s alright,” Brendon says with a sweetly reassuring smile, but his eyes are distant. He takes the cup between his still gloved hands. “It’s better than the last place I lived.”
They stand by the window overlooking the street and Brendon takes small sips of the water. When it becomes obvious he isn’t going to offer any more, Ryan decides to ask. It’s already fucking awkward. It isn’t like he can make it much worse. “Why’s that?”
Brendon looks at him over the rim of the glass. He bites his lip, worrying at the dry, loose skin. It looks painful. “I was on a trip for my church,” he explains. “Out of the country. We had to boil the water there.”
Ryan wants to ask more, like what country they went to, but he gets the feeling if Brendon wanted him to know, he would have said. Besides, the church trip thing is enough to turn Ryan off big time. It explains why Brendon’s such a weirdo. Religious freaks creep Ryan out.
An uncomfortable silence stretches between them and Ryan decides that being neighbourly is really overrated. Also, no matter how weird things are with Jon, talking to this guy is infinitely worse. Thankfully, as the last of the daylight disappears from the sky, three familiar bikers come around the corner.
“Thank you so much for your hospitality,” Brendon says, “but I should definitely get going.”
Ryan sees him out and flops down on the sofa, very aware of the look Jon is giving him. “What the fuck, dude?” Jon asks, more in wonder and disbelief than anything else.
“Whatever,” Ryan says, flicking a hand. “Can’t be any weirder than Ballerina Lady across the hall.” Which is so, so true. Really, Ryan thinks maybe he should have learned his lesson about inviting in strangers by now. Regardless of whether or not they live in the same building. “At least now we know.”
Jon tips his coffee mug towards Ryan’s, clicking the porcelain together. “And knowing is half the battle,” he says. They stare at each other, solemn and still for a minute, before bursting into laughter.
Sometimes it hurts being this close to Jon, and never closer. Ryan supposes, dickhead or not, he wouldn’t give Jon up for anything. “I miss Spencer,” he says mournfully, face squished where it’s fallen pressed into Jon’s shoulder.
Jon shifts and gets an arm around him, lips brushing Ryan’s hair as he speaks. “Me, too.” Ryan doesn’t think about what that means. His jealousy is stupid and hypocritical, and doesn’t do any good. Instead, he snuggles closer into Jon’s side and makes himself laugh at the jokes on the television.
Chicago is bitingly cold and even after a couple of weeks Brendon is taken aback by it. The coldest weather he’s every experienced was living in Utah, and it was never like this. There is ice on the streets and every time he exhales, Brendon feels like his lungs are going to freeze and stop working.
“Guys,” he says, when he meets his companions downstairs. He thinks about lecturing them, and then decides it isn’t worth the effort. “Just. Next time can someone leave me with a key?”
Elder Link gives him a disparaging look. “You’re not going to go tattle on us, are you?”
There are several responses Brendon thinks he might give to that-from rolling his eyes to snapping out something rude and cutting. Brendon remembers a time when he was sarcastic and the word fuck rolled off his tongue with practiced ease. Now, he finds himself sighing and saying in a resigned tone of voice, “It’s your eternal soul, not mine.”
Elder Felps mutters something undoubtedly mean and Elder Mathis cracks up laughing, giving him a high five. Brendon brushes past them down the hall to his room. Ostensibly he is meant to share with Elder Mathis, but none of the others keep to the schedule set for them, so most nights he sleeps in the room alone. He doesn’t really care, one way or the other.
Brendon is still recovering from the variety of illnesses he contracted in South America. It’s still a little difficult to believe that he had malaria. Like, seriously. He thought that stopped being a serious concern a hundred years ago. The Church’s administered vaccines don’t do anything against it because, apparently, there is no vaccine for it.
Regardless of how the illnesses were contracted, the result has been that Brendon is to retire after dinner each day, excused from teaching in the evenings, until he is at full strength again. He should be making a list of his plans for the next day, but there isn’t really a point. He can change all the little details however he wants, but his day is forever laid out the same, as set by the Church.
Outside his window, the city is coming to life. No one seems to mind the cold at night, Brendon has noticed. The area of town they’ve been placed in is close to three different colleges, and because of the student population, clubs have sprung up all around. Brendon idly wonders if the guys upstairs are students, and if so, if they frequent the clubs.
Once upon a time, Brendon had thought he’d be going away to college somewhere out here-Illinois or Indiana, or maybe even on the coast someplace like New York or Massachusetts. He’d looked through pamphlets in the guidance office at high school and imagined what it would be like to live in a dorm, with no one’s rules but his own.
That was before his parents had made it abundantly clear that Brendon would be going to BYU, and no, that was not negotiable. By the time applying became an issue, Brendon had long given up hope or desire to go anywhere else.
Still, he finds himself thinking about it. Those guys didn’t look much older than him, and they had their own apartment, their own refrigerator and television. They probably had part time jobs and studied whatever they wanted, and drank coffee and didn’t feel conflicted about any of it. Brendon can think about it all he wants, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever understand.
Brendon closes his eyes and lies back on the bed. Unbidden, Ryan’s face comes to mind. Brendon has accepted that he’ll never stop thinking about boys like he does. He’s never told anyone, and he never will. But he knows as long as he doesn’t act on these feelings, he’s alright.
The Church knows that sometimes homosexuality tempts even the most devout. It is something that can be overcome, and Brendon will do what he must, when the time comes, and marry a woman.
The thoughts don’t go very far, anyway. Just a random musing on how nice the colour of Ryan’s eyes is, and how tall and slim he’d looked in the tight jeans he’d been wearing. It was obvious that Ryan had thought Brendon was a freak, so it isn’t like there’s really any temptation.
He falls asleep before ten, reading the Book of Mormon. He doesn’t remember his dreams-he never does-but he wakes up grinding his teeth and with his arm numb under his body. He relaxes his jaw and massages the feeling back from his palm up. It’s only four, but he knows he won’t be getting back to sleep.
Routine is good. Brushing his teeth, taking his meds, showering. He does all of his studies on his own now. His first attempts at trying to get the others to study with him had failed spectacularly, and Brendon knows trying to force the guys into studying won’t do any good. He doesn’t mind studying on his own. He knows it all practically by heart, anyway, and he’s not likely to say anything offensive about the inherent fallacies of the text when there’s no one around to hear.
Routine makes the days go faster, and Brendon prefers things that way. The faster the days go, the sooner his mission ends, the sooner college begins, the sooner it finishes, the sooner he finds a job, the sooner he marries, the sooner he has children, and maybe then he’ll be able to breathe, having done all that is expected of him.
His companions treat the whole mission like some extended vacation before going to school. Elder Felps has said flat out that he plans on going inactive as soon as his parents have finished taking care of his schooling, and Brendon assumes the other two feel much the same way.
Still. “It would be easier on you if you at least pretended like you were doing your work,” he says to them.
Elder Mathis gives him a sharp, unimpressed look and says, “What do you care?”
Brendon blinks a few times. Sometimes the world seems brighter and more real, and then the fog swallows him back again, quickly and completely. He can’t remember why he said what he did. “I-I don’t,” he answers at last, and Elder Mathis snorts and leaves.
It’s scary, sometimes. At least, Brendon thinks it should be scary, but he can’t summon the emotion. Disturbing, then, is perhaps the better term. It’s disturbing that Brendon can’t remember the last time he did care about something. He remembers the doctors telling him that if his malaria had continued untreated much longer, it could have become life threatening, but Brendon hadn’t cared.
He hadn’t cared when he’d been throwing up his food every day, or when he’d been assigned to the middle of nowhere Brazil. His opinions are built on what the Church has told him, and if there is no precedent, then he has no opinion at all. At least, not any that he lets himself voice out loud.
Brendon isn’t supposed to do his missionary work on his own, either, but he does. It’s that, or not go at all. Or tell someone at the mission house that his companions aren’t doing their work, but he really isn’t a nark. So he goes alone. No one he speaks to knows any better, and in a way, he thinks this might be better. This way no one can watch him lying to these people, telling them stories he doesn’t even believe.
Most evenings he has dinner with members of the local congregation. Living in Chicago is far more expensive than Brazil. He’s saved money most of his teenage life to pay for his mission, and his parents have contributed, but it makes things easier to accept the charity of others.
The families are always happy to have Brendon. Even after only a couple of weeks he is recognised as a fine addition to the Chicago mission. Each Sunday he is met with offers to visit throughout the week, and he readily accepts. It is preferable to being alone at home, and he is alone there, even if the others are around.
When he returns to the apartment every night, he goes and sits on his bed. He hears the neighbours going about their business, hears distant strains of music he isn’t allowed to listen to, and laughter he can’t remember the sensation of.
