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behindthecTitle: How Misery Loved Me [1/1]
Author:![[info]](https://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
lolab
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Q: “What’s the most ridiculous thing you ever bought?” Pete: “Ryan Ross.” So yeah. Pete’s. Not mine. Fictional as far as I know.
Warnings: Emo crap; a bit of angst; shameless exploitation of Pretty. Odd. lyrics, but for a good cause.
Summary: Brendon had never seen Ryan cry.
Author’s Notes: My first Ryden. Some parts of this I absolutely abhor, some parts I love; but overall I’m relatively satisfied.
Dedications: Written for my original slash partner Becca (falling_words). Thank you for the beautiful prompt and for Spencer and inspiration and porn and Walkie and emo and for coming together on stage and, fuck, okay, I love you. And Sophie (minus_four) who loves Ryden as I do. :)
I only want sympathy
In the form of you
Crawling into bed with me
-FOB.
Brendon had never seen Ryan cry.
What he saw was the effects. The red, puffy eyes and splotchy cheeks; the silence and reticence (even beyond standard) that would accompany the rail-thin songwriter when he'd emerge, still shrouded in that defining privacy he always ensured encircled him like the invisibility cloak Jon was always on about lately ("Fuck the broomsticks and wands; I want the fuckin' cloak -- you hear that, Smith? You remember that at Christmas").
(Brendon had asked what he'd use it for, and Ryan had muttered "Probably to hide from you," but smiled warmly up at Brendon a second later, and Brendon fell in love a little more.)
He never saw the tears; only their results. Their evidence. And wasn't that so typical of Ryan, only ever letting Brendon in far enough to see not the reality, but the shell of the reality. He wouldn't talk about his childhood, not ever, not for anything in the world, but Brendon saw the results. He saw the sudden outbursts and frightened eyes, the flash across Ryan's face that signaled he was remembering something. Something he'd never reveal. He wouldn't admit to the nightmares, the bouts of insomnia, but Brendon heard the desperate, incoherent mumbling across the bunks, saw the dark circles under those once-bright eyes when morning stole through the window and Ryan would be huddled at the table in a chair, knees up against his chest, refusing to meet eyes and grasping a steaming mug with both slender hands like he was contemplating diving into it.
The lack of eye contact was part of the shell, too, Brendon knew.
But he didn't say anything, because he knew better.
The glorious irony of it all was that Ryan read his silence as ignorance, due to Brendon's complete ineptitude for silence in nearly all other sectors of existence.
Brendon knew that, too. But it's all he had.
Ryan presents the results -- swollen lids, Rudolph-red nose, lowered gaze -- as he steps into Brendon's room backstage, the joking call of "Come on in, I'm naked!" answering his quiet knock, to find the singer fully clothed and picking out a disturbingly pianistic arrangement of "SexyBack" on his keyboard, complete with accompanying vocals. Ryan waits until the first chorus concludes with a ridiculously classical flourish and he feels the sheer electricity of Brendon's smile on him, without even glancing up.
He doesn’t need electricity right now; he feels something close to electrocuted as it is.
"Ryro! I am in need of a dancer for full effect. I'd prefer Saporta, but he's probably screwing Bill in some far-off land, so, you'll do. Stand over here."
"Brendon."
"Please?" The trademark pout is up and running without even breaching the bearer's consciousness. "Come on, I'll even -- "
"Brendon."
"Fine, I'll teach you the guitar part, c'mon."
"My dad died."
It surprises, almost kills Brendon to learn that he hasn’t actually seen Ryan until the last three words. It all hits him in an avalanche; the dead giveaway of Ryan’s face and those tear-distressed features, the aversion of eyes, the slight tremble of those bony hands against his jeans (which are too tight for him to fist the material the way his fingers are clearly itching to do); the fucking words themselves.
“What.” Just a puff of breath, not even close to a question.
Ryan swallows, not looking up. Not moving. Brendon moves for him (would breathe for him, die for him), pushing back his seat at the keyboard and taking a few shaky steps forward.
“Ry.”
The sound causes Ryan to step backward, pressing his back flush against the door as he wraps his arms around himself.
His body language has always been painfully transparent, Brendon thinks; so starkly unlike the rest of him.
“Ry,” he tries again, trying to ignore the way Ryan flinches when Brendon extends a hand. He knows Ryan’s never been the biggest fan of physical contact, let alone affection, but certain elements of Brendon’s upbringing, his once close-knit family, will never fade, will always convince him that sometimes you just have to hug someone. “Hey. Just.”
