How to let the sky go
Brendon/Ryan. R. 10675 words.
Ryan doesn't really want to teach Brendon to dance.
Epigraph and title come from poems by Tennessee Williams; initial inspiration from falling asleep watching Swing Time at 3AM one night. Thanks to
girlintheband and
dreamofthem for betaing, and
heavy_slumber for advice,
theaerosolkid for being awesome, and all the other people who let me whine and ramble at them while this sucker was in progress.
They that come late to the dance
must dance till the lanterns expire
and the hearts they uncovered too late
are broken before they can tire.
-
Ryan's trudging through the dirty mid-February snow of Times Square with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, fingers still cold even with gloves on. He usually skirts around the area, or hails a taxi instead; it's sort of dark and filthy, but cutting through gets him from home to work faster. There's a little news stand he likes, at least, where he picks up a chocolate bar as he scans the paper. It's just more paranoia about the Soviets, and something about a spy finally getting arrested, but Ryan doesn't really have the time. He can find out when the trial is later; he's got a copy of this same paper waiting on the doormat just outside his apartment.
Ryan wouldn't usually be coming in now, but the secretary had called to ask if he could cover for Greta's class tonight.
"Hey, there," she says as Ryan hangs up his coat.
He doesn't turn around. "That you, Audrey?"
"Hmmm," she says, drawing out the consonants. "Why, I don't know. It sure sounds like it."
"That's a relief. You can never be sure anymore," Ryan says. "So what do I have to put up with tonight?"
"The waltz," Audrey says. "Do you think you'll be able to handle it?"
"I hope so."
It's the second session of a beginners' class that's more like cotillion than anything. A few of the students are young, upper-class fifteen year olds who are almost old enough to need to know this; some are older. Ryan doesn't really care how old they are, because age doesn't matter when they're not following directions and stumbling over their own feet.
And then there's this guy, tiny and wiry, with dark hair and wide eyes, who Ryan mostly manages to ignore because he actually knows how to follow directions. He pairs the guy off with a few of the clumsier girls, and doesn't have to deal with them either.
After class, the guy comes over -- "Hey, you're a really great teacher. You wouldn't happen to have any open classes, would you? In, like, anything."
"No," Ryan says.
"Oh. Well. I'm just trying to make it as an actor, see? And I figure, if you want to make it on the stage these days, you've got to know a thing or two about dancing."
"Right." Ryan pulls out his watch, flipping it open to check the time. "You can learn a lot from Miss Salpeter. Don't worry."
The guy smiles, unphased. "Yeah, Greta's pretty fantastic. I'd just been hoping, you know."
"Right. Can I go?"
"Of course. Bye, now."
-
Ryan's favorite student is a girl named Keltie Colleen, because she has good posture and next to no bad habits. She's a competent actress and even stronger dancer who keeps coming back to him whenever she wants to practice something new for a show. There have been a few times when he's thought about properly courting her.
He can't imagine himself dressed up and asking her parents for her hand, though. Keltie is lithe and gorgeous and strong and he always-always-always finds himself wanting to do things with her that aren't legal in the strictest sense, and even with all that he can never quite imagine them together.
Whenever Keltie gets a part, no matter how small, Ryan makes sure to see the show at least once. She almost never plays lead, sometimes shows up for less than five minutes without any lines as a backup dancer.
Ryan doesn't make enough money to sit anywhere but in the back where she can't see him.
-
Ryan doesn't have a beginners' class because Ryan is impatient and demanding and does not feel like teaching thirty year olds and teenagers how to waltz without stepping on each other's feet. He doesn't mind groups, so much, just incompetence.
Half of what Ryan ends up doing is helping actors brush up on dancing, or teach them whatever new moves are required for their latest role. If he wanted, he could probably just teach independently, but working for Gerard means studio space and a better guarantee of clients who aren't terrible.
If he wanted, Ryan could probably sell enough short stories to live off of, but he hates science fiction and cheap thrillers, and he hates the idea of selling out. That's what he tells himself.
(When he was finishing up high school, his father kept telling him not to bother with college. Kept telling him to just get a real job, do something useful for once, and then the war came and Ryan was still in college and ended up in a graduate program just to keep out of service. He's read enough to know he doesn't want to go to war.
He and his father don't talk anymore.)
-
Every now and then, Ryan will have a night off when he's not teaching or at a party with friends, and he'll end up curled up in his chair with a book, drinking wine and listening to the radio. There's an empty bowl on the floor, the remains of his dinner, that he hasn't bothered taking to the kitchen yet.
His telephone rings, and judging by his clock it's nearly eight thirty on a Tuesday night. Not typically prime calling hours.
"Hello?" he says.
"Uh, hi there. Is this George Ross?"
