Fic: only need two more miracles
Jul. 18th, 2009 05:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
piecesof_reesesSo...I told myself I wasn't going to do this. Several times, in fact.
But my self didn't listen to me. :(
So, yeah, apparently I'm jumping on the bandwagon. Post-divorce fic ftw! Happy post-divorce fic at that, too. \o/?
Title: only need two more miracles
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
piecesof_reeses
Pairing: Ryan gen, Ryan/Brendon preslash
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~6600
Warning(s): A bit of drug use. NOT nearly as much as my cut text would imply. /o\
Disclaimer: Okay, so this is a lot closer to reality than most of my other fics, but it is probably 100% slashier, sorry to say.
Summary: Just another PATD fix-it fic, but this time from Ryan's pov. Because sometimes, being screwed up doesn't have to last forever.
Author's Notes: This takes into account a lot of the current canon we have, including some tweets and that MTV interview Ryan did.
Thanks to:chaoticallyclev, my amazingly and fabulously lovely beta! You are the best cheerleader in all the world. ♥
#ryansacokehead
Well, that’s creative. Definitely original. With Perez as source material, how could anyone go wrong? Ryan scratches his nose, wonders if it’ll trend. Probably not.
It’s stupid, anyway. Practically everyone in the scene has done coke at least once. Not exactly a big deal. He smirks and thinks of what the fans might think if they knew the first time he tried it, they were all together. Him and Spencer and Brendon and Jon. No one’s got the moral high ground in this mess, whatever the fickle teenies say.
Besides, he only does it with other people. Like a recreational, social thing. Because it’s easier to, like, interact. And pretend to fit in.
Ryan Ross just wants to be happy, okay? So whatever. He doesn’t know why everyone’s fussing.
* * *
Jon looks kind of uneasy around him nowadays, Ryan notices. It seems like it’s an effort for him to simulate his usual mellow, laid-back self.
He’d gotten the weirdest look on his face when Ryan told him about the MTV interview. His entire face twisted, first starting with his cheeks wrinkling and his eyes squinting and then his lips scrunching up. Ryan followed the expression with his eyes, like it was in slow-mo. Like a flipbook.
“You want to do an interview? With MTV?” Jon asked.
“Sure, why not?” Ryan shrugged, elaborately casual. He slid his shades back on. “Just to let people know what’s up.”
“…All right,” Jon said after a pause. But his eyes slid to the side, and it looked like he was biting his tongue.
“We’re going to have to do one eventually,” Ryan said a little tensely.
“No, you’re right,” Jon said.
And that had been the end of that. It was a short conversation, like most of theirs were now. Which is good. Longer conversations usually complicate things.
“I think I’ve got the melody line sorted out now,” Jon says quietly, hefting the guitar in his hands.
“That’s great,” Ryan says, managing a small smile. “I can start working on lyrics.”
“Yeah,” Jon says. He positions his hands, starts plucking.
It’s nice. Ryan closes his eyes and lets himself slip into the lighthearted, whimsical tune. Dimly, he can hear Jon humming along. It doesn’t exactly fit with the guitar melody, and Ryan frowns.
* * *
Ryan presses ignore with his thumbnail, tapping his foot on the ground idly. He wonders how long it’ll take Pete to stop calling.
Afternoon sunlight sneaks in through the blinds, reflecting off the phone and obscuring Pete’s name.
Maybe longer than it took Brendon. But not as long as it took Spencer.
Ryan just wants to make a clean break. It’s understandable. Reasonable, even. He’s going in a different direction, now. A better one. He doesn’t need any blasts from the past distracting him.
Resolutely, Ryan doesn’t think about what it says about him that a month ago is a blast from the past.
* * *
It’s usually pretty hard for Ryan to go to sleep at night. Pete’s insomnia probably rubbed off on him. Although, he did have the problem before. But it’s getting worse now.
It’s a lot harder to avoid thinking about what you don’t want to think about when it’s dark and quiet. And the only movement is his own chest going up and down.
Ryan rubs at his forehead. This is a good thing, the split-up. And it was handled just fine. No screaming, no yelling. No fumbled attempts at second chances.
Ryan picks at his quilt, pulling up a turquoise thread. His nail snags and tears it off. Methodically, Ryan twines it around his index finger and pulls, tight. The tip of his finger slowly turns white. He stares at it.
Unbidden, Spencer’s face is swimming up in his mind. It really does feel like it’s swimming to the surface, little bits of his cheek, his eyes, his downturned lips darting to the forefront of his mind before Ryan pushes it back down. Spencer had frowned, Ryan remembers. Or not really. More like a press of the lips into a straight line.
It was odd. That’s why Ryan is thinking about it. Because it was the first time he had no idea what Spencer was thinking.
“You and Jon?” Spencer said slowly, eyes clouding over.