It’s a whisper, barely, but it’s still noise, and Ryan isn’t keen on noise right now, not even that low, breathy voice he could never consider noise, no matter how much of an irritated front he tries to maintain in public.
It’s one of his stupidest, darkest secrets, stupid only for the darkness Ryan attributes to it: the sound of Brendon’s voice is just about his favorite sound in the world.
He’s still knee-deep in these thoughts before he realizes Brendon has closed the space between them and snaked his arms around the smaller boy, not pulling or squeezing, just holding; that shampooey warmth filling his senses: somehow, he’ll never know how, Brendon always seems to be warm. Warm, and scented. In a way that’s so fucking comforting it scares Ryan half to death.
His lack of strength, of pretenses, allows his arms to lift of their own accord, clutching fistfuls of Brendon’s shirt to hold him in place.
It’s the first silent, motionless minute he can ever remember spending in Brendon’s presence.
When Ryan gently pulls away, Brendon lets him, knowing a full minute in such intimacy was far more than he ever could’ve hoped for, anyway – and when they are far enough apart to see each other’s faces, Brendon is surprised to find that his own cheeks, not Ryan’s, are streaked with tears.
Brendon blinks, as unused to the silence as the boy in front of him.
"Do you. I." He finds his voice choking, struggling, unnecessary even. "I. Can I. Do you need anyth--" Jesus. Okay. "Just tell me what I can do."
Ryan shakes his head, eyes still cast downward. "The funeral's on Saturday. Spencer's going with me. I've called Pete. We're postponing a few shows."
His words read like a to-do list, checking off the logistics with poise and rationality, the two traits he works so hard to live by, the traits with which he entrusts Brendon to vocalize, validate, every night on stage.
Brendon thinks rationality destroys emotion, and that poise is just forced confidence.
In other words, Ryan Ross embodied.
"Do you." Don't ask, don't ask, but fuck, just ask. "Do you -- want me to go with you?"
Ryan shakes his head again; pointlessly swipes at his now dry eyes, likely out of habit. "It's okay. Spence is. He's. I. I've got to go pack."
He makes an awkward half-turn toward the door, but it's wrong, Brendon thinks -- more than thinks, he feels it, in every cell of his body, it's just wrong like this. Spencer will keep quiet, sure; keep Ryan sane, strong. He won't bounce and babble, he won't try to shower Ryan in comforts he doesn't want. He knows how to talk (and not talk) to Ryan in that ten-extra-years way that Brendon will never quite reach, no matter how hard he wishes it. Spencer is the perfectly rational choice, and Brendon has no viable argument against Ryan's decision.
But Spencer doesn't --
No. He does. Of course he does. He loves Ryan in the way that you love your best friend of twelve years. Just not...
Not like I love him.
"Ry."
In Ryan's daze of emotional turmoil, he meets Brendon's eyes before he can stop himself, and now it's too late. He knows those eyes are impossible to tear yourself from; impossible, once you're there, to want to look anywhere else.
Ryan doesn't like things that have that much control over him.
Brendon fumbles for words, not expecting the eye contact. "I. I just. Anything you need, I'm. Seriously. Anything. I'm here."
Ryan nods again before forcing his eyes back to the ground, turning and slipping through the door.
It isn't until he leaves and the contact is broken that they both realize Brendon had unconsciously grasped Ryan's hand at some point in the last two minutes, and Ryan had squeezed back, harder and stronger than he dared believe was possible.
Ryan would soon learn life was filled, ceiling to the floor, with impossibilities.
"No, you dickhead, you’re doing it wrong!”
“You sound like a fucking lolcat!”
“...You’re a lolcat.”
“...I seriously expected a better comeback, Walker.”
“Yeah, well when I met you I expected you to be way less annoying that you are. Shit happens.”
“Okay, seriously dude, if you were a lolcat, your pic would read, ‘Comebacks: Totally doin’ it wrong.’ That was way too excessively verbose. Notable lack of succinctness.”
“Well, that was redundant, and succinctness isn’t a word.”
“Is so.”
“Blow me.”
“I can’t, I’m playing.”
“No, you’re sucking.”
“You’re demanding, Jon Walker.”
“No, dude!” He can’t stop himself laughing. “You’re sucking at this. Gimme.”
