Yesterdays and Tomorrows [1/2]
Title: Yesterdays and Tomorrows
Author: selectivelyurie
Rating: R
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon (Ryan/Keltie, Jon/Spencer)
POV: Third.
Summary: Ryan hasn’t spoken to Brendon in over a year, but Ryan’s doing just fine.
Disclaimer: Not real, don't believe.
Warning: Brief mention of sleeping pills/alcohol.
Author Notes: Happy Birthday, Sara (ivesia19)!!! I know it's a little early, but it is your birthday week, after all! I would give you more than my words if I could. Thank you so much for all that you do. You are precious and I love you, girl. ♥ OTP FTW! \o/
The day Panic called it quits was the day that Spencer gave Ryan a black eye.
They’d fought before, Ryan and Spencer, thrown punches and suffered through bloody lips, but it was usually together, each of them coming away from the physical argument with battle scars and reminders that best friends are the only people that have the balls to take you down a notch, be it through open words or an elbow to the ribs. Afterwards, they’d lick their wounds in private and find themselves smiling despite their split lip or sore jaw, smiling because that was them: violence working hand in hand with love to produce that perfect balance of comradeship.
But on that day, there’d been no mutual bickering, at least not between Ryan and Spencer. And in reality, there hadn’t even been mention of the band’s breakup prior to Ryan being hunched over groaning, clutching his eye.
Ryan had just walked in, looking nonchalant and said, “I called Keltie last night.”
And Spencer took two strides across the room and punched Ryan so hard in the face that he almost dislocated his shoulder.
Ryan hadn’t said anything openly insinuative of the band dismembering, but Spencer knew Ryan and Spencer knew Brendon (and about RyanandBrendon) and Spencer knew Ryan had broken up with Keltie on the grounds that Brendon wanted to be exclusive. So it only made sense that Spencer came to understand that RyanandBrendon had become Ryan and Brendon and he knew that the space between their names meant space between their souls, hearts. And a band is all about the proximity of similar beings; Spencer knew one half of Panic at the Disco couldn’t be replaced.
He knew they were through.
Brendon came in with Jon sometime later, smiling and sipping a cappuccino and generally looking bright and…
He bounced over to Ryan and gave him a peck on the cheek, drawing back alarmed when Ryan winced, the entire right side of his face still throbbing.
…apparently oblivious.
He’d said, “What’s wrong, babe?” and touched Ryan’s face with tender, careful fingers and Ryan had taken his hand from his face and smiled.
“Nothing,” Ryan had said, “You just surprised me is all.”
The way Ryan could lie to Brendon’s face like that, to look up at someone so obviously overflowing with innocence and love, made Spencer’s stomach turn and his fists clench.
Knowingly, Jon meandered over to him, touched his shoulder and said a soft, reassuring, “Hey.”
Spencer had turned to him, traced Jon’s heavy hand to his shoulder, to his face and by the time his forced smile met Jon’s, it was watery and bordering on a grimace. Spencer and Jon, they…they weren’t SpencerandJon like Ryan and Brendon were RyanandBrendon (those newly needed spaces, they made Spencer’s heart hurt). But they were pretty damn close. All of those times that Brendon had stolen Ryan from Spencer, Jon had been there to talk, to laugh, to confide in and all those nights added up to those secret looks that only they understood, a language strikingly similar to that of Ryan and Spencer’s secret language, only it wasn’t the same, not at all.
When Spencer gave Jon The Look, Jon knew. He’d only witnessed it one time before, years ago when he’d first met the band and Brent was no where to be found twenty minutes before the show. He’d sat next to Spencer on their bus, saw this extinguished fire in his eyes and the slump in his shoulders and it was the look of a boy whose dreams had been crushed, whose life had been turned upside down, who was about to lose his band.
Jon’s stomach dropped somewhere towards his toes and it was hard for him to breathe.
Everything passed through his mind in a tornado of memories and conversations and images and he could clearly see the first time he stood on stage with them, just filling in, and then the first time he stood on stage with them as a permanent member. He could hear the heavy, lazy laughter cutting through the thick fog of smoke trapped in the back of the bus on one of the many nights they’d hotbox it. He could smell the greasy food they’d moaned over when they all stopped together in a shitty looking diner on the side of the highway. He could taste the blood in his mouth from biting his tongue when he broke up with Cassie and even more prominent, the taste of Spencer when he’d kissed him afterward and said, “Don’t leave,” when Spencer went to get up. Spencer didn’t.
His head was a mess of everything past, present and even those hopeful ideas of what the future could be and it suddenly hit him that he was losing everything he’d ever wanted. Friends, music and happiness.
Spencer had said, “You and me, Jon,” and it was weak and cracking when he’d addressed him, almost as if he was going to crumble to pieces. Softer, “You and me, we’ll-”
Jon kissed Spencer before he had a chance to tell him the exact words he’d overheard Ryan tell Brendon after they’d fought for the first time, when Brendon had taken Ryan’s word with a blind hope and clinging desperation and nodded against Ryan’s kiss.
Everything was falling apart, but Jon would be damned if Spencer did.
----
Spencer gave Ryan an hour to tell Brendon.