Ryan shrugged. “Well, you know. We wrote through the tour, yeah, and it feels like a good fit. But…it’s not very Panic at the Disco, you know what I mean?”
Spencer stayed silent.
Ryan refused to babble. He didn’t do it when they were thirteen and Spencer caught him with that awful porn magazine, and he wasn’t going to do it fucking now.
Finally, Spencer said, “Brendon should be here.”
“No,” Ryan said firmly. “He’ll be fine with it. And it’s not like his input is going to change anything.”
Ryan thought he was probably being what people would call bitter. So young, and so bitter, Ginger used to say about him. Well, Ryan was always ahead for his age.
Spencer just nodded sharply, but not before one of his eyebrows lowered down in a quick movement.
They spent the rest of the lunch talking about sports. How about them Lakers?
Spencer never even argued. That was odd, too. Another reason why the memory just wouldn’t go away. Spencer used to be the only one who could get away with standing up to him when they were younger. Then Brendon came along, and he did it too.
And now none of them were.
Ryan’s glad, anyhow. It really is better this way. He wasn’t lying in the MTV interview—it was all very amicable. Very civilized. He’s happy that Spencer didn’t fight with him over it. That Spencer didn’t put up more of a struggle. It’s not like Ryan wanted him to, like, beg him to stay or whatever.
That’s why he didn’t want Brendon there. Because Brendon always complicated things. Brendon’s complicated things from the very beginning.
Ryan ran his eyes up and down the loud, jittering, clearly nervous boy that Brent was towing behind him. His eyes were too bright, he was talking too fast, and he had a habit of stumbling over his words.
Unimpressed, Ryan wrote him off. Back then, Ryan still split people into two categories—Threat or Not-A-Threat. This boy fell clearly into the latter.
But then a few days later, Brendon opened his mouth and sang a line. His eyes fixed on Ryan, clear and unwavering. The notes wove in and out of each other, swooping neatly but never colliding discordantly.
He smirked.
Ryan bit his lip and reevaluated.
If Brendon had been at the lunch, he might have fought about the split. He probably would have made some sort of embarrassing scene.
Or not. Ryan doesn’t even really know anymore.
Ryan closes his eyes, runs his hand down the seam in his blanket.
He misses Hobo.
* * *
Jon meets him at the door of the studio, biting his lips and looking fretful.
Ryan raises an eyebrow at him.
Jon fidgets.
“What?” Ryan finally says. It comes out more snappish than he intended. Last night was a bad night, and he hadn’t gotten to sleep for more than three hours. It’s been kind of a series of bad nights.
Jon shrugs, doing a little jerky hand-raise before visibly putting his hands back down by his sides. It kind of irks him how Jon seems to think Ryan will explode at any moment, like he has to soothe Ryan or whatever the fuck.
Jon clears his throat. “They just, uh, changed their web lay-out,” he says, striving to sound offhanded. And failing.
“Who?” Ryan asks. It’s a redundant question.
“You know.” Jon shrugs. “Spencer. And Brendon.”
“Oh.” Ryan pauses for a moment. The daylight from the window makes a white square on the floor, illuminating dust motes. He stares at them. “Well, good for them.”
“Yeah,” Jon says, looking insultingly heartened by his positive response. “Have you, um. Have you listened to the demo yet?”
“No,” Ryan says shortly.
Jon furrows his brow. “You should, man, it’s pretty good, and—“
“Why?” Ryan interrupts. “It’s not like we’re in the same band anymore. Does it really matter? We already know they’re going back to the Fever days, and frankly, that’s all I need to know.”
“They’re not duplicating Fever,” Jon says, frowning. “They’re just taking a step back from Pretty.Odd. And you know, for them, that’s probably a good thing, especially because Spencer—“
“Whatever. Can we start working already?” Ryan turns away from Jon pointedly and starts turning on the machines.
“You’re not going to be able to avoid their music forever,” Jon says, coming to stand behind him.
It’s weird for Jon to be pushing him like this. Ryan is pretty sure he doesn’t like it.
Jon lets out a sigh when Ryan doesn’t say anything. A few moments later, he ventures, “Do you ever wonder if we, you know. Made the wrong decision, or whatever?”
“Of course not,” Ryan says dismissively.
His throat feels a little dry, and he swallows several times, convulsively.
* * *
Their new lay-out is good. It’s great. Just Brendon and Spencer’s faces, happy and intent and giving no sign that Panic had ever been more than just the two of them.
Jesus Christ. What the fuck is he even doing?
Ryan pushes away from the computer deliberately, turning his head from the obnoxiously white Click to Play text gleaming on his monitor.
The light from his computer washes over his right arm, making it look fuzzy and cool and alien. Ryan wonders if Brendon’s growing out his stubble, wants to turn around to check again, and half-does, before he stops.
Silently, he reaches around to turn the monitor off without looking. The room’s dark again. Dark and quiet and warm. Ryan likes it better this way.