Throughout the day the drugs make him feel calm and vaguely disconnected, but as they begin to wear off, close to bed time, Brendon is struck with the strangest sensation. His brain feels clearer, like he’s just woken up from a long dream, and the heavy feeling of depression lifts. Sometimes he finds himself smiling for no reason at all, and it isn’t the smile he’s practiced in the mirror, that looks real, but feels foreign. It’s a real smile that makes his heart feel lighter, makes breathing easier.
He wants to do something, to act. He wants to go out and breathe in cold air and feel alive. He wants to sing something, or go dancing, to kiss a boy just because he can and it’s something he wants.
Exhaustion takes him at the same time, making him dizzy, and the strain of keeping his eyes open is downright painful. By the time he wakes the next morning, those wants are as distant as if they were dreamed, and as easily dismissed and forgotten.
It isn’t as though Brendon doesn’t realise the danger of this dichotomy he’s created: the part that he allows others to see-faithful and obedient-and the part that lies mostly dormant but stopped believing years ago. He doesn’t know any other way to live, though.
He wakes early and it’s still dark out and he wonders if he can do permanent damage to the muscles in his arm or something, the way he always abuses it in his sleep. He goes through the motions. Brushes his teeth, takes his meds, climbs in the shower. He can feel the medicine taking effect, chasing away the lingering tiredness while simultaneously making him feel as though he is trapped in a dream.
Sometimes the depression creeps upon him slowly throughout the day, and sometimes it sweeps through his veins hot and fast, taking him by surprise. Today is one of those days, and he braces himself against the wall of the shower, shivering even though the water is warm.
It’s devastating, this emptiness he feels, where he used to feel the Holy Ghost. He doesn’t even know anymore if he actually felt it or if he’d just been pretending because he knew that he was supposed to. It had felt real, the knowledge that he wasn’t alone, that there was something greater than him. It had somehow made up for the cool look of disappointment in his father’s eyes and the detachment in his mother’s touch.
He prays so hard he’s crying, tears mingling with shower water. He prays to feel something again, anything other than this crushing, hollow despair that his life will never be what he wants it to be. He prays to find his faith again. He prays and says, “Please Lord. Please see me through this.”
Spencer had his misgivings about leaving Jon and Ryan alone over Christmas break. They were numerous and varied, from the fact that it would be the first time Ryan had been without him at Christmas since they were children, to the fact that it meant Jon and Ryan being alone together.
There are so many reasons that idea bothers him that Spencer doesn’t really want to delve into it. That doesn’t stop him. He’s practically buzzing with nervous energy the entire flight home, wondering what he will see when he disembarks from the plane.
Will they be standing too close together at the gate? Will there be something in their gaze that he hasn’t seen before? If Spencer has to lose Ryan to anyone, he supposes that Jon is the best option. The problem with that is that he doesn’t want to lose Jon, either. He doesn’t want to lose either of them, least of all to each other.
It isn’t fair, Spencer knows, but he still breathes a sigh of relief when he spots them by the baggage claim, standing at awkward angles to one another. They both brighten when they see him, rushing to meet him with open arms and bright eyes, but he knows it’s only a matter of hours before the discomfort returns. He prefers the discomfort if it means that none of them has to be hurt.
“Miss anything exciting?” Spencer asks, watching in bemusement as Jon takes his heavier bag and Ryan the lighter, “Because you’re a lady, Spencer Smith,” Jon had joked, the first time he’d taken Spencer’s backpack, back when that sort of comment still made Spencer blush and feel giddy and light. Oh so many months ago, he thought wryly.
“New neighbours downstairs,” Ryan says and he and Jon share a look.
“Oh god,” Spencer mutters. “Not like Ballerina Lady.”
There’s a guy outside the apartment when they get back, trying to wrestle a bike up the front steps. Jon hurries up past him to get the door open. “Here ya go,” Jon says, smiling his easy smile that still makes Spencer’s stomach do a flip.
The guy smiles tightly, almost like he’s in pain. “Thank you,” he says, and the two of them manage to get the bike into the front hall.
“Brendon, this is Spencer, our other roommate,” Jon introduces. Brendon fumbles with his door key, not quite meeting any of their eyes.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Spencer,” Brendon murmurs, almost too softly to be heard. He finally gets his door open and tosses them all a bland smile. “I suppose I’ll see you around.”
Spencer manages not to laugh until they’re halfway up the second flight of stairs. Ryan gives him a questioning look. “Dude,” Spencer says, “didn’t you see his nametag?”
“He had a nametag?” Ryan asks. “He was wearing a big coat. How did you even notice?”
“He’s a fucking Mormon,” Spencer says, ignoring the question. “How could you not notice? We practically lived in the land of Mormons. Remember the Millers, down the street, and the McCoys?”
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Whatever. He was just being freaky. There are plenty of other religious freaks in the world, other than Mormons. How was I supposed to tell?”
“So that means all those guys down there are doing their mission thingie?” Jon asks. “We only ever got the Jehovah’s Witnesses around our place.”
“You’re not missing much,” Spencer says dryly. Living down the street from more than one Mormon family meant being regularly subjected to their well-meaning but obnoxious questions about faith and religion. Ryan had delighted in saying and doing anything to get them flustered.
“Hey,” Ryan says suddenly, grinning deviously, “remember when Brent tried to convince us to audition that Mormon kid from his school?” They’ve both got bags, so Spencer unlocks the door and lets them go in ahead.
Spencer remembers. He had never seen what the big deal was-Brent had gone on and on about how the kid could play a million instruments and shit, and Spencer might have thought Mormons were a little crazy, but he didn’t see how that affected their ability to play music. Ryan had been firm on the subject, shutting Brent down every time he’d brought it up until Brent had gotten fed up and disgusted and stopped talking about it.
Same as he’d said back then, Spencer says, “I don’t know. He might have been okay.”
“Yeah, right,” Jon laughs. “If Mormons are anything like Jehovah’s Witnesses, he probably would have taken one look at your lyrics and either tried to save your eternal souls, or gone running from Satan’s influence.”
Ryan looks torn between appreciating Jon’s support and being offended by the way Jon chose to offer it. He settles for elbowing Jon ‘accidentally’ as they settle into the sofa. Spencer’s had those elbows shoved in his gut enough times to know when it’s purposeful and when it’s not.
“My lyrics aren’t that bad,” he says, but he looks mollified. “And anyway, I can’t imagine that is what Pete Wentz meant about stage presence. I don’t think some Mormon dork is going to bring the fans a-coming.”
Jon coughs nervously. “I don’t think any of us can ever hope to know what Pete Wentz means about anything,” he says. Spencer narrows his eyes, considering. Jon always gets weird when Ryan talks about Wentz.
Jon doesn’t talk about it a lot, but they know enough to know that Jon used to be in a couple local bands in high school. Spencer doesn’t think that Jon had some weird crush on Wentz, too, but he wouldn’t be entirely surprised to find that Wentz had sent one of Jon’s bands an email like the one Ryan had gotten.
Ryan is starting to get that look on his face that means he’s thinking about Wentz, like how they’re lyrical soul mates or something, and Ryan just has to figure out how to prove it to the guy. Spencer clears his throat and jostles the couch unnecessarily when he sits. “You guys audition anyone over break?”
“Without you?” Ryan asks sharply. Jon holds a hand over his heart like he’s been wounded. “Besides,” Ryan says, “I think every person on campus with any singing talent has already auditioned for us or has no interest in doing so.”
Spencer bites his tongue against commenting on that. They all three know that there were a couple really fucking good auditions, but it always comes down to Ryan, clutching his lyric book like a lifeline and saying it doesn’t feel right. Spencer won’t argue with that. He knows better than to. But the fact remains that Ryan has posted hundreds of fliers on every billboard on campus, and the calls have stopped coming.
“You know,” Jon says slowly, like he’s weighing his words, “I know a few people who might be interested.”
Ryan perks up immediately and Spencer is intrigued. Jon doesn’t really talk about the bands he was a part of, before deciding to focus on school. He says he wants to be known for his photography, or what he decides to do in the future, not for whatever he did in the past.
Spencer isn’t sure what that is supposed to mean, especially since Jon has committed to Panic! and Jon knows that Ryan plans on making it big. Ryan lets it go, Spencer knows, because he thinks there was something bad about the last band breaking up. Spencer knows Jon still goes to the clubs downtown fairly often, but Ryan still can’t bring himself to go, and Spencer won’t go without him.
“I mean, most of my friends who want to be in bands already are,” Jon says. “But there’s this bar, the Pavilion. I played there sometimes, back…anyway, they have this Open Mic/Karaoke thing on Wednesdays. I’ve met a couple people there who were good, and they would probably be up for it.”