“And I swear to god, Ryan,” Spencer had growled, standing in the doorway to the front. Ryan noticed his eyes were so blown with anger and betrayal that it was hard to see any of the breathtaking blue that made Spencer’s gaze so mesmerizing. “I swear to god, if you break his heart…”
He trailed off ominously because everything was just an empty threat at that point, a meaningless attempt at forceful bribery, violent persuasion. He didn’t rightly know what he would do, considering he did know Brendon was going to come out a wreck when it was all said and done. Or quite possibly not come out at all and let Ryan be the one to walk away, in an act that would just make the reality of the situation that much more heartbreakingly symbolic. Fuck Ryan and his way with words and training Spencer to think in ways that would be beneficial to songs.
Ryan had closed the door without a goodbye and Spencer let Jon lead him to the couch.
----
There had been a little bit of yelling, mostly on Brendon’s part - it was a good thing, too, because Spencer knew the first time he heard Ryan shout at Brendon, he was going to have to interfere. From their seat on the couch (or in Spencer’s case, the paced over patch of carpet in front of the couch), they could hear the muffled conversation if they strained their ears enough.
Brendon had sipped his cappuccino dry within the time Ryan shuffled Spencer and Jon out of the door and when Ryan turned around, Brendon was reclined on the couch, eyes closed, peaceful.
Ryan wouldn’t admit that the sight made his heart clench.
He stood silent for a moment, gathering the right words to say and attempting to filter out the wrong ones and he almost bit a hole in the side of his cheek when Brendon mumbled a lazy, “Hey, c’mere,” and beckoned him over with wiggly fingers. Ryan swallowed and went over, sat down on the edge of the couch next to Brendon’s hip and stared at the crease of Brendon’s elbow, where Brendon’s chocolate eyes were hiding from the light.
It was Brendon who noticed the strange silence around them, although Ryan had noticed it first and refused to be the one to address it. He lifted his arm from his face and squinted up at Ryan, smiling warmly. Placing his hand on Ryan’s knee, he pushed himself up into a semi-sitting position and leaned over, gave Ryan a slow, dazzling kiss and rubbed the back of his neck, just to touch. When Ryan didn’t kiss back as eagerly as he’d hoped, he hummed a little, traced the seam of Ryan’s lips with his tongue and twirled the hair at the base of Ryan’s skull. When Ryan didn’t kiss back at all, Brendon pulled away, confused and looking distraught.
“Baby, what’s - ?”
Ryan said, “Brendon,” in this tone that caused Brendon to feel a sudden urge of distress tickling the back of his throat.
Jon literally had to hold Spencer back when Brendon came out of the room twenty minutes later, shoulders hunched and broken, eyes swollen and breath shuddery, shaking and pitiful. Without prelude, Brendon tucked himself away in his bunk and had the decency not to start sobbing immediately, choked back his tears and gagged himself on whimpers until Ryan didn’t have to hear him.
When Ryan passed Spencer, it was the same time Spencer writhed free of Jon’s grip. Spencer stood with a furious flourish, fists clenched and heart broken and stomped towards Ryan, said, “You fucking asshole, you goddamn son of a bitch, you-” and before he could take another swing at Ryan, the reality hit him full on, pierced his voice and pushed him to his knees, sobbing.
Jon watched as Ryan stood with a stone face, watched as Spencer pounded weakly, desperately on Ryan’s foot, heard Spencer’s defeated chant of, “You started this, Ryan. You started this,” and pretended not to recognize Ryan as the captain of the sinking ship that was their band.
----
The band did, in fact, dismember and Ryan hasn’t spoken to Brendon in over a year.
Spencer bought a house in Chicago - told Ryan there was nothing keeping him in Vegas anymore and Ryan tried to ignore the sting of tears in his eyes and forget about the fact that he was still living there - to be closer to Jon, who took up freelance photography again. The money from that band they used to be in - Oh, what was it called again? - it still rolls in. Not as much as it used to because they’re not active, touring, writing, together. Not anymore. But it’s enough that Jon only does photography as a useful hobby instead of a fulltime job and he and Spencer still live comfortably.
And Brendon - God, he hasn’t spoken to Brendon in over a year - he’s okay. Living in California near Pete last Ryan heard, thanks to MTV.com. He’s got a two story house, three dogs, a new tattoo and a solo album due out in the fall. It’s nothing major, really. Just ten or eleven songs he wrote by himself in front of the same piano he made love to Ryan on, strumming his guitar with the same fingers he- But Ryan’s happy for him, you know? Couldn’t imagine Brendon not doing music, considering he practically bleeds harmonies and melodies and dreams in keys.
Ryan hasn’t spoken to Brendon in over a year, but Ryan’s doing just fine. He and Keltie, they’re…complicated. The day after Ryan told Pete Panic was done (“You’re a fucking idiot, Ryan. Really, this is fucking ridiculous,”), Ryan flew to New York to see her. They spent three days in bed and in the middle of a blowjob on the third night, Keltie pulled off Ryan with swollen lips and said, “I have a boyfriend, you know,” but Ryan couldn’t find it in himself to make her stop.
He found a small flat a few blocks away from a dingy local park, got a managing position at a record store even closer and visited Keltie only on those nights when her boyfriend was away and Ryan was too lonely to stay by himself. They’d fuck, stay tucked into the sheets like they used to do back in the day when things didn’t have to be so complicated, whisper secrets and giggle until it hurt. It was comforting, having someone there to hold, but despite everything Keltie offered him: sex, food, a warm bed, laughter, honesty, hope. Despite all of the attributes of feeling whole that she presented him with, he felt empty.