Jon snatches the controls back from Brendon through their fits of giggles, attempting to rectify the horrid life-altering mistakes he’d just committed in the game, as both boys turn their attention back to the television in Jon’s hotel room, which, after several hours of failed attempts, has at long last been messily (and probably illegally) hooked up to the Xbox. He just manages to save his own life, Brendon’s character having plummeted into the dark depths of something, when there’s a knock at the door.
Brendon bounces off the bed at the excuse to move, and peers through the peephole: Spencer.
Just Spencer, alone. Looking tired and worn after the trip home and back, but most disturbingly, alone.
Brendon knows Ryan hadn’t wanted a Panic reunion at the airport, but this was starting to worry him.
He swings the door open, stepping back to allow Spencer in the room, and offers a careful smile.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Where’s Ryan?”
Spencer shrugs, shuffling his feet. “Back in our room. He’s tired.” He turns his head to the room at large. “Hey Jon.”
Jon decides Spencer’s first appearance after a weeklong absence is worth pausing the game, and crosses the room. “Dude! Hey. How was the flight?”
“Long. Stupid.” Spencer smiles tiredly. “Ryan says you can go see him if you want. He’s just unpacking.”
“Sweet.” Jon steps into his flip-flops and snatches a room key off the desk and Brendon is close on his heels, bouncing unavoidably and trying to remind himself to not be Brendon for five minutes and just keep his mouth shut.
“Bren.” And that’s when he feels Spencer’s hand, clasped gently but firmly around his forearm. “Stay here with me, yeah?”
“...Why?” Somehow, in some stupid, horrible way, he knows why, but it’s so much safer to ask.
And Spencer knows he knows, because he’s Spencer, and he’s pretty confident he can say most of this with an eyebrow raised and a glance at Jon.
“Um.” Jon shuffles his feet. “I’ll just. I’ll be back. Okay.”
Subtlety is among Jon’s many gifts, but it’s occasionally drowned in the awkwardness moments like this tend to impose.
“What the hell, man?” Brendon asks when the door shuts, but his voice is soft, unthreatening.
Spencer signs apologetically. “I. Just. He’s tired. You’re energetic.” He offers a weak smile. “It’s nothing personal, man, okay?”
It’s probably the worst phrase in the English language, Brendon thinks, but by some miracle, he succeeds in keeping this to himself. Spencer knows, anyway. Spencer always knows.
“So.” Brendon clears his throat, staring at the floor. “Um. How. Y’know. How was it?”
“Depressing.” Spencer kicks off his shoes, plopping down in an armchair. “I swear to god, seeing Ryan cry is the saddest fucking thing on the face of the planet.”
Okay, Brendon forces himself to think, rather than speak. That thing, in my chest, that’s supposed to be beating? I don’t think it is.
He looks up. “He. He cried?”
Spencer scrunches his face. “Dude... his dad died.”
Brendon swallows. “I. I know, he just. He’s never.”
“Bren, I’ve known him since we were like, five.”
“Well it’s not like I just met him yesterday.”
“Yeah, but it’s – it’s different, man. You’re – ugh.” He shoots to his feet, pacing the room. “I cannot believe you’re being petty at a time like this, Brendon.”
“I’m not being petty. I’m – what? How is it different? I’m what, Spence?”
“You’re – Jesus, Bren, you’re in love with him!”
If his heart had stopped beating before, Brendon is pretty sure it just exploded.
He forces three deep, slow breaths before whispering “How did you know that” to the floor, unconsciously crafting the words not to sound anything like a question, because he’s sure he doesn’t want the answer.
Spence reclaims his armchair with a sigh. “Dude. Come on.”
Brendon says nothing.
“Don’t worry. He doesn’t know. Just...” Spencer shifts uncomfortably in his seat, despite the fact (of which Brendon is well aware) that this particular armchair is pretty much the most comfortable piece of furniture ever created by man.
“Just what,” Brendon chokes. “What. It’s not like I can do anything about it. I mean, he’s not. Y’know.”
“Bren. Listen. I. I don’t know, man, it’s not like Ryan and I talk about the fact that our fucking lead singer is in love with him, okay. But...”
At the ‘But,’ Brendon’s head shoots up, daring to hope... for something. Fucking anything.
Spencer meets his eyes, and it surprises Brendon, because he’s used to marked lack of eye contact (usually Ryan) in awkward conversations (always Ryan).
“Look. I. Maybe at a different time, I... I don’t know. Maybe someday... this... might be what he needs. What he... wants.”
Brendon tries as hard as he fucking can not to hear “this” as “you”, and fails, just as hard, and everything’s hard now (except that, because, that would be weird, and, no) – his thoughts, his efforts, his failure, his breath, his heartbeat. And life.