* * *
Red and green and blue and purple lights bombard him from all directions, swiping over him roughly and then fleeing to opposite corners of the room before slinking back again.
It kind of hurts.
Some loud, thumping music is playing in the background that Ryan is only vaguely registering in his ears. It’s very techno. Obnoxiously so. Which is why Ryan wanted to diverge from Fever in the first place, not—Ryan forcibly turns his thoughts elsewhere. This isn’t why he’s here.
There’s a girl in his lap, grinding. Ryan can feel himself getting half-hard, lazily, kind of indifferently. She’s alright. A blonde, but a fake one, if her roots are any indication. Her breasts are nice, sort of.
She leans forward to whisper in his ear, lip-glossed mouth sliding stickily over it. Ryan can’t make out what she’s saying, but he laughs anyway. It’s great. This is great. He’s got a girl in his lap and the coke is bound to kick in any minute, so.
He’s goddamn happy. Fuck Brendon and Spencer and fucking Panic at the fucking Disco (now with reintegrated exclamation point!). He laughs harder to himself, and reaches clumsily into his pocket to get out his phone.
I think I just LMFAOD’d, he types in shakily.
(But really, what he means is Fuck you. )
Recklessly, he grabs onto the girl’s blonde hair (her fake blonde hair) and kisses her deeply, tongues sliding slickly and familiarly.
She tastes like cheap alcohol and stomach-turning perfume.
Ryan deepens the kiss.
* * *
Ryan is doing fine, thank you very much. He’s actually quite busy right now, so if you could go away, that would be fantastic. And no, he isn’t high, goddammit.
Jon leaves without any further comment. Ryan waves a desultory middle finger at his receding back before returning to the task at hand. Namely, his photos. He presses delete again and again, almost giddy, as he sends picture after picture spinning off into the black hole of the computerized recycling bin.
Tour photos—delete. Recording photos—delete. Press photos—delete. Fan photos—delete.
Ryan’s not doing this because he cares, or anything. He’s just purging, is all. Can anyone really blame him if he doesn’t want Brendon’s stupid, grinning face lurking in the bowels of his hard drive?
It’s like a bad break-up, a voice says unbidden in his mind. Which, it is. A break-up, that is. But not a bad one, by any means. It was very amicable. Extremely good natured.
Ryan presses the delete button particularly viciously, accidentally causing the mouse to slide away from his index finger and over the edge of the table.
Goddamn technology.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Jon walking closer, phone outstretched.
“It’s for you,” Jon says, and then shoves it into Ryan’s hand.
Ryan glares at Jon—he was busy, for fuck’s sake—but puts the phone to his ear anyway.
“Who’s this?” he says.
“Hey, Ryan. Long time no talk, huh?”
Ryan nearly drops the phone. But he doesn’t. He does stomp on Jon’s foot, though. He bets Jon’s regretting wearing flip flops now.
“What do you want, Pete,” Ryan says finally.
“Just to talk,” Pete says.
“That’s a lie,” Ryan says, snorting.
“I was just wondering how you and Jon were coming along,” Pete continues, unperturbed. “Getting some good progress on your album, yeah?”
“It’s all right,” Ryan says. He folds his arms and tries not to care about Jon rolling his eyes. He’s not being sullen. He’s just being…reserved.
“Well. That’s good,” Pete says, and then he falls silent for a few moments. Ryan can vaguely hear a baby crying in the background. Bronx.
Suddenly, he feels guilty.
“How’s, um.” Ryan clears his throat. “How’s Bronx?”
“He’s doing good,” Pete says, exhaling. “Doing better at sleeping the whole night through. He’s not as fussy anymore. Takes after his mom in that respect, I guess.”
Ryan hums noncommittally.
“Ryan, you do realize—“ Pete says, before pausing for a second. “You do realize that this isn’t about sides, right? Like, Brendon and Spencer—“
“Of course I do,” Ryan snaps. “They’re on your label. And I’m not anymore. I’m not a fucking idiot, okay? I get how these things work.”
“I don’t think you do,” Pete mutters under his breath, but before Ryan can object to that, he rushes on, “I’d still like to help out, you know. Just because I’m not your boss anymore, or whatever, doesn’t mean that you get to completely ignore my calls.”
“I ignored your calls even when I was in your employment,” Ryan says, but only to be petulant.
“You know what I mean.” Pete sighs, sounding kind of tired. “I’m still your friend, dude. And having to be the emotionally mature person in a relationship is really getting to me, by the way.”
Ryan huffs out a reluctant laugh. “Okay, whatever. There’s really not much you can do right now, though, so…”
“Yeah, I get that. But, I mean, I just wanted to, like…reopen the channel of communication,” Pete says, and Ryan can practically see the stupid grin curling around his lips.
“The same goes for your ex-bandmates,” Pete says after a beat.