And the nights that he felt the barren part of him strongest weren’t the nights Keltie’s boyfriend was in town, nor were they the evenings he spent alone in his apartment wondering how he ever let her go or the days he wasted consumed with the thought that maybe the reason he felt more alive with her was because anger and resentment are characteristics of life. He usually felt emptiest on those nights he felt alive, mainly because the gaping hole was more easily recognizable when every inch of his body is alight. Save for that one part of him that was obviously stubborn.
Once Keltie said, “I think I still love you.”
Ryan had replied, “I know what that’s like,” and went down on her until the bitter truth of his words dissolved into nothing compared to the sweetness of her.
He hasn’t spoken to Brendon in over a year, but Ryan’s doing fine.
----
Keltie’s fingers are tangled in Ryan’s hair and he’s rutted up against her, sucking bruises into her chest and dipping his finger into the waistband of the panties he thought he’d gotten rid of a long time ago. It’s three in the afternoon and Tod left at noon which means Ryan called Keltie at twelve fifteen. Tod’s gone on a business trip, won’t be back for three days and Ryan’s determined not to let a second pass by without touching Keltie everywhere, somewhere, anywhere. Too much skin, too little time.
Her skin isn’t the same somehow - and whether it’s a comparison to something more recognizable, someone, or if it’s an observation of how her skin has changed since they were last together; he can’t tell - and Ryan knows it’s only temporary satisfaction beneath his fingers but he caresses the cream colored perfection of her stomach, warm and smooth and it’s okay. Things aren’t better, but they aren’t worse and…he’s okay. Keltie, she’s beautiful, Ryan’s always thought so, but she’s the kind of beauty that doesn’t last; like a flower just bloomed fresh and bright that will eventually turn brown and wilt. He knows it’s a horrible comparison, nothing he’d ever write about, but he kisses up her neck nonetheless and murmurs, “I love you, Kelts.”
She closes her eyes and smiles, pulls his mouth to hers and kisses a bittersweet “I love you, too,” back to him. She does, you know. Love him that is. He’s kind and charming and gentle when he needs to be and everything about him proves that he’s the prince she’s been searching for since she was five years old. They belong together and they both know it, only she knows it more than him, so when he kisses down her stomach and tongues her navel, she says, “I’m engaged.”
And Ryan smiles and says, “I don’t mind.”
----
They’ve gone through an entire box of condoms and Ryan only ever gets out of bed to fetch them a glass of water somewhere around midnight on the second night. When he enters the bedroom with a nice glass from her kitchen, he smiles at her from the doorway and she sits up, pulling the sheets up with her. He kisses her head before he hands her the glass and crawls into bed, tucking into her side.
She takes a sip from the glass and muses, “Did you know that we are meant for each other?”
It hurts to say it, to know it’s so true yet so insensible and she has to clear her throat.
Ryan smiles and plays with her fingers, “But you’re getting married.”
Keltie nods and says, “You’re meant for me, but I’m only meant for you because you want it that way.” Her voice is calm and serious but inside it’s tearing her apart telling him what she’s known since the first day they met.
Ryan looks down at his lap, thinks Jesus, a whole year and his voice cracks when he says, “But I do love you, Keltie.”
And for a split second, her stone demeanor crumbles and she leans over to kiss him into the mattress, cupping his face in her hands and lets the tears she didn’t even know she was crying wet his cheeks. She presses their foreheads together and says, “I know,” memorizes the burning sensation his fingers have on her hipbones, “But it’s always only been temporary.”
Ryan kisses her back even though he knows she tastes like regret and realizes that the emptiness he’s been feeling stopped being temporary and started being permanent over one year ago.
He hasn’t spoken to Brendon.
----
Ryan tells Keltie goodbye, presses her against the wall behind her door and kisses her desperate and haunting. He says, “I love you.” Says, “I need you.” Says, “Don’t make me leave, Kelts.” She moans into his shoulder, wraps her strong dancer legs around his waist and turns to liquid at the pressure of his hips pressing into hers.
She whispers, “I can’t do this anymore, Ryan,” and he says, “Keltie-” to which she cuts him off and mumbles, “You’re not doing this for me. It’s never been about me.”
He nods and leaves.
His flat is cold, hasn’t welcomed heat in three days and he swears he can see his breath when he sighs. He turns on the heater, takes a hot shower and scrubs off the desperate hope that’s been collecting on his skin for the past few nights. He curls up on his couch, wonders what do with his life and decides to watch mindless television
He doesn’t think about his loneliness for three consecutive episodes of some sitcom, distracts himself with his unpaid bills until he’s concluded he’s not got as much money as he used to, and when his stomach rumbles, he goes to order pizza only to realize that his cell phone has been sitting on his counter for the past three days, uncharged and unused.
When he turns it on (he doesn’t remember ever turning it off), he sees four new text messages from a few of his co-workers encouraging to get well soon because he called in with the flu and a single voicemail that he listens to impatiently. It’s an unfamiliar number, out of area and too long, and when the caller speaks into the phone it’s uncomfortably formal.
The voice, a woman, says, “Hello Mr. Ross.” and Ryan feels old.
“This is Dr. Simone at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center;” and Ryan feels uneasy.
“I’m calling because you were listed as the first person on the emergency contact list-” and Ryan feels his stomach drop to his toes.
“-of a Mr. Brendon Urie-” and Ryan feels over one year of silence all at once.
“If you could please contact us at one-” and Ryan’s blood runs a little cold the same moment his phone dies in his hand.