Life is fucking hard, Brendon thinks.
Because here’s Spencer, validating the only thing he’s hoped for all these years, that Ryan might need, want him even, but that he has to wait? Like he’s thirteen again, waiting for high school, waiting for his driver’s license, his first gig, his first kiss. When life was defined by waiting.
He drops his gaze back to the floor, and Spencer sighs.
“Look, man, all I’m saying is. Just. Try not to jump him, okay? He’s vulnerable and hurting and fucking out of it, and...”
“I’m not a fucking animal, Spencer. I. I wouldn’t.”
“I know. I didn’t mean. I just. He’s emotional right now, like you’ve never seen him. It’d be so easy to just... blurt out... you know, whatever... to get caught up in his state, and I...”
“Yeah.” It's not agreement, but compliance. Last-resort-compliance, the worst kind.
“I,” Spencer stutters guiltily, “I just don’t want him to get hurt.”
Brendon gets to his feet, gathering the few items he’d trailed with him into Jon’s room, and starts for the door.
“Bren, don’t be a baby, come on.”
“Then don’t treat me like one!” He spins around, iPod dangling from his hand. “I’ve kept everything bottled up for this long, Spence,” he mutters bitterly, with the barest hint of emo-drenched sarcasm. “I think I can manage.”
“Dude, that’s not what I...”
“I know,” Brendon replies softly, hoping it’s enough to imply he’s not really as pissed as he seems to be trying for. “I’ll leave him alone. He knows where to find me.”
Brendon steps through the heavy, weighted hotel room door, hearing it echo in the empty hallway as he heads three doors down to his room, feeling emptier than the space in front of him, behind him, all around him; inside him, even... emptier than he’s felt all week.
But he gives in, forces acclimation to the feeling, suspecting it’s probably going to follow him for longer than he wants to imagine.
[continue]
Author:
lolabPairing: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Q: “What’s the most ridiculous thing you ever bought?” Pete: “Ryan Ross.” So yeah. Pete’s. Not mine. Fictional as far as I know.
Warnings: Emo crap; a bit of angst; shameless exploitation of Pretty. Odd. lyrics, but for a good cause.
Summary: Brendon had never seen Ryan cry.
Author’s Notes: My first Ryden. Some parts of this I absolutely abhor, some parts I love; but overall I’m relatively satisfied.
Dedications: Written for my original slash partner Becca (
falling_words). Thank you for the beautiful prompt and for Spencer and inspiration and porn and Walkie and emo and for coming together on stage and, fuck, okay, I love you. And Sophie (minus_four) who loves Ryden as I do. :)I only want sympathy
In the form of you
Crawling into bed with me
-FOB.
Brendon had never seen Ryan cry.
What he saw was the effects. The red, puffy eyes and splotchy cheeks; the silence and reticence (even beyond standard) that would accompany the rail-thin songwriter when he'd emerge, still shrouded in that defining privacy he always ensured encircled him like the invisibility cloak Jon was always on about lately ("Fuck the broomsticks and wands; I want the fuckin' cloak -- you hear that, Smith? You remember that at Christmas").
(Brendon had asked what he'd use it for, and Ryan had muttered "Probably to hide from you," but smiled warmly up at Brendon a second later, and Brendon fell in love a little more.)
He never saw the tears; only their results. Their evidence. And wasn't that so typical of Ryan, only ever letting Brendon in far enough to see not the reality, but the shell of the reality. He wouldn't talk about his childhood, not ever, not for anything in the world, but Brendon saw the results. He saw the sudden outbursts and frightened eyes, the flash across Ryan's face that signaled he was remembering something. Something he'd never reveal. He wouldn't admit to the nightmares, the bouts of insomnia, but Brendon heard the desperate, incoherent mumbling across the bunks, saw the dark circles under those once-bright eyes when morning stole through the window and Ryan would be huddled at the table in a chair, knees up against his chest, refusing to meet eyes and grasping a steaming mug with both slender hands like he was contemplating diving into it.
The lack of eye contact was part of the shell, too, Brendon knew.
But he didn't say anything, because he knew better.
The glorious irony of it all was that Ryan read his silence as ignorance, due to Brendon's complete ineptitude for silence in nearly all other sectors of existence.
Brendon knew that, too. But it's all he had.