Ryan’s shoulders sag a little and Jon notices, bites his lip. Spencer rubs his arm against Ryan’s, only in support. Whatever you think, he means, and Ryan understands it. “Maybe,” he says. His shoulders sag a little more, like in defeat. “Yeah. Maybe we should do that.”
Jon smiles hesitantly. Spencer knows that Jon’s been trying so hard to get Ryan to this point, and the only reason he’s let it happen is that he knows Jon’s intentions aren’t malicious. With anyone else, Spencer would just put an end to all the peer pressure bullshit, but Spencer thinks maybe Jon knows what he’s doing. Thinks Jon might help.
Spencer doesn’t think what it means that Jon is helping in a way that Spencer never managed, even after over a decade of friendship. He can’t let himself think about it, or the way Ryan melts into Jon’s side as the idea of going to the club settles over him.
“We should probably give everyone a week or two to settle back in after the holidays,” Jon says. “Maybe the 18th?” And, okay, there’s something about the way that he names the date that makes it seem suspicious. Ryan notices it, too. Spencer can tell by the sharpening of his gaze.
Ryan nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “Makes sense. This place has been dead over the holidays.”
Spencer laughs. “Our poor Mormons. They probably think they lucked out with this place. Some quiet little neighbourhood.”
Jon giggles. “Dude, wait until Adam and Blossom get back. They’re going to flip out.
Spencer doesn’t have a problem with Mormons per se. At least, not in the way Ryan seems to. But he can’t help but smile a little wickedly as he thinks about how freaked out their new neighbours will be, when everyone else comes back from winter break.
Classes don’t start until next week, but Spencer didn’t feel like staying away so long. Seeing his family was nice, but even after only a few short months, Chicago has slowly begun to feel like home. He figured out long ago that home had a lot more to do with the people around him than the place where he found himself.
Ryan’s been inside Spencer’s head forever, so Spencer isn’t at all surprised when Ryan snuggles closer, face tipped into Spencer’s neck, and sighs, “Glad you’re home.” The touch threatens to send shivers down Spencer’s spine, but he resists.
Jon smiles at Spencer over Ryan’s head, like he knows exactly the effect Ryan’s having on Spencer, but his voice is warm and sincere when he says, “Yeah. Welcome home, Spence.”
Time seems to move both very quickly and very slowly all at once. It is a contradiction that Brendon can’t really describe. One minute, he’ll think about how the day has been crawling along at a snails pace. This mission is never going to end, he thinks, looking back on the past months as though they have been years, and the length of another fifteen months stretching out before him seems interminable.
Then he’ll blink and a week will have passed, almost without his knowledge, like his body is so used to going through the same motions every day, that it’s done them without the permission or involvement of his brain.
It’s been a long time since Brendon’s felt in charge of his own life, but this is different. It isn’t just following the rules and toeing the line. It’s losing bits and pieces of his days in a dim haze, and it makes him feel sick and anxious.
His dosage hasn’t even changed in over a year and half, but he’s been feeling like he had when he’d first gone on the meds, when he was sixteen, when the dosage had been too strong and he’d stopped eating and stopped talking, and then just stopped functioning altogether before his parents finally noticed it wasn’t just the medicine calming him down, but the medicine stopping him altogether.
He prays harder and harder all the time.
Every Tuesday night, Brendon has dinner with the Fry family. David and Bambi are gracious hosts, and glad to have Brendon around to answer questions for their three children. Anna, at fifteen, is the oldest, with Jason at twelve and Bobby at nine.
Midwestern Mormons are pretty different from those out west, Brendon has quickly discovered. Brother Fry had thought it would be a good idea for his children to be exposed to the differences in the schools of thought. Brendon, Brother Fry says, is the most committed Mormon he’s ever seen. If Brendon ever laughed anymore, he definitely would have laughed at that.
Sister Fry makes lovely gourmet meals, showcasing her Mormon education on how to be an ideal wife. Sometimes Brendon thinks the only way he might feel worse is if he’d been born a female Mormon.
They’re really nice people, though, and the most lax of the families he regularly dines with. They seem to genuinely care about each other, and express interest in Brendon’s interests and testimony (which he delivers by rote-he’s always felt there’s something wrong with him, that he’s never had the same enthusiasm about sharing his testimony as everyone else).
Jason and Bobby are polite but easily excitable, and want to hear stories about growing up in the desert and travelling in Brazil, and they love when he tells them stories from the Bible.
Anna is silent for the most part, and doesn’t really look the part of a good little Mormon girl-she wears lots of heavy eye makeup and slouches a lot, and when she’s not at the dinner table she’s usually listening to loud music on her headphones. But her parents never call her on it, which is so strange for Brendon to see, so used to his parents snapping if he stepped the slightest bit out of line with their expectations.
It takes about a month of regular Tuesday dinners before Anna even talks to him. There’s something about her that makes Brendon unaccountably nervous. It isn’t attraction or anything.
She’s pretty-really, really pretty-with a soft round face and blue eyes and dyed black hair that falls in a straight sheet down her back, striking against her pale skin. She’s scary skinny, though, in that fragile breakable way that means there’s something wrong, and besides, Brendon accepted years ago that he didn’t really like girls.
Still, something about the way she looks at him makes Brendon’s skin buzz uncomfortably. She corners him unexpectedly after dinner when the boys are helping clear the table and Brother Fry has gone to answer the phone. She’s fidgeting, tugging on her on her sleeves with her thumbs, biting her lip.
“Did you-” she pauses and looks everywhere but at Brendon. “Did you ever think that some of the rules were kinda stupid?” she finally finishes.
Brendon doesn’t even know how to begin with that. “I think the rules are there to help us, even if we sometimes don’t understand how we benefit from them,” he answers, and it isn’t even a lie.
Anna huffs a sigh. “But. I mean. Like, what about the whole no dating before sixteen thing? I mean, my friend Rose is about to turn eighteen, and her mom’s already talking about her getting married and having kids, but she’s never been on a real date.”
“You know, Anna,” Brendon says delicately, “I’m really not the person to be talking to about this.” He offers her a weak smile. “I’ve never been on a date either. This is really something you should be talking to another woman about. Maybe we could find one of the ladies at church to help you out?”
Anna frowns. “I don’t want to talk to any of the ladies at church. They all say the same sort of things, eternal mate, purity and modesty and-”
“Look,” Brendon interrupts, stomach squirming, “I really shouldn’t be talking to you about this. I wouldn’t be any help at all. But if you don’t want to talk to a woman from church, I can ask around the mission house, see if there are any female missionaries who could come talk?”
Anna gives him a long searching look. “I don’t want to talk to…Never mind,” she says. “I thought. I thought you might understand. But never mind.”
The apartment is empty when Brendon gets back. The rest of the guys are out-the apartment building came to life during the first week of January and now there are parties practically every night, music thumping through the walls and ceiling.
Brendon’s companions have made fast friends with most of the college kids, listening to their music, eating their food, drinking their beer-breaking so many rules Brendon can’t keep track, and he doesn’t care, anyway, so long as he doesn’t get involved in it.
Brendon goes to bed early, because there’s really nothing else for him to do. He puzzles over his conversation with Anna, lets it keep him up even though he’s shaking with exhaustion. Because what did she mean? How did she think that Brendon could help? Everyone goes on about how well put-together he is, the perfect example of a young Mormon.
He tries to convince himself that it’s because he’s young, close enough to her age to be accessible. Plus he’s new, someone who hasn’t known her all her life. Someone with whom she can have a little anonymity. Someone who will leave within another year. Because there’s no way she could see him as a kindred spirit.
When he wakes the next morning, the feeling doesn’t come back to his arm until he’s already in the shower. The pills rattle when he takes his daily dose, which means he’ll need to fill his prescription again soon. He has a p-day on Saturday. He’ll get it done then.
Part Two
Bands: Panic at the Disco (With appearances by Fall Out Boy, Cobra Starship and The Academy Is…)
Pairings: Ryan/Brendon, Jon/Spencer, Jon/Brendon, Jon/Spencer/Brendon, Spencer/Ryan, Panic GSF (Tom/Bill)
Word Count: 88,650
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 (drug use, violent sex)
Summary: “It was probably just some shitty band, you know? I mean, how many high school bands ever go anywhere, what are the odds? But I still can’t help wondering how things might have been different, if I’d joined them. Like. That was a bad time for me, and what if I had found a place where I fit in? Where would I be now?”
Brendon has his religious crisis but never meets Panic! and goes away on his mission after high school.
