[fic] One Summer Last Fall; continued
One Summer Last Fall; cont
part one
Spencer's staring at Ryan, his mouth open. His brow isn't quite furrowed, but the wrinkles are enough to warrant ironing.
"What?"
"No, Ryan, I gotta admit," Spencer says. "I'm pretty sure Brendon isn't trying to make you gay."
"It's a conspiracy. He so is. He's all," Ryan says. "He's all clingy."
"He clings to everybody."
"Yeah, but," Ryan says, and he can't think of anything to say to that. He says, "Look, I've been, like. Being straight is really hard, okay."
Spencer says, "Okay, Ryan? Ryan, what the fuck?"
"It's hard with Brendon always trying to tempt me to the dark side."
"Ryan," Spencer says. "Ryan, look. Look. Look at me, Ryan, listen. The gay is not contagious. You are not catching it from Brendon. If your ... heterosexuality is in danger or whatever, I don't think it was that secure in the first place. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this."
Ryan says, "But Spencer." He says, "Oh my god, I need a girlfriend. That'd make it easier."
"Okay," Spencer says. "You know what, okay. I give up. Sure. You need a girlfriend."
--
This is their biggest show in New York so far. Tickets sold out a week before the show, and there's been a lot of last-minute shuffling on Craigslist. Brendon's been keeping track on his Sidekick.
"Hey," Brendon announces, halfway through The Hush Sound's set. "There's still kids trying to get in."
"Well, we can't have that," Ryan says, rolling his eyes.
Brent says, "Should we see if we can still guestlist some or something?"
Ryan says, "Oh god, no."
Brendon says, "Come on, dude, what's wrong with being nice to the fans? It could help. What if it's somebody with a label?"
"Well, for one we've already got a label and they're being pretty good to us, and B, anybody with a label would have tickets already."
"You and your logic," Spencer says, dryly. "How do you live with yourself?"
Brent says, "I'm gonna go see if any of them are cute girls. I didn't put anyone on the guestlist."
"Yeah, well I didn't either," Ryan says.
"I did," Spencer says. "So did Jon."
"He's not even in the band," Ryan says, sounding vaguely horrified.
"Hey, it's cool," Brent says. "Close enough, right? And I mean, he's gonna be playing with us. He counts."
"Whatever," Ryan says.
Brendon says, "Brent, I'm going with you. Let's go pick out the cream of the crop."
Spencer says to Ryan, "What, aren't you going to go on your quest for a girlfriend?"
"I don't want a groupie. I need a really good girlfriend," Ryan says. "So no."
--
After the show, some guy comes up to Brendon all, "Hey, thanks for letting me in, I've been a fan of yours for years now."
Ryan frowns. "We haven't even been touring that long."
"Two years," the guy amends. Ryan's trying to figure out how old he is. Over twenty five. "Whatever. That's more than one year, it gets the plural."
"True," Ryan admits.
"You guys toured with The Academy, right? They're awesome guys; I met 'em after that, though. I wish I'd seen you playing together, that would've kicked ass. You should get back together. Give Bill a call, I bet he's up for it."
Brendon says, "Bill's my favorite, that'd be awesome."
Ryan says, "I thought Jon Walker was your favorite. And Bjork."
"Shut up, Bill's still my favorite."
The guys says, "Don't worry, he's my favorite too." He holds his hand out to Ryan -- "So hi, I'm Pete. I'm like, your Internet groupie. I give you metaphorical blowjobs on message boards."
"Uhm," Ryan says.
"I can't talk your music up enough, I mean, seriously," Pete says. "If I was still with -- with my old band, I'd, I don't know, I'd want to tour with you, but we were hardcore. It wouldn't have worked out; the hardcore kids woulda been wreaking havoc, murdering your delicate little indie flowers. We'd have been all starcrossed and shit. My new band might work out, though."
"Yeah, so I've got to go help break down our gear," Ryan says.
"I could help," Pete says. He's standing way, way too close. Brendon's just watching, not saying anything but snickering. Ryan gives him a desperate look, mouths help, but Brendon just winks.
Pete says, "If I wasn't edge and if you drank, I'd buy you a drink, but I can't do that. All I can do is offer to help out, dude. I'm trying to be classy."
Ryan says, "You do realise that hitting on a guy in a band right after he's played a show is about as classless as you can get, right?"
"Oh yes, but what a shame the poor groupie is a whore," Pete intones solemnly.
"Oh my god," Brendon laughs. "I'm singing it like that tomorrow. At least once. I've got to."
"See, see, Brendon here gets it. You're wise, Brendon. Beyond your years."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Brendon asks, still laughing.
Pete says, "I forgot like three sentences ago, I don't know." He says, "Seriously, Ryan."
Ryan looks at him -- has to look down a little, Pete's so short. He says, "Seriously what?"
"You seem really cool. Like, can I just have your e-mail or something? I know it's fucking cliche, but seriously, I feel like maybe you get it."
Brendon finally jumps in to save the day then, grabbing Ryan by the hand and not the wrist -- "We gotta go, seriously, the venue's going to hate us. We can't just leave all the work to Jon and Brent and whoever works here, that's not cool. Sorry," and drags Ryan back onto the stage.
--
They're standing on an upstairs balcony, in this little private area where they can look down at the crowd. A set's just ended, and the second opener is setting up, and Brendon and Ryan are up here watching only because they haven't bothered to leave. If the tabloids cared, they'd probably say they were canoodling. Ryan says, "Oh, Christ, he's here. He followed us to fucking DC, dude."
"Who, what, where?" Brendon says. He looks down at the floor, trying to figure out what Ryan's talking about. He's mostly been watching the show, and sometimes talking to Ryan. They're standing so their shoulders are touching.
"Who else? The -- the stalker guy. Can we have him banned? For forever?"
"The publicity would be horrible," Spencer says. He's only just wandered out, Brent following after him.
Brent says, "Seriously, right?"
Ryan says, "Oh, Jesus. At least he buys all our merch. He's got to have like six copies of the album by now, though. I don't want to guess how many times he's made me sign the fucking EP, either. Do you think he sells them on eBay or what?"
"I bet he has a shrine," Brendon says, tugging at Ryan's hair. "He probably bought a lock of this shit off eBay. Gonna clone you, have a little copy for his own private usage."
"The world does not need any more Ryan Rosses," Spencer says. "Is that the plural of you, Ryan? Ryan Rosses?"
"I'd just say 'more than one Ryan Ross.'" Brent says, "Dude, looks like he's got somebody with him this time. Maybe you're safe, Ryan."
"I hope so. Unless it's another skeevy weirdo."
Brendon says, "Dude, if he brought along some other friend who's just gonna hit on you and be creepy, I'm going to have to shank a bitch. Does that mean what -- that means stab somebody, right?"
"Yeah," Spencer says, rolling his eyes. "Close enough."
Nuzzling at Ryan's neck, Brendon says, "See, Ryan, I'm awesome. I shank bitches in your name."
"Yeah, whatever. Love you too, loser," Ryan says. Then he realizes what he said, and kind of blanches, because he didn't mean it like that, but it's too late to take it back.
--
After the show, Ryan's talking to some girl about the music and the direction of their second album and why some songs from their EP weren't on the first one, all of that. She's really into it. She even knows exactly when they used a theremin, recognized the instrument and had the thought to ask who played it. Also, she's pretty cute. She asks, "Hey, so is Jon Walker officially part of the band now, or what?"
"No. He's our roadie, he just helps out, you know," Ryan says. Before she said that, he was thinking she could be girlfriend material, maybe. But Jon isn't part of the band.
"Helps out by playing in our show," Spencer adds, helpfully. "Don't ask Ryan that, he's weird about it. Says bands with more than four people are wrong."
"That doesn't even make sense," the girl says.
Pete comes up right about then. "Sure it does. Like, the three-person formula works fine, and four's fine, too, if you really need a singer and a second guitar or whatever, but five only works if you've got a singer who won't play anything but tambourine. Any more than that is just wrong."
"What if you have a keyboardist?" Brendon says.
"I don't -- look, more than five is evil, then," Pete says. "But five's pushing it. Unless you have someone on keyboard."
Ryan frowns. He kind of turns toward Pete and says, "I don't know why this matters, at all. Jon's our roadie."
Spencer says, "Our roadie who plays shows with us."
"Let it rest, Spence," Brent says. "Ryan's just being a dick, as usual."
"Hey," Ryan says. He looks around and -- he's not sure where that girl went, exactly.
"He's not a dick," Pete says. "He's making sense here. I already told you the formula, and I'm holding to it."
Ryan says, "Yeah, what Pete said."
"You remembered my name!"
"Pete," this little dude with a hat says, warningly. He's been quiet the whole time, lurking behind Pete like a shadow.
"What? What? I am conversing with the members of the band. We're discussing music. Patrick, you like music."
Patrick rolls his eyes.
"Guys, this is my best buddy Patrick."
"Dude," Brendon says, "dude! We know him. We fucking toured with Academy, dude. Patrick, hey!" He grabs Patrick in a huge hug, and tries but can't quite manage to pick him up.
Brent says, "I won't bother asking how you've been this time."
Patrick laughs. Ryan says, "If I didn't like you so much, I'd have like zero respect for you right now, hanging out with this guy." Ryan says, "Hey, don't look at me like that. You're not the one he's been stalking."
Pete says, "Well." Patrick elbows him in the side.
"Patrick," Ryan says, horrified. "Don't tell me."
"Dude, he wouldn't tell you anyway," Brendon says.
Patrick says, "Yeah, pretty much." He pushes his hat up a little and doesn't do anything about the arm Pete's got around his waist.
"See, see," Pete says. "I'm not even gonna be a trashy whore tonight, got my boy with me. He keeps me in line."
"Thank god for that," Ryan says.
"No, no," Brendon says. "Don't thank God, thank Esteban."
"What the fuck, that didn't make sense."
"Yeah, or did it?" Brendon says.
"No."
--
Pete shows up at one more date, in Philadelphia the very next night; the trail their tour's following is a little convoluted. Ryan manages to get away without getting hit on again. He also manages to convince a petite blonde girl to blow him in the men's restroom, and Spencer doesn't even rebuke him, just shakes his head.
Ryan says to Brendon, "I bet you could get a fanboy to suck you off."
Brendon says, "What?"
"Well, I mean. Take some advantage of our newfound fame. It's only fair."
"Okay," Brendon says. "You know what, I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that and it's gonna be awesome."
"Okay," Ryan says. "Okay, yeah, sure. Let's do that."
Ryan says, "Seriously, though. I bet you could get Pete to do it, and then he'd stop hitting on me."
"Uhm." Brendon says, "Pete's with that kid from Academy, for one thing, and I wouldn't do that to him. And for another thing, uh, ew, no? Just -- no? Dude's gotta be like ten years older than me."
"Eight," Ryan says.
"Eight what?" Brendon's tapping his fingers against his thigh. Ryan watches, and Brendon looks down, notices what he's doing, stops.
"Years older than you."
Brendon frowns, tugging his shirt down even though it hasn't really ridden up. "Seriously, I'm all for blowjobs and all, but no. I'm not just gonna -- have a fan do it for me. That's. No."
"Huh," Ryan says. "Well. It's an option. I'd do it," he says, "if I wasn't straight and all."
"Uh-huh," Brendon says. He's bouncing, now, full of potential energy that's straining to do something. "Seriously, Ry, if you're not offering, stop talking about it."
Ryan says, "You really do deserve it, though."
"Okay," Brendon says. "Oh my god. Oh my god, I seriously thought I was the one with, like, without any tact. What happened? What happened, Ryan Ross?"
--
"Jon," Brendon says. "Jon. Help."
"What? Dude, what's wrong?" Jon says. Brendon can see him standing outside the van, head cocked to the side as he tries to balance his cell phone on his shoulder as he gets the receipt from the pump. "Where are you? Do I have to -- how much is bail, dude? I thought you were in the convenience store, fuck.""