Ryan presents the results -- swollen lids, Rudolph-red nose, lowered gaze -- as he steps into Brendon's room backstage, the joking call of "Come on in, I'm naked!" answering his quiet knock, to find the singer fully clothed and picking out a disturbingly pianistic arrangement of "SexyBack" on his keyboard, complete with accompanying vocals. Ryan waits until the first chorus concludes with a ridiculously classical flourish and he feels the sheer electricity of Brendon's smile on him, without even glancing up.
He doesn’t need electricity right now; he feels something close to electrocuted as it is.
"Ryro! I am in need of a dancer for full effect. I'd prefer Saporta, but he's probably screwing Bill in some far-off land, so, you'll do. Stand over here."
"Brendon."
"Please?" The trademark pout is up and running without even breaching the bearer's consciousness. "Come on, I'll even -- "
"Brendon."
"Fine, I'll teach you the guitar part, c'mon."
"My dad died."
It surprises, almost kills Brendon to learn that he hasn’t actually seen Ryan until the last three words. It all hits him in an avalanche; the dead giveaway of Ryan’s face and those tear-distressed features, the aversion of eyes, the slight tremble of those bony hands against his jeans (which are too tight for him to fist the material the way his fingers are clearly itching to do); the fucking words themselves.
“What.” Just a puff of breath, not even close to a question.
Ryan swallows, not looking up. Not moving. Brendon moves for him (would breathe for him, die for him), pushing back his seat at the keyboard and taking a few shaky steps forward.
“Ry.”
The sound causes Ryan to step backward, pressing his back flush against the door as he wraps his arms around himself.
His body language has always been painfully transparent, Brendon thinks; so starkly unlike the rest of him.
“Ry,” he tries again, trying to ignore the way Ryan flinches when Brendon extends a hand. He knows Ryan’s never been the biggest fan of physical contact, let alone affection, but certain elements of Brendon’s upbringing, his once close-knit family, will never fade, will always convince him that sometimes you just have to hug someone. “Hey. Just.”
It’s a whisper, barely, but it’s still noise, and Ryan isn’t keen on noise right now, not even that low, breathy voice he could never consider noise, no matter how much of an irritated front he tries to maintain in public.
It’s one of his stupidest, darkest secrets, stupid only for the darkness Ryan attributes to it: the sound of Brendon’s voice is just about his favorite sound in the world.
He’s still knee-deep in these thoughts before he realizes Brendon has closed the space between them and snaked his arms around the smaller boy, not pulling or squeezing, just holding; that shampooey warmth filling his senses: somehow, he’ll never know how, Brendon always seems to be warm. Warm, and scented. In a way that’s so fucking comforting it scares Ryan half to death.
His lack of strength, of pretenses, allows his arms to lift of their own accord, clutching fistfuls of Brendon’s shirt to hold him in place.
It’s the first silent, motionless minute he can ever remember spending in Brendon’s presence.
When Ryan gently pulls away, Brendon lets him, knowing a full minute in such intimacy was far more than he ever could’ve hoped for, anyway – and when they are far enough apart to see each other’s faces, Brendon is surprised to find that his own cheeks, not Ryan’s, are streaked with tears.
Brendon blinks, as unused to the silence as the boy in front of him.
"Do you. I." He finds his voice choking, struggling, unnecessary even. "I. Can I. Do you need anyth--" Jesus. Okay. "Just tell me what I can do."
Ryan shakes his head, eyes still cast downward. "The funeral's on Saturday. Spencer's going with me. I've called Pete. We're postponing a few shows."
His words read like a to-do list, checking off the logistics with poise and rationality, the two traits he works so hard to live by, the traits with which he entrusts Brendon to vocalize, validate, every night on stage.
Brendon thinks rationality destroys emotion, and that poise is just forced confidence.
In other words, Ryan Ross embodied.
"Do you." Don't ask, don't ask, but fuck, just ask. "Do you -- want me to go with you?"
Ryan shakes his head again; pointlessly swipes at his now dry eyes, likely out of habit. "It's okay. Spence is. He's. I. I've got to go pack."
He makes an awkward half-turn toward the door, but it's wrong, Brendon thinks -- more than thinks, he feels it, in every cell of his body, it's just wrong like this. Spencer will keep quiet, sure; keep Ryan sane, strong. He won't bounce and babble, he won't try to shower Ryan in comforts he doesn't want. He knows how to talk (and not talk) to Ryan in that ten-extra-years way that Brendon will never quite reach, no matter how hard he wishes it. Spencer is the perfectly rational choice, and Brendon has no viable argument against Ryan's decision.