Thanks to my betas, animealexis who was with me from the start and was a great help, and chaneen and softlyforgotten; I had such a rough time finding anyone and these two stepped in at seriously the last minute and did amazing jobs. Unfortunately a lot of their suggestions came too late for me to work in before posting, but the fic is definitely better for having these three on my side. Big thanks to behindthec for sticking with me as I wrote this and encouraging me whenever I felt like giving up on it. Finally to Muse and the_randomist for Mormon-picking for me. Any mistakes left are mine entirely. Also if any of Brendon’s language/word choice seems strange, it is because he is using the terms the Mormon Church uses.
We have been saved for these latter days
To build the kingdom in righteous ways
We hear the words our Prophet declares
Let each who's worthy go forth and serve
We are as the Army of Helaman
We have been taught in our youth
And we will be the Lord's missionaries
To bring the world his truth
- We'll Bring The World His Truth (Mormon hymn)
Brendon isn’t sure what wakes him-the creaking of the bed frame as Joseph rolls in the bunk above, the bone deep pain along the side he’s laying on, or the slow ache spreading up his opposite forearm into his shoulder. His fist is clenched tight, knuckles pressing hard into the mattress, bracing him on his side. He’s worried he’ll fall if he doesn’t keep himself held up, but he’s not sure where he’s afraid he’s going to fall to. The bed has rails.
He lays in the dark, unsure if his eyes are open or not, unsure if he is awake or not. Belatedly he unclenches his fist and runs his fingers absently over the crescent moon marks left on his palm. The bedside clock reads 5:08 in bright green and he’s so tired, another fifty minutes of sleep isn’t nearly enough to take it away.
It’s already unbearably hot and his mouth is so dry it hurts. The glass he keeps on the bedside table is empty when he reaches for it. He rolls onto his back, staring at the bottom of the bed above him and his eyes adjust to the darkness enough that he can make out the room beyond his bed. The walls are a dull grey, broken only by the window on the far wall. Rain slams against the windowpane, slipping through the cracks in the frame, dampening the carpet just beneath.
Brendon doesn’t really miss home. Summoning the strength to care enough to miss something is really beyond him. But at least at home the house didn’t leak and he didn’t have to boil the water before he drank it. At home his room had posters on the wall, his computer on his desk, his guitar propped against the wall and his books. Here there are no decorative frills, no distractions in the form of televisions, radios or computers, and he only has one book. Only needs one book.
No one else is awake, so he decides to take advantage of the fact and indulge in a long shower. Usually he gets twenty minutes in the bathroom, at most. He follows the rest of his schedule like clockwork, though. Get up, grab a bottle of water (fresh spring, if they’ve been recently supplied, otherwise taken from the local water source), take meds, brush teeth, shower-and no touching himself, either, because even if the other guys do it, and even if no one else would know, Brendon would, and God would.
Instead, he listens to the creaking protest of the pipes and lets the lukewarm water pound against his back. He lets his mind wander as it will, until the medicine kicks in. There has been talk, Elder Fields says, of cutting their losses here and moving on. The official rolls for the town listed their congregation at just over 600 members, but on any given Sunday, only around 40 showed.
It had been easy enough to see what had happened-most of the townspeople were wary of them, looking at the ground as they passed, mumbling responses. Brendon’s predecessors had travelled through the town quickly, taking the people in a whirlwind, baptising mostly the underage, and moved on without bothering to follow-up. At first, their orders had been to re-activate the members, but Brendon was pretty sure that was a lost cause.
Brendon had thought, when he’d first applied for his mission, that he didn’t really care where he ended up. One place was the same as any other. Living in Brazil for the past eight months has taught him how wrong he was in that thought.
The first five months in Belo Horizonte weren’t so bad. The mission house was nice and dry, and the food wasn’t phenomenal, but it was decent. Brendon spent most of his days doing relief work. That was good-it kept his body busy and he didn’t have to think. Most days the physical exhaustion was enough to knock him out at night.
Since coming to Tapauá, though, Brendon has realised he was wrong. This town lives in abject poverty, and he is doing nothing to help. Elder Fields, being the senior companion, does most of the proselytising. Brendon listens, generally without comment, to all that Elder Fields has to say, and interacts only when necessary.
It isn’t that he is opposed to working with these people-or wouldn’t be, if he had anything to offer. But these people don’t need to be preached at. They don’t need to be baptised. They need homes with four solid walls and a roof that doesn’t leak under the (oh so frequent) tropical storms. They need a water source that isn’t contaminated with waste. They need vitamins and vaccines and a real medical clinic, not the raw brick building at the edge of the rainforest, with its packed dirt floor, forever smelling of excrement and death.
Brendon hadn’t known, before arriving, that people still lived like this in the world. It seemed like something out of a movie or a bad nightmare. Now, he finds himself wondering every day if this is part of his test, and then he wonders, hasn’t he been tested enough.
As he is drying himself, he hears the others moving around and hurries to finish and be out of their way. Elder Fields likes to follow the schedule rigidly, and Brendon finds that it’s best for him, too. Idle time leads to idle thoughts, and all that. His psychiatrist had agreed, when she’d prescribed the Adderall.
Elder Fields reads aloud selections from the Book of Mormon and Brendon doesn’t bother to ask any real questions. He’s been there, done that. He remembers a time when he was passionate about learning and had so many questions, but he can’t remember what it felt like. He looks back on his youth (because he thinks of it like that, he really does-he’s eighteen and he feels like he’s eighty), and can’t believe that he used to be filled with energy and enthusiasm.
He’d said, “The prophet Mormon took the writings of his predecessors-written as inspired by the Lord-and rewrote those records, and Joseph Smith adapted parts of the Bible saying that the translations were lost or wrong…but I don’t understand…how could the Lord inspire all those men to write one thing, then inspire different men to change what had been written before?”
His Sunday school teacher had been frozen, her expression one of muted disbelief, maybe edged in horror. It wasn’t the last time Brendon saw that look. He was taken aside later by Elder Hatchet, spoken to in low tones about how “historical and doctrinal inaccuracies are a test of one’s faith.”
He’d tried different tactics-less antagonistic. Like, he was told that Christianity tried to manipulate the teachings of Christ to suit their own needs and desires. But the Words of Wisdom didn’t explicitly say “no caffeine.” What they said was, “hot drinks are not good for the body or the belly.” Brendon thought that was pretty literal, only then the Church decided it meant no caffeine.
One crisp autumn evening, having just finished with a church service project, the leaders served hot chocolate and hot cider. Brendon had laughed and said, jokingly, something to the effect of wisdom being relative to external temperature. The lecture he’d gotten from his father and two elders had taught him to keep his mouth closed.
Now, Elder Fields reads and Brendon says what he knows is expected of him. He may not feel it, he may still be struggling to believe in it, but he knows what the Book of Mormon teaches. He knows how to teach it to others, in English or Spanish or Portuguese.
They have breakfast and ten minutes later it comes back up in the toilet. Brendon’s still bowed over the porcelain when Elder Fields passes by. “Looks like you’re sick again,” he says unhelpfully, his tone saying do something about it, and Brendon would, if he could, but the only real medicine in this town is the medicine Brendon brought with him, and it doesn’t do anything for whatever keeps cycling through Brendon’s weakened immune system.
His mouth is dry again, and there are only two bottles of water left in the storage room. He sips from his bottle slowly, but no matter how many times he does, it doesn’t seem to quench the thirst. He really doesn’t want to go back to drinking the boiled water.
There’s something ironic, Brendon is sure, about the fact that he’s living in a rainforest, the air so thick with humidity that he feels like he’s walking through water when he steps outside, and he can’t find any quality drinking water. Something. But Brendon has never been good with literary terms, and what does it matter, anyway. The thought strikes him as amusing one second, but before he can be moved to laughter by it, it has passed. Brendon can’t remember the last time he laughed.
Brendon still can’t keep anything down when President Alfaro comes three days later. He confirms what Brendon and Elder Fields and the others already knew in the back of their minds. They are being relocated for now, while the situation in Tapauá is reassessed. Elders Aaron and Lawrence are being sent back to Belo Horizonte, Elder Fields to another village further north along the river, where he will join another group and Brendon…
They’ve noticed his repeated illnesses, and while usually overcoming them would be seen as a sign of spiritual strength, they have decided that in this case a relocation would be best for all involved. There are some new missionaries in Chicago, who haven’t lived in a big city before, and someone experienced and down to Earth, like Brendon, will be good for them. Someone “with your excellent moral fibre, Brendon,” leaving aside the fact that his Spanish language skills will be helpful.
Brendon thinks, We believe in the gift of tongues, prophecy, revelation, visions, healing, interpretation of tongues, and so forth, the seventh article of faith. He thinks, apparently, that the Holy Ghost’s ability to inspire a person to spontaneously understand and/or communicate with a person in another language must not be working so well these days. He saw how Aaron just barely scraped by, memorising his testimonial in Portuguese.