"The van," Brendon says. "No, no, I'm not in trouble. I didn't get arrested, what, are you serious? No. I'm having a dilemma."
"A dilemma, huh," Jon says. "Sounds pretty serious." He gets his keys out, and turns and waves at Brendon. Jon walks over, puts his hand up against the glass. Brendon holds his hand up flat, lines it up with Jon's. "What's the problem, dude? They lock you in? Because that'd be pretty hilarious."
"No, they did not use the child safety locks. Damn it. It's Ryan Ross," Brendon says. "He's trying to kill me."
"Oh, shit," Jon says. He just sounds amused, not properly concerned, like he really should be. Intraband homicide -- singercide? -- really shouldn't be tolerated in this enlightened era.
"No, Jon, you don't understand. I mean it. I mean it. He keeps telling me I should get somebody to give me a blowjob, and I'm all, No, Ryan Ross! Do not talk to me about this! but he does not listen."
"Just because you have a crush on him," Jon says. "That doesn't mean he's homicidal."
"Oh, god, oh god," Brendon says. He opens his eyes wide, wide. "I don't, I don't. Shut up. That's. I'm not some creepy hipster chick, I don't have a crush on Ryan Ross."
"Okay, look, hey." He says, "So you have a crush on the lyricist. Hey, that'd be a good title for a self-help book. I don't think it'd be too successful, though. Well, maybe. I'm not sure."
Brendon says, "No. So back to the part where Ryan's trying to kill me. Something has to be done. I think he's a liar, Jon. I think Ryan Ross is a huge fucking liar."
"About what?"
"Uhm, obviously everything." Brendon says, "Jon Walker, I thought you were supposed to be our Swiss Army Knife. What kinda Swiss Army Knife can't help the distressed?"
"Uh-huh." Jon taps his fingers against the glass, making sure to keep his fingertips lined up with Brendon's. "I don't think your metaphor works."
Finally, the rest of the band come out of the convenience store, bags of snacks in hand. Brendon lets out a cheer which they mostly can't hear because the van doors are closed. Then he opens the door and cheers again, and Ryan laughs. "You got Cheetos, right guys?"
"You never said you wanted Cheetos," Ryan says, shaking his head. "You should have come in if you wanted them so bad. How am I supposed to remember that shit, huh?"
"Fuck you, Ryan Ross! You know about me and Cheetos, dude."
"It slipped my mind, sorry." Ryan shrugs, sounding way too nonchalant. Spencer's busying himself by cleaning the windows. He's got a squeegee and one of those blue paper towels and is working across the windows one by one. Brent checks the oil and shit, refills their antifreeze even though it's the middle of summer.
Brendon says, "I'm wounded. Right through the heart," and falls back against the van door, clutching at his chest and gasping for breath. "Ah, alas. I am too soon destined to shuffle off this mortal coil, you guys. 'Tis betrayal has done me in."
Ryan snorts.
"Seriously, dude, you couldn't even like, just grab a bag. You didn't see them and go, 'Oh, Brendon might want these,' and buy them just in case."
"No," Ryan says. He reaches into his bag, digging around. "No, of course not." He pulls out a bag of Cheetos. "Have faith, Brendon. Have faith."
"I -- I don't know if I hate you or if you're my new favorite."
Jon says, "I thought I was your favorite. Me and, like, Bjork or something."
"Oh, yeah," Brendon says. "Bjork's pretty awesome. Dude, I was hanging out with one of the guys from The Cab the over day, and he saw this CD of hers and thought she was Michael Jackson?"
"Oh, wow," Ryan says. "That's pretty observant, right there."
Brendon frowns, then looks down and realizes he's holding a bag of Cheetos, the puffy kind with white cheddar. He looks at it. He looks at Ryan. Then there's a flash of movement, and he's hanging off Ryan like a limpet. "No, no, you really are my favorite, Ryan Ross, you even got the right kind. Dude. Dude. Screw Bjork. Screw -- sorry, Jon, but screw you, Ryan's better."
Jon's a smart guy. He knows better than to take offense, so he just laughs, instead.
Brendon's pacified for the next two hours, eating his Cheetos slow and deliberate. He licks the cheese off, first, then eats them, then licks his fingers clean after each one. Ryan's stuck in the van with him. Jon's riding with them this tour, instead of following in his car or snagging a space on a headliner's bus. They don't have a headliner to follow, this time. This time, it's them and The Cab and that's really pretty much it; they're playing with local bands everywhere they go. Ryan wants a bus, for the privacy.
On a bus, he wouldn't be stuck in the backseat next to Brendon and his stupid Cheeto-fixation. "Seriously, Ryan, you're amazing," Brendon says, before sucking his index finger clean of cheese-dust.
"You're welcome," Ryan says. Brendon grins at him and rubs his face up against his shoulder -- "Hey, hey, stop that. You're gonna get cheese on me or something. Fuck Cheetos, seriously. You're lucky I didn't get you, I don't know, Skittles or something instead."
Spencer says, "Get a room, you guys."
Jon says, "I'm pretty sure it's good you didn't get him any sugar."
"Hey. Hey. I can hold my sugar. I'm a sugarholic, I'm a fucking champ, okay."
Brent says, "That explains so much."
Ryan says, "I figured you'd kill me if I didn't, though. Just don't -- don't give me an excuse not to. Hey." Brendon's basically collapsed against him. "Hey."
Brendon hums something from a Disney movie, though Ryan's not sure what. He refuses to move. If it weren't for Jon, Ryan could be on the other side of the van right now, but he's not going to invade Jon's space like that.
Ryan sighs, and ruffles Brendon's hair. "You're such a dick." He leaves his hand where it is, on top of Brendon's head; buries his fingers in the mess of dark hair. "Honestly, why do I put up with you?"
"'Cos I'm your golden ticket," Brendon says. "Voice of an angel?"
"Oh, that's got to be it."
"Seriously, guys," Spencer says.
--
They come home to recognition, sort of. It's not like they're getting recognised when they go to Target or whatever. But at local shows, when they're not even playing, people are all, oh, oh, shit, one of the dudes from Summer League's here, look. Ryan can't help but like it.
Brent says, "I fucking hate this. I don't, I just want to listen to music. I don't want people talking to me, it's not even my show." They've got a show of their own tonight.
Ryan says, "Hey. Hey. No, it's cool. I mean, it was bound to. People here've always known who we are. Now it's just, you know. More people."
Brent says, "I don't know. I guess. It's weird, man. It's just really, really weird."
Ryan says, "Hey." Ryan says, "Close your eyes. Okay. Thanks." He says, "I hope this looks as awesome as I think it will." He's doing Brent's eyeshadow right now. ("I don't think I could do it myself," Brent had said. "I'd poke my eye out. I, shit, you do it. I trust you.")
"So do I get to be metal?"
"I'm just doing it in black. You're getting off easy," Ryan says.
"Right."
Ryan says, quiet, "I just figure we should, you know. Have a different look on stage then when we're just hanging out or whatever. Put more of a divide in there. Like, if it's bothering you, you know? You can just. Pretend you're not yourself. That keeps it -- it's not you they're cheering for, then, it's just your persona, you know."
"Yeah," Brent says. "Yeah, okay."
Ryan says, "That way, it feels less like you're in the spotlight. More like you're doing what you want. Just think of it that way, it's what I do."
Brent starts to nod, but Ryan says, "Hey, don't move your head. You'll mess it up." He's uncapping the eyeliner now. He has to lean in and cup Brent's face, keeping his focus tight. He thinks maybe he'll get better with practice, but right now this takes all his concentration. "Hah, you shave this morning? Your skin's really."
"Uh," Brent says. "Yeah?"
"Hey, so are you ready yet, Ryan Ross," Brendon says from the doorway. "And Brent. Hi, Brent. What, can't do it yourself?"
Brent says, "It's not like I get up every morning to put on makeup. I don't know, man, why would I know how to do this?"
"It's not that hard," Brendon says.
"Ah, calm, calm," Ryan says. "Down, boy."
Brendon shoves his hands in his pockets and watches from the door. He tries to be quiet and still, but he can't manage the latter, not quite. He shifts his weight. He leans a foot against the door frame. He shifts, putting that foot down and the other foot against the door. He fiddles with the doorknob.
"Fucking stop," Ryan says. "Seriously, unless you need something, go away."
Brendon says, "Uhm."
"Seriously."
"Sorry," Brendon says. "Sorry."
And he goes.
On stage, they don't share the microphone. Brendon stays away from Ryan's part of the stage, and avoids Brent, too, as much as he can, which means mostly he hangs off Jon whenever they need him to play something, and he does a lot of singing to Spencer.
Mostly, it's weird. The crowd doesn't seem to mind.
--
Jon says to Spencer, "So I think your band has some issues."
"Yeah," Spencer says. "We always have." Spencer says, "Ryan has such a hard time staying straight."
"Jesus." Jon laughs. He picks up another box out of the back of the truck, and starts heading up stairs. He turns and makes sure Spencer's following -- Spencer, who's only carrying a broom and a mop -- before going on. "That, uh. That's pretty special. You know that's not how it works, right --"
"I know," Spencer says. "I know. You can't try to be -- yeah, just, yeah. I know."
"Right, good." Jon is not going to regret his decision to move to Las Vegas. He keeps telling himself this. The band still needs him, even when they play home shows, and it's for the best, since 504Plan broke up and all. That was probably because he was gone so much, and he feels a little guilty. He's still friends with everybody. They just weren't doing much in the way of music, so a band didn't seem worth it anymore. These are good kids too. Mostly.
Spencer says, "Seriously, do I ever know."
--
Ryan hasn't gone over to Brendon's for a while, but there's still over a month before their next tour and it's been two months since the last one and he's running out of friends to harass. Or, not that: he's been with them too much and not with his band enough. He's written, at least.
"So I wrote a song," Ryan says. "I think maybe I'll call it, uhm. 'Flashes of Glory in the Conjugal Conspiracy'? That's clunky, it was better in the book. But it's. So I was reading this book, you know, and I wrote this song, and, yeah," he says. "Yeah." He holds out the crumpled piece of paper where he's printed out the lyrics.
Brendon blinks at him, slowly. Then he starts reading.
"Hey, is this one of those Ecosphere things?" Ryan says. He's holding a glass ball of water. There's an open bit of air, and algae floating at the very surface. There's a branch drifting inside, settling towards the bottom again now that he's holding it still, and a few fish swimming. There's tinier things, too, maybe shrimp. Ryan doesn't know his small sealife very well. "Those are pretty expensive."
"No," Brendon says. "I got it from Patrick," he says, and doesn't explain any further.
"Oh," Ryan says. "So, uh."
"So what is this," Brendon says. He doesn't ask.
"It's a story. About unrequited love. Ages and ages worth of it. You know, loving somebody you know you can't have even though they're so amazing you don't know what to do with yourself."
"Okay," Brendon says.
"I wanted to leave the characters kind of -- I didn't want it to just parrot the book, you know. I wanted it to be really universal."
"Okay," Brendon says again.
"So the, you know, that middle bit's kind of, I'm still working on that. How do you make time pass in a song? I don't know. I kind of got it, I think."
"Yeah, it works."
"Good," Ryan says. He says, "So, uhm, are you." He starts again. "I've got a new girlfriend, hopefully."
Brendon just says, "Okay."
Ryan says that "she's blonde. And hot. I met her earlier today," and he sits down on the couch next to Brendon and pretends to play the keys on his arm. His jaw tightens and his eyes roll back a little, like he's thinking, straining to focus on something. "Hey, do you hear that?"
"The neighbors?" Brendon says.
"No. No." He taps at Brendon's arm. "That."
"Uhm," Brendon says. He looks down at Ryan, who's lying across most of the couch just to be able to reach his arm. Brendon's just thinking it's lucky no one else is here because there wouldn't be room for them to sit. Having furniture is weird. He's not sure he likes it.
He makes like he's playing a chord on Brendon's arm. Brendon closes his eyes and imagines he can maybe hear it, maybe feel the sound vibrating in his teeth, through his bones. "Oh," Brendon says. He thinks of summers past, of making the same excuse about the neighbors. About how he didn't feel this before, not really.