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Are you serious? You’re going to be the one to lecture me about this?”
“You can’t keep avoiding them forever,” Pete says, voice slightly on edge. “Because, like it or not, they are also your friends. Even if you seem to have forgotten the meaning of the word.”
“I’m not—“ Ryan says, frustrated, before stopping. He takes a breath and picks at his nail. “I just need a break from them, okay? It’s actually healthy to go a few weeks without talking to someone, you know.”
“This hasn’t been going on for a few weeks, Ryan,” Pete says evenly. “It’s been going on for the past few months. You and I both know that the split has nothing to do with it. Or, well—the split didn’t instigate it.”
“And what would you know about that, exactly?” Ryan says, voice low and hoarse because he thinks if he doesn’t whisper, he’ll start shouting. “You don’t know anything about the fucking situation. And it isn’t any of your business, anyway. Not anymore. We’re done. It’s over. Time to sweep up those broken dreams of making a few more million dollars from the complete version of Panic at the Disco.”
“You’re not being fair, Ryan.”
“And you’re being a hypocrite,” Ryan shoots back.
“I didn’t call you as your fucking ex-boss, Ryan, what the fuck! I’m calling as a fucking person who’s concerned about his friend, Jesus Christ. And honestly, you’re not exactly allaying any of the concerns I have, sorry to say,” Pete says, slipping back into his old, familiar sarcasm.
“Well, you’ve called, checked in, and annoyed the hell out of me, so you can check off your friend duties for the day,” Ryan says, sneering. “And maybe stop sticking your nose into things that don’t fucking concern you and that you know nothing about!”
“That I know nothing about? That’s funny, because I seem to remember this thing I have? I think it’s a band? Something like Fall Out Boy? Oh, sorry, but of course I can’t possibly understand your emo, because it’s not like Fall Out Boy’s ever had its share of troubles, right? ‘Scuse me.”
“It’s not the same,” Ryan says, hearing the whine in his voice and hating himself for it.
“We’ve all been through bumps,” Pete says more calmly. “You guys didn’t get over yours. Maybe you weren’t meant to. But that doesn’t mean you get to act like a spoiled brat about it.”
“I’m not!” Ryan says, outraged.
“Refusing to speak to Brendon and Spencer? Not answering the calls of anyone even remotely connected to Decaydance? And taking it all out on Jon, who’s probably a step away from just making a break for it?”
“I just don’t want to talk to them, is that really so difficult to understand?”
“Not even just a five-second call?” Pete says. “To Brendon, even, who’s less likely than Spencer to call you out for being a special little asshole.”
“I don’t want to talk to Brendon,” Ryan says emphatically and too quickly. He stops, runs his tongue over his teeth. “I just don’t want to deal…I mean, Brendon’s just—so much. Too much. You know how he is. He’s just one hundred percent, all the time.”
There’s a silence. Ryan worries his bottom lip.
“You know,” Pete says, suddenly switching to a more conversational tone of voice, “we’re kind of weird.”
“Um,” Ryan says, disoriented from the sudden subject change. “Okay. Thanks for telling me?”
“I mean…” Ryan can hear him chewing on something over the phone. “Like, our gigs. Both of us are lyricists. But we don’t primarily sing our own lyrics. Well, that is, you didn’t while you were with Panic.”
“Do you have a point you’re getting to?”
Pete hums, and Ryan knows that he’s shrugging. “It’s a pretty rocky relationship, isn’t it? With our singers. Our mouthpieces, if you will. Giving away our lyrics and hoping they’ll sing them right.”
Ryan makes a disgusted sound. “What Brendon and I have is—was,” he quickly corrects himself, “nothing like what you and Patrick have. You practically worship at his alter. I mean—it’s you and Patrick. Kind of a disgustingly perfect relationship.”
“Yeah, no,” Pete says, snorting without humor. “That’s definitely not true. The thing is…the relationship between a lyricist and a singer in the same band is kind of—really complicated.”
“Yeah, I got that,” Ryan says.
“Shut up for a minute,” Pete says mildly, and because Pete Wentz is still Pete Wentz to a little teenager somewhere in the depths of Ryan’s mind, he does. Even though this is stupid.
“I mean, it can’t be…too messy,” Pete continues slowly. “It has to be a clean system. No problematic emotions clogging things up and getting in the way. Because when that starts happening, the fights begin. There has to be more of a clean, neat transfer. You’re giving away a personal statement of yours, an expression of your thoughts, and you’re trusting someone else to channel that to the outside world without losing its original intent. So it just…it can’t get too messy.”
Pete pauses and slurps on something. Ryan stares through the window outside, seeing but not really registering the golden-green leaves tickling the glass.
“At some point,” Pete starts again, quieter, “you have to make a decision. You have to decide whether you want to let it get messy and deal with the consequences, or whether you’ll put the music ahead of it all.”