This mission is his duty, Brendon knows. He applied in the first place because it was what was expected of him, and now he will go where he is told, as is expected of him. He goes back to Manaus with President Alfaro, and thinks the whole while about the fact that fifty years ago, this man wouldn’t have been allowed to hold the priesthood. Brendon thinks he himself might just be the worst person to be sent to these boys.
In his head, he hears his father, telling him that every day is a test. Brendon closes his eyes at night and prays for his test to end. He doesn’t even know exactly what that would mean, anymore.
Ryan’s going a little stir-crazy. Two weeks ago, he wouldn’t have thought it possible, he’d been worn so thin from school and work, but now he’s losing it. School’s out until the second week of January, and without the insane schedule he keeps-juggling his two majors, turning in either a paper or an art project practically every day of the week-juggling two jobs is like a cakewalk.
“What you need,” Jon says, waving a mostly empty plastic bag enticingly, “is to relax, Ryan Ross.”
Ryan rolls his eyes, because he’s gotten at least that comfortable with Jon’s drug use. Not comfortable enough, however, to join him in it. He taps his fingers uneasily on the windowsill and says, “Is your store still looking for more seasonal workers?”
Jon does not look impressed. “No way. It’s three days before Christmas. Also, I’m not sure that it’s more caffeine that you need.”
Ryan doesn’t want to work at Starbucks, anyway. He wants Spencer back. It feels weird that now, after spending a year biding his time at UNLV so that he and Spencer could go away to college together, they’re separated at Christmastime. It’s the first Christmas they’ve not been together in over a dozen years.
He’s already read the first two novels for the American Literature class he’s taking next quarter, and he’s been messing around with a mixed media project when he isn’t waiting tables at the café downtown or running registers at Target. Christmas traffic means more hours, for which he is infinitely thankful. But there are other people who want hours, too, and who have seniority, so he still finds himself with more downtime than he knows what to do with.
The blizzard outside is enough to keep him from going out, even if just to the bookstore or a movie. He’s getting used to the weather here, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to venture forth into the snow and wind unless he has to. The new neighbours downstairs apparently have no such qualms.
There are four of them, sometimes going out all together, other times only in pairs. They’re always dressed in nice but inexpensive looking suits, and they all ride bikes. Mostly students live in the building, but these guys look young enough to be recent grads. Jon reasons that they’re probably either really energy conscious or too broke to afford a car.
Ryan starts making up a story about them in his mind-four brothers who’ve just lost their parents, facing their first Christmas alone, barely bringing in enough to keep their heat on. He sighs again, maybe for the fifth time in as many minutes, and presses his forehead to the frosted windowpane.
“You know,” Jon says conversationally, but there’s something hiding underneath the casual tone, something that makes Ryan tense in anticipation. Not the good kind, either. “Maybe you just need to get laid. Work off some of that extra energy…” He makes licking the paper of his joint look downright lascivious.
Ryan stands abruptly, going to the hall closet and jerking out scarves and hats and mittens, tugging on his boots and coat. Jon tracks the movement, eyes heavy and amused, and just the wrong side of mean. “I’m going out,” he says, and slams the door behind him.
Fucking Jon Walker. Ryan wouldn’t have thought, when he’d first met Jon six months ago, that the guy was capable of being such a complete and utter dickhead. He’d thought, at the time, that there had never been a kinder, less assuming guy in all the world. Jon’s trying really hard to show Ryan how wrong he’d been.
It’s actually colder out than Ryan had originally assumed, but he doesn’t feel like going back now, so he grabs a coffee at the Starbucks on the corner and sits in the store, scratching out random ideas on a napkin.
Since moving to Chicago, he’s already filled up another book with lyrics and he and Jon have been coming up with some pretty awesome musical accompaniment. Jon fits better with the band than Brent ever did. But no matter how good the music is, no matter how much Ryan invests himself in the lyrics, he knows it isn’t enough. Jon’s got a nice voice for backup and Ryan can hold a tune for the most part, but neither of them are singers.
Every time he writes a new song, he remembers the email. He’d printed it out when he’d first received it, because, well, no matter what it said, just getting the email back was an accomplishment, right?
Ryan had kept it taped to the inside cover of his lyric book at the time, even though Spencer had gone on about how torturing himself wasn’t going to do them any good. He doesn’t keep it in his notebooks any longer. He’s long since memorised what it says.
you’ve got a unique sound & some awesome lyrics, btu stage presence is evertything man. hit me back when u find ur frontman
Sometimes, when Ryan thinks about it, he imagines Pete Wentz’ stupid, smiling face, and wants to punch something. All the same, he knew then, and still does now, that Wentz was right. Ryan has tried. He’s met some people, first at Spencer’s insistence, and then some friends of Jon’s from the Chicago scene, and some of them have even been good.
The problem is that whenever it gets to the point when he’s supposed to hand over his lyrics, he just can’t bring himself to do it. Maybe Pete would understand that. Pete was fucking lucky. Ryan hasn’t managed to find his Patrick just yet.
He ends up scratching out some really whiny, self-indulgent shit that he won’t even bother showing to Spencer (but still can’t bring himself to throw out) and it’s starting to get dark out, so he decides to head back. A few of his friends are throwing holiday parties-quiet, toned down, intellectual dinners. There might be a bit of wine, but no one will expect him to drink it. It will be good to socialise with someone who isn’t Jon.
One of the new guys is sitting on the stairs when Ryan gets back. The guy is kinda small, swallowed up by his jacket, hood tugged up and tied tightly under his chin. He’s studying his shoes intently, but looks up when Ryan starts up the steps.
“Oh,” the guy says. “Hey. I’m not trying to be creepy or anything. Could you let me in? I really live here. I just moved into 1C.”
Ryan nods vaguely as he unlocks the front door. “I know. What are you doing out here?” He holds open the door for the guy, who hurries to his feet and gives Ryan a grateful smile as he passes.
“I forgot my keys inside, and I got separated from my roommates,” he explains. He stomps his feet a few times on the runner in the hall and stands there shivering. It isn’t much warmer inside the hall than outside.
Ryan isn’t a douche bag, unlike some Jon Walkers who shall remain unnamed. The guy looks frozen through, and Ryan can totally sympathise. Locals seem to take the cold in stride, but this guy looks, like Ryan, as though he’s from some place that made him unaccustomed to winter. Bringing him upstairs will not only make Ryan appear neighbourly, but will have the added bonus of meaning Ryan won’t be alone with Jon.
“Wanna wait for them upstairs?” Ryan asks.
“Uh…” The guy looks at him with wide eyes, like Ryan just asked if he wanted to torture some kittens or something. “Well…I probably shouldn’t.”
Ryan raises an unimpressed brow. “Whatever. It’s cold down here.”
“Yeah,” the guy says slowly. “Maybe a few minutes would be alright.”
Ryan shrugs and fights the urge to roll his eyes, at least until the guy can’t see it anymore. He leads the way up to the third floor. “I’m Ryan, by the way,” he says as he unlocks the door to 3A. “That’s Jon.” He points to where Jon is lounging in the exact spot Ryan left him on the sofa, watching a South Park re-run.
The guy just stares at them for a couple seconds before he gets the point. “Oh. Oh, I’m Brendon,” he says. He finally pushes his hood back and he’s got a pretty face-big eyes hidden behind red framed glasses and full lips that look in need of chapstick-and rather unfortunate hair.
Jon gives them both an assessing look, and Ryan suddenly gets that this might look like he was planning to take Jon’s advice, and went out to pick up some guy. “Brendon’s one of our new neighbours downstairs,” Ryan says, in a warning tone. “He got locked out.”
“Ah,” Jon says, and doesn’t appear entirely convinced that’s all there is to it. Frankly, Ryan doesn’t care. “Dude, you look fucking frozen.”
Brendon flinches and takes a hesitant step back towards the door. “I just. I’ve never been someplace it snowed before,” he says at last, which isn’t much of an answer, but it’s enough to be going on.
“Want some coffee?” Ryan asks, undoing his scarves and hanging them in the closet. Brendon’s still standing there, unmoving, wrapped up to his chin. “You can take off your coat.”
“That’s okay,” Brendon says and gives Ryan a small smile that looks painful. It makes something in Ryan’s chest ache, inexplicably. Ryan has enough problems with Jon and Spencer; he doesn’t need random guys with bad hair making his chest hurt, too. “I, uh. Don’t like coffee.”
“I can make some hot chocolate,” Jon offers with a ready smile. For all his faults, Jon is really good at reading people. “I’ve got a secret recipe.” He smirks at Ryan as he adds, “I’ve been told it’s orgasmic.” Brendon makes another uncomfortable face and Ryan throws his wadded up gloves at Jon’s face.