When Brendon opens his eyes again, when Ryan's done running his fingers along his forearm, Ryan's looking at him. Just looking, expression a little curious, examining him. Ryan lets out this little sigh and brushes dry lips across Brendon's arm. Brendon can feel it all through him, like a shiver in his marrow.
Ryan scrambles to his feet. He says, "I should really go."
--
Ryan says to Jon, on the phone, "So I was wondering -- you're a photographer, right."
There's a long silence. Jon stands still on the streetcorner, watching cars go by and wondering if he's really known Ryan for a year now. A car honks its horn -- the walk light is on and he's been standing there stupidly. He jogs across the street and answers at the same time. "Hi, I'm Jon Walker. Who are you?"
Ryan says, "Okay, okay, stupid question. How about naked girls?"
"I don't want to go to a strip club."
"No," Ryan says. "I have a naked girl."
"Oh, I -- shit, Ryan. Ryan. Is she, let her go. Oh, god. I knew you guys had problems, but seriously, now."
"Hey. Wait, wait. What? She's nice, too, don't worry."
"Never mind."
Ryan says, "But no, seriously, she said she wouldn't mind if I took some pictures, and I just thought, you know, you're better at taking photographs than I am."
"Usually when a girl says you can take pictures, that doesn't mean you invite your photographer friend over. Dude. I'm not -- is this your girlfriend, or what?"
"I hope so," Ryan says. "I met her two days ago. She's blonde. And she's hot."
"Oh, god."
Ryan says, "So are you coming over?"
There's another long pause, peppered with the sounds of the Strip all around Jon. "Yeah, what the hell," Jon says. "What the hell. Why not."
Two hours later, Jon shows up. Ryan's naked girl is still there. Her name, Ryan tells Jon in hushes tones at the door, is Kelly. Or maybe Chloe. Or Clara. He's not sure, but it's something like that.
Kelly, or Chloe, or whoever, is lying on Ryan's sofa, a blanket around her legs. She's playing some Japanese RPG for the SNES that Jon doesn't recognize. She is, as advertised, naked. "Oh, hey, Ryan," she says.
"Hi," Jon says. He has his camera slung over his shoulder, still in its case. "Uh."
Ryan says, "I've been appreciating her aesthetic."
"Oh," Jon says.
Ryan says, "Come on, you know how hard it is to be straight. You of all people."
"No, really," Jon says. "Can't say I've ever had any problems with that."
The girl says, "He's been going on and on about this all day. It's pretty great."
"All day," Jon says. He's trying very hard to meet her eyes.
"Yeah, I've been here since like eleven." The clock says that, right now, it's 6:38. "We've just been hanging out."
"Oh," Jon says, and he really wants to make a joke about her breasts. They're pretty nice, actually. Well-proportioned.
The girl says, "I don't know, Ryan's just really nonthreatening. I figured, you're a photographer. You'd probably be able to, what was it? Appreciate my aesthetic?"
"Yeah," Jon nods. "I appreciate it. Definitely. I appreciate it a lot."
Ryan says, "Jon."
Jon takes some pictures.
--
Two days later, Ryan says, "So me and that girl are officially going out now."
Brendon says, "Wait, what's her name?"
"Uhm," Ryan says.
"Dude."
--
"So we broke up," Ryan says, three and a half weeks later.
"Oh," Brendon says. "That's too bad."
"I think I'm heartbroken," Ryan says. "I need consolation."
Brendon gives Ryan a hug.
"Thank you." Ryan does not, actually, let go. "Brendon, when am I going to find a good girlfriend?"
"When you find a girl whose name you can remember," Brendon says solemnly. He pats Ryan's back.
"That's not why we broke up," Ryan says. "I forgot our anniversary."
"You'd been going out for like a month." Brendon says, "Like, a month tops."
"I know," Ryan says. Then, "Actually, I didn't. Was it only a month?"
"Not even."
"Oh." Ryan says, "Well, it felt like longer. I was very much in love. She was really hot."
"Okay, Ryan," Brendon says. He's a bit confused at having to be the practical one, but it's a chance to practice unused skills. "Have you -- dude, did you drink? The hell? You can't be that heartbroken."
Ryan says, "Yes I can."
"You should probably go to bed.
Ryan says, "Yeah, true," but doesn't move. So Brendon drags him to bed, where Ryan still refuses to let go.
Brendon lies awake for a very, very long time. Ryan, when he's sleeping, wriggles a lot. He also clings, which he never did in the van. Brendon wants to call Jon and tell him his paranoia was justified, that Ryan really is trying to kill him, but he doesn't want to wake either of them up.
In the morning, Brendon gets up first, and has to get ready for work and everything. He wishes he could call in and cancel, but they're low on staff anyway and he doesn't want to piss anyone off. So he gets up, showers, has some breakfast, leaves a glass of water and some Tylenol on the nightstand, and leaves while Ryan's still asleep.
Actually, he also pulls a sheet over Ryan, first, watches Ryan sleep for a while, and brushes his sleep-mussed hair away from his face.
Then he leaves. They're not making quite enough for him to pay for food and shit on tour and his apartment, and it's not like Ryan's doing anything to help that. Except writing the songs, which probably counts for at least a few points.
--
"Spencer," Brendon says. "Jon Walker doesn't understand. Ryan's trying to kill me. I know you're just going to take his side but I had to tell somebody."
"Yeah, he's got a secret stash of weapons," Spencer says. "You'd better watch out."
"Wait, wait. Really? Crap!"
"No," Spencer says.
"Oh." Brendon frowns and looks thoughtful. "Can I check something? I need to check something."
"Uh. Sure?" Spencer says.
So Brendon kisses him. Brendon does not just kiss him, actually, he also grabs his ass. With both hands.
"Mmph," Spencer says.
Brendon says, "C'mon, don't worry." He has his hands wriggled into Spencer's pockets by now, and he pushes his fingers down for emphasis.
Spencer says, "Possibly this is why Jon Walker can't take you seriously."
"I never tried to kiss Jon Walker. Just you."
"Oh," Spencer says.
"I'm very repressed," Brendon says. "Very." He has very, very subtle glitter eyeshadow on, and they're not even playing a show tonight. He's also wearing a buttondown and a suit jacket. And a pair of selvedge jeans. And some really, really nice shoes. Spencer would wonder where he bought those, but he's more distracted by the rest of Brendon's sudden and inexplicable fashion sense.
"Clearly," Spencer says.
Brendon says, "Lemme try again, just to make sure." This time he rocks his hips forward and pulls one hand out of Spencer's pockets so he can cup the back of Spencer's head. His eyes are closed, so Spencer figures it's only polite to close his too.
Twenty minutes later, Brendon says, "Oh, okay." He says, "I think Jon Walker was right."
"Jon's always right," Spencer says, a little breathless and not sure what they're actually talking about. All he's sure of is that he just got ravished and that he may well have to clean his jeans sooner than he thought. He was getting some really nice creases in them, too. "What was he right about this time?"
"I," Brendon says, "have a crush on Ryan Ross."
"Oh, okay," Spencer says. "You know, I'd be jealous if I didn't already have a girlfriend. You might want to think about that stuff first."
"Wait, you have a girlfriend?"
"Uh, yes? For like three years now?"
"Oh." Brendon says, "She's pretty lucky."
"Uhm."
In a stage whisper, Brendon says, "You're supposed to say thanks. That was a compliment."
"I won't thank you until you say you'll give me enough quarters to do laundry somewhere."
"Oh, sure."
"Thanks, then."
--
"Hey, Ryan," Spencer says. "It turns out Brendon's a pretty good kisser."
"What?"
"No, really. I was surprised too. Don't tell my girlfriend."
"You have a girlfriend?" Ryan says.
"Christ," Spencer says.
"Hey, now."
"I was just thinking," Spencer says. "You know. Maybe you should make out with a dude. To reaffirm your heterosexuality and all. Because you can do it, then when you don't like it, you'll be all self-assured."
"Hey," Ryan says. "Hey, that's a good idea."
--
Brent stares at him. "No, man. Just. No."
--
Jon just laughs.
--
"Brendon," Ryan says. "I have to make out with you. To make sure I'm still straight."
"That's nice," Brendon says, flailing the Wiimote around wildly. "Oh, hey, what? Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I wanna make out with you."
"Yes it -- okay. I guess it doesn't. But I figured you'd -- okay, so I asked Brent and Jon first."
"What about Spencer?"
"Huh," Ryan says.
--
Spencer, when questioned later that afternoon, says no.
--
"He said no," Ryan says.
"Oh, well," Brendon says, tilting the guitar controller up. "Hold up, using my Star Power."
"Okay," Ryan says, watching intently.
"Right." Brendon says, "So, uh."
Ryan says, "It's okay, I've just got to check, you know. Make sure."
"No, I get that," Brendon says, though he really doesn't. He was pretty damn sure he was gay back when he was about eight years old and wanted to marry his priest. Just because his parents said he couldn't didn't mean he didn't want to. "But uh. I don't think it's such a good idea."
"Spencer said you were good at it, though. So that would. You know. Prove it better? Than if I just, I don't know. If it was somebody random."
"Yeah, but," Brendon says. "Not today." He's still trying to beat 'Mother' on Guitar Hero. "Or maybe ever. Because, no. Look. I can't just. I'm not gonna make out with you so you can prove you're straight."
"Well, then," Ryan says. "We could just make out for the hell of it."
"That's not going to work. I already know your ulterior motives."
"Shit."
Brendon says, "So, you ready to go on tour?"
"No," Ryan says. "Shit. We should all practice. Shit. I never finished that song, either."
"Hm," Brendon says. He's pretty focused on Guitar Hero. "You know, playing this is not going to help me get ready at all? I bet I don't even know how to play a real guitar anymore."
"We'll just make Jon do it," Ryan says.
"I was kidding."
"Oh."
--
The tour is three weeks long.
Every single night, Ryan says, "So can I make out with you now?"
Every single night, Brendon says, "Stop asking that."
Occasionally Ryan will add a little something, like, "No, seriously, how am I going to know for sure that I'm straight if I don't make out with you?" and Brendon will say something like, "Go make out with Pete Wentz if you're that desperate." That tends to shut Ryan up.
Brendon tries not to fall asleep on Ryan in the back of the van every night. He makes a concerted effort not to, and sleeps on Jon Walker a few times, because he's really comfy and nice about it. Brent usually just avoids sitting next to Brendon, because he's got this uncanny ability to call shotgun before anybody else, so he's safe from being slept upon. Spencer's okay with it, most times. Eventually Jon buys him a travel pillow, which helps.
At least Ryan finished the song. It gets better every night.
Brendon's onstage antics, though, they make Ryan really glad he plays guitar.
--
"Come on, you're my best friend. You have to help me with this; the whole situation is, you know, I'm really very distressed because of this. You made out with Brendon."
"That's different."
"How?"
"That was," Spencer says. "That was a sneak attack." His eyes go distant and his shoulders slack as he thinks about it, his head listing to one side.
"Oho," Ryan says.
Spencer snaps out of it. "No. Just no."
Something, Spencer decides, has to be done.
--
By the time they finish the tour, absolutely nothing has been done.
--
Ryan does sleep over at Brendon's, though. They watch movies for hours. Brendon finally falls asleep, as Stephane is crying in Stephanie's bed, just before the bit with the boat.
He's awake for the very end, though. Sort of. "Mm," he says, rolling his head back. There're spots behind his eyes, which he's keeping shut tight. "This is a horrible idea. You don't have -- oh. Seriously, I don't wanna be, like. Ah, some one-time -- fuck, one-time experiment thing. You don't even like me."
Ryan doesn't say anything, but he does make some muffled mumbly noises around Brendon's dick. Then he pulls his head up and says, "No, that's the problem, 'cos I do like you."