-----
It’s freezing out, when Ryan finally staggers from his apartment, legs not wanting to work and mind reeling. He takes the few simple steps from his door to the edge of the street with difficulty, his feet heavy and not his own.
There’s a new rhythm to his heartbeat, a deeper thudding than before and Ryan throws his arm out to flag down a taxi, impatience settling into his bones and frantic worry etching into his pores. It’s been over a year and all Ryan can think is Brendon needs, Brendon isn’t, Brendon can’t, and the sudden determination of No hits Ryan like an angry hand.
A taxi stops just ahead of him to pick up a woman and her two children and a heated jealousy rages up in his throat, only to be ripped out in the form of a suppressed growl. Another comes along, though, just as quickly, and stops for him, brakes squeaking as the cab rolls to a halt just next to the curb. Ryan’s stomach flops over, churning for some sort of settling. He reaches for the door and -
“Scoot over, Ry,” Brendon rasps, through the dark haze of the bus as he pulls back the curtain to Ryan’s bunk. He nudges Ryan’s sleeping form with his knee lightly, bare flesh of Brendon’s leg scratching against the soft cotton of Ryan’s t-shirt, the one Brendon has asked for numerous times but to no avail. Brendon says, “Hey,” puts his hand on Ryan’s shoulder and shakes gently, “wake up.”
Groaning, Ryan lifts his heavy head from his pillow, creases on his face and sleep in his eyes and blinks blearily up at Brendon like he’s staring straight into the sun. “Hmm, what is it, B?” Ryan asks, voice shot to hell and back, drugged with exhaustion and a little bit of irritability. Waking Ryan has always felt a bit like waking a sleeping bear, despite his lithe limbs and mussed hair.
“Scoot over,” Brendon repeats, leaning his weight onto his knee resting on the edge of Ryan’s mattress. Ryan muffles a questioning yawn against his own arm but presses further into his bunk, rutting towards the back wall so that Brendon can squeeze in, all insistent with his thin limbs and boxer briefs. He doesn’t think to offer Brendon any covers because he’s still half asleep, but Brendon has had years to adjust to Ryan’s hospitality (or lack, thereof) and simply shimmies under into the warmth anyway. Brendon’s feet are ice cold and sharp when they burry themselves under and between Ryan’s calves, sandwiching toes into the heat. Ryan hisses, “Jesus Christ, Brendon. Fuck, your feet are cold,” and shoves at him halfheartedly, legs bucking beneath the sheets in an attempt to ward off Brendon’s freezing critters. Brendon says, “Sorry” and fits his feet right back beneath the natural warmth of Ryan’s legs. Ryan grunts and covers Brendon’s foot with his own; Brendon hums.
Ryan opens his mouth to say, “What do you want?” To say, “Fine, have it your way.” To say, “I love you, you cold-footed fucker.”
But Brendon leans up and presses his lips, soft and warm and thankful, to Ryan’s and murmurs, “Hi.”
And it should be irritating, being woken up at god knows what time of the night and giving up the warm spot you’ve created nuzzled into the sheets to an intruder who presses cold toes against your legs and then kisses you something pleasant, only to give you a pointless hello.
Only. It isn’t pointless and it isn’t irritating.
It’s a sacrifice, however small or insignificant, like sharing beds and body heat; simple gestures like thank you kisses and drawing up the covers tight around Ryan’s chin. And Brendon just smiles, twists his fingers in Ryan’s shirt - he’s going to claim it for his own one day, he swears - and tickles the underside of Ryan’s chin with his thick hair. The scent of licorice and sweat and - seriously? Fucking Ryan’s metaphorical mind - sunshine? It invades Ryan’s senses and when he kisses the top of Brendon’s head -
He can practically taste the bitter tang of smog and the exhaust from the taxi billows up into his face, encircling him in a black haze of smoke and dizziness. He coughs it away and sees the cabbie, a red faced man with a tattoo on his neck, crimson from shouting, and he blinks back the sting of tears the dense cloud induces.
“You’re wastin’ my time, jackass. Either get in or out,” the driver says, accent so thick it twists Ryan’s tongue.
Ryan blinks again, glances down at his foot and realizes he’s standing ankle-deep in a freezing puddle of New York water, a mixture of rain, grime and various other mysteriously cringe-worthy somethings. His toes are growing numb and there’s so much honking blaring through his ears, so many angry drivers and impatient pedestrians, he can’t. There’s not.
“I need to-”
“Get in the fuckin’ car and tell me where the hell I’m takin’ you, alright?” The driver twists back around in his seat and pops his neck. “Fucking Christ,” he mumbles, “All these goddamned tourists not knowing what to fuckin’ do,” as Ryan clambers into the car, toes tingling.
“Airport,” Ryan manages to say around the chaotic flurry of his mind. He curls his toes in his heavy sock and the chill shoots up his leg, quick and piercing; a sting. A jolt of awareness hits his brain and suddenly, a blink causes his blurred vision to sharpen; each outline becomes more prominent, every individual color enhanced and vivid, every detail more defined. And just as his eyes widen to take in the sight, everything fizzles away into normal vision, like zooming out on a pair of binoculars.
“Are you listening to me, man? I said which airport?”
Ryan’s heart thuds something painful and he swallows. “Whichever’s closest,” he spits out and there’s such a tense churning in his stomach, he doubles over, hands on his knees and tugs at his hair. His mouth waters and he breathes.