"Who is this?"
"Hey, so I'm Brendon Urie -- from yesterday's class? The one Miss Salpeter normally teaches. The introductory dance class, I mean."
"Alright," Ryan says. "And?"
"And I was just wondering -- I mean, I want to try out for this play, but there's a lot of dancing in it, and I wondered if maybe you had some time free to, y'know, take on another student?"
Ryan frowns at his phone for a moment.
"I just figured it'd be nice if I could learn some things more specific to what I'll be doing in the show."
"Isn't that what choreographers are for?"
"Yeah, well." Brendon's smile practically radiates across the phone lines. "A little background knowledge never hurt anybody." Ryan's almost worried for the switchboard, Brendon's cheerful tone is so strong it could overpower wiring and destroy circuits; there's something under it, too, and Ryan's not sure.
But.
"Well, the girl I was working with Thursday nights is out of the country for a few weeks," Ryan says. "You could come in to the studio then, and we'll see if we can work something out."
-
Brendon doesn't step on toes when he tries to waltz, and knows what plie means, but that's about it.
"I thought you were better." Ryan crosses his arms, tapping his foot against the floor. "I remember you being better."
"I'm just forgetful," Brendon says. "Hey. Can you show me -- left, right, what?"
Ryan rolls his eyes.
When Brendon smiles, it's like he's baring his teeth. "Maybe you're forgetful too."
"I have pi memorized to the fifty first digit," Ryan says.
"Oh." Brendon's laugh isn't a third as frightening as his smile, though. Ryan doesn't mind it when Brendon laughs.
Ryan says, "Bring your right foot forward."
-
The third time Brendon comes in, Ryan cuts him off ten minutes before they're supposed to be done. He says, "No, really, are you even trying?"
"Of course I am. What do you take me for?"
"You don't act like it. At this rate, the Soviets will've killed us all before you've learned a thing."
"Sorry," Brendon says. "Look, do you want me to buy you a drink or anything? You could use one."
Ryan doesn't look at him, just stretches.
Brendon says, "Hey, seriously. Let me buy you a round. I'm sorry; I'll try harder."
"Why do you even want to audition for musicals if you can't dance?"
"Because I'm gonna learn."
Ryan snorts, shaking his head. "Fine." He says, "Look, Miss Colleen, the girl I usually teach now, is back the week after next. I'll see about working you in some other time if anything manages to sink into your head."
-
Ryan doesn't like to drink, really.
He has bad memories.
-
Brendon follows directions the next week, so. Ryan manages to pencil him in twice a week, Wednesdays and Fridays, and they go drinking afterwards, and it's alright.
Ryan doesn't like to drink, but Brendon does, and Ryan's usually able to get away with just nursing one drink all night. After the first time, Brendon doesn't bother him about it. ("Hey, I'm going over to the bar. You need me to get you anything?"
"No."
"Are you still on your first drink? Seriously?"
Ryan doesn't answer, so Brendon just nods, says, "Okay. You have fun with that, Ross.")
-
On Saturdays, Ryan goes to either the movies or the theater with his friend Spencer. He doesn't much like mainstream cinema these days -- not that he did before, but now the relentless idealism is getting a little much -- but he makes the effort because it gets him out of the house to do something other than teach and it's something to do. Ryan feels like, going to these movies with a guy he's been friends with since he was ten, he's getting old. Or like he's not growing up. Or something.
Spencer's married to his highschool sweetheart, a girl two years younger than he is, named Haley. She's a nice girl, mostly; a little over-invested in politics for Ryan's tastes, but he's not the one who married her.
Still. Ryan doesn't like going to their house for dinner, always feels kind of awkward because he's a twenty nine year old bachelor hanging around with people he's known too long. His writing hasn't taken off, his career -- such as it is -- could stand to be stronger, and Spencer's stable and on track. Now that Haley's pregnant, having dinner with them seems more awkward, seems like too much work to be putting her through. So lately they've stuck to eating out and going to the theater, and that's been alright.
On Friday morning, the doorman at Ryan's building tells him that Mr Smith left him a message, that he's not going to be able to make it Saturday.
It's the first Saturday and Ryan already has tickets for a show off Broadway that he doesn't want to waste.
So.
So on Friday, after a failed attempt to teach Brendon something about salsa dancing, when they're down at the bar, he asks Brendon if he has any obligations Saturday.
Brendon looks askance at him, mouth quirking up at a crooked angle. "I can cancel."
"If you're busy," Ryan starts.
"It wasn't something I wanted to do anyway." He says, "Besides, who am I to turn down free culture?"
-
After the play's over, Ryan hangs around to compliment the cast; Brendon starts talking to some of the tech people.