It sounds like Pete’s using the word “messy” as a euphemism for…something. Ryan rubs at his forehead.
“I don’t want to rush you when you get all vague and profound,” Ryan says dryly, “but what exactly does this have to do with me?”
“I’m saying,” Pete says slowly, “that I think what happened between you and Brendon was that…it got messy.”
“Thanks so much for informing me,” Ryan says impatiently.
“I’m not done yet,” Pete says with a slight edge. “It got messy, and both you and Brendon share the blame. Brendon wasn’t content on just being your mouthpiece. He needed to sing back at you, to respond to the words that you were putting in his mouth. He was more interested in connecting back to you than relaying all of it to the audience. There were just…too many feelings involved between you two.”
“Too many feelings?” Ryan says skeptically.
“Yes,” Pete says.
“What about you and Patrick? Don’t try to tell me that you guys don’t have too many feelings, or whatever. You’re best fucking friends.”
When Pete speaks again, he’s noticeably more subdued. “Patrick and I…yeah, we’re best friends. That doesn’t have—that doesn’t have too much to do with it. We decided a long time ago that we were going to put the music ahead of any, you know. Messy feelings.”
Ryan wants to object, to yell, to laugh at Pete over what he’s implying, but he can’t. Because he knows the way Pete looks at Patrick, sometimes, before he catches himself. They all know. But they also know the way Pete stares at Ashlee, and Bronx, and their beautiful little nursery.
It’s why Ryan thinks Pete’s so accepting of the insane fangirls on the internet. Because at least somewhere in the world, somewhere in cyberspace, Pete and Patrick is PeteandPatrick. And Pete just likes to think about how it exists, somewhere, in some people’s hearts.
“You still there, man?” Pete says, clearing his throat awkwardly.
Ryan pauses for a second before speaking. “Are you trying to tell me that Brendon and I have to make a decision over whether we value our music or our feelings more?” He tries to laugh, but it doesn’t—quite—come out.
“I’m saying,” Pete says quietly, “that by leaving the band, you’ve already made that decision.”
Ryan’s silent. He stares at his fingers, picks at his thumbnail over and over and over again.
Pete continues, “And you’re just too scared to admit it.”
* * *
The weather’s good, all full yellow sun and robin egg sky for miles. Ryan picks himself up, walks a few laps around the park with his shades on. No one takes any notice of him except for these two golden retrievers who came bounding up.
It’s… nice. But he feels kind of like a dumbass without Hobo there.
Frowning, he heaves himself up from the grassy spot under a tree he’d been sitting on, and walks back home. There’s a tree with overripe cherries along the way, and three blackberry tangles. Across the street, an old lady slowly gets her mail. Ryan takes off his sunglasses, polishes them, and then puts them back on.
His place is just as dark and vaguely dusty as it was when he left. He pulls open the blinds and switches on a few lights. It’s better, but the fluorescent lighting casts weird sallow shapes over his skin. Ryan turns off the lights again.
The house is completely silent, with little beams of light filtering through the dust and creating short, warm, friendly shadows. It’s quiet. And peaceful. No one arguing, yelling, trying to tell him how he’s supposed to feel.
Which is just how Ryan Ross likes it.
He’s sick and tired of confrontations complicating his life. Whatever the fuck Pete was trying to say with lyricists and singers and shit, Brendon is…Brendon is practically the definition of confrontational. He’s loud and he’s upfront and he’s honest to a fault.
And Ryan doesn’t want to deal with it anymore. Is it really too much, too selfish to want some fucking peace and quiet and simplicity? He’s spent his entire fucking life in confrontation after confrontation.
(“It’s your sixth fucking beer of the day and it’s not even noon!” Ryan screamed.
“So what? If I want to have a goddamn drink, I’ll have one!” His dad walked up to him, shoved his snarling, sweating face into Ryan’s. “I spend all week working my ass off to put food on the table and clothes on your body and giving you the fucking internet so you can do whatever the shit it is you’re doing on Life Journal. So you can shut up for once in your life, all right?”
“It’s Livejournal,” Ryan muttered.
“Do I look like I give a damn? Whatever faggy website you’re obsessed with.” He laughed hoarsely and took another swig of his beer.
“It’s not faggy, dumbass!” Ryan yelled, and then stopped, wide-eyed at his own daring.
“You shut the fuck up,” his dad said dangerously, looming over him again, before laughing when Ryan flinched.
“Whatever,” Ryan said, trying to straighten up again. “I’m going to Spencer’s. And don’t expect me back until tomorrow! You can find your own dinner!”
“Good fucking riddance,” his dad yelled after his back.)
(“Where the fuck were you?” Ryan asked angrily, mopping sweat up with a towel, before swearing at the eyeliner he accidentally rubbed off.
“No one called me!” Brent said lamely, but with a defensive, frustrated glint in his eyes.