“I don’t really like hot chocolate, either,” Brendon practically whispers. He swallows hard.
“Dude, who doesn’t like hot chocolate?” Jon asks teasingly, but Ryan sees the panicked look in Brendon’s eye.
“Hey, come into the kitchen. We’ll find something you like,” Ryan says. Jon gives him a look behind Brendon’s back, eyes wide and demanding what the fuck were you thinking? That’s not fair, because Ryan couldn’t tell the guy was going to be a huge freak just from looking at him.
Brendon turns down Ryan’s offers of soda, beer and tea before finally saying, “Water’s fine. I’d like some water.”
Ryan gets down a glass and turns on the faucet. “Sorry. We don’t have a filter or anything.”
“It’s alright,” Brendon says with a sweetly reassuring smile, but his eyes are distant. He takes the cup between his still gloved hands. “It’s better than the last place I lived.”
They stand by the window overlooking the street and Brendon takes small sips of the water. When it becomes obvious he isn’t going to offer any more, Ryan decides to ask. It’s already fucking awkward. It isn’t like he can make it much worse. “Why’s that?”
Brendon looks at him over the rim of the glass. He bites his lip, worrying at the dry, loose skin. It looks painful. “I was on a trip for my church,” he explains. “Out of the country. We had to boil the water there.”
Ryan wants to ask more, like what country they went to, but he gets the feeling if Brendon wanted him to know, he would have said. Besides, the church trip thing is enough to turn Ryan off big time. It explains why Brendon’s such a weirdo. Religious freaks creep Ryan out.
An uncomfortable silence stretches between them and Ryan decides that being neighbourly is really overrated. Also, no matter how weird things are with Jon, talking to this guy is infinitely worse. Thankfully, as the last of the daylight disappears from the sky, three familiar bikers come around the corner.
“Thank you so much for your hospitality,” Brendon says, “but I should definitely get going.”
Ryan sees him out and flops down on the sofa, very aware of the look Jon is giving him. “What the fuck, dude?” Jon asks, more in wonder and disbelief than anything else.
“Whatever,” Ryan says, flicking a hand. “Can’t be any weirder than Ballerina Lady across the hall.” Which is so, so true. Really, Ryan thinks maybe he should have learned his lesson about inviting in strangers by now. Regardless of whether or not they live in the same building. “At least now we know.”
Jon tips his coffee mug towards Ryan’s, clicking the porcelain together. “And knowing is half the battle,” he says. They stare at each other, solemn and still for a minute, before bursting into laughter.
Sometimes it hurts being this close to Jon, and never closer. Ryan supposes, dickhead or not, he wouldn’t give Jon up for anything. “I miss Spencer,” he says mournfully, face squished where it’s fallen pressed into Jon’s shoulder.
Jon shifts and gets an arm around him, lips brushing Ryan’s hair as he speaks. “Me, too.” Ryan doesn’t think about what that means. His jealousy is stupid and hypocritical, and doesn’t do any good. Instead, he snuggles closer into Jon’s side and makes himself laugh at the jokes on the television.
Chicago is bitingly cold and even after a couple of weeks Brendon is taken aback by it. The coldest weather he’s every experienced was living in Utah, and it was never like this. There is ice on the streets and every time he exhales, Brendon feels like his lungs are going to freeze and stop working.
“Guys,” he says, when he meets his companions downstairs. He thinks about lecturing them, and then decides it isn’t worth the effort. “Just. Next time can someone leave me with a key?”
Elder Link gives him a disparaging look. “You’re not going to go tattle on us, are you?”
There are several responses Brendon thinks he might give to that-from rolling his eyes to snapping out something rude and cutting. Brendon remembers a time when he was sarcastic and the word fuck rolled off his tongue with practiced ease. Now, he finds himself sighing and saying in a resigned tone of voice, “It’s your eternal soul, not mine.”
Elder Felps mutters something undoubtedly mean and Elder Mathis cracks up laughing, giving him a high five. Brendon brushes past them down the hall to his room. Ostensibly he is meant to share with Elder Mathis, but none of the others keep to the schedule set for them, so most nights he sleeps in the room alone. He doesn’t really care, one way or the other.
Brendon is still recovering from the variety of illnesses he contracted in South America. It’s still a little difficult to believe that he had malaria. Like, seriously. He thought that stopped being a serious concern a hundred years ago. The Church’s administered vaccines don’t do anything against it because, apparently, there is no vaccine for it.
Regardless of how the illnesses were contracted, the result has been that Brendon is to retire after dinner each day, excused from teaching in the evenings, until he is at full strength again. He should be making a list of his plans for the next day, but there isn’t really a point. He can change all the little details however he wants, but his day is forever laid out the same, as set by the Church.
Outside his window, the city is coming to life. No one seems to mind the cold at night, Brendon has noticed. The area of town they’ve been placed in is close to three different colleges, and because of the student population, clubs have sprung up all around. Brendon idly wonders if the guys upstairs are students, and if so, if they frequent the clubs.
Once upon a time, Brendon had thought he’d be going away to college somewhere out here-Illinois or Indiana, or maybe even on the coast someplace like New York or Massachusetts. He’d looked through pamphlets in the guidance office at high school and imagined what it would be like to live in a dorm, with no one’s rules but his own.
That was before his parents had made it abundantly clear that Brendon would be going to BYU, and no, that was not negotiable. By the time applying became an issue, Brendon had long given up hope or desire to go anywhere else.
Still, he finds himself thinking about it. Those guys didn’t look much older than him, and they had their own apartment, their own refrigerator and television. They probably had part time jobs and studied whatever they wanted, and drank coffee and didn’t feel conflicted about any of it. Brendon can think about it all he wants, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever understand.
Brendon closes his eyes and lies back on the bed. Unbidden, Ryan’s face comes to mind. Brendon has accepted that he’ll never stop thinking about boys like he does. He’s never told anyone, and he never will. But he knows as long as he doesn’t act on these feelings, he’s alright.
The Church knows that sometimes homosexuality tempts even the most devout. It is something that can be overcome, and Brendon will do what he must, when the time comes, and marry a woman.
The thoughts don’t go very far, anyway. Just a random musing on how nice the colour of Ryan’s eyes is, and how tall and slim he’d looked in the tight jeans he’d been wearing. It was obvious that Ryan had thought Brendon was a freak, so it isn’t like there’s really any temptation.
He falls asleep before ten, reading the Book of Mormon. He doesn’t remember his dreams-he never does-but he wakes up grinding his teeth and with his arm numb under his body. He relaxes his jaw and massages the feeling back from his palm up. It’s only four, but he knows he won’t be getting back to sleep.
Routine is good. Brushing his teeth, taking his meds, showering. He does all of his studies on his own now. His first attempts at trying to get the others to study with him had failed spectacularly, and Brendon knows trying to force the guys into studying won’t do any good. He doesn’t mind studying on his own. He knows it all practically by heart, anyway, and he’s not likely to say anything offensive about the inherent fallacies of the text when there’s no one around to hear.
Routine makes the days go faster, and Brendon prefers things that way. The faster the days go, the sooner his mission ends, the sooner college begins, the sooner it finishes, the sooner he finds a job, the sooner he marries, the sooner he has children, and maybe then he’ll be able to breathe, having done all that is expected of him.
His companions treat the whole mission like some extended vacation before going to school. Elder Felps has said flat out that he plans on going inactive as soon as his parents have finished taking care of his schooling, and Brendon assumes the other two feel much the same way.
Still. “It would be easier on you if you at least pretended like you were doing your work,” he says to them.
Elder Mathis gives him a sharp, unimpressed look and says, “What do you care?”
Brendon blinks a few times. Sometimes the world seems brighter and more real, and then the fog swallows him back again, quickly and completely. He can’t remember why he said what he did. “I-I don’t,” he answers at last, and Elder Mathis snorts and leaves.
It’s scary, sometimes. At least, Brendon thinks it should be scary, but he can’t summon the emotion. Disturbing, then, is perhaps the better term. It’s disturbing that Brendon can’t remember the last time he did care about something. He remembers the doctors telling him that if his malaria had continued untreated much longer, it could have become life threatening, but Brendon hadn’t cared.
He hadn’t cared when he’d been throwing up his food every day, or when he’d been assigned to the middle of nowhere Brazil. His opinions are built on what the Church has told him, and if there is no precedent, then he has no opinion at all. At least, not any that he lets himself voice out loud.