Part Two
Author: selectivelyurie
Rating: R
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon (Ryan/Keltie, Jon/Spencer)
POV: Third.
Summary: Ryan hasn’t spoken to Brendon in over a year, but Ryan’s doing just fine.
Disclaimer: Not real, don't believe.
Warning: Brief mention of sleeping pills/alcohol.
Author Notes: Happy Birthday, Sara (ivesia19)!!! I know it's a little early, but it is your birthday week, after all! I would give you more than my words if I could. Thank you so much for all that you do. You are precious and I love you, girl. ♥ OTP FTW! \o/
The day Panic called it quits was the day that Spencer gave Ryan a black eye.
They’d fought before, Ryan and Spencer, thrown punches and suffered through bloody lips, but it was usually together, each of them coming away from the physical argument with battle scars and reminders that best friends are the only people that have the balls to take you down a notch, be it through open words or an elbow to the ribs. Afterwards, they’d lick their wounds in private and find themselves smiling despite their split lip or sore jaw, smiling because that was them: violence working hand in hand with love to produce that perfect balance of comradeship.
But on that day, there’d been no mutual bickering, at least not between Ryan and Spencer. And in reality, there hadn’t even been mention of the band’s breakup prior to Ryan being hunched over groaning, clutching his eye.
Ryan had just walked in, looking nonchalant and said, “I called Keltie last night.”
And Spencer took two strides across the room and punched Ryan so hard in the face that he almost dislocated his shoulder.
Ryan hadn’t said anything openly insinuative of the band dismembering, but Spencer knew Ryan and Spencer knew Brendon (and about RyanandBrendon) and Spencer knew Ryan had broken up with Keltie on the grounds that Brendon wanted to be exclusive. So it only made sense that Spencer came to understand that RyanandBrendon had become Ryan and Brendon and he knew that the space between their names meant space between their souls, hearts. And a band is all about the proximity of similar beings; Spencer knew one half of Panic at the Disco couldn’t be replaced.
He knew they were through.
Brendon came in with Jon sometime later, smiling and sipping a cappuccino and generally looking bright and…
He bounced over to Ryan and gave him a peck on the cheek, drawing back alarmed when Ryan winced, the entire right side of his face still throbbing.
…apparently oblivious.
He’d said, “What’s wrong, babe?” and touched Ryan’s face with tender, careful fingers and Ryan had taken his hand from his face and smiled.
“Nothing,” Ryan had said, “You just surprised me is all.”
The way Ryan could lie to Brendon’s face like that, to look up at someone so obviously overflowing with innocence and love, made Spencer’s stomach turn and his fists clench.
Knowingly, Jon meandered over to him, touched his shoulder and said a soft, reassuring, “Hey.”
Spencer had turned to him, traced Jon’s heavy hand to his shoulder, to his face and by the time his forced smile met Jon’s, it was watery and bordering on a grimace. Spencer and Jon, they…they weren’t SpencerandJon like Ryan and Brendon were RyanandBrendon (those newly needed spaces, they made Spencer’s heart hurt). But they were pretty damn close. All of those times that Brendon had stolen Ryan from Spencer, Jon had been there to talk, to laugh, to confide in and all those nights added up to those secret looks that only they understood, a language strikingly similar to that of Ryan and Spencer’s secret language, only it wasn’t the same, not at all.
When Spencer gave Jon The Look, Jon knew. He’d only witnessed it one time before, years ago when he’d first met the band and Brent was no where to be found twenty minutes before the show. He’d sat next to Spencer on their bus, saw this extinguished fire in his eyes and the slump in his shoulders and it was the look of a boy whose dreams had been crushed, whose life had been turned upside down, who was about to lose his band.
Jon’s stomach dropped somewhere towards his toes and it was hard for him to breathe.
Everything passed through his mind in a tornado of memories and conversations and images and he could clearly see the first time he stood on stage with them, just filling in, and then the first time he stood on stage with them as a permanent member. He could hear the heavy, lazy laughter cutting through the thick fog of smoke trapped in the back of the bus on one of the many nights they’d hotbox it. He could smell the greasy food they’d moaned over when they all stopped together in a shitty looking diner on the side of the highway. He could taste the blood in his mouth from biting his tongue when he broke up with Cassie and even more prominent, the taste of Spencer when he’d kissed him afterward and said, “Don’t leave,” when Spencer went to get up. Spencer didn’t.
His head was a mess of everything past, present and even those hopeful ideas of what the future could be and it suddenly hit him that he was losing everything he’d ever wanted. Friends, music and happiness.
Spencer had said, “You and me, Jon,” and it was weak and cracking when he’d addressed him, almost as if he was going to crumble to pieces. Softer, “You and me, we’ll-”
Jon kissed Spencer before he had a chance to tell him the exact words he’d overheard Ryan tell Brendon after they’d fought for the first time, when Brendon had taken Ryan’s word with a blind hope and clinging desperation and nodded against Ryan’s kiss.
Everything was falling apart, but Jon would be damned if Spencer did.
----
Spencer gave Ryan an hour to tell Brendon.