“Who needs to fucking call someone to be at fucking soundcheck? Isn’t that like some kind of given when you’re in a band?” Ryan demanded.
“How am I supposed to know when no one fucking tells me anything anymore?” Brent shot back, looking sullen.
“Maybe we would if you made some kind of effort! You never want to be around us. How the hell are we supposed to tell you shit then?”
Brent stared at him for a long moment, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Whatever,” he finally said, voice barely shaking. “This is getting so fucking old.”
He walked off, ignoring Ryan’s yells for him to come back and fucking face the issue.
“Why am I the only person who fucking cares what happens to this band?” he asked his towel. It didn’t answer, and he threw it down onto the ground disgustedly.)
(“One more time,” Ryan said firmly, ignoring the look Spencer threw him.
“What the fuck?” Brendon said. “We’ve been here forever! And it sounds fine, Jesus Christ.”
“You could at least sound like you wanted to be singing the lyrics!” Ryan said, frustrated.
“I do sound like that! And I’m singing about fucking sugarcane and weathervanes! Not exactly some deep, profound shit.”
“It’s not supposed to be deep and angsty!” Ryan could feel his voice getting louder and the subsequent warning eyebrow raises Spencer kept shooting him, but seriously, fuck. “I just want you to sing it right.”
“Look, Ryan, you’re the only one here who isn’t happy with what we have,” Brendon said, voice going low and tight. “And I’m not going to let your stupid obsessive compulsive needs get in the way of me getting some fucking dinner.”
He brushed past Ryan roughly and walked quickly out the door.
“Ryan,” Spencer said, sounding bone-weary. He didn’t say anything else.
He didn’t need to.)
It’s stupid to keep dealing with this kind of shit when he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t need anything complicating his life that doesn’t need to be there, regarding Brendon or otherwise. So he isn’t. Ryan’s done with it. He’s really, truly done.
And it’s better for everyone fucking involved.
* * *
His phone buzzes with a new text.
U talk to bdon yet?
Ryan contemplates blocking all of Pete’s calls. It’s a beautiful, beautiful thought.
* * *
Suddenly, randomly, Ryan jolts awake. His eyes fly open and focus on the bland, white ceiling. He checks his clock. It’s three in the fucking morning.
Sighing, he drapes an arm over his eyes and lies there for a few minutes. The room is almost completely dark, with only a stray streetlamp sneaking light in around the blinds. Ryan counts his breaths as he takes them—inhale, exhale, one; inhale, exhale, two; inhale, exhale, three.
Without thinking about, he sits up and throws his blanket off of himself. He shuffles across the wood floor, refusing to think about where he’s going.
His hand moves the mouse mechanically, clicking and then typing and then—
Ryan closes his eyes slightly, breathes in. Breathes back out.
Brendon sings to him, “Oh, glory…”
Ryan blinks, and the music ends.
It’s not half bad.
* * *
Ryan wakes to some insistent knocking on his front door. Grumbling to himself, he shoves a shirt on and then goes to answer the door. It must be one of those freaking FedEx guys who don’t know when to quit and just go the fuck away.
He peers through the peephole.
It’s not a FedEx guy.
Ryan kind of wishes it was, now, though.
It’s like one of those instant lessons life sends you—all, be grateful for what it’s like now because it’s about to get a hell of a lot worse. Or, rather, be grateful for those annoying FedEx people because at least they’re not members of your ex-band.
Ryan contemplates this for a few minutes until Spencer shoves his eye right up to the other end of the peephole so that all Ryan can see is a gigantic blue eye. It’s a little freaky, to be honest.
“I know you’re fucking there, Ross,” Spencer says, not moving his eye.
“No, you don’t,” Ryan says, frowning, before scowling. Oops.
“Just open the fucking door, for fuck’s sake,” Spencer says impatiently. “We can do that or I can call Jon over here because I know that he has a fucking key.”
“Fucking fine,” Ryan mutters. He unlocks the door and wrenches it open. “Happy now?”
“It’s not like this was my idea,” Spencer says, frowning ferociously. “But Pete said he’d fire us if we didn’t talk to you already. And he’d fire you, too, if he could.”
“Trigger-happy little fucker,” Ryan murmurs. “Well, fine. You’ve woken me up, probably annoyed the hell out of my neighbors, and talked to me. Can we call it good?”
“Stop being such a jackass,” Brendon says from behind Spencer, which—shit. Ryan didn’t even realize he was there.
“Brendon,” he says, and then stops.
Spencer, apparently fed up, shoves him out of the way and marches to his kitchen. “You haven’t been answering any of our calls, asshole.”
“That’s my coffee,” Ryan says.
“Some fucking coffee is the least of what you owe me, Ross,” Spencer says, scowling even deeper, and sets the coffeemaker to percolate.