He means to add hypothetically or perhaps even as a friend but Brendon, for all that he just had a moment of righteous indignation, apparently doesn't much care to wait for finished sentences or anything. He pushes Ryan's head back down. Ryan could take offense at that, but he kind of likes how Brendon smells. He also likes the little appreciative noises that Brendon makes when he licks up the length of his shaft.
There is one problem, besides the part where Ryan only has a vague idea what he's doing. The problem is, Brendon hasn't shaved in a while -- or maybe ever, Ryan has no real way of knowing. Anyway. Ryan maybe moves his head wrong. It itches. And Ryan sneezes.
"Oh, ew," Brendon says.
"Sorry." Ryan clears his throat, then goes back down on Brendon, takes as much of his dick into his mouth as he can -- only it's a little too much, and this time he starts coughing. He does manage to cough up some of the gunk in his throat that has been bothering him for a while, and goes to the bathroom to spit it out. He doesn't figure Brendon would be a big fan of having mucus all over his genitals.
By the time he comes back, Brendon has zipped up his pants and started channel surfing.
"Oh, come on," Ryan says. "Gimme one more chance? That wasn't even remotely conclusive."
"Dude," Brendon says.
"Dude!"
"No."
"Oh."
--
Ryan says, "I bet you haven't even slept with her."
Spencer stares. "Who are -- wait, my girlfriend? Haley?"
"Uh-huh. And you're not denying it. You haven't!"
"No, I've just lost count over the past, you know, three years."
"Come on. You would have told me."
"I -- why? Why, Ryan, why would I tell you I was having sex with my girlfriend? It's practically a given." Spencer says, "I mean, I am a rock star. Of course I'm sleeping with a beautiful woman."
"No, you so would have told me if you really had. Come on, seriously. Don't even ask why. You know."
"No, I really don't. Please, do tell."
"Because," Ryan says. "You know how much I know about girls. You have to have wanted advice, right?"
"No, not especially. It's really a pretty intuitive process."
"It is not. I had to practice for years. I would know."
Spencer says, "Oh, okay. Sure, Ryan. Sorry I didn't ask you for your incredibly helpful insights into the ways of women."
Ryan crosses his arms. "Brent asked me for advice."
"Oh, and how'd that one go?"
"He didn't want to tell me."
"See," Spencer says. "You see."
"No, I do not see," Ryan says. "Spencer. Having you, of all people, doubt in my -- my skills with the ladies -- it does not help my cause at all. It's a fucking conspiracy, isn't it."
Spencer sighs.
--
Spencer corners Brendon after practice a few days later. "So I have an idea for you, you and Ryan, I mean. What you can do about him."
"Why the hell is this any of your business?"
"Because Ryan's been whining at me for over a year about how you're constantly endangering his little garden of heterosexuality. I think he said something about you being like the hot sun scorching down on the, the flowers of straightness or something. Seriously, it was fucking retarded, and it needs to stop."
"Oh, well then," Brendon says. "Okay."
--
Brendon says to Ryan, "You wanna go out with me?"
"I'm straight," Ryan says, trying to look compassionate. He mostly just looks a little constipated. "I'm really sorry, Brendon. I've put a lot of effort into maintaining my heterosexuality, and going out with a guy would just not help my cause at all."
"No, see," Brendon says, all wide-eyed earnestness. "If you went out with a dude, then you'd be able to make absolutely sure, right? Like, you wanted to go down on me to see if you didn't like that, but that was pretty inconclusive, right? And how else could you get more conclusive results than from actually going out with a dude?"
"What?"
"See, you can go out with me, and that'll prove you're straight when you don't like it."
"Huh," Ryan says. "You know. That's actually. That makes sense."
Brendon's really tempted to say no it doesn't, but he's not interested in ruining his chances just yet.
--
So the first show of their next tour -- just a quick little jaunt down the West coast -- they're in the middle of another new song. They're playing it in the middle of the set, surrounding it with the more comfortable old ones, just trying to test the waters. The crowd's stiller, but it's more like they're paying attention than bored. Brendon sits at the piano and sings. There's this bit of a breakdown towards the middle, a sudden stop then a rebuilding of the musical structure, coming back with just the bass, then drums, then rhythm guitar. The music slips into that groove for a little while before the sudden stutter-start of the guitar scrabbling to work its way back into the mix.
It's in the middle of that that Brendon, still sitting on the piano bench, beckons Ryan over. Ryan is bouncing his heel just slightly to help himself keep time, and the mild distraction is sort of cute.
So Brendon pulls him down and kisses him. On stage. And it's not just a half-second, oh we're sharing a microphone and my lips are brushing yours kind of thing; there's at least a little tongue involved, though only in trace amounts. Ryan grins at him, then turns around to play the guitar. He doesn't actually walk away, though; instead, he leans on Brendon.
After the show, they're supposed to all do a few interviews. Spencer forbids Ryan and Brendon from having anything to do with it. He also forbids Ryan from complaining when he says Jon's going to be part of the interview.
So instead, Ryan just sulks at Brendon. "What was that?"
"What?"
"The kissing me onstage."
"Well," Brendon says. "You won't really get the full experience unless we're, you know, open about it."
"True," Ryan says.
There's a vote, and majority says that they can't make out in the back of the van. Brendon tries to bend the law, but can't figure out just how to do it, as whoever else is in the back seat usually hits him if he tries anything.
In Portland, Ryan corners him and says, "Hey, I bet if we do it fast we won't even get caught."
"Wait, wait. Do what?"
"Uhm," Ryan says. "I don't know. I thought you'd fill in the blanks."
"No," Brendon says. "You don't even -- no."
They don't get a hotel for the night even once. "Come on," Brendon says after they play Los Angeles, which is close to the end. "Spence, can't we stay in one tonight, at least?"
"That's not my decision," Spencer says.
"Wait, really?" Brendon says, "Shit, so whose is it?"
Spencer shrugs.
"Gee, thanks."
Brendon figures it's for the best, though. While he would dearly like to get off, making out with Ryan is pretty nice.
He's kind of a bigger fan of the cuddling and handholding and the long, slow kisses up against walls in venue restrooms than he thought he'd be. And he's kind of more attached than he thought he'd get this quick.
And he really, really doesn't want to lose it all if Ryan actually decides he's totally sure about his claims of heterosexuality.
--
When they get back from this tour, Ryan shoves Brendon up against the door to his apartment and starts kissing him. Brendon says "Hey, hold on, hold on," and tries to unlock the door.
Ryan puts his hands in his pockets and leans back against the wall, eyes closed. Brendon's fumbling with his keys, turns them the wrong way at first. He laughs a little at his own mistake. "Sorry. Sorry. Okay."
Ryan says, "Yo," and pokes Brendon in the chest. Brendon grins at him and turns, into the apartment. When Ryan's in too, he lets the door close then leans back against it.
Brendon says, "So I thought we could just hang out or something."
"Sure, sure," Ryan says. "Right." He doesn't look convinced.
Brendon goes and turns on the TV, then pats at the cushion next to him on the couch. "Hey, here. Here."
Ryan's pacified by the TV for about three minutes, forty five seconds of which he spends transfixed by an advert for some pseudo-spy device used to listen to far-off noises. He leans up against Brendon's side -- "Seriously, that's awesome. We should get one. Then we can spy on, like, Jon."
"Why would we spy on Jon?"
"I don't know," Ryan says, then leans up to kiss Brendon. His lips are dry, dead skin scraping, and Brendon hasn't shaved for a while, so he's got stubble. Ryan grins. "This is."
"Yeah," Brendon says, then kisses him again. He pulls Ryan closer, and Ryan shifts, wriggles so he can sit on Brendon's lap. "Tch, you're such a girl."
"Yeah, right. I'm on top."
Brendon bites at his lower lip, then nuzzles his nose in the crook between Ryan's neck and shoulder. "On top like a girl."
"Yeah, whatever," Ryan says, pulling his shirt off. "I've got more testosterone than I know what to do with."
"Mhm, sure." Brendon breathes in deep. "At least you smell like a dude. You get points for that."
"So how about you let me," Ryan says, hands at the hem of Brendon's shirt. Brendon shrugs, and helps pull his shirt off. "Hey, hey. Lie down."
Brendon does, and Ryan leans over him. For a moment, his expression is something soft and almost fragile; he looks amazed. Then his eyes are closed. He rocks his hips down, and Brendon can feel his erection, obvious and constrained by pants that were already two sizes too small.
Ryan closes his hand around Brendon's arm, then opens his eyes again, startled. He smiles, and pulls Brendon's arm so he can kiss each individual key. The noise rings in the back of Brendon's head, sound waves breaking against his inner ear. If the sound is real or not, he's not sure. He sighs, malleable under Ryan's touch. He rolls his shoulder, trying to get comfortable. Ryan ends up lying down, head against Brendon's chest, one ear over his heart. With his fingers, he's pretending, maybe, to play part of a song Brendon doesn't quite recognize.
Ryan then pushes himself up again, letting go of Brendon's arm. Brendon puts his now-free hand at the small of Ryan's back, but lets it slide up to his shoulders when Ryan starts kissing down his chest.
"Uhm," Brendon says. "So. You wanna play some Pikmin?"
"How about we go to the bedroom and you could, oh, I don't know, fuck me instead. How's that sound?" Ryan smirks, kissing Brendon's belly-button.
"Hey, no, this isn't -- this maybe isn't. Stop, okay?" Brendon says, pushing Ryan away before he can get the button on his jeans undone.
"You're supposed to want to sleep with me," Ryan says, petulantly. He sits back on his haunches, partly resting against the arm of the sofa. "We're going out, right?"
"Yeah, but you're just in it to prove a point," Brendon says.
"So you don't want to fuck me." Ryan's voice is flat, more monotone than usual.
"Look, I'm not just going to -- I was brought up Mormon, seriously." He sits up, scooting closer to Ryan so he can look at him when he talks.
"What, no sex before marriage? Dude, are you serious, because I swear to God, if you are --"
"No! No! I just, I still think it should be, you know. Uhm." He bites at his lip, lowering his head so he doesn't have to meet Ryan's eyes. "Special?"
"Huh," Ryan says.
"So I'm not just. I mean, I totally would, okay. I think you're really ..." He trails off, reaching out to run a hand down Ryan's side, letting it come to rest just above his jeans. "I actually like you, okay? But you're just doing this to prove a point, and I don't want to sleep with you then have you be all, 'Oh, nope, actually straight, sorry,' and like -- run off and find some new hot blonde chick to screw."
Ryan's staring at him, but eventually nods. "Right. Right."
"And I mean," Brendon says. "Not all gay dudes like, you know." He gestures vaguely, not indicating anything in particular. "And anyway, some straight dudes like having their girlfriends fuck them with a strap-on, you know? So it wouldn't even necessarily prove anything. So can we just, like, watch a movie and make out or something. Because I, yeah."
Ryan pulls away from him, leaning heavy against the back of the couch.
Brendon says, "I'm not gonna do this anymore. I feel like I'm in junior high, dude, it's fucked up."
"But, wait, what?" Ryan says. "Not gonna -- are you breaking up with me? We're not even. Shit. Can we not?" Ryan says, "If you're really that opposed to having sex with me, I mean, we can just ... do whatever, I guess. But let's not break up. I mean, I'm still not sure."
"See, it's shit like that, right there," Brendon says. "Stop making me have to be all serious. I'm no good at this part. But seriously, still not sure? What is that, Ryan Ross?" Brendon leans forward, resting his arms on Ryan's knees and staring at him wide-eyed. "What the shit is that, Ryan Ross."
"It's -- come on. Stop that. I really want to, okay?"
Brendon blinks, leaning back a little again. He opens his mouth a little, knitting his brows. "Really want to what?"
"I think I maybe really want to have gay sex with you, Brendon Urie."
"Oh," Brendon says. "Oh, you mean -- oh. Like, for real, and you're not just gonna be a dick and be all 'oh no I'm really straight I was just checking' or anything? Not gonna pull that 'It's so hard to be straight' bullshit?"
Ryan scowls. "I wasn't that bad."