But Spencer doesn't --
No. He does. Of course he does. He loves Ryan in the way that you love your best friend of twelve years. Just not...
Not like I love him.
"Ry."
In Ryan's daze of emotional turmoil, he meets Brendon's eyes before he can stop himself, and now it's too late. He knows those eyes are impossible to tear yourself from; impossible, once you're there, to want to look anywhere else.
Ryan doesn't like things that have that much control over him.
Brendon fumbles for words, not expecting the eye contact. "I. I just. Anything you need, I'm. Seriously. Anything. I'm here."
Ryan nods again before forcing his eyes back to the ground, turning and slipping through the door.
It isn't until he leaves and the contact is broken that they both realize Brendon had unconsciously grasped Ryan's hand at some point in the last two minutes, and Ryan had squeezed back, harder and stronger than he dared believe was possible.
Ryan would soon learn life was filled, ceiling to the floor, with impossibilities.
"No, you dickhead, you’re doing it wrong!”
“You sound like a fucking lolcat!”
“...You’re a lolcat.”
“...I seriously expected a better comeback, Walker.”
“Yeah, well when I met you I expected you to be way less annoying that you are. Shit happens.”
“Okay, seriously dude, if you were a lolcat, your pic would read, ‘Comebacks: Totally doin’ it wrong.’ That was way too excessively verbose. Notable lack of succinctness.”
“Well, that was redundant, and succinctness isn’t a word.”
“Is so.”
“Blow me.”
“I can’t, I’m playing.”
“No, you’re sucking.”
“You’re demanding, Jon Walker.”
“No, dude!” He can’t stop himself laughing. “You’re sucking at this. Gimme.”
Jon snatches the controls back from Brendon through their fits of giggles, attempting to rectify the horrid life-altering mistakes he’d just committed in the game, as both boys turn their attention back to the television in Jon’s hotel room, which, after several hours of failed attempts, has at long last been messily (and probably illegally) hooked up to the Xbox. He just manages to save his own life, Brendon’s character having plummeted into the dark depths of something, when there’s a knock at the door.
Brendon bounces off the bed at the excuse to move, and peers through the peephole: Spencer.
Just Spencer, alone. Looking tired and worn after the trip home and back, but most disturbingly, alone.
Brendon knows Ryan hadn’t wanted a Panic reunion at the airport, but this was starting to worry him.
He swings the door open, stepping back to allow Spencer in the room, and offers a careful smile.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Where’s Ryan?”
Spencer shrugs, shuffling his feet. “Back in our room. He’s tired.” He turns his head to the room at large. “Hey Jon.”
Jon decides Spencer’s first appearance after a weeklong absence is worth pausing the game, and crosses the room. “Dude! Hey. How was the flight?”
“Long. Stupid.” Spencer smiles tiredly. “Ryan says you can go see him if you want. He’s just unpacking.”
“Sweet.” Jon steps into his flip-flops and snatches a room key off the desk and Brendon is close on his heels, bouncing unavoidably and trying to remind himself to not be Brendon for five minutes and just keep his mouth shut.
“Bren.” And that’s when he feels Spencer’s hand, clasped gently but firmly around his forearm. “Stay here with me, yeah?”
“...Why?” Somehow, in some stupid, horrible way, he knows why, but it’s so much safer to ask.
And Spencer knows he knows, because he’s Spencer, and he’s pretty confident he can say most of this with an eyebrow raised and a glance at Jon.
“Um.” Jon shuffles his feet. “I’ll just. I’ll be back. Okay.”
Subtlety is among Jon’s many gifts, but it’s occasionally drowned in the awkwardness moments like this tend to impose.
“What the hell, man?” Brendon asks when the door shuts, but his voice is soft, unthreatening.
Spencer signs apologetically. “I. Just. He’s tired. You’re energetic.” He offers a weak smile. “It’s nothing personal, man, okay?”
It’s probably the worst phrase in the English language, Brendon thinks, but by some miracle, he succeeds in keeping this to himself. Spencer knows, anyway. Spencer always knows.
“So.” Brendon clears his throat, staring at the floor. “Um. How. Y’know. How was it?”
“Depressing.” Spencer kicks off his shoes, plopping down in an armchair. “I swear to god, seeing Ryan cry is the saddest fucking thing on the face of the planet.”
Okay, Brendon forces himself to think, rather than speak. That thing, in my chest, that’s supposed to be beating? I don’t think it is.
He looks up. “He. He cried?”
Spencer scrunches his face. “Dude... his dad died.”