Brendon isn’t supposed to do his missionary work on his own, either, but he does. It’s that, or not go at all. Or tell someone at the mission house that his companions aren’t doing their work, but he really isn’t a nark. So he goes alone. No one he speaks to knows any better, and in a way, he thinks this might be better. This way no one can watch him lying to these people, telling them stories he doesn’t even believe.
Most evenings he has dinner with members of the local congregation. Living in Chicago is far more expensive than Brazil. He’s saved money most of his teenage life to pay for his mission, and his parents have contributed, but it makes things easier to accept the charity of others.
The families are always happy to have Brendon. Even after only a couple of weeks he is recognised as a fine addition to the Chicago mission. Each Sunday he is met with offers to visit throughout the week, and he readily accepts. It is preferable to being alone at home, and he is alone there, even if the others are around.
When he returns to the apartment every night, he goes and sits on his bed. He hears the neighbours going about their business, hears distant strains of music he isn’t allowed to listen to, and laughter he can’t remember the sensation of.
Throughout the day the drugs make him feel calm and vaguely disconnected, but as they begin to wear off, close to bed time, Brendon is struck with the strangest sensation. His brain feels clearer, like he’s just woken up from a long dream, and the heavy feeling of depression lifts. Sometimes he finds himself smiling for no reason at all, and it isn’t the smile he’s practiced in the mirror, that looks real, but feels foreign. It’s a real smile that makes his heart feel lighter, makes breathing easier.
He wants to do something, to act. He wants to go out and breathe in cold air and feel alive. He wants to sing something, or go dancing, to kiss a boy just because he can and it’s something he wants.
Exhaustion takes him at the same time, making him dizzy, and the strain of keeping his eyes open is downright painful. By the time he wakes the next morning, those wants are as distant as if they were dreamed, and as easily dismissed and forgotten.
It isn’t as though Brendon doesn’t realise the danger of this dichotomy he’s created: the part that he allows others to see-faithful and obedient-and the part that lies mostly dormant but stopped believing years ago. He doesn’t know any other way to live, though.
He wakes early and it’s still dark out and he wonders if he can do permanent damage to the muscles in his arm or something, the way he always abuses it in his sleep. He goes through the motions. Brushes his teeth, takes his meds, climbs in the shower. He can feel the medicine taking effect, chasing away the lingering tiredness while simultaneously making him feel as though he is trapped in a dream.
Sometimes the depression creeps upon him slowly throughout the day, and sometimes it sweeps through his veins hot and fast, taking him by surprise. Today is one of those days, and he braces himself against the wall of the shower, shivering even though the water is warm.
It’s devastating, this emptiness he feels, where he used to feel the Holy Ghost. He doesn’t even know anymore if he actually felt it or if he’d just been pretending because he knew that he was supposed to. It had felt real, the knowledge that he wasn’t alone, that there was something greater than him. It had somehow made up for the cool look of disappointment in his father’s eyes and the detachment in his mother’s touch.
He prays so hard he’s crying, tears mingling with shower water. He prays to feel something again, anything other than this crushing, hollow despair that his life will never be what he wants it to be. He prays to find his faith again. He prays and says, “Please Lord. Please see me through this.”
Spencer had his misgivings about leaving Jon and Ryan alone over Christmas break. They were numerous and varied, from the fact that it would be the first time Ryan had been without him at Christmas since they were children, to the fact that it meant Jon and Ryan being alone together.
There are so many reasons that idea bothers him that Spencer doesn’t really want to delve into it. That doesn’t stop him. He’s practically buzzing with nervous energy the entire flight home, wondering what he will see when he disembarks from the plane.
Will they be standing too close together at the gate? Will there be something in their gaze that he hasn’t seen before? If Spencer has to lose Ryan to anyone, he supposes that Jon is the best option. The problem with that is that he doesn’t want to lose Jon, either. He doesn’t want to lose either of them, least of all to each other.
It isn’t fair, Spencer knows, but he still breathes a sigh of relief when he spots them by the baggage claim, standing at awkward angles to one another. They both brighten when they see him, rushing to meet him with open arms and bright eyes, but he knows it’s only a matter of hours before the discomfort returns. He prefers the discomfort if it means that none of them has to be hurt.
“Miss anything exciting?” Spencer asks, watching in bemusement as Jon takes his heavier bag and Ryan the lighter, “Because you’re a lady, Spencer Smith,” Jon had joked, the first time he’d taken Spencer’s backpack, back when that sort of comment still made Spencer blush and feel giddy and light. Oh so many months ago, he thought wryly.
“New neighbours downstairs,” Ryan says and he and Jon share a look.
“Oh god,” Spencer mutters. “Not like Ballerina Lady.”
There’s a guy outside the apartment when they get back, trying to wrestle a bike up the front steps. Jon hurries up past him to get the door open. “Here ya go,” Jon says, smiling his easy smile that still makes Spencer’s stomach do a flip.
The guy smiles tightly, almost like he’s in pain. “Thank you,” he says, and the two of them manage to get the bike into the front hall.
“Brendon, this is Spencer, our other roommate,” Jon introduces. Brendon fumbles with his door key, not quite meeting any of their eyes.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Spencer,” Brendon murmurs, almost too softly to be heard. He finally gets his door open and tosses them all a bland smile. “I suppose I’ll see you around.”
Spencer manages not to laugh until they’re halfway up the second flight of stairs. Ryan gives him a questioning look. “Dude,” Spencer says, “didn’t you see his nametag?”
“He had a nametag?” Ryan asks. “He was wearing a big coat. How did you even notice?”
“He’s a fucking Mormon,” Spencer says, ignoring the question. “How could you not notice? We practically lived in the land of Mormons. Remember the Millers, down the street, and the McCoys?”
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Whatever. He was just being freaky. There are plenty of other religious freaks in the world, other than Mormons. How was I supposed to tell?”
“So that means all those guys down there are doing their mission thingie?” Jon asks. “We only ever got the Jehovah’s Witnesses around our place.”
“You’re not missing much,” Spencer says dryly. Living down the street from more than one Mormon family meant being regularly subjected to their well-meaning but obnoxious questions about faith and religion. Ryan had delighted in saying and doing anything to get them flustered.
“Hey,” Ryan says suddenly, grinning deviously, “remember when Brent tried to convince us to audition that Mormon kid from his school?” They’ve both got bags, so Spencer unlocks the door and lets them go in ahead.
Spencer remembers. He had never seen what the big deal was-Brent had gone on and on about how the kid could play a million instruments and shit, and Spencer might have thought Mormons were a little crazy, but he didn’t see how that affected their ability to play music. Ryan had been firm on the subject, shutting Brent down every time he’d brought it up until Brent had gotten fed up and disgusted and stopped talking about it.
Same as he’d said back then, Spencer says, “I don’t know. He might have been okay.”
“Yeah, right,” Jon laughs. “If Mormons are anything like Jehovah’s Witnesses, he probably would have taken one look at your lyrics and either tried to save your eternal souls, or gone running from Satan’s influence.”
Ryan looks torn between appreciating Jon’s support and being offended by the way Jon chose to offer it. He settles for elbowing Jon ‘accidentally’ as they settle into the sofa. Spencer’s had those elbows shoved in his gut enough times to know when it’s purposeful and when it’s not.
“My lyrics aren’t that bad,” he says, but he looks mollified. “And anyway, I can’t imagine that is what Pete Wentz meant about stage presence. I don’t think some Mormon dork is going to bring the fans a-coming.”
Jon coughs nervously. “I don’t think any of us can ever hope to know what Pete Wentz means about anything,” he says. Spencer narrows his eyes, considering. Jon always gets weird when Ryan talks about Wentz.
Jon doesn’t talk about it a lot, but they know enough to know that Jon used to be in a couple local bands in high school. Spencer doesn’t think that Jon had some weird crush on Wentz, too, but he wouldn’t be entirely surprised to find that Wentz had sent one of Jon’s bands an email like the one Ryan had gotten.
Ryan is starting to get that look on his face that means he’s thinking about Wentz, like how they’re lyrical soul mates or something, and Ryan just has to figure out how to prove it to the guy. Spencer clears his throat and jostles the couch unnecessarily when he sits. “You guys audition anyone over break?”
“Without you?” Ryan asks sharply. Jon holds a hand over his heart like he’s been wounded. “Besides,” Ryan says, “I think every person on campus with any singing talent has already auditioned for us or has no interest in doing so.”
Spencer bites his tongue against commenting on that. They all three know that there were a couple really fucking good auditions, but it always comes down to Ryan, clutching his lyric book like a lifeline and saying it doesn’t feel right. Spencer won’t argue with that. He knows better than to. But the fact remains that Ryan has posted hundreds of fliers on every billboard on campus, and the calls have stopped coming.
“You know,” Jon says slowly, like he’s weighing his words, “I know a few people who might be interested.”