“Look,” Ryan says finally, “what is there to talk about? We used to be a band. And now we’re not. And you know what, stop acting like this is my fault, okay?” Ryan says, getting some steam going. “Don’t try to pretend like the drumlines in Pretty.Odd weren’t killing your fucking artistic soul or whatever when you played them! We all saw the faces you were making. This is good for you, for fuck’s sake. So stop complaining about i—“
“Don’t even try to make this about anything but yourself,” Spencer interrupts, voice low and angry. “And you can quit with the ‘oh, poor, self-sacrificing me’ routine while you’re at it.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Ryan says, lowering his volume too, because if this is how Spencer wants to do it, this is what he’ll fucking get. “Of course it’s not about me! It’s about our fucking musical differences and that tambourine you fucking hated and tried to kill on a daily basis—“
“I’m not talking about the band split, you fucking idiot!” Spencer throws up his hands in disgust. “I’m talking about the way you’ve become some sort of recluse who can’t even bother talking to his closest friends!”
“I don’t—I’ve just been busy, okay, I—“
“Bullshit,” Brendon says quietly. He’s leaning against the counter, lips set into a thin line.
He’d been quiet the entire time. So quiet that Ryan had almost forgotten he was there.
“You haven’t been talking to us because you don’t want to deal with us. It’s like you don’t even know how to deal with us outside of the context of Panic at the Disco.” Brendon’s eyes are dark and solemn. Ryan looks away uncomfortably.
“I just wanted some time alone. Just—writing music. I wanted some peace and quiet, you know?”
“You wanted peace and quiet. Right.” Spencer scoffs derisively.
“Don’t even fucking—“ Ryan is aware that he is yelling right now, but he can’t bring himself to stop. “You out of all people should know that I hate confrontations because of my…I just don’t want things to get messed up and complicated and fucked up! Jesus Christ, Spencer.”
“You are in such denial it’s almost funny,” Spencer says, curling his lip. “That’s why you brought Jon along with you, isn’t it? Jon, because he’s so fucking easy-going and mellow that he won’t stand up to you unless it’s absolutely fucking necessary. Jon, because he’s too much of a decent human being and a good friend to tell you what a shithead you’re being.”
“I brought Jon along because our musical tastes fucking mesh!” Ryan yells back. “Because I can actually have a good time writing music with him instead of fucking stressing out all the time!”
“Oh, and his personality wasn’t a bonus? You always fucking do this, Ryan,” Spencer says, looking frustrated.
“Do what? Be a rational fucking adult?”
Spencer laughs hollowly at that. “You tell yourself you don’t want complications, you don’t want confrontations, you don’t want any fucking excitement in your life and then you self-destruct when that actually happens! Because you itch when you haven’t got anyone to argue with, Ryan, we’ve all seen it. You just get bored so easily that when it’s not complicated, you make it fucking complicated!”
“I don’t—“ Ryan starts, but then he realizes he doesn’t know what he’s going to say, and then Spencer bowls over him anyway.
“You need everything to be bigger than life! What about that fucking Nothing Rhymes With Circus Tour? You needed all the works, the dancers, the costumes, the fucking make-up, oh my god. And then you make a complete 180 and go all out with that too, the paisley, the bowl cut, the hats with feathers!”
“And you ruined a completely good relationship,” Brendon says quietly, fiddling with his belt loop.
“What?” Ryan says, but only for appearance’s sake. He picks at his thumbnail and tries to will his voice to stay monotone.
“Keltie was pretty much the perfect girlfriend, but she was too safe for you, wasn’t she? Just wasn’t exciting enough. So you blew up the relationship in the showiest, loudest, most flamboyant way—on fucking Valentine’s Day.” Brendon shuts his mouth firmly after he stops talking, like if he doesn’t stop himself, he could continue for hours.
“So don’t even try to use peace and quiet as an excuse,” Spencer says, voice considerably more subdued after Ryan doesn’t do anything except open and close his mouth and swallow a few times.
Spencer wets his lips before continuing. “You’re just too scared to continue relationships that you think are doomed. And you need to be the one to break it off first.”
Behind them, the coffee machine pings once to signal the finished coffee. None of them moves.
“It’s like you’ve got a phobia of healthy relationships,” Brendon finally says, lips quirking slightly.
Ryan rolls his eyes and continues staring at the ground.
There’s the sound of a key turning in the lock—all of them flinch and turn around almost comically—and Jon pokes his head inside.
“Oh, hey, Jon,” Spencer says, face relaxing into a smile for the first time. “You’re just in time for the coffee.”
“Sweet,” Jon says easily, smiling back. “I thought so, anyway, my coffee radar was pinging like crazy.”
“One of the benefits left over from working at Starbucks?” Spencer quips.
“Totally. I can now sense coffee from up to twenty yards away,” Jon says, winking. He pauses and looks around the room, like he’s taking note of all their positions and strategizing accordingly.