Brendon swallows. “I. I know, he just. He’s never.”
“Bren, I’ve known him since we were like, five.”
“Well it’s not like I just met him yesterday.”
“Yeah, but it’s – it’s different, man. You’re – ugh.” He shoots to his feet, pacing the room. “I cannot believe you’re being petty at a time like this, Brendon.”
“I’m not being petty. I’m – what? How is it different? I’m what, Spence?”
“You’re – Jesus, Bren, you’re in love with him!”
If his heart had stopped beating before, Brendon is pretty sure it just exploded.
He forces three deep, slow breaths before whispering “How did you know that” to the floor, unconsciously crafting the words not to sound anything like a question, because he’s sure he doesn’t want the answer.
Spence reclaims his armchair with a sigh. “Dude. Come on.”
Brendon says nothing.
“Don’t worry. He doesn’t know. Just...” Spencer shifts uncomfortably in his seat, despite the fact (of which Brendon is well aware) that this particular armchair is pretty much the most comfortable piece of furniture ever created by man.
“Just what,” Brendon chokes. “What. It’s not like I can do anything about it. I mean, he’s not. Y’know.”
“Bren. Listen. I. I don’t know, man, it’s not like Ryan and I talk about the fact that our fucking lead singer is in love with him, okay. But...”
At the ‘But,’ Brendon’s head shoots up, daring to hope... for something. Fucking anything.
Spencer meets his eyes, and it surprises Brendon, because he’s used to marked lack of eye contact (usually Ryan) in awkward conversations (always Ryan).
“Look. I. Maybe at a different time, I... I don’t know. Maybe someday... this... might be what he needs. What he... wants.”
Brendon tries as hard as he fucking can not to hear “this” as “you”, and fails, just as hard, and everything’s hard now (except that, because, that would be weird, and, no) – his thoughts, his efforts, his failure, his breath, his heartbeat. And life.
Life is fucking hard, Brendon thinks.
Because here’s Spencer, validating the only thing he’s hoped for all these years, that Ryan might need, want him even, but that he has to wait? Like he’s thirteen again, waiting for high school, waiting for his driver’s license, his first gig, his first kiss. When life was defined by waiting.
He drops his gaze back to the floor, and Spencer sighs.
“Look, man, all I’m saying is. Just. Try not to jump him, okay? He’s vulnerable and hurting and fucking out of it, and...”
“I’m not a fucking animal, Spencer. I. I wouldn’t.”
“I know. I didn’t mean. I just. He’s emotional right now, like you’ve never seen him. It’d be so easy to just... blurt out... you know, whatever... to get caught up in his state, and I...”
“Yeah.” It's not agreement, but compliance. Last-resort-compliance, the worst kind.
“I,” Spencer stutters guiltily, “I just don’t want him to get hurt.”
Brendon gets to his feet, gathering the few items he’d trailed with him into Jon’s room, and starts for the door.
“Bren, don’t be a baby, come on.”
“Then don’t treat me like one!” He spins around, iPod dangling from his hand. “I’ve kept everything bottled up for this long, Spence,” he mutters bitterly, with the barest hint of emo-drenched sarcasm. “I think I can manage.”
“Dude, that’s not what I...”
“I know,” Brendon replies softly, hoping it’s enough to imply he’s not really as pissed as he seems to be trying for. “I’ll leave him alone. He knows where to find me.”
Brendon steps through the heavy, weighted hotel room door, hearing it echo in the empty hallway as he heads three doors down to his room, feeling emptier than the space in front of him, behind him, all around him; inside him, even... emptier than he’s felt all week.
But he gives in, forces acclimation to the feeling, suspecting it’s probably going to follow him for longer than he wants to imagine.
[continue]
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(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-10 10:23 pm (UTC)and i was like "OHMUHGAHDS" to see that you updated with a ryden fic.
i know.
i'm so pathetic.
but this is faboo nonetheless.
keep it up, love.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-10 10:32 pm (UTC)you're not pathetic, you're delightful. and ily. and thank you. <3
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-10 10:42 pm (UTC)i was like, crazy excited to see that you updated.
not only is your writing amazing beyond amazing, but i was like "SHEEYES EXCUSE TO TALK TO COLIN!"
and thank you oh so much. you're..DELICIOUS.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-10 10:43 pm (UTC)mmmm, you're delicious too. rylandvoice. ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-10 10:47 pm (UTC)*bows* i try. : )
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-10 10:31 pm (UTC)oh. oh. oh.
*gives handjob and cookies also*
nice invisibility cloak reference, by the way.
yum.
anything harry potter related immediately gets my attention.
and this:
Ryan presents the results -- swollen lids, Rudolph-red nose, lowered gaze -- as he steps into Brendon's room backstage, the joking call of "Come on in, I'm naked!" answering his quiet knock, to find the singer fully clothed and picking out a disturbingly pianistic arrangement of "SexyBack" on his keyboard, complete with accompanying vocals.
(totally forgot how to do italics)
equals love.
i'll shut up now.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-10 10:34 pm (UTC)wow, handjobs AND cookies?! wait, aren't *i* supposed to be giving those out?! :P
ahhhh... handjobs and slash slash slash pornography. ;) (thank you, FOB, for walking into that one so beautifully.)
omfg harry potter. have we discussed this already? who are your ships over there?
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-10 10:39 pm (UTC)but what if i wanted to give you handjobs and cookies, hmmm?
oh. oh my god. it took me like, two minutes to get the FOB reference and when i did, i burst into a fit of laughter that attracted some attention from those in the room (aka, my slash/gay-hating mother). anywho, you are walking brilliance.
yes. and i'm totally boring and ship ron/hermione (i know, gag) but i'll occasionally go for some hermione/ginny femmeslash. in any fandom, it's my guilty pleasure.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-10 10:42 pm (UTC)and i will take those handjobs and cookies. ;)
ahhhhh i only shipped the boys. harry/sirius was my guilty pleasure. ;) anything cross-gen and anything with sirius, just, GUH.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-10 11:03 pm (UTC)ZOMG YOU WROTE RYDON!!
*Squealing and running off to go and bake cookies.*
I love how you just put 'poise and rationality' right in there.
But, on to more epic win.
The second half a-beckons.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-10 11:05 pm (UTC)i DID write ryden! FTMFW!!!!! :D
totally poise and rationality. couldn't resist.
enjoy the second half THERE IS PORN.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-10 11:14 pm (UTC)I practically live on satd.
It beats crappy...england.
xD
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-10 11:56 pm (UTC)you have a really perceptive way of writing.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-11 12:03 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-10 11:59 pm (UTC)It isn't until he leaves and the contact is broken that they both realize Brendon had unconsciously grasped Ryan's hand at some point in the last two minutes, and Ryan had squeezed back, harder and stronger than he dared believe was possible.
Ryan would soon learn life was filled, ceiling to the floor, with impossibilities.
Like I love each of those bits individually, but the fact that they come back to back pretty much just socks me in the gut every time I read it, and I don't know who I want to hug more.
He forces three deep, slow breaths before whispering “How did you know that” to the floor, unconsciously crafting the words to sound anything like a question, because he’s sure he doesn’t want the answer.
And then THIS. This I have no words for. This can only be summed up by the followeing: th894hg8ia@sh4r3i2%Q
Now onto part two.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-11 12:06 am (UTC)ahhhhh yeah, i remember how much you shitflipped over dejected brendon talking to the floor. :DDDDDDDDDDD
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-11 12:33 am (UTC)oh well. :P *fixes*
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-11 12:07 am (UTC)*hurries off to read next part* Oh, and take these Ryden-juice-smothered brownies! (o.o)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-11 12:13 am (UTC)OOOOOOOH RYDEN JUICE, MY FAVOURITE!!!!!!! *drinks greedily*
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-11 12:34 am (UTC)Enjoy the Ryden juice! :P
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-11 12:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-11 07:27 pm (UTC)You captured their emotions perfectly and it was so believable and....yeah just EPIC.
amazing stuff, ur an awesome writer and you should def write more Panic fanfic!
*mems*
Love Laura XD
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-11 09:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-02 10:26 pm (UTC)That is the best description of Ryan Ross I’ve ever read.
“Okay, seriously dude, if you were a lolcat, your pic would read, ‘Comebacks: Totally doin’ it wrong.’ That was way too excessively verbose. Notable lack of succinctness.”
“Well, that was redundant, and succinctness isn’t a word.”
“Is so.”
“Blow me.”
“I can’t, I’m playing.”
LOL.
“Bren.” And that’s when he feels Spencer’s hand, clasped gently but firmly around his forearm. “Stay here with me, yeah?”
“...Why?” Somehow, in some stupid, horrible way, he knows why, but it’s so much safer to ask.
You got me laughing and awwwing in a matter of mere sentences o.o
*off to read the next part*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-02 11:42 pm (UTC)