“And I swear to god, Ryan,” Spencer had growled, standing in the doorway to the front. Ryan noticed his eyes were so blown with anger and betrayal that it was hard to see any of the breathtaking blue that made Spencer’s gaze so mesmerizing. “I swear to god, if you break his heart…”
He trailed off ominously because everything was just an empty threat at that point, a meaningless attempt at forceful bribery, violent persuasion. He didn’t rightly know what he would do, considering he did know Brendon was going to come out a wreck when it was all said and done. Or quite possibly not come out at all and let Ryan be the one to walk away, in an act that would just make the reality of the situation that much more heartbreakingly symbolic. Fuck Ryan and his way with words and training Spencer to think in ways that would be beneficial to songs.
Ryan had closed the door without a goodbye and Spencer let Jon lead him to the couch.
----
There had been a little bit of yelling, mostly on Brendon’s part - it was a good thing, too, because Spencer knew the first time he heard Ryan shout at Brendon, he was going to have to interfere. From their seat on the couch (or in Spencer’s case, the paced over patch of carpet in front of the couch), they could hear the muffled conversation if they strained their ears enough.
Brendon had sipped his cappuccino dry within the time Ryan shuffled Spencer and Jon out of the door and when Ryan turned around, Brendon was reclined on the couch, eyes closed, peaceful.
Ryan wouldn’t admit that the sight made his heart clench.
He stood silent for a moment, gathering the right words to say and attempting to filter out the wrong ones and he almost bit a hole in the side of his cheek when Brendon mumbled a lazy, “Hey, c’mere,” and beckoned him over with wiggly fingers. Ryan swallowed and went over, sat down on the edge of the couch next to Brendon’s hip and stared at the crease of Brendon’s elbow, where Brendon’s chocolate eyes were hiding from the light.
It was Brendon who noticed the strange silence around them, although Ryan had noticed it first and refused to be the one to address it. He lifted his arm from his face and squinted up at Ryan, smiling warmly. Placing his hand on Ryan’s knee, he pushed himself up into a semi-sitting position and leaned over, gave Ryan a slow, dazzling kiss and rubbed the back of his neck, just to touch. When Ryan didn’t kiss back as eagerly as he’d hoped, he hummed a little, traced the seam of Ryan’s lips with his tongue and twirled the hair at the base of Ryan’s skull. When Ryan didn’t kiss back at all, Brendon pulled away, confused and looking distraught.
“Baby, what’s - ?”
Ryan said, “Brendon,” in this tone that caused Brendon to feel a sudden urge of distress tickling the back of his throat.
Jon literally had to hold Spencer back when Brendon came out of the room twenty minutes later, shoulders hunched and broken, eyes swollen and breath shuddery, shaking and pitiful. Without prelude, Brendon tucked himself away in his bunk and had the decency not to start sobbing immediately, choked back his tears and gagged himself on whimpers until Ryan didn’t have to hear him.
When Ryan passed Spencer, it was the same time Spencer writhed free of Jon’s grip. Spencer stood with a furious flourish, fists clenched and heart broken and stomped towards Ryan, said, “You fucking asshole, you goddamn son of a bitch, you-” and before he could take another swing at Ryan, the reality hit him full on, pierced his voice and pushed him to his knees, sobbing.
Jon watched as Ryan stood with a stone face, watched as Spencer pounded weakly, desperately on Ryan’s foot, heard Spencer’s defeated chant of, “You started this, Ryan. You started this,” and pretended not to recognize Ryan as the captain of the sinking ship that was their band.
----
The band did, in fact, dismember and Ryan hasn’t spoken to Brendon in over a year.
Spencer bought a house in Chicago - told Ryan there was nothing keeping him in Vegas anymore and Ryan tried to ignore the sting of tears in his eyes and forget about the fact that he was still living there - to be closer to Jon, who took up freelance photography again. The money from that band they used to be in - Oh, what was it called again? - it still rolls in. Not as much as it used to because they’re not active, touring, writing, together. Not anymore. But it’s enough that Jon only does photography as a useful hobby instead of a fulltime job and he and Spencer still live comfortably.
And Brendon - God, he hasn’t spoken to Brendon in over a year - he’s okay. Living in California near Pete last Ryan heard, thanks to MTV.com. He’s got a two story house, three dogs, a new tattoo and a solo album due out in the fall. It’s nothing major, really. Just ten or eleven songs he wrote by himself in front of the same piano he made love to Ryan on, strumming his guitar with the same fingers he- But Ryan’s happy for him, you know? Couldn’t imagine Brendon not doing music, considering he practically bleeds harmonies and melodies and dreams in keys.
Ryan hasn’t spoken to Brendon in over a year, but Ryan’s doing just fine. He and Keltie, they’re…complicated. The day after Ryan told Pete Panic was done (“You’re a fucking idiot, Ryan. Really, this is fucking ridiculous,”), Ryan flew to New York to see her. They spent three days in bed and in the middle of a blowjob on the third night, Keltie pulled off Ryan with swollen lips and said, “I have a boyfriend, you know,” but Ryan couldn’t find it in himself to make her stop.
He found a small flat a few blocks away from a dingy local park, got a managing position at a record store even closer and visited Keltie only on those nights when her boyfriend was away and Ryan was too lonely to stay by himself. They’d fuck, stay tucked into the sheets like they used to do back in the day when things didn’t have to be so complicated, whisper secrets and giggle until it hurt. It was comforting, having someone there to hold, but despite everything Keltie offered him: sex, food, a warm bed, laughter, honesty, hope. Despite all of the attributes of feeling whole that she presented him with, he felt empty.