Ryan perks up immediately and Spencer is intrigued. Jon doesn’t really talk about the bands he was a part of, before deciding to focus on school. He says he wants to be known for his photography, or what he decides to do in the future, not for whatever he did in the past.
Spencer isn’t sure what that is supposed to mean, especially since Jon has committed to Panic! and Jon knows that Ryan plans on making it big. Ryan lets it go, Spencer knows, because he thinks there was something bad about the last band breaking up. Spencer knows Jon still goes to the clubs downtown fairly often, but Ryan still can’t bring himself to go, and Spencer won’t go without him.
“I mean, most of my friends who want to be in bands already are,” Jon says. “But there’s this bar, the Pavilion. I played there sometimes, back…anyway, they have this Open Mic/Karaoke thing on Wednesdays. I’ve met a couple people there who were good, and they would probably be up for it.”
Ryan’s shoulders sag a little and Jon notices, bites his lip. Spencer rubs his arm against Ryan’s, only in support. Whatever you think, he means, and Ryan understands it. “Maybe,” he says. His shoulders sag a little more, like in defeat. “Yeah. Maybe we should do that.”
Jon smiles hesitantly. Spencer knows that Jon’s been trying so hard to get Ryan to this point, and the only reason he’s let it happen is that he knows Jon’s intentions aren’t malicious. With anyone else, Spencer would just put an end to all the peer pressure bullshit, but Spencer thinks maybe Jon knows what he’s doing. Thinks Jon might help.
Spencer doesn’t think what it means that Jon is helping in a way that Spencer never managed, even after over a decade of friendship. He can’t let himself think about it, or the way Ryan melts into Jon’s side as the idea of going to the club settles over him.
“We should probably give everyone a week or two to settle back in after the holidays,” Jon says. “Maybe the 18th?” And, okay, there’s something about the way that he names the date that makes it seem suspicious. Ryan notices it, too. Spencer can tell by the sharpening of his gaze.
Ryan nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “Makes sense. This place has been dead over the holidays.”
Spencer laughs. “Our poor Mormons. They probably think they lucked out with this place. Some quiet little neighbourhood.”
Jon giggles. “Dude, wait until Adam and Blossom get back. They’re going to flip out.
Spencer doesn’t have a problem with Mormons per se. At least, not in the way Ryan seems to. But he can’t help but smile a little wickedly as he thinks about how freaked out their new neighbours will be, when everyone else comes back from winter break.
Classes don’t start until next week, but Spencer didn’t feel like staying away so long. Seeing his family was nice, but even after only a few short months, Chicago has slowly begun to feel like home. He figured out long ago that home had a lot more to do with the people around him than the place where he found himself.
Ryan’s been inside Spencer’s head forever, so Spencer isn’t at all surprised when Ryan snuggles closer, face tipped into Spencer’s neck, and sighs, “Glad you’re home.” The touch threatens to send shivers down Spencer’s spine, but he resists.
Jon smiles at Spencer over Ryan’s head, like he knows exactly the effect Ryan’s having on Spencer, but his voice is warm and sincere when he says, “Yeah. Welcome home, Spence.”
Time seems to move both very quickly and very slowly all at once. It is a contradiction that Brendon can’t really describe. One minute, he’ll think about how the day has been crawling along at a snails pace. This mission is never going to end, he thinks, looking back on the past months as though they have been years, and the length of another fifteen months stretching out before him seems interminable.
Then he’ll blink and a week will have passed, almost without his knowledge, like his body is so used to going through the same motions every day, that it’s done them without the permission or involvement of his brain.
It’s been a long time since Brendon’s felt in charge of his own life, but this is different. It isn’t just following the rules and toeing the line. It’s losing bits and pieces of his days in a dim haze, and it makes him feel sick and anxious.
His dosage hasn’t even changed in over a year and half, but he’s been feeling like he had when he’d first gone on the meds, when he was sixteen, when the dosage had been too strong and he’d stopped eating and stopped talking, and then just stopped functioning altogether before his parents finally noticed it wasn’t just the medicine calming him down, but the medicine stopping him altogether.
He prays harder and harder all the time.
Every Tuesday night, Brendon has dinner with the Fry family. David and Bambi are gracious hosts, and glad to have Brendon around to answer questions for their three children. Anna, at fifteen, is the oldest, with Jason at twelve and Bobby at nine.
Midwestern Mormons are pretty different from those out west, Brendon has quickly discovered. Brother Fry had thought it would be a good idea for his children to be exposed to the differences in the schools of thought. Brendon, Brother Fry says, is the most committed Mormon he’s ever seen. If Brendon ever laughed anymore, he definitely would have laughed at that.
Sister Fry makes lovely gourmet meals, showcasing her Mormon education on how to be an ideal wife. Sometimes Brendon thinks the only way he might feel worse is if he’d been born a female Mormon.
They’re really nice people, though, and the most lax of the families he regularly dines with. They seem to genuinely care about each other, and express interest in Brendon’s interests and testimony (which he delivers by rote-he’s always felt there’s something wrong with him, that he’s never had the same enthusiasm about sharing his testimony as everyone else).
Jason and Bobby are polite but easily excitable, and want to hear stories about growing up in the desert and travelling in Brazil, and they love when he tells them stories from the Bible.
Anna is silent for the most part, and doesn’t really look the part of a good little Mormon girl-she wears lots of heavy eye makeup and slouches a lot, and when she’s not at the dinner table she’s usually listening to loud music on her headphones. But her parents never call her on it, which is so strange for Brendon to see, so used to his parents snapping if he stepped the slightest bit out of line with their expectations.
It takes about a month of regular Tuesday dinners before Anna even talks to him. There’s something about her that makes Brendon unaccountably nervous. It isn’t attraction or anything.
She’s pretty-really, really pretty-with a soft round face and blue eyes and dyed black hair that falls in a straight sheet down her back, striking against her pale skin. She’s scary skinny, though, in that fragile breakable way that means there’s something wrong, and besides, Brendon accepted years ago that he didn’t really like girls.
Still, something about the way she looks at him makes Brendon’s skin buzz uncomfortably. She corners him unexpectedly after dinner when the boys are helping clear the table and Brother Fry has gone to answer the phone. She’s fidgeting, tugging on her on her sleeves with her thumbs, biting her lip.
“Did you-” she pauses and looks everywhere but at Brendon. “Did you ever think that some of the rules were kinda stupid?” she finally finishes.
Brendon doesn’t even know how to begin with that. “I think the rules are there to help us, even if we sometimes don’t understand how we benefit from them,” he answers, and it isn’t even a lie.
Anna huffs a sigh. “But. I mean. Like, what about the whole no dating before sixteen thing? I mean, my friend Rose is about to turn eighteen, and her mom’s already talking about her getting married and having kids, but she’s never been on a real date.”
“You know, Anna,” Brendon says delicately, “I’m really not the person to be talking to about this.” He offers her a weak smile. “I’ve never been on a date either. This is really something you should be talking to another woman about. Maybe we could find one of the ladies at church to help you out?”
Anna frowns. “I don’t want to talk to any of the ladies at church. They all say the same sort of things, eternal mate, purity and modesty and-”
“Look,” Brendon interrupts, stomach squirming, “I really shouldn’t be talking to you about this. I wouldn’t be any help at all. But if you don’t want to talk to a woman from church, I can ask around the mission house, see if there are any female missionaries who could come talk?”
Anna gives him a long searching look. “I don’t want to talk to…Never mind,” she says. “I thought. I thought you might understand. But never mind.”
The apartment is empty when Brendon gets back. The rest of the guys are out-the apartment building came to life during the first week of January and now there are parties practically every night, music thumping through the walls and ceiling.
Brendon’s companions have made fast friends with most of the college kids, listening to their music, eating their food, drinking their beer-breaking so many rules Brendon can’t keep track, and he doesn’t care, anyway, so long as he doesn’t get involved in it.
Brendon goes to bed early, because there’s really nothing else for him to do. He puzzles over his conversation with Anna, lets it keep him up even though he’s shaking with exhaustion. Because what did she mean? How did she think that Brendon could help? Everyone goes on about how well put-together he is, the perfect example of a young Mormon.
He tries to convince himself that it’s because he’s young, close enough to her age to be accessible. Plus he’s new, someone who hasn’t known her all her life. Someone with whom she can have a little anonymity. Someone who will leave within another year. Because there’s no way she could see him as a kindred spirit.
When he wakes the next morning, the feeling doesn’t come back to his arm until he’s already in the shower. The pills rattle when he takes his daily dose, which means he’ll need to fill his prescription again soon. He has a p-day on Saturday. He’ll get it done then.
Part Two