Spencer’s standing by the coffeemaker, still looking slightly aggressive with his feet spread and his shoulders tense. Brendon stands by him with his shoulders hunched and his hand tapping a quick rhythm on the counter. Ryan’s standing a few feet away and still trying to melt into the ground.
Spencer follows Jon’s eyes to Ryan, and he starts frowning again. Brendon quickly steps in.
“Hey, guys, can you go grab some breakfast for us? I’m starving,” Brendon says with an only slightly forced sunny smile.
It’s a genius idea, and Ryan can already hear Spencer unloading on Jon as they walk down the stairs. It’ll be good for Spencer to vent. Hopefully, by the time they come back, Spencer will be ready to reclassify Ryan as a human being, rather than the scum of the earth.
“Are you okay?” Brendon asks Ryan, walking a few steps closer cautiously.
Ryan huffs out a small laugh. “Yeah, no, I’m just…I’m just processing,” he says.
And he is.
He doesn’t want to say that Spencer’s completely right, because he isn’t and also his head is swelled up enough as it is, but…Ryan thinks about his dark, empty house at night, about the walk in the park dogless, about the way his heart skipped a beat when he finally got over himself enough to listen to Oh Glory.
Ryan chews on his lip. “I’ve been kind of an asshole, haven’t I,” Ryan says quietly, eyebrows furrowing.
Brendon barks out a rough laugh. “Also incredibly slow and dense, but I think I can let that slide,” he says wryly.
Ryan lets the corners of his mouth turn up slightly and doesn’t bother objecting to Brendon’s words.
“You know…you know we’re always going to be your friends, right?” Brendon says slowly, carefully. “Because that’s not contingent on being in a fucking band together. And we’re not going to stop being your friends, whatever you feel about it.”
Ryan swallows and smiles ruefully. “Yeah, I think I get it now, thanks.”
Brendon rolls his eyes at him.
“And…I am sorry,” Ryan continues, twisting his index finger almost nervously. “For cutting you guys out. I mean, you’ve been, um…all right, yeah? These past few weeks?”
Brendon gives him a look. “I’ve been fine, Ryan. You know…” and he steps closer to him, close enough to bump shoulders gently.
“I know what?” Ryan asks.
“It’s actually you that I’ve been worried about,” Brendon says confidingly.
“Me?” Ryan says warily.
“Well, yeah. Haven’t you seen that twitter topic, #ryansacokehead?” Brendon asks innocently. “I’ve been thinking of staging an intervention.”
“Oh my god, you asshole,” Ryan says, and he hits Brendon with his hand, but Brendon snatches it and laces his fingers through, grinning with crinkled eyes and too many teeth.
So, yeah. It’s almost like old times. But it’s not, really.
It’s kind of…better.
End.
Feedback is always appreciated. :)
But my self didn't listen to me. :(
So, yeah, apparently I'm jumping on the bandwagon. Post-divorce fic ftw! Happy post-divorce fic at that, too. \o/?
Title: only need two more miracles
Author:
piecesof_reesesPairing: Ryan gen, Ryan/Brendon preslash
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~6600
Warning(s): A bit of drug use. NOT nearly as much as my cut text would imply. /o\
Disclaimer: Okay, so this is a lot closer to reality than most of my other fics, but it is probably 100% slashier, sorry to say.
Summary: Just another PATD fix-it fic, but this time from Ryan's pov. Because sometimes, being screwed up doesn't have to last forever.
Author's Notes: This takes into account a lot of the current canon we have, including some tweets and that MTV interview Ryan did.
Thanks to:
chaoticallyclev, my amazingly and fabulously lovely beta! You are the best cheerleader in all the world. ♥#ryansacokehead
Well, that’s creative. Definitely original. With Perez as source material, how could anyone go wrong? Ryan scratches his nose, wonders if it’ll trend. Probably not.
It’s stupid, anyway. Practically everyone in the scene has done coke at least once. Not exactly a big deal. He smirks and thinks of what the fans might think if they knew the first time he tried it, they were all together. Him and Spencer and Brendon and Jon. No one’s got the moral high ground in this mess, whatever the fickle teenies say.
Besides, he only does it with other people. Like a recreational, social thing. Because it’s easier to, like, interact. And pretend to fit in.
Ryan Ross just wants to be happy, okay? So whatever. He doesn’t know why everyone’s fussing.
* * *
Jon looks kind of uneasy around him nowadays, Ryan notices. It seems like it’s an effort for him to simulate his usual mellow, laid-back self.
He’d gotten the weirdest look on his face when Ryan told him about the MTV interview. His entire face twisted, first starting with his cheeks wrinkling and his eyes squinting and then his lips scrunching up. Ryan followed the expression with his eyes, like it was in slow-mo. Like a flipbook.
“You want to do an interview? With MTV?” Jon asked.
“Sure, why not?” Ