Ryan knows his face slips, just for a moment, and he can't bring himself to care. Not this. No. Anything but this. He pushes it away, searches for his harshest pride, his years of hate, how much he is not fragile anymore, how much his heart belongs to no one, not himself and not the world. "Maybe you'd just like to think that." Brendon flinches, visibly flinches, but he doesn't back down. "Maybe you're too...hurt...to remember it, maybe you can't believe it, but you were free, you were..." he trails off, shakes his head, cuts himself short. "And you're going to be free again." And Ryan hates the part of himself that wants to believe he means it--not believe it's true, because it's impossible, Ryan knows that--but to believe that he--that...Brendon Urie...means it, that that's why he came...Ryan looks up at the roof, away, and it's easier to find himself, the him he knows and understands. He lies back on the bed, eyes on polished beams and the soft light that he hates, and feels the ghosts of a thousand different hands on him, the shadows that stroke across his skin when the room's empty, and it's easier...easier to remember how little it matters. He can breathe, like this; and not looking at him, at Brendon Urie across the room, it's so much easier to remember the truth. "Do you think you're the first to want me to 'come away with you'? More men than you'd believe--and women, women too--have wanted me to 'fall in love' with them. There are men who bring me chocolates, gifts...tobacco, once, even, though I wasn't permitted that...it's all very nice. Half the people who enter this room would like to think about me wanting them freely. You're certainly not unique. But it doesn't work like that." Ryan doesn't look up, and he doesn't see the heartbreak on Brendon's face. "You say I'll be free, free like you remember me...you think I'll, what, come away with you for free and save you paying? You can have me, you can have me tonight if you want, you've paid for it, and you can have me again next week if you pay again, but you can't think that--" "That's not what I meant!" Ryan keeps his eyes on the ceiling, light shattered into soft-edged triangles by the lanterns. He can hear Brendon breathing across the room, and it's funny how that seems like the most familiar thing in here, heavy breathing, always in his ears, a sickening kind of comfort in its familiarity as much as a threat. Brendon's voice is quieter again when he pulls himself together enough to speak, not yelling, but the touch of desperation isn't gone. "I swear. I swear, Ryan, on anything, everything, I...I don't want anything from you. I just...I just want you to be happy. I...god, Ryan, I'm going to buy you out of here and then you never have to see me again, I don't...well, no." He sighs, but it's frustration more than resignation. "I do care. But...you can, I don't know, emigrate to Australia if you want. I'll give you whatever you want. Anything. Every cent I have. And you never have to see me again. I just...I couldn't save you eight years ago. I'm going to this time. I spent five years looking for you, Ryan. I've spent the last three sending charity money to slave-stealers in your memory and hating myself for giving up. I'm not getting this close and leaving you here."
Ryan can't look. He doesn't believe. He doesn't. The lanterns sway in the breeze through the window, and the lights dance in shadows on the ceiling. His voice sounds too different, too small, and it's wrong, because he doesn't believe, he won't, and this isn't safe, and he can't stop it. "I don't understand you." Brendon sounds stronger than him, more sure than him, and that's more dangerous than anything. "You don't have to understand me. You just have to...well, no, I guess you don't even have to trust me, really, they won't care what you think as long as I've got the money, I suppose? So you don't have to trust me. I know you probably can't. You've made that pretty clear. But I will get you out of here. Whatever they want for you, I'll pay it, it doesn't matter. You're going to be free again. I swear."
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Brendon flinches, visibly flinches, but he doesn't back down. "Maybe you're too...hurt...to remember it, maybe you can't believe it, but you were free, you were..." he trails off, shakes his head, cuts himself short. "And you're going to be free again."
And Ryan hates the part of himself that wants to believe he means it--not believe it's true, because it's impossible, Ryan knows that--but to believe that he--that...Brendon Urie...means it, that that's why he came...Ryan looks up at the roof, away, and it's easier to find himself, the him he knows and understands. He lies back on the bed, eyes on polished beams and the soft light that he hates, and feels the ghosts of a thousand different hands on him, the shadows that stroke across his skin when the room's empty, and it's easier...easier to remember how little it matters. He can breathe, like this; and not looking at him, at Brendon Urie across the room, it's so much easier to remember the truth. "Do you think you're the first to want me to 'come away with you'? More men than you'd believe--and women, women too--have wanted me to 'fall in love' with them. There are men who bring me chocolates, gifts...tobacco, once, even, though I wasn't permitted that...it's all very nice. Half the people who enter this room would like to think about me wanting them freely. You're certainly not unique. But it doesn't work like that." Ryan doesn't look up, and he doesn't see the heartbreak on Brendon's face. "You say I'll be free, free like you remember me...you think I'll, what, come away with you for free and save you paying? You can have me, you can have me tonight if you want, you've paid for it, and you can have me again next week if you pay again, but you can't think that--"
"That's not what I meant!"
Ryan keeps his eyes on the ceiling, light shattered into soft-edged triangles by the lanterns. He can hear Brendon breathing across the room, and it's funny how that seems like the most familiar thing in here, heavy breathing, always in his ears, a sickening kind of comfort in its familiarity as much as a threat.
Brendon's voice is quieter again when he pulls himself together enough to speak, not yelling, but the touch of desperation isn't gone. "I swear. I swear, Ryan, on anything, everything, I...I don't want anything from you. I just...I just want you to be happy. I...god, Ryan, I'm going to buy you out of here and then you never have to see me again, I don't...well, no." He sighs, but it's frustration more than resignation. "I do care. But...you can, I don't know, emigrate to Australia if you want. I'll give you whatever you want. Anything. Every cent I have. And you never have to see me again. I just...I couldn't save you eight years ago. I'm going to this time. I spent five years looking for you, Ryan. I've spent the last three sending charity money to slave-stealers in your memory and hating myself for giving up. I'm not getting this close and leaving you here."
Ryan can't look. He doesn't believe. He doesn't. The lanterns sway in the breeze through the window, and the lights dance in shadows on the ceiling. His voice sounds too different, too small, and it's wrong, because he doesn't believe, he won't, and this isn't safe, and he can't stop it. "I don't understand you."
Brendon sounds stronger than him, more sure than him, and that's more dangerous than anything. "You don't have to understand me. You just have to...well, no, I guess you don't even have to trust me, really, they won't care what you think as long as I've got the money, I suppose? So you don't have to trust me. I know you probably can't. You've made that pretty clear. But I will get you out of here. Whatever they want for you, I'll pay it, it doesn't matter. You're going to be free again. I swear."