Ryan dutifully collects all the signatures he can for his program, and smiles graciously at the actors and compliments the ones who did well and tries hard not to pick apart the ones who didn't, and by the time he's done he expects Brendon to be waiting around bored with hands in pockets. That's how Spencer usually ends up.
Only Brendon's standing there talking to a couple of stage hands and the female lead, and Ryan hangs back watching. Brendon says something, mouth curving up in a wry grin, and leans heavily on some younger guy's shoulder. The other guy ducks his head, laughing, and the girl says something to make both of them laugh. Ryan leans up against the wall, trying to act like he's not watching them. He stands there sneaking glances out of the corner of his eye, periodically pulling his watch, eyes glossing over the time.
It gets to the point where he moves his watch from his jacket pocket to one of the pockets on his trousers, because his hands are already there anyway. He just holds onto it, then, running his thumb over the shallow engraving and molding of the now-warm metal.
"Hey." There's a light hand at Ryan's elbow. Ryan startles, taking a half step away as he looks up. Then he realizes it's Brendon, and relaxes again, just nodding in acknowledgment.
"So they're having a cast party tonight, at Victoria's place up in Queens," Brendon says. "We could probably go, if you wanted. Might be a good chance for you to get to know everyone, if you wanted."
It turns out Ryan actually knows one of the girls in the chorus, so he ends up spending two hours with her and a few others, talking about dancing on stage as opposed to in the ballroom.
"We're getting ready to do auditions for a new production," one of them tells him. "We could use a better choreographer. The lady doing it now ..." She trails off, glancing about the room warily. "Well."
"I don't even think she's here," one of the others says. "No one really likes her."
Ryan says, "It'd be a lot of commitment, though, doing a show."
"Yeah, but it's fun. Besides, I think Vicky'd like you. Have you met her yet?"
"Who?"
"Oh, gosh, you ought to, she's fantastic," one of the girls says, peering about distractedly. Another girl is wandering by, and she stops her -- "Have you seen Vicky?"
"Uhm, I think she's in the kitchen."
"Come on," the girl says, only it's now that Brendon stumbles back over from wherever he's been.
"Ryan," Brendon says. "Ryan, Cash says I should go home and go to sleep. He's a good kid, Ryan, I believe him. Can we go?"
Ryan winces. "Really? Now?"
The girl he was mainly talking to makes a face as well. "Well, if Cash says so. Hey, Ryan." She reaches out to touch his arm. "I'm Amanda. I'm gonna see if Vicky's interested; is there some way I can get in touch with you later on?"
"Oh, right," Ryan says, and reaches into his pocket to pull out a business card. "Here, so you can contact me."
"Ryaaaaan," Brendon whines, wrapping his arms around Ryan's waist and leaning heavily against his back.
"I'll call you," Amanda says.
Outside, it takes a while to hail a cab. Brendon leans against him the whole time, occasionally singing little snippets of jazz and pop songs. By the time they finally do catch a cab, Brendon can't even remember his own address. Brendon curls up on the far side of the cab for the whole ride there, away from Ryan, and when they get to Ryan's place he crawls all the way across the seat to use the same door instead of just opening his own.
"I can see colors," Brendon says, awed.
"That's nice."
"It is. You're a pretty color, Ross."
"Yeah, okay," Ryan says, pushing him down onto his sofa. "Go to sleep."
"Will you come with me?"
Ryan doesn't try to figure that one out. "No. I'll get you a blanket if you wait a minute, though."
"Okay."
"Okay," Ryan says, and Brendon's asleep by the time he gets back, curled up on his side, knees drawn in towards his chest and mouth hanging open. He's holding a pillow to his chest, the other hand wrapped loosely around the edge of the sofa cushion. His jaw is slack, mouth hanging open, and his breath already steady and quiet. He makes a little noise, twisting his shoulders and turning his head a little. Not that Ryan's watching him or anything. He's just observant. He spreads the blanket out, lays it over Brendon, carefully tucking the edge in under his free hand.
Brendon holds on tight.
Since the lights don't seem to be bothering Brendon at all, Ryan stays up a while later, reading a magazine he got the other day. He stands at the light switch a while before heading to bed, hoping the change won't wake Brendon up. He stares at Brendon for a while, contemplatively, before breathing out heavy through his nose and flipping the switch down.
The blanket is folded over the top of the sofa and Brendon is gone by the time Ryan wakes up, at eight the next morning.
-
Ryan has this bad habit of retreating into himself, which is why he makes sure to see Spencer regularly, only it turns out that Spencer couldn't make it because Haley gave birth a week earlier than expected, to identical twins. Ryan doesn't find out until Sunday, which -- well. Spencer was busy. So it's alright. They go out for dinner on Tuesday.
"We named one of them Georgia," Spencer says. "If you were wondering."
"Oh."
"After you," Spencer adds.
Ryan squints at him. Spencer shrugs, and gives him a hug.
"They're doing okay?" Ryan says, even though he's asked this twelve times in the past hour.
"They're fine. Haley's home already. Rosemary cries a lot." He rubs at his eyes. "It'll be nice when they actually, you know, sleep through the night. I'm tired enough from work every day."
"Not their fault, though," Ryan says.
"No." Spencer says, "You should come by sometime."
-
Ryan spends most of his days trying to write, or at least reading, if he can't get anything done. If he can't manage either of those he'll go out to a cafe with his notebook and jot down notes on what people are wearing, scribble in snippets of overheard conversation.
His days are free because he teaches at night, with only a few exceptions. There's a lot of hobbyists out there, new people in and out who are decent enough that he can put up with them. There're people who will show up once and never again, too, which confused Ryan the first few times and now just makes him laugh.
Ryan can cook for himself, and can't afford anyone to clean up after himself, so he tidies up on his own every few days. He does his own dishes. He keeps his bookshelves organized and dusted. He'll go out for walks, sometimes, in the early morning chill of mid-April, with dew still on the stunted weeds that dot the pavement.
He gets the newspaper delivered to his house every single morning, and he gets two on Sundays, and does his best to read everything except the classifieds. If he's pressed for time, he'll skip the editorials.
Sometimes the old Soviet widow who lives next door will give him some of her bread -- she always makes too much for just herself, enough that she could provide if her husband was alive and her children ever visited. She doesn't speak English, and Ryan only knows a smattering of Russian phrases from a class he took to kill the time while in college.
They get along alright.
-
Ryan gets to the little uptown row house Spencer and Haley share and knocks on the door. Haley answers, holding one of the red-faced twins in her arms. "Oh, hello, Ryan. I haven't started cooking yet. I only just got Rosemary to stop crying, and then I had to change Georgia's diapers, and. It'll be a while. Spencer's in the den."
Ryan says, "Oh. Right."
She nods at him, stepping aside. The smile she gives is drawn, looking tired and forced.
Ryan says, "I can help out in the kitchen, don't worry. What were you going to make tonight?"
"Meatloaf, probably."
"Oh, I can handle that," Ryan says.
Haley says, "No, really, it's quite alright," but Ryan's already heading back towards the kitchen.
Somewhere upstairs, the other baby -- Ryan's not sure which is which yet -- starts crying again.
After a while, the house is quiet again, and Haley comes into the kitchen unencumbered. She stands quiet for a while, watching Ryan. "Thank you," she says, finally. Ryan looks up.
"Of course. It's not a problem."
"My parents have been helping out," she says. "But Mom had a funeral to go to."
"And you didn't," Ryan observes.
"It's not like I could have brought the twins," she says.
Ryan nods.
Haley steps in next to him and helps, starting in on making a salad.
-
Brendon's finally picking some things up, maybe.
"You're holding back," Ryan says. "Your posture. Look, you need to relax a little. It's supposed to be more -- more fluid. Smoother. Don't slouch or anything, just try not to be so stiff. You're just ending up jerky."
Brendon nods, then shakes his limbs out. "Alright," he says easily. "I'll keep that in mind."
The most frustrating thing is -- when Brendon gets it right, he's dead on. He'll have grace and emotion and this fluidity of line that Ryan's not used to seeing. And then he'll just. Stop. He'll stop, and do everything wrong, get everything a bit off-kilter and wrong, and it wouldn't bother Ryan as much if he didn't know the potential hiding there.
Brendon's stretching, one arm against the wall, holding onto his ankle as he pulls it upwards. Ryan's not staring, just -- analyzing. He can't figure out what's keeping Brendon back.
Brendon says, "So what do you do when you're not yelling at dancers, Ross?"
"I'm a writer," he says.
"Huh."
"I've been trying to write a novel," Ryan says. "It's not going so well, though."
"Hey, actually," Brendon says, like he's just stumbled upon a brilliant idea. "Some friends of mine, they're into that sort of thing. We all get together, sometimes, just talk about. Whatever. You should come sometime."
"Yeah, okay." He claps his hands. "Come on, don't distract me. You're going to get this right by the end of tonight, even if it kills me."
-
Ryan's actually feeling at ease in the dim, smoky apartment, surrounded by people he's never met before. They're talking about -- he's not sure what.
This one guy launches into this spinning, wobbling story that hangs in the air; the continuous stream of easy, shambling speech is somewhere near musical in rhythm and keeps everyone rapt. His hands rise every now and then, slicing through the air to accentuate some great commandment or idea. He stops, eventually, gets up saying something about another cup of coffee. The conversation picks up wherever it left off. Ryan isn't really contributing much, only interjecting now and then, little anecdotes and facts of his own. He has to explain some stupidly basic tenet of geometry at one point.
Then they're talking math, then money and society and the American Dream -- trying to pin down whatever the hell that means doesn't go so well, but they give it a go. One of them says, "This is it, right here, the free exchange of ideas," and Ryan laughs, maybe. Someone does.
Ryan's feeling sort of loose and easy and tired. Someone'd passed him a hand rolled cigarette earlier that turned out to be marijuana, which he hasn't had since back in college, but that's alright, he figures.
Brendon nudges him in the side at one point, sinking down into the free space available on the sofa next to Ryan. He ends up half in Ryan's lap; there's not room, with the arm rest there and another guy sitting close in on Ryan's other side. It's crowded. "Hey, Ross," Brendon whispers. "How's it going, huh?"
Ryan looks down, because Brendon's got a hand on his arm and his fingers are tapping, moving restlessly. He looks up again. "Swell," he says, then laughs. "Peachy keen."
"Oh my god," Brendon says, huffing out a laugh. "Alright, Ross, if you say so."
"Hey, hey, don't call me Ross," Ryan says. "We're at a party."
"George?" Brendon tries.
"Ryan," he corrects, carefully. "Everyone -- my dad goes by George, see. So call me Ryan."
"Okay," Brendon says, nodding. "Ryan. Ryan. Right. I knew that, sorry. Hey, Ryan." His fingers have slowed, not quite stilled, and now he's just stroking Ryan's arm, ruffling the short dark hairs and smoothing them back down again. He grins -- he's always doing that -- self-conscious, this time. "I get touchy, sorry."
"What?"
"When," he says. He's bouncing his right leg stupidly fast, and Ryan reaches out and presses down on his knee. There's still the slight twitch of restrained movement under his fingers. "Nothing. Nothing." He looks up, and apparently he's been paying better attention than Ryan, because he says, "Oh, yeah, when are auditions for that?" in response to something Ryan didn't hear.
"Next month," a girl says. "Come on, I've been reminding you for ages, Urie. You're useless."
"Aw, c'mon, don't say that. I like to think I'm witty! And urbane!"
"You do that," she says, rolling her eyes while she rolls another cigarette. "Good luck lying to yourself, sweetheart."
"It's a talent," Brendon says. His hand finally stills against Ryan's arm. Ryan squeezes his knee, strangely curious, though he's not even sure about what. Brendon grins at him. "Hmm?"
"I don't know," Ryan says. "I get touchy?" he tries.
"Oh, well then," Brendon says. "Isn't that a nice coincidence."
"What?"
"Nothing," Brendon says. "I'm gonna get some water. Benzies make me thirsty; it's weird. You want anything?"
"No, that's okay," Ryan says, and has to force his body not to follow as Brendon gets up and goes away. Everywhere their bodies were in contact, he feels like he's freezing from the chill of sweat only just now allowed to cool down to ice-cold temperatures without Brendon's body heat.
It takes him a few seconds, because for a while there everything but Brendon was running in slow motion, but Ryan manages to readjust, and tries to keep interested in wherever the conversation's gone now. Someone else is telling a story, and it's probably interesting but not quite as riveting as earlier on.
He's sort of nodding along, half-listening and only half realizes what he's doing as pushes himself to his feet to try and find Brendon, who he hasn't seen in hours, probably, maybe. He thinks it's been hours, anyway. He likes it here, though, likes all these guys for leading lives entirely different from his own. He's picking up scraps of ideas for his writing that he just prays he won't forget.
The entire apartment is dimly lit, and a bit crowded now, so Ryan's walking slowly and carefully. He's keenly aware of the beat of his own heart, the rise and fall of his chest with every breath, like if he doesn't pay attention to either function they might not keep going.
The guy who spent so long talking earlier is -- not talking to Brendon, like Ryan sort of hopes at first. His lips are right at Brendon's ear, but there's no words on them. The movement of his mouth isn't passing on any whispered genius; it's just a slow tug with teeth, and then greed pulling at Brendon's neck. Brendon has his eyes closed tight, his head leaning back against the wall.
Ryan's head is starting to hurt.
-
Ryan gets a cab home on his own.
-
Next time Brendon says, "Hey, do you want to go down to the bar tonight?" Ryan doesn't look at him and just says, "No, I'm tired."
-
Brendon asks, "So we're all getting together again tonight, if you want to come; Jack seemed really impressed by you. I just wanna know what you said."
"I didn't say much of anything."
"Huh." Brendon grins.
Ryan says, "Anyway, I'm going to help watch one of my friends' kids. His wife just had twins."
"Oh, hey, that's good of you."
"I guess so."
-
Ryan and Spencer get back into their habit of going to the theater -- or the movies, sometimes -- on Saturdays, and then Sundays Ryan comes by and watches the kids to give Haley a little time off.
It's been a while, so Spencer asks how he's been, and Ryan's saying something -- "Honestly, I can tell he'd be good if he'd just. Something. I can't figure out what's stopping him, you know, and it's just. Being charming can get you pretty far, but not without the work to back it up, and I just."
Spencer grins. "Hey, you're actually worried about someone else for a change."
"What? I'm not. I'm just saying." Then, "Hey, I worry about other people all the time. Come on, take that back. I'll stop helping with the twins."
"Right, right," Spencer says. "I wasn't calling your infinite kindness into question. No, hey, Haley's really grateful to you. She actually gets the chance to see her friends every now and then, and I hear sometimes she even gets a little sleep; it's really great of you."
"Yeah, well," Ryan says.
Spencer says, "All I'm saying is, I'm glad you've found another friend."
"It's just," Ryan says. "Look, I can't even -- it's not just that, though, I mean, he's frustrating, but."
"Hmm?"
They're in a crowded restaurant, and Ryan bites his lip to keep from saying anything. There's the chance someone could overhear, and someone could know who he was talking about, and someone could get Brendon blacklisted and keep him from working in theater or film ever again. "He's an idiot, that's all."
Spencer sits there quietly, watching Ryan even as he lifts his glass of water to take a drink.
"That's all."
"Okay."
-
"No, no, no, stop. Just stop." Ryan doesn't mean to, but he stomps his foot, feeling childish the instant he does. "I can't -- you can't -- I can't deal with this tonight."
"Hey," Brendon says. "Did I do something to make you mad?"
"You're the worst student I have ever had," Ryan says. "Ever."
Brendon laughs, grinning -- "Come on, I can't be half as bad as some of the people in your beginner's classes."
"I don't usually teach beginners," Ryan says. "And what the hell happened with you, anyway? You were godawful, then you weren't, and now you can't do a fucking thing."
"Language," Brendon says, holding his hands up mock-defensively.
"Oh, fuck you," Ryan says. "Never in my life have I seen anyone as incompetent and inconsistent as you. You were never made for the stage, you ignorant bastard. I'm consistently amazed by the new levels of ineptitude you manage to reach on a regular basis. And it's not just that, you're -- it's like you don't think about anything you do."
Brendon's watching him with this bemused stare, head cocked a little to the side like he's trying to figure something out.
"Hey, Urie, fuck you," Ryan says. "Look, it's just that. You're -- you're a fucking idiot, and you're going to ruin your own career some day, possibly even before it starts, solely by virtue of being so stupid that you will get blacklisted entirely on the basis of your monumental stupidity, and also, fuck you."
Brendon's quiet, the corners of his mouth still upturned though now his lips are drawn thin. His eyes are dark and narrow. "Are you even talking about dance anymore?"
And then Gerard says, "Mister Ross!" Comes over, puts a hand on Brendon's shoulder. "Mister Urie, I'm sorry about this. Ryan's always had his own ideas." He's looking straight at Ryan the entire time he's speaking. Gerard says, "Don't worry, Mister Urie. I'm sure we can find someone more suitable."
"No, no," Brendon starts.
Gerard stops him, "No, really -- Ross, you should gather up your things. Urie, I promise, if you want a refund or --"
"No," Brendon says, more firmly this time. "Hey, he was just messing with me, it's fine. I mean, sometimes that's what it takes to actually get me to work, you know? I'm kind of lazy. He's just, you know, that was really just teasing. It's not a problem at all, I swear."
And then Brendon gives Ryan this apologetic smile, says, "Hey, so what was that step you were showing me again?" He says, "It goes like this, right?"
And.
He's not wearing tap shoes, but the soles of his shoes click loud enough against the tiled floor anyway.
Ryan stares. And Brendon missteps, just the slightest bit.
Ryan says, "Oh. Oh, uhm. Almost." He repeats what Brendon just did, a softer, slower echo of his movements without the loss of balance at the very end.
Brendon repeats it perfectly this time, adding a little flourish on the end. "See?" Brendon says, turning to grin at Gerard, because he'd been beaming at Ryan the whole time.
Gerard goes hmm.
"No, really, Ryan's the best teacher I've ever had, look." Brendon's still grinning, and he tugs Ryan in close, leading him into an impromptu swing number, both of them playing moves off each other, quick-paced improvisation that leaves Ryan grinning and breathless.
Brendon ends up twirling him, laughing, then dips Ryan low, a hand at the small of his back. He whispers a low, "Hey, good job," before letting him back up.