Brendon stares at him for a second before breaking out laughing.
part one
Spencer's staring at Ryan, his mouth open. His brow isn't quite furrowed, but the wrinkles are enough to warrant ironing.
"What?"
"No, Ryan, I gotta admit," Spencer says. "I'm pretty sure Brendon isn't trying to make you gay."
"It's a conspiracy. He so is. He's all," Ryan says. "He's all clingy."
"He clings to everybody."
"Yeah, but," Ryan says, and he can't think of anything to say to that. He says, "Look, I've been, like. Being straight is really hard, okay."
Spencer says, "Okay, Ryan? Ryan, what the fuck?"
"It's hard with Brendon always trying to tempt me to the dark side."
"Ryan," Spencer says. "Ryan, look. Look. Look at me, Ryan, listen. The gay is not contagious. You are not catching it from Brendon. If your ... heterosexuality is in danger or whatever, I don't think it was that secure in the first place. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this."
Ryan says, "But Spencer." He says, "Oh my god, I need a girlfriend. That'd make it easier."
"Okay," Spencer says. "You know what, okay. I give up. Sure. You need a girlfriend."
--
This is their biggest show in New York so far. Tickets sold out a week before the show, and there's been a lot of last-minute shuffling on Craigslist. Brendon's been keeping track on his Sidekick.
"Hey," Brendon announces, halfway through The Hush Sound's set. "There's still kids trying to get in."
"Well, we can't have that," Ryan says, rolling his eyes.
Brent says, "Should we see if we can still guestlist some or something?"
Ryan says, "Oh god, no."
Brendon says, "Come on, dude, what's wrong with being nice to the fans? It could help. What if it's somebody with a label?"
"Well, for one we've already got a label and they're being pretty good to us, and B, anybody with a label would have tickets already."
"You and your logic," Spencer says, dryly. "How do you live with yourself?"
Brent says, "I'm gonna go see if any of them are cute girls. I didn't put anyone on the guestlist."
"Yeah, well I didn't either," Ryan says.
"I did," Spencer says. "So did Jon."
"He's not even in the band," Ryan says, sounding vaguely horrified.
"Hey, it's cool," Brent says. "Close enough, right? And I mean, he's gonna be playing with us. He counts."
"Whatever," Ryan says.
Brendon says, "Brent, I'm going with you. Let's go pick out the cream of the crop."
Spencer says to Ryan, "What, aren't you going to go on your quest for a girlfriend?"
"I don't want a groupie. I need a really good girlfriend," Ryan says. "So no."
--
After the show, some guy comes up to Brendon all, "Hey, thanks for letting me in, I've been a fan of yours for years now."
Ryan frowns. "We haven't even been touring that long."
"Two years," the guy amends. Ryan's trying to figure out how old he is. Over twenty five. "Whatever. That's more than one year, it gets the plural."
"True," Ryan admits.
"You guys toured with The Academy, right? They're awesome guys; I met 'em after that, though. I wish I'd seen you playing together, that would've kicked ass. You should get back together. Give Bill a call, I bet he's up for it."
Brendon says, "Bill's my favorite, that'd be awesome."
Ryan says, "I thought Jon Walker was your favorite. And Bjork."
"Shut up, Bill's still my favorite."
The guys says, "Don't worry, he's my favorite too." He holds his hand out to Ryan -- "So hi, I'm Pete. I'm like, your Internet groupie. I give you metaphorical blowjobs on message boards."
"Uhm," Ryan says.
"I can't talk your music up enough, I mean, seriously," Pete says. "If I was still with -- with my old band, I'd, I don't know, I'd want to tour with you, but we were hardcore. It wouldn't have worked out; the hardcore kids woulda been wreaking havoc, murdering your delicate little indie flowers. We'd have been all starcrossed and shit. My new band might work out, though."
"Yeah, so I've got to go help break down our gear," Ryan says.
"I could help," Pete says. He's standing way, way too close. Brendon's just watching, not saying anything but snickering. Ryan gives him a desperate look, mouths help, but Brendon just winks.
Pete says, "If I wasn't edge and if you drank, I'd buy you a drink, but I can't do that. All I can do is offer to help out, dude. I'm trying to be classy."
Ryan says, "You do realise that hitting on a guy in a band right after he's played a show is about as classless as you can get, right?"
"Oh yes, but what a shame the poor groupie is a whore," Pete intones solemnly.
"Oh my god," Brendon laughs. "I'm singing it like that tomorrow. At least once. I've got to."
"See, see, Brendon here gets it. You're wise, Brendon. Beyond your years."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Brendon asks, still laughing.
Pete says, "I forgot like three sentences ago, I don't know." He says, "Seriously, Ryan."
Ryan looks at him -- has to look down a little, Pete's so short. He says, "Seriously what?"
"You seem really cool. Like, can I just have your e-mail or something? I know it's fucking cliche, but seriously, I feel like maybe you get it."
Brendon finally jumps in to save the day then, grabbing Ryan by the hand and not the wrist -- "We gotta go, seriously, the venue's going to hate us. We can't just leave all the work to Jon and Brent and whoever works here, that's not cool. Sorry," and drags Ryan back onto the stage.
--
They're standing on an upstairs balcony, in this little private area where they can look down at the crowd. A set's just ended, and the second opener is setting up, and Brendon and Ryan are up here watching only because they haven't bothered to leave. If the tabloids cared, they'd probably say they were canoodling. Ryan says, "Oh, Christ, he's here. He followed us to fucking DC, dude."
"Who, what, where?" Brendon says. He looks down at the floor, trying to figure out what Ryan's talking about. He's mostly been watching the show, and sometimes talking to Ryan. They're standing so their shoulders are touching.
"Who else? The -- the stalker guy. Can we have him banned? For forever?"
"The publicity would be horrible," Spencer says. He's only just wandered out, Brent following after him.
Brent says, "Seriously, right?"
Ryan says, "Oh, Jesus. At least he buys all our merch. He's got to have like six copies of the album by now, though. I don't want to guess how many times he's made me sign the fucking EP, either. Do you think he sells them on eBay or what?"
"I bet he has a shrine," Brendon says, tugging at Ryan's hair. "He probably bought a lock of this shit off eBay. Gonna clone you, have a little copy for his own private usage."
"The world does not need any more Ryan Rosses," Spencer says. "Is that the plural of you, Ryan? Ryan Rosses?"
"I'd just say 'more than one Ryan Ross.'" Brent says, "Dude, looks like he's got somebody with him this time. Maybe you're safe, Ryan."
"I hope so. Unless it's another skeevy weirdo."
Brendon says, "Dude, if he brought along some other friend who's just gonna hit on you and be creepy, I'm going to have to shank a bitch. Does that mean what -- that means stab somebody, right?"
"Yeah," Spencer says, rolling his eyes. "Close enough."
Nuzzling at Ryan's neck, Brendon says, "See, Ryan, I'm awesome. I shank bitches in your name."
"Yeah, whatever. Love you too, loser," Ryan says. Then he realizes what he said, and kind of blanches, because he didn't mean it like that, but it's too late to take it back.
--
After the show, Ryan's talking to some girl about the music and the direction of their second album and why some songs from their EP weren't on the first one, all of that. She's really into it. She even knows exactly when they used a theremin, recognized the instrument and had the thought to ask who played it. Also, she's pretty cute. She asks, "Hey, so is Jon Walker officially part of the band now, or what?"
"No. He's our roadie, he just helps out, you know," Ryan says. Before she said that, he was thinking she could be girlfriend material, maybe. But Jon isn't part of the band.
"Helps out by playing in our show," Spencer adds, helpfully. "Don't ask Ryan that, he's weird about it. Says bands with more than four people are wrong."
"That doesn't even make sense," the girl says.
Pete comes up right about then. "Sure it does. Like, the three-person formula works fine, and four's fine, too, if you really need a singer and a second guitar or whatever, but five only works if you've got a singer who won't play anything but tambourine. Any more than that is just wrong."
"What if you have a keyboardist?" Brendon says.
"I don't -- look, more than five is evil, then," Pete says. "But five's pushing it. Unless you have someone on keyboard."
Ryan frowns. He kind of turns toward Pete and says, "I don't know why this matters, at all. Jon's our roadie."
Spencer says, "Our roadie who plays shows with us."
"Let it rest, Spence," Brent says. "Ryan's just being a dick, as usual."
"Hey," Ryan says. He looks around and -- he's not sure where that girl went, exactly.
"He's not a dick," Pete says. "He's making sense here. I already told you the formula, and I'm holding to it."
Ryan says, "Yeah, what Pete said."
"You remembered my name!"
"Pete," this little dude with a hat says, warningly. He's been quiet the whole time, lurking behind Pete like a shadow.
"What? What? I am conversing with the members of the band. We're discussing music. Patrick, you like music."
Patrick rolls his eyes.
"Guys, this is my best buddy Patrick."
"Dude," Brendon says, "dude! We know him. We fucking toured with Academy, dude. Patrick, hey!" He grabs Patrick in a huge hug, and tries but can't quite manage to pick him up.
Brent says, "I won't bother asking how you've been this time."
Patrick laughs. Ryan says, "If I didn't like you so much, I'd have like zero respect for you right now, hanging out with this guy." Ryan says, "Hey, don't look at me like that. You're not the one he's been stalking."
Pete says, "Well." Patrick elbows him in the side.
"Patrick," Ryan says, horrified. "Don't tell me."
"Dude, he wouldn't tell you anyway," Brendon says.
Patrick says, "Yeah, pretty much." He pushes his hat up a little and doesn't do anything about the arm Pete's got around his waist.
"See, see," Pete says. "I'm not even gonna be a trashy whore tonight, got my boy with me. He keeps me in line."
"Thank god for that," Ryan says.
"No, no," Brendon says. "Don't thank God, thank Esteban."
"What the fuck, that didn't make sense."
"Yeah, or did it?" Brendon says.
"No."
--
Pete shows up at one more date, in Philadelphia the very next night; the trail their tour's following is a little convoluted. Ryan manages to get away without getting hit on again. He also manages to convince a petite blonde girl to blow him in the men's restroom, and Spencer doesn't even rebuke him, just shakes his head.
Ryan says to Brendon, "I bet you could get a fanboy to suck you off."
Brendon says, "What?"
"Well, I mean. Take some advantage of our newfound fame. It's only fair."
"Okay," Brendon says. "You know what, I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that and it's gonna be awesome."
"Okay," Ryan says. "Okay, yeah, sure. Let's do that."
Ryan says, "Seriously, though. I bet you could get Pete to do it, and then he'd stop hitting on me."
"Uhm." Brendon says, "Pete's with that kid from Academy, for one thing, and I wouldn't do that to him. And for another thing, uh, ew, no? Just -- no? Dude's gotta be like ten years older than me."
"Eight," Ryan says.
"Eight what?" Brendon's tapping his fingers against his thigh. Ryan watches, and Brendon looks down, notices what he's doing, stops.
"Years older than you."
Brendon frowns, tugging his shirt down even though it hasn't really ridden up. "Seriously, I'm all for blowjobs and all, but no. I'm not just gonna -- have a fan do it for me. That's. No."
"Huh," Ryan says. "Well. It's an option. I'd do it," he says, "if I wasn't straight and all."
"Uh-huh," Brendon says. He's bouncing, now, full of potential energy that's straining to do something. "Seriously, Ry, if you're not offering, stop talking about it."
Ryan says, "You really do deserve it, though."
"Okay," Brendon says. "Oh my god. Oh my god, I seriously thought I was the one with, like, without any tact. What happened? What happened, Ryan Ross?"
--
"Jon," Brendon says. "Jon. Help."
"What? Dude, what's wrong?" Jon says. Brendon can see him standing outside the van, head cocked to the side as he tries to balance his cell phone on his shoulder as he gets the receipt from the pump. "Where are you? Do I have to -- how much is bail, dude? I thought you were in the convenience store, fuck.""
"The van," Brendon says. "No, no, I'm not in trouble. I didn't get arrested, what, are you serious? No. I'm having a dilemma."
"A dilemma, huh," Jon says. "Sounds pretty serious." He gets his keys out, and turns and waves at Brendon. Jon walks over, puts his hand up against the glass. Brendon holds his hand up flat, lines it up with Jon's. "What's the problem, dude? They lock you in? Because that'd be pretty hilarious."
"No, they did not use the child safety locks. Damn it. It's Ryan Ross," Brendon says. "He's trying to kill me."
"Oh, shit," Jon says. He just sounds amused, not properly concerned, like he really should be. Intraband homicide -- singercide? -- really shouldn't be tolerated in this enlightened era.
"No, Jon, you don't understand. I mean it. I mean it. He keeps telling me I should get somebody to give me a blowjob, and I'm all, No, Ryan Ross! Do not talk to me about this! but he does not listen."
"Just because you have a crush on him," Jon says. "That doesn't mean he's homicidal."
"Oh, god, oh god," Brendon says. He opens his eyes wide, wide. "I don't, I don't. Shut up. That's. I'm not some creepy hipster chick, I don't have a crush on Ryan Ross."
"Okay, look, hey." He says, "So you have a crush on the lyricist. Hey, that'd be a good title for a self-help book. I don't think it'd be too successful, though. Well, maybe. I'm not sure."
Brendon says, "No. So back to the part where Ryan's trying to kill me. Something has to be done. I think he's a liar, Jon. I think Ryan Ross is a huge fucking liar."
"About what?"
"Uhm, obviously everything." Brendon says, "Jon Walker, I thought you were supposed to be our Swiss Army Knife. What kinda Swiss Army Knife can't help the distressed?"
"Uh-huh." Jon taps his fingers against the glass, making sure to keep his fingertips lined up with Brendon's. "I don't think your metaphor works."
Finally, the rest of the band come out of the convenience store, bags of snacks in hand. Brendon lets out a cheer which they mostly can't hear because the van doors are closed. Then he opens the door and cheers again, and Ryan laughs. "You got Cheetos, right guys?"
"You never said you wanted Cheetos," Ryan says, shaking his head. "You should have come in if you wanted them so bad. How am I supposed to remember that shit, huh?"
"Fuck you, Ryan Ross! You know about me and Cheetos, dude."
"It slipped my mind, sorry." Ryan shrugs, sounding way too nonchalant. Spencer's busying himself by cleaning the windows. He's got a squeegee and one of those blue paper towels and is working across the windows one by one. Brent checks the oil and shit, refills their antifreeze even though it's the middle of summer.
Brendon says, "I'm wounded. Right through the heart," and falls back against the van door, clutching at his chest and gasping for breath. "Ah, alas. I am too soon destined to shuffle off this mortal coil, you guys. 'Tis betrayal has done me in."
Ryan snorts.
"Seriously, dude, you couldn't even like, just grab a bag. You didn't see them and go, 'Oh, Brendon might want these,' and buy them just in case."
"No," Ryan says. He reaches into his bag, digging around. "No, of course not." He pulls out a bag of Cheetos. "Have faith, Brendon. Have faith."
"I -- I don't know if I hate you or if you're my new favorite."
Jon says, "I thought I was your favorite. Me and, like, Bjork or something."
"Oh, yeah," Brendon says. "Bjork's pretty awesome. Dude, I was hanging out with one of the guys from The Cab the over day, and he saw this CD of hers and thought she was Michael Jackson?"
"Oh, wow," Ryan says. "That's pretty observant, right there."
Brendon frowns, then looks down and realizes he's holding a bag of Cheetos, the puffy kind with white cheddar. He looks at it. He looks at Ryan. Then there's a flash of movement, and he's hanging off Ryan like a limpet. "No, no, you really are my favorite, Ryan Ross, you even got the right kind. Dude. Dude. Screw Bjork. Screw -- sorry, Jon, but screw you, Ryan's better."
Jon's a smart guy. He knows better than to take offense, so he just laughs, instead.
Brendon's pacified for the next two hours, eating his Cheetos slow and deliberate. He licks the cheese off, first, then eats them, then licks his fingers clean after each one. Ryan's stuck in the van with him. Jon's riding with them this tour, instead of following in his car or snagging a space on a headliner's bus. They don't have a headliner to follow, this time. This time, it's them and The Cab and that's really pretty much it; they're playing with local bands everywhere they go. Ryan wants a bus, for the privacy.
On a bus, he wouldn't be stuck in the backseat next to Brendon and his stupid Cheeto-fixation. "Seriously, Ryan, you're amazing," Brendon says, before sucking his index finger clean of cheese-dust.
"You're welcome," Ryan says. Brendon grins at him and rubs his face up against his shoulder -- "Hey, hey, stop that. You're gonna get cheese on me or something. Fuck Cheetos, seriously. You're lucky I didn't get you, I don't know, Skittles or something instead."
Spencer says, "Get a room, you guys."
Jon says, "I'm pretty sure it's good you didn't get him any sugar."
"Hey. Hey. I can hold my sugar. I'm a sugarholic, I'm a fucking champ, okay."
Brent says, "That explains so much."
Ryan says, "I figured you'd kill me if I didn't, though. Just don't -- don't give me an excuse not to. Hey." Brendon's basically collapsed against him. "Hey."
Brendon hums something from a Disney movie, though Ryan's not sure what. He refuses to move. If it weren't for Jon, Ryan could be on the other side of the van right now, but he's not going to invade Jon's space like that.
Ryan sighs, and ruffles Brendon's hair. "You're such a dick." He leaves his hand where it is, on top of Brendon's head; buries his fingers in the mess of dark hair. "Honestly, why do I put up with you?"
"'Cos I'm your golden ticket," Brendon says. "Voice of an angel?"
"Oh, that's got to be it."
"Seriously, guys," Spencer says.
--
They come home to recognition, sort of. It's not like they're getting recognised when they go to Target or whatever. But at local shows, when they're not even playing, people are all, oh, oh, shit, one of the dudes from Summer League's here, look. Ryan can't help but like it.
Brent says, "I fucking hate this. I don't, I just want to listen to music. I don't want people talking to me, it's not even my show." They've got a show of their own tonight.
Ryan says, "Hey. Hey. No, it's cool. I mean, it was bound to. People here've always known who we are. Now it's just, you know. More people."
Brent says, "I don't know. I guess. It's weird, man. It's just really, really weird."
Ryan says, "Hey." Ryan says, "Close your eyes. Okay. Thanks." He says, "I hope this looks as awesome as I think it will." He's doing Brent's eyeshadow right now. ("I don't think I could do it myself," Brent had said. "I'd poke my eye out. I, shit, you do it. I trust you.")
"So do I get to be metal?"
"I'm just doing it in black. You're getting off easy," Ryan says.
"Right."
Ryan says, quiet, "I just figure we should, you know. Have a different look on stage then when we're just hanging out or whatever. Put more of a divide in there. Like, if it's bothering you, you know? You can just. Pretend you're not yourself. That keeps it -- it's not you they're cheering for, then, it's just your persona, you know."
"Yeah," Brent says. "Yeah, okay."
Ryan says, "That way, it feels less like you're in the spotlight. More like you're doing what you want. Just think of it that way, it's what I do."
Brent starts to nod, but Ryan says, "Hey, don't move your head. You'll mess it up." He's uncapping the eyeliner now. He has to lean in and cup Brent's face, keeping his focus tight. He thinks maybe he'll get better with practice, but right now this takes all his concentration. "Hah, you shave this morning? Your skin's really."
"Uh," Brent says. "Yeah?"
"Hey, so are you ready yet, Ryan Ross," Brendon says from the doorway. "And Brent. Hi, Brent. What, can't do it yourself?"
Brent says, "It's not like I get up every morning to put on makeup. I don't know, man, why would I know how to do this?"
"It's not that hard," Brendon says.
"Ah, calm, calm," Ryan says. "Down, boy."
Brendon shoves his hands in his pockets and watches from the door. He tries to be quiet and still, but he can't manage the latter, not quite. He shifts his weight. He leans a foot against the door frame. He shifts, putting that foot down and the other foot against the door. He fiddles with the doorknob.
"Fucking stop," Ryan says. "Seriously, unless you need something, go away."
Brendon says, "Uhm."
"Seriously."
"Sorry," Brendon says. "Sorry."
And he goes.
On stage, they don't share the microphone. Brendon stays away from Ryan's part of the stage, and avoids Brent, too, as much as he can, which means mostly he hangs off Jon whenever they need him to play something, and he does a lot of singing to Spencer.
Mostly, it's weird. The crowd doesn't seem to mind.
--
Jon says to Spencer, "So I think your band has some issues."
"Yeah," Spencer says. "We always have." Spencer says, "Ryan has such a hard time staying straight."
"Jesus." Jon laughs. He picks up another box out of the back of the truck, and starts heading up stairs. He turns and makes sure Spencer's following -- Spencer, who's only carrying a broom and a mop -- before going on. "That, uh. That's pretty special. You know that's not how it works, right --"
"I know," Spencer says. "I know. You can't try to be -- yeah, just, yeah. I know."
"Right, good." Jon is not going to regret his decision to move to Las Vegas. He keeps telling himself this. The band still needs him, even when they play home shows, and it's for the best, since 504Plan broke up and all. That was probably because he was gone so much, and he feels a little guilty. He's still friends with everybody. They just weren't doing much in the way of music, so a band didn't seem worth it anymore. These are good kids too. Mostly.
Spencer says, "Seriously, do I ever know."
--
Ryan hasn't gone over to Brendon's for a while, but there's still over a month before their next tour and it's been two months since the last one and he's running out of friends to harass. Or, not that: he's been with them too much and not with his band enough. He's written, at least.
"So I wrote a song," Ryan says. "I think maybe I'll call it, uhm. 'Flashes of Glory in the Conjugal Conspiracy'? That's clunky, it was better in the book. But it's. So I was reading this book, you know, and I wrote this song, and, yeah," he says. "Yeah." He holds out the crumpled piece of paper where he's printed out the lyrics.
Brendon blinks at him, slowly. Then he starts reading.
"Hey, is this one of those Ecosphere things?" Ryan says. He's holding a glass ball of water. There's an open bit of air, and algae floating at the very surface. There's a branch drifting inside, settling towards the bottom again now that he's holding it still, and a few fish swimming. There's tinier things, too, maybe shrimp. Ryan doesn't know his small sealife very well. "Those are pretty expensive."
"No," Brendon says. "I got it from Patrick," he says, and doesn't explain any further.
"Oh," Ryan says. "So, uh."
"So what is this," Brendon says. He doesn't ask.
"It's a story. About unrequited love. Ages and ages worth of it. You know, loving somebody you know you can't have even though they're so amazing you don't know what to do with yourself."
"Okay," Brendon says.
"I wanted to leave the characters kind of -- I didn't want it to just parrot the book, you know. I wanted it to be really universal."
"Okay," Brendon says again.
"So the, you know, that middle bit's kind of, I'm still working on that. How do you make time pass in a song? I don't know. I kind of got it, I think."
"Yeah, it works."
"Good," Ryan says. He says, "So, uhm, are you." He starts again. "I've got a new girlfriend, hopefully."
Brendon just says, "Okay."
Ryan says that "she's blonde. And hot. I met her earlier today," and he sits down on the couch next to Brendon and pretends to play the keys on his arm. His jaw tightens and his eyes roll back a little, like he's thinking, straining to focus on something. "Hey, do you hear that?"
"The neighbors?" Brendon says.
"No. No." He taps at Brendon's arm. "That."
"Uhm," Brendon says. He looks down at Ryan, who's lying across most of the couch just to be able to reach his arm. Brendon's just thinking it's lucky no one else is here because there wouldn't be room for them to sit. Having furniture is weird. He's not sure he likes it.
He makes like he's playing a chord on Brendon's arm. Brendon closes his eyes and imagines he can maybe hear it, maybe feel the sound vibrating in his teeth, through his bones. "Oh," Brendon says. He thinks of summers past, of making the same excuse about the neighbors. About how he didn't feel this before, not really.
When Brendon opens his eyes again, when Ryan's done running his fingers along his forearm, Ryan's looking at him. Just looking, expression a little curious, examining him. Ryan lets out this little sigh and brushes dry lips across Brendon's arm. Brendon can feel it all through him, like a shiver in his marrow.
Ryan scrambles to his feet. He says, "I should really go."
--
Ryan says to Jon, on the phone, "So I was wondering -- you're a photographer, right."
There's a long silence. Jon stands still on the streetcorner, watching cars go by and wondering if he's really known Ryan for a year now. A car honks its horn -- the walk light is on and he's been standing there stupidly. He jogs across the street and answers at the same time. "Hi, I'm Jon Walker. Who are you?"
Ryan says, "Okay, okay, stupid question. How about naked girls?"
"I don't want to go to a strip club."
"No," Ryan says. "I have a naked girl."
"Oh, I -- shit, Ryan. Ryan. Is she, let her go. Oh, god. I knew you guys had problems, but seriously, now."
"Hey. Wait, wait. What? She's nice, too, don't worry."
"Never mind."
Ryan says, "But no, seriously, she said she wouldn't mind if I took some pictures, and I just thought, you know, you're better at taking photographs than I am."
"Usually when a girl says you can take pictures, that doesn't mean you invite your photographer friend over. Dude. I'm not -- is this your girlfriend, or what?"
"I hope so," Ryan says. "I met her two days ago. She's blonde. And she's hot."
"Oh, god."
Ryan says, "So are you coming over?"
There's another long pause, peppered with the sounds of the Strip all around Jon. "Yeah, what the hell," Jon says. "What the hell. Why not."
Two hours later, Jon shows up. Ryan's naked girl is still there. Her name, Ryan tells Jon in hushes tones at the door, is Kelly. Or maybe Chloe. Or Clara. He's not sure, but it's something like that.
Kelly, or Chloe, or whoever, is lying on Ryan's sofa, a blanket around her legs. She's playing some Japanese RPG for the SNES that Jon doesn't recognize. She is, as advertised, naked. "Oh, hey, Ryan," she says.
"Hi," Jon says. He has his camera slung over his shoulder, still in its case. "Uh."
Ryan says, "I've been appreciating her aesthetic."
"Oh," Jon says.
Ryan says, "Come on, you know how hard it is to be straight. You of all people."
"No, really," Jon says. "Can't say I've ever had any problems with that."
The girl says, "He's been going on and on about this all day. It's pretty great."
"All day," Jon says. He's trying very hard to meet her eyes.
"Yeah, I've been here since like eleven." The clock says that, right now, it's 6:38. "We've just been hanging out."
"Oh," Jon says, and he really wants to make a joke about her breasts. They're pretty nice, actually. Well-proportioned.
The girl says, "I don't know, Ryan's just really nonthreatening. I figured, you're a photographer. You'd probably be able to, what was it? Appreciate my aesthetic?"
"Yeah," Jon nods. "I appreciate it. Definitely. I appreciate it a lot."
Ryan says, "Jon."
Jon takes some pictures.
--
Two days later, Ryan says, "So me and that girl are officially going out now."
Brendon says, "Wait, what's her name?"
"Uhm," Ryan says.
"Dude."
--
"So we broke up," Ryan says, three and a half weeks later.
"Oh," Brendon says. "That's too bad."
"I think I'm heartbroken," Ryan says. "I need consolation."
Brendon gives Ryan a hug.
"Thank you." Ryan does not, actually, let go. "Brendon, when am I going to find a good girlfriend?"
"When you find a girl whose name you can remember," Brendon says solemnly. He pats Ryan's back.
"That's not why we broke up," Ryan says. "I forgot our anniversary."
"You'd been going out for like a month." Brendon says, "Like, a month tops."
"I know," Ryan says. Then, "Actually, I didn't. Was it only a month?"
"Not even."
"Oh." Ryan says, "Well, it felt like longer. I was very much in love. She was really hot."
"Okay, Ryan," Brendon says. He's a bit confused at having to be the practical one, but it's a chance to practice unused skills. "Have you -- dude, did you drink? The hell? You can't be that heartbroken."
Ryan says, "Yes I can."
"You should probably go to bed.
Ryan says, "Yeah, true," but doesn't move. So Brendon drags him to bed, where Ryan still refuses to let go.
Brendon lies awake for a very, very long time. Ryan, when he's sleeping, wriggles a lot. He also clings, which he never did in the van. Brendon wants to call Jon and tell him his paranoia was justified, that Ryan really is trying to kill him, but he doesn't want to wake either of them up.
In the morning, Brendon gets up first, and has to get ready for work and everything. He wishes he could call in and cancel, but they're low on staff anyway and he doesn't want to piss anyone off. So he gets up, showers, has some breakfast, leaves a glass of water and some Tylenol on the nightstand, and leaves while Ryan's still asleep.
Actually, he also pulls a sheet over Ryan, first, watches Ryan sleep for a while, and brushes his sleep-mussed hair away from his face.
Then he leaves. They're not making quite enough for him to pay for food and shit on tour and his apartment, and it's not like Ryan's doing anything to help that. Except writing the songs, which probably counts for at least a few points.
--
"Spencer," Brendon says. "Jon Walker doesn't understand. Ryan's trying to kill me. I know you're just going to take his side but I had to tell somebody."
"Yeah, he's got a secret stash of weapons," Spencer says. "You'd better watch out."
"Wait, wait. Really? Crap!"
"No," Spencer says.
"Oh." Brendon frowns and looks thoughtful. "Can I check something? I need to check something."
"Uh. Sure?" Spencer says.
So Brendon kisses him. Brendon does not just kiss him, actually, he also grabs his ass. With both hands.
"Mmph," Spencer says.
Brendon says, "C'mon, don't worry." He has his hands wriggled into Spencer's pockets by now, and he pushes his fingers down for emphasis.
Spencer says, "Possibly this is why Jon Walker can't take you seriously."
"I never tried to kiss Jon Walker. Just you."
"Oh," Spencer says.
"I'm very repressed," Brendon says. "Very." He has very, very subtle glitter eyeshadow on, and they're not even playing a show tonight. He's also wearing a buttondown and a suit jacket. And a pair of selvedge jeans. And some really, really nice shoes. Spencer would wonder where he bought those, but he's more distracted by the rest of Brendon's sudden and inexplicable fashion sense.
"Clearly," Spencer says.
Brendon says, "Lemme try again, just to make sure." This time he rocks his hips forward and pulls one hand out of Spencer's pockets so he can cup the back of Spencer's head. His eyes are closed, so Spencer figures it's only polite to close his too.
Twenty minutes later, Brendon says, "Oh, okay." He says, "I think Jon Walker was right."
"Jon's always right," Spencer says, a little breathless and not sure what they're actually talking about. All he's sure of is that he just got ravished and that he may well have to clean his jeans sooner than he thought. He was getting some really nice creases in them, too. "What was he right about this time?"
"I," Brendon says, "have a crush on Ryan Ross."
"Oh, okay," Spencer says. "You know, I'd be jealous if I didn't already have a girlfriend. You might want to think about that stuff first."
"Wait, you have a girlfriend?"
"Uh, yes? For like three years now?"
"Oh." Brendon says, "She's pretty lucky."
"Uhm."
In a stage whisper, Brendon says, "You're supposed to say thanks. That was a compliment."
"I won't thank you until you say you'll give me enough quarters to do laundry somewhere."
"Oh, sure."
"Thanks, then."
--
"Hey, Ryan," Spencer says. "It turns out Brendon's a pretty good kisser."
"What?"
"No, really. I was surprised too. Don't tell my girlfriend."
"You have a girlfriend?" Ryan says.
"Christ," Spencer says.
"Hey, now."
"I was just thinking," Spencer says. "You know. Maybe you should make out with a dude. To reaffirm your heterosexuality and all. Because you can do it, then when you don't like it, you'll be all self-assured."
"Hey," Ryan says. "Hey, that's a good idea."
--
Brent stares at him. "No, man. Just. No."
--
Jon just laughs.
--
"Brendon," Ryan says. "I have to make out with you. To make sure I'm still straight."
"That's nice," Brendon says, flailing the Wiimote around wildly. "Oh, hey, what? Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I wanna make out with you."
"Yes it -- okay. I guess it doesn't. But I figured you'd -- okay, so I asked Brent and Jon first."
"What about Spencer?"
"Huh," Ryan says.
--
Spencer, when questioned later that afternoon, says no.
--
"He said no," Ryan says.
"Oh, well," Brendon says, tilting the guitar controller up. "Hold up, using my Star Power."
"Okay," Ryan says, watching intently.
"Right." Brendon says, "So, uh."
Ryan says, "It's okay, I've just got to check, you know. Make sure."
"No, I get that," Brendon says, though he really doesn't. He was pretty damn sure he was gay back when he was about eight years old and wanted to marry his priest. Just because his parents said he couldn't didn't mean he didn't want to. "But uh. I don't think it's such a good idea."
"Spencer said you were good at it, though. So that would. You know. Prove it better? Than if I just, I don't know. If it was somebody random."
"Yeah, but," Brendon says. "Not today." He's still trying to beat 'Mother' on Guitar Hero. "Or maybe ever. Because, no. Look. I can't just. I'm not gonna make out with you so you can prove you're straight."
"Well, then," Ryan says. "We could just make out for the hell of it."
"That's not going to work. I already know your ulterior motives."
"Shit."
Brendon says, "So, you ready to go on tour?"
"No," Ryan says. "Shit. We should all practice. Shit. I never finished that song, either."
"Hm," Brendon says. He's pretty focused on Guitar Hero. "You know, playing this is not going to help me get ready at all? I bet I don't even know how to play a real guitar anymore."
"We'll just make Jon do it," Ryan says.
"I was kidding."
"Oh."
--
The tour is three weeks long.
Every single night, Ryan says, "So can I make out with you now?"
Every single night, Brendon says, "Stop asking that."
Occasionally Ryan will add a little something, like, "No, seriously, how am I going to know for sure that I'm straight if I don't make out with you?" and Brendon will say something like, "Go make out with Pete Wentz if you're that desperate." That tends to shut Ryan up.
Brendon tries not to fall asleep on Ryan in the back of the van every night. He makes a concerted effort not to, and sleeps on Jon Walker a few times, because he's really comfy and nice about it. Brent usually just avoids sitting next to Brendon, because he's got this uncanny ability to call shotgun before anybody else, so he's safe from being slept upon. Spencer's okay with it, most times. Eventually Jon buys him a travel pillow, which helps.
At least Ryan finished the song. It gets better every night.
Brendon's onstage antics, though, they make Ryan really glad he plays guitar.
--
"Come on, you're my best friend. You have to help me with this; the whole situation is, you know, I'm really very distressed because of this. You made out with Brendon."
"That's different."
"How?"
"That was," Spencer says. "That was a sneak attack." His eyes go distant and his shoulders slack as he thinks about it, his head listing to one side.
"Oho," Ryan says.
Spencer snaps out of it. "No. Just no."
Something, Spencer decides, has to be done.
--
By the time they finish the tour, absolutely nothing has been done.
--
Ryan does sleep over at Brendon's, though. They watch movies for hours. Brendon finally falls asleep, as Stephane is crying in Stephanie's bed, just before the bit with the boat.
He's awake for the very end, though. Sort of. "Mm," he says, rolling his head back. There're spots behind his eyes, which he's keeping shut tight. "This is a horrible idea. You don't have -- oh. Seriously, I don't wanna be, like. Ah, some one-time -- fuck, one-time experiment thing. You don't even like me."
Ryan doesn't say anything, but he does make some muffled mumbly noises around Brendon's dick. Then he pulls his head up and says, "No, that's the problem, 'cos I do like you."
He means to add hypothetically or perhaps even as a friend but Brendon, for all that he just had a moment of righteous indignation, apparently doesn't much care to wait for finished sentences or anything. He pushes Ryan's head back down. Ryan could take offense at that, but he kind of likes how Brendon smells. He also likes the little appreciative noises that Brendon makes when he licks up the length of his shaft.
There is one problem, besides the part where Ryan only has a vague idea what he's doing. The problem is, Brendon hasn't shaved in a while -- or maybe ever, Ryan has no real way of knowing. Anyway. Ryan maybe moves his head wrong. It itches. And Ryan sneezes.
"Oh, ew," Brendon says.
"Sorry." Ryan clears his throat, then goes back down on Brendon, takes as much of his dick into his mouth as he can -- only it's a little too much, and this time he starts coughing. He does manage to cough up some of the gunk in his throat that has been bothering him for a while, and goes to the bathroom to spit it out. He doesn't figure Brendon would be a big fan of having mucus all over his genitals.
By the time he comes back, Brendon has zipped up his pants and started channel surfing.
"Oh, come on," Ryan says. "Gimme one more chance? That wasn't even remotely conclusive."
"Dude," Brendon says.
"Dude!"
"No."
"Oh."
--
Ryan says, "I bet you haven't even slept with her."
Spencer stares. "Who are -- wait, my girlfriend? Haley?"
"Uh-huh. And you're not denying it. You haven't!"
"No, I've just lost count over the past, you know, three years."
"Come on. You would have told me."
"I -- why? Why, Ryan, why would I tell you I was having sex with my girlfriend? It's practically a given." Spencer says, "I mean, I am a rock star. Of course I'm sleeping with a beautiful woman."
"No, you so would have told me if you really had. Come on, seriously. Don't even ask why. You know."
"No, I really don't. Please, do tell."
"Because," Ryan says. "You know how much I know about girls. You have to have wanted advice, right?"
"No, not especially. It's really a pretty intuitive process."
"It is not. I had to practice for years. I would know."
Spencer says, "Oh, okay. Sure, Ryan. Sorry I didn't ask you for your incredibly helpful insights into the ways of women."
Ryan crosses his arms. "Brent asked me for advice."
"Oh, and how'd that one go?"
"He didn't want to tell me."
"See," Spencer says. "You see."
"No, I do not see," Ryan says. "Spencer. Having you, of all people, doubt in my -- my skills with the ladies -- it does not help my cause at all. It's a fucking conspiracy, isn't it."
Spencer sighs.
--
Spencer corners Brendon after practice a few days later. "So I have an idea for you, you and Ryan, I mean. What you can do about him."
"Why the hell is this any of your business?"
"Because Ryan's been whining at me for over a year about how you're constantly endangering his little garden of heterosexuality. I think he said something about you being like the hot sun scorching down on the, the flowers of straightness or something. Seriously, it was fucking retarded, and it needs to stop."
"Oh, well then," Brendon says. "Okay."
--
Brendon says to Ryan, "You wanna go out with me?"
"I'm straight," Ryan says, trying to look compassionate. He mostly just looks a little constipated. "I'm really sorry, Brendon. I've put a lot of effort into maintaining my heterosexuality, and going out with a guy would just not help my cause at all."
"No, see," Brendon says, all wide-eyed earnestness. "If you went out with a dude, then you'd be able to make absolutely sure, right? Like, you wanted to go down on me to see if you didn't like that, but that was pretty inconclusive, right? And how else could you get more conclusive results than from actually going out with a dude?"
"What?"
"See, you can go out with me, and that'll prove you're straight when you don't like it."
"Huh," Ryan says. "You know. That's actually. That makes sense."
Brendon's really tempted to say no it doesn't, but he's not interested in ruining his chances just yet.
--
So the first show of their next tour -- just a quick little jaunt down the West coast -- they're in the middle of another new song. They're playing it in the middle of the set, surrounding it with the more comfortable old ones, just trying to test the waters. The crowd's stiller, but it's more like they're paying attention than bored. Brendon sits at the piano and sings. There's this bit of a breakdown towards the middle, a sudden stop then a rebuilding of the musical structure, coming back with just the bass, then drums, then rhythm guitar. The music slips into that groove for a little while before the sudden stutter-start of the guitar scrabbling to work its way back into the mix.
It's in the middle of that that Brendon, still sitting on the piano bench, beckons Ryan over. Ryan is bouncing his heel just slightly to help himself keep time, and the mild distraction is sort of cute.
So Brendon pulls him down and kisses him. On stage. And it's not just a half-second, oh we're sharing a microphone and my lips are brushing yours kind of thing; there's at least a little tongue involved, though only in trace amounts. Ryan grins at him, then turns around to play the guitar. He doesn't actually walk away, though; instead, he leans on Brendon.
After the show, they're supposed to all do a few interviews. Spencer forbids Ryan and Brendon from having anything to do with it. He also forbids Ryan from complaining when he says Jon's going to be part of the interview.
So instead, Ryan just sulks at Brendon. "What was that?"
"What?"
"The kissing me onstage."
"Well," Brendon says. "You won't really get the full experience unless we're, you know, open about it."
"True," Ryan says.
There's a vote, and majority says that they can't make out in the back of the van. Brendon tries to bend the law, but can't figure out just how to do it, as whoever else is in the back seat usually hits him if he tries anything.
In Portland, Ryan corners him and says, "Hey, I bet if we do it fast we won't even get caught."
"Wait, wait. Do what?"
"Uhm," Ryan says. "I don't know. I thought you'd fill in the blanks."
"No," Brendon says. "You don't even -- no."
They don't get a hotel for the night even once. "Come on," Brendon says after they play Los Angeles, which is close to the end. "Spence, can't we stay in one tonight, at least?"
"That's not my decision," Spencer says.
"Wait, really?" Brendon says, "Shit, so whose is it?"
Spencer shrugs.
"Gee, thanks."
Brendon figures it's for the best, though. While he would dearly like to get off, making out with Ryan is pretty nice.
He's kind of a bigger fan of the cuddling and handholding and the long, slow kisses up against walls in venue restrooms than he thought he'd be. And he's kind of more attached than he thought he'd get this quick.
And he really, really doesn't want to lose it all if Ryan actually decides he's totally sure about his claims of heterosexuality.
--
When they get back from this tour, Ryan shoves Brendon up against the door to his apartment and starts kissing him. Brendon says "Hey, hold on, hold on," and tries to unlock the door.
Ryan puts his hands in his pockets and leans back against the wall, eyes closed. Brendon's fumbling with his keys, turns them the wrong way at first. He laughs a little at his own mistake. "Sorry. Sorry. Okay."
Ryan says, "Yo," and pokes Brendon in the chest. Brendon grins at him and turns, into the apartment. When Ryan's in too, he lets the door close then leans back against it.
Brendon says, "So I thought we could just hang out or something."
"Sure, sure," Ryan says. "Right." He doesn't look convinced.
Brendon goes and turns on the TV, then pats at the cushion next to him on the couch. "Hey, here. Here."
Ryan's pacified by the TV for about three minutes, forty five seconds of which he spends transfixed by an advert for some pseudo-spy device used to listen to far-off noises. He leans up against Brendon's side -- "Seriously, that's awesome. We should get one. Then we can spy on, like, Jon."
"Why would we spy on Jon?"
"I don't know," Ryan says, then leans up to kiss Brendon. His lips are dry, dead skin scraping, and Brendon hasn't shaved for a while, so he's got stubble. Ryan grins. "This is."
"Yeah," Brendon says, then kisses him again. He pulls Ryan closer, and Ryan shifts, wriggles so he can sit on Brendon's lap. "Tch, you're such a girl."
"Yeah, right. I'm on top."
Brendon bites at his lower lip, then nuzzles his nose in the crook between Ryan's neck and shoulder. "On top like a girl."
"Yeah, whatever," Ryan says, pulling his shirt off. "I've got more testosterone than I know what to do with."
"Mhm, sure." Brendon breathes in deep. "At least you smell like a dude. You get points for that."
"So how about you let me," Ryan says, hands at the hem of Brendon's shirt. Brendon shrugs, and helps pull his shirt off. "Hey, hey. Lie down."
Brendon does, and Ryan leans over him. For a moment, his expression is something soft and almost fragile; he looks amazed. Then his eyes are closed. He rocks his hips down, and Brendon can feel his erection, obvious and constrained by pants that were already two sizes too small.
Ryan closes his hand around Brendon's arm, then opens his eyes again, startled. He smiles, and pulls Brendon's arm so he can kiss each individual key. The noise rings in the back of Brendon's head, sound waves breaking against his inner ear. If the sound is real or not, he's not sure. He sighs, malleable under Ryan's touch. He rolls his shoulder, trying to get comfortable. Ryan ends up lying down, head against Brendon's chest, one ear over his heart. With his fingers, he's pretending, maybe, to play part of a song Brendon doesn't quite recognize.
Ryan then pushes himself up again, letting go of Brendon's arm. Brendon puts his now-free hand at the small of Ryan's back, but lets it slide up to his shoulders when Ryan starts kissing down his chest.
"Uhm," Brendon says. "So. You wanna play some Pikmin?"
"How about we go to the bedroom and you could, oh, I don't know, fuck me instead. How's that sound?" Ryan smirks, kissing Brendon's belly-button.
"Hey, no, this isn't -- this maybe isn't. Stop, okay?" Brendon says, pushing Ryan away before he can get the button on his jeans undone.
"You're supposed to want to sleep with me," Ryan says, petulantly. He sits back on his haunches, partly resting against the arm of the sofa. "We're going out, right?"
"Yeah, but you're just in it to prove a point," Brendon says.
"So you don't want to fuck me." Ryan's voice is flat, more monotone than usual.
"Look, I'm not just going to -- I was brought up Mormon, seriously." He sits up, scooting closer to Ryan so he can look at him when he talks.
"What, no sex before marriage? Dude, are you serious, because I swear to God, if you are --"
"No! No! I just, I still think it should be, you know. Uhm." He bites at his lip, lowering his head so he doesn't have to meet Ryan's eyes. "Special?"
"Huh," Ryan says.
"So I'm not just. I mean, I totally would, okay. I think you're really ..." He trails off, reaching out to run a hand down Ryan's side, letting it come to rest just above his jeans. "I actually like you, okay? But you're just doing this to prove a point, and I don't want to sleep with you then have you be all, 'Oh, nope, actually straight, sorry,' and like -- run off and find some new hot blonde chick to screw."
Ryan's staring at him, but eventually nods. "Right. Right."
"And I mean," Brendon says. "Not all gay dudes like, you know." He gestures vaguely, not indicating anything in particular. "And anyway, some straight dudes like having their girlfriends fuck them with a strap-on, you know? So it wouldn't even necessarily prove anything. So can we just, like, watch a movie and make out or something. Because I, yeah."
Ryan pulls away from him, leaning heavy against the back of the couch.
Brendon says, "I'm not gonna do this anymore. I feel like I'm in junior high, dude, it's fucked up."
"But, wait, what?" Ryan says. "Not gonna -- are you breaking up with me? We're not even. Shit. Can we not?" Ryan says, "If you're really that opposed to having sex with me, I mean, we can just ... do whatever, I guess. But let's not break up. I mean, I'm still not sure."
"See, it's shit like that, right there," Brendon says. "Stop making me have to be all serious. I'm no good at this part. But seriously, still not sure? What is that, Ryan Ross?" Brendon leans forward, resting his arms on Ryan's knees and staring at him wide-eyed. "What the shit is that, Ryan Ross."
"It's -- come on. Stop that. I really want to, okay?"
Brendon blinks, leaning back a little again. He opens his mouth a little, knitting his brows. "Really want to what?"
"I think I maybe really want to have gay sex with you, Brendon Urie."
"Oh," Brendon says. "Oh, you mean -- oh. Like, for real, and you're not just gonna be a dick and be all 'oh no I'm really straight I was just checking' or anything? Not gonna pull that 'It's so hard to be straight' bullshit?"
Ryan scowls. "I wasn't that bad."
Brendon stares at him for a second before breaking out laughing.