And the nights that he felt the barren part of him strongest weren’t the nights Keltie’s boyfriend was in town, nor were they the evenings he spent alone in his apartment wondering how he ever let her go or the days he wasted consumed with the thought that maybe the reason he felt more alive with her was because anger and resentment are characteristics of life. He usually felt emptiest on those nights he felt alive, mainly because the gaping hole was more easily recognizable when every inch of his body is alight. Save for that one part of him that was obviously stubborn.
Once Keltie said, “I think I still love you.”
Ryan had replied, “I know what that’s like,” and went down on her until the bitter truth of his words dissolved into nothing compared to the sweetness of her.
He hasn’t spoken to Brendon in over a year, but Ryan’s doing fine.
----
Keltie’s fingers are tangled in Ryan’s hair and he’s rutted up against her, sucking bruises into her chest and dipping his finger into the waistband of the panties he thought he’d gotten rid of a long time ago. It’s three in the afternoon and Tod left at noon which means Ryan called Keltie at twelve fifteen. Tod’s gone on a business trip, won’t be back for three days and Ryan’s determined not to let a second pass by without touching Keltie everywhere, somewhere, anywhere. Too much skin, too little time.
Her skin isn’t the same somehow - and whether it’s a comparison to something more recognizable, someone, or if it’s an observation of how her skin has changed since they were last together; he can’t tell - and Ryan knows it’s only temporary satisfaction beneath his fingers but he caresses the cream colored perfection of her stomach, warm and smooth and it’s okay. Things aren’t better, but they aren’t worse and…he’s okay. Keltie, she’s beautiful, Ryan’s always thought so, but she’s the kind of beauty that doesn’t last; like a flower just bloomed fresh and bright that will eventually turn brown and wilt. He knows it’s a horrible comparison, nothing he’d ever write about, but he kisses up her neck nonetheless and murmurs, “I love you, Kelts.”
She closes her eyes and smiles, pulls his mouth to hers and kisses a bittersweet “I love you, too,” back to him. She does, you know. Love him that is. He’s kind and charming and gentle when he needs to be and everything about him proves that he’s the prince she’s been searching for since she was five years old. They belong together and they both know it, only she knows it more than him, so when he kisses down her stomach and tongues her navel, she says, “I’m engaged.”
And Ryan smiles and says, “I don’t mind.”
----
They’ve gone through an entire box of condoms and Ryan only ever gets out of bed to fetch them a glass of water somewhere around midnight on the second night. When he enters the bedroom with a nice glass from her kitchen, he smiles at her from the doorway and she sits up, pulling the sheets up with her. He kisses her head before he hands her the glass and crawls into bed, tucking into her side.
She takes a sip from the glass and muses, “Did you know that we are meant for each other?”
It hurts to say it, to know it’s so true yet so insensible and she has to clear her throat.
Ryan smiles and plays with her fingers, “But you’re getting married.”
Keltie nods and says, “You’re meant for me, but I’m only meant for you because you want it that way.” Her voice is calm and serious but inside it’s tearing her apart telling him what she’s known since the first day they met.
Ryan looks down at his lap, thinks Jesus, a whole year and his voice cracks when he says, “But I do love you, Keltie.”
And for a split second, her stone demeanor crumbles and she leans over to kiss him into the mattress, cupping his face in her hands and lets the tears she didn’t even know she was crying wet his cheeks. She presses their foreheads together and says, “I know,” memorizes the burning sensation his fingers have on her hipbones, “But it’s always only been temporary.”
Ryan kisses her back even though he knows she tastes like regret and realizes that the emptiness he’s been feeling stopped being temporary and started being permanent over one year ago.
He hasn’t spoken to Brendon.
----
Ryan tells Keltie goodbye, presses her against the wall behind her door and kisses her desperate and haunting. He says, “I love you.” Says, “I need you.” Says, “Don’t make me leave, Kelts.” She moans into his shoulder, wraps her strong dancer legs around his waist and turns to liquid at the pressure of his hips pressing into hers.
She whispers, “I can’t do this anymore, Ryan,” and he says, “Keltie-” to which she cuts him off and mumbles, “You’re not doing this for me. It’s never been about me.”
He nods and leaves.
His flat is cold, hasn’t welcomed heat in three days and he swears he can see his breath when he sighs. He turns on the heater, takes a hot shower and scrubs off the desperate hope that’s been collecting on his skin for the past few nights. He curls up on his couch, wonders what do with his life and decides to watch mindless television
He doesn’t think about his loneliness for three consecutive episodes of some sitcom, distracts himself with his unpaid bills until he’s concluded he’s not got as much money as he used to, and when his stomach rumbles, he goes to order pizza only to realize that his cell phone has been sitting on his counter for the past three days, uncharged and unused.
When he turns it on (he doesn’t remember ever turning it off), he sees four new text messages from a few of his co-workers encouraging to get well soon because he called in with the flu and a single voicemail that he listens to impatiently. It’s an unfamiliar number, out of area and too long, and when the caller speaks into the phone it’s uncomfortably formal.
The voice, a woman, says, “Hello Mr. Ross.” and Ryan feels old.
“This is Dr. Simone at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center;” and Ryan feels uneasy.
“I’m calling because you were listed as the first person on the emergency contact list-” and Ryan feels his stomach drop to his toes.
“-of a Mr. Brendon Urie-” and Ryan feels over one year of silence all at once.
“If you could please contact us at one-” and Ryan’s blood runs a little cold the same moment his phone dies in his hand.