Brendon ducks his head close to his chest, biting at his lower lip, and he keeps babbling at Gerard, who's standing there looking more shellshocked than anything. And Brendon says, "So you're not going to fire him, right? C'mon, I'd be sad if you did."
"We'll see." Gerard says, "Ryan, come in at one tomorrow. We have to talk."
Ryan gets his things together and keeps his head down as he makes an early break for the exit.
"Hey, Ryan," Audrey calls. "You okay?"
"No," Ryan says.
"Drink some orange juice!" she advises. "And don't yell at people!"
"Right, thanks," he says, and lets the door slam behind him.
Brendon's waiting outside the front door, shivering in the too-cold late March weather. "Hey," he says. "It was warmer earlier today, huh."
"Yeah." Ryan says, "Look, I need to get home. Did you need something?"
"I just wanted to say sorry," Brendon says. "If I -- look, sorry."
"Right," Ryan says.
"Look, I just wanna -- is there anything I can do to make you smile, Ryan Ross? It'd be awful nice if you'd let me know what I can do."
"I'm going home."
"Okay," Brendon says, softly. "Okay. Sorry."
Ryan keeps his head down as he walks home.
-
Ryan doesn't get fired. He gets a long lecture from Gerard, and half his time with Keltie is just spent sitting up against the wall listening to her talk about her latest show rather than teaching, but he's still got space and he's still got a job, and no one sees when Keltie comes to his apartment late at night and no one cares when she leaves.
Still.
Ryan calls in sick Friday, claiming stomach flu. He does throw up once before he calls, and his voice is still raw by the time the operator's put him through to the receptionist's desk.
-
It's Wednesday again; Ryan does salsa lessons with a little group of regulars first, and then it's time for Brendon to show up. Ryan's not really expecting him to, but twenty minutes go by before Ryan starts getting his things together. His shirt is sweaty, but he's wearing a dark jacket today so it doesn't show, so all he does is change his shoes to ones better meant for walking. As he's lacing up his right shoe, movement catches his peripheral vision and looks up.
Brendon's standing at the door, hands in his pockets, with this sheepish, tentative smile.
Ryan says, "Oh. I didn't think you were coming."
"No, no, I just -- the train ahead of mine, I took the subway, the train ahead of mine caught on fire. So."
"Are you alright?"
"Eh, I've had worse. It wasn't even the train I was on."
"Right."
Brendon starts, "So look, okay."
Ryan pulls the laces tight on his left shoe before tying them into a quick knot.
Brendon says, "Can we go somewhere? Like, to the park or something."
"What?"
"I just -- please?"
Ryan puts both feet on the ground, bracing both hands on the bench as he stands. Finally, he says, "Yeah, alright."
-
The dark hasn't chased off the mid-May warmth just yet, though there's a chill lurking in the darker places, under trees and stones. Brendon's quieter than usual, walking introspective with his head down.
Ryan eventually says, "So."
"So."
Ryan says, "What?"
Brendon says, "So hey, look. I know you're probably mad at me, but -- I mean it, if there's something I can do to fix it, let me know, okay? I really don't want you hating me or anything."
"I'm not mad." Ryan keeps looking straight ahead as they walk.
"Is it about the -- the dance thing?"
"No."
"Okay, so what's wrong?" Brendon says, "Hey, no, look at me. What is it?"
Ryan says, "Look, you should just. Be careful who you associate with, you know?"
Brendon laughs, startled. He raises his eyebrow. "What, now?"
"Just, you can't always trust people, okay," Ryan says. "And. Look, I knew Lardner, and just. There's. Somebody sees the wrong thing and the wrong time and takes it wrong, you're hanging around with the wrong people, and maybe they come up with the wrong ideas and suddenly you end up on a list, you know, and no one'll hire you unless they want to get screwed over too."
Brendon's eyes go narrow, mouth drawn into a tight-lipped smile. "Hey, Ross. You're not threatening me, are you?"
"What?" Ryan jerks his head up, stopping and staring at Brendon. "No, what? I -- no!"
Brendon keeps walking for a few steps before he realizes, then stops and turns around. "Hey. Hey, you're actually worried, aren't you."
Ryan doesn't say anything. He manages not to look away.
Brendon says, "Look, it's not a big deal, okay? I'm not worried if somebody decides I'm some Pinko faggot or whatever, that's their own problem. There's no proof."
"It doesn't matter if there's proof or not," Ryan says. "If the wrong person says something --"
"Hey, look, I'll be fine. I'm not gonna lie about who I am, okay? Not for anybody. It's not worth it."
Ryan looks down at the ground and starts walking again.
Brendon says, "What'd you even see, Ross?"
"Nothing." Ryan says, "Why do you think I saw something?"
Brendon is quiet, patient and waiting for Ryan to say something else. Finally, Brendon just says, "Look, I really doubt Jack or Will or any of them are going to say a thing."
Ryan says, "Okay. Fine. It's not my problem."
Brendon says, "I'm glad to know you don't hate me, though," and grins at Ryan, elbowing him in the side.
Ryan shrugs, trying on a tentative smile. "If you end up in jail, it's not my fault."
"I'll just wax poetic about my service to my country," Brendon says. "I'll be fine."
"Hm?"
Brendon says, "Never mind," and they keep walking in a silence that's easier than the one that came before. They're walking close enough that they maybe bump into each other a little, sometimes. Every now and then, their knuckles will brush, just barely.
They keep walking for a long, long while, until it's nine, ten at night; road traffic is heavy, but there's not a lot of pedestrian traffic in the residential uptown area they're walking through. There are a few noisy groups of teenagers hanging around in front of a drugstore that's still open, and a line outside a social club with piano music that seems to stop and start with every opening and closing of the door.
Ryan keeps his head down, scuffs his shoes against the ground every now and then. And Brendon just smiles, occasionally saying something inane that makes Ryan laugh for no good reason.
Brendon says, "So where are we going?"
"I don't know," Ryan says.
"That's alright." Brendon speeds up a little, turns around to walk backwards so he can walk and look Ryan in the eye at the same time. "We'll get it figured out."
"Hey, look out," Ryan says, half a second too late. "Lamp post," he finishes, lamely.
"Ow, ow." Rubbing at the back of his head, Brendon starts laughing. "Thanks. I'm glad you warned me about that one so far in advance, I mean it. Great job, Ryan."
Ryan says, "It's not my fault you haven't got any common sense."
"Shut up. I've got uncommon sense. That sells for a lot more."
"An uncommon sense for running into lamp posts?" Ryan rolls his eyes, then grabs at Brendon's wrist, trying to turn him around and pull him down the sidewalk. "Come on."
"Figure out where we're going?"
"Anywhere that's not a lamp post." Ryan lets go of Brendon's wrist in favor of slowing down so he's a half-step behind Brendon, letting his first two fingers curl around Brendon's little finger. "Somewhere else."
-
One of Spencer's daughters, Ryan isn't sure which, gets sick, and Spencer ends up postponing their weekly outing to another day entirely, which means that they end up at an Uptown restaurant.
"So hey," Brendon says as they're waiting to be seated; Ryan didn't have the heart to try to cancel on either of them. "Hey there, you're the elusive Spencer Smith."
"The illustrious," Ryan corrects.
"The exhausted," Spencer says. "I know you can't expect kids to sleep through the night, but it's like they take turns."
"You're not even getting paid for working the graveyard shift, either," Brendon says. Ryan huffs out a breath, not quite laughing.
"It's worth it," Spencer says. He smiles a little, introspective and proud.
-
Ryan says, more to Keltie's hair than to the rest of her, "You're my worst bad habit."
"Your worst bad habit," Keltie tells him, "is lying to yourself."
"Sorry."
"Don't be," she says, arching her back. She stretches her arms above her head, then turns to look at Ryan over her shoulder. "I had fun, you had fun. It's okay."
"Right, just --"
"It's okay," she says, kissing his forehead. "I'll get over you."
Ryan opens his mouth to say something, but she presses a finger to his lips. "Shh. No, really. I mean it. I was never going to be your world, admit it."
"Yeah, probably not," Ryan says.
"See what I mean?"
"I guess so."
-
Next time Brendon says, "Hey, do you want to go down to the bar tonight?" Ryan takes a while before answering.
"Well," Ryan says. "I just bought some really nice wine. Imported. A thirty eight Merlot, and. If you wanted, we could just. Not go to the bar."
There're crinkles at the corners of Brendon's eyes when he smiles.
-
Brendon's got a plain white t-shirt on under his jacket, instead of a buttondown, and it's -- sort of weird, when he takes his jacket off. Ryan hangs both of their jackets up on the old wooden coat rack next to the door.
"What?" Brendon asks, wide-eyed and looking down at himself. He smooths out the hem of his shirt, hikes his pants up a little higher with thumbs through belt loops. Ryan cocks his head to the side. "You're staring," Brendon adds. "That's what I was asking about."
"Oh -- oh, sorry," Ryan says. "You reminded me of someone for a minute."
"Okay?"
"Yeah," Ryan says. "Hey, you can -- look, you can take a seat if you want. Radio and record player are over there, if you want to listen to anything. I'm going to get the wine out, and maybe some cheese and crackers."
"Oh, hey." Brendon's already rifling through his records. "That sounds like a great idea; go for it. I'll be here."
part two