-----
It’s freezing out, when Ryan finally staggers from his apartment, legs not wanting to work and mind reeling. He takes the few simple steps from his door to the edge of the street with difficulty, his feet heavy and not his own.
There’s a new rhythm to his heartbeat, a deeper thudding than before and Ryan throws his arm out to flag down a taxi, impatience settling into his bones and frantic worry etching into his pores. It’s been over a year and all Ryan can think is Brendon needs, Brendon isn’t, Brendon can’t, and the sudden determination of No hits Ryan like an angry hand.
A taxi stops just ahead of him to pick up a woman and her two children and a heated jealousy rages up in his throat, only to be ripped out in the form of a suppressed growl. Another comes along, though, just as quickly, and stops for him, brakes squeaking as the cab rolls to a halt just next to the curb. Ryan’s stomach flops over, churning for some sort of settling. He reaches for the door and -
“Scoot over, Ry,” Brendon rasps, through the dark haze of the bus as he pulls back the curtain to Ryan’s bunk. He nudges Ryan’s sleeping form with his knee lightly, bare flesh of Brendon’s leg scratching against the soft cotton of Ryan’s t-shirt, the one Brendon has asked for numerous times but to no avail. Brendon says, “Hey,” puts his hand on Ryan’s shoulder and shakes gently, “wake up.”
Groaning, Ryan lifts his heavy head from his pillow, creases on his face and sleep in his eyes and blinks blearily up at Brendon like he’s staring straight into the sun. “Hmm, what is it, B?” Ryan asks, voice shot to hell and back, drugged with exhaustion and a little bit of irritability. Waking Ryan has always felt a bit like waking a sleeping bear, despite his lithe limbs and mussed hair.
“Scoot over,” Brendon repeats, leaning his weight onto his knee resting on the edge of Ryan’s mattress. Ryan muffles a questioning yawn against his own arm but presses further into his bunk, rutting towards the back wall so that Brendon can squeeze in, all insistent with his thin limbs and boxer briefs. He doesn’t think to offer Brendon any covers because he’s still half asleep, but Brendon has had years to adjust to Ryan’s hospitality (or lack, thereof) and simply shimmies under into the warmth anyway. Brendon’s feet are ice cold and sharp when they burry themselves under and between Ryan’s calves, sandwiching toes into the heat. Ryan hisses, “Jesus Christ, Brendon. Fuck, your feet are cold,” and shoves at him halfheartedly, legs bucking beneath the sheets in an attempt to ward off Brendon’s freezing critters. Brendon says, “Sorry” and fits his feet right back beneath the natural warmth of Ryan’s legs. Ryan grunts and covers Brendon’s foot with his own; Brendon hums.
Ryan opens his mouth to say, “What do you want?” To say, “Fine, have it your way.” To say, “I love you, you cold-footed fucker.”
But Brendon leans up and presses his lips, soft and warm and thankful, to Ryan’s and murmurs, “Hi.”
And it should be irritating, being woken up at god knows what time of the night and giving up the warm spot you’ve created nuzzled into the sheets to an intruder who presses cold toes against your legs and then kisses you something pleasant, only to give you a pointless hello.
Only. It isn’t pointless and it isn’t irritating.
It’s a sacrifice, however small or insignificant, like sharing beds and body heat; simple gestures like thank you kisses and drawing up the covers tight around Ryan’s chin. And Brendon just smiles, twists his fingers in Ryan’s shirt - he’s going to claim it for his own one day, he swears - and tickles the underside of Ryan’s chin with his thick hair. The scent of licorice and sweat and - seriously? Fucking Ryan’s metaphorical mind - sunshine? It invades Ryan’s senses and when he kisses the top of Brendon’s head -
He can practically taste the bitter tang of smog and the exhaust from the taxi billows up into his face, encircling him in a black haze of smoke and dizziness. He coughs it away and sees the cabbie, a red faced man with a tattoo on his neck, crimson from shouting, and he blinks back the sting of tears the dense cloud induces.
“You’re wastin’ my time, jackass. Either get in or out,” the driver says, accent so thick it twists Ryan’s tongue.
Ryan blinks again, glances down at his foot and realizes he’s standing ankle-deep in a freezing puddle of New York water, a mixture of rain, grime and various other mysteriously cringe-worthy somethings. His toes are growing numb and there’s so much honking blaring through his ears, so many angry drivers and impatient pedestrians, he can’t. There’s not.
“I need to-”
“Get in the fuckin’ car and tell me where the hell I’m takin’ you, alright?” The driver twists back around in his seat and pops his neck. “Fucking Christ,” he mumbles, “All these goddamned tourists not knowing what to fuckin’ do,” as Ryan clambers into the car, toes tingling.
“Airport,” Ryan manages to say around the chaotic flurry of his mind. He curls his toes in his heavy sock and the chill shoots up his leg, quick and piercing; a sting. A jolt of awareness hits his brain and suddenly, a blink causes his blurred vision to sharpen; each outline becomes more prominent, every individual color enhanced and vivid, every detail more defined. And just as his eyes widen to take in the sight, everything fizzles away into normal vision, like zooming out on a pair of binoculars.
“Are you listening to me, man? I said which airport?”
Ryan’s heart thuds something painful and he swallows. “Whichever’s closest,” he spits out and there’s such a tense churning in his stomach, he doubles over, hands on his knees and tugs at his hair. His mouth waters and he breathes.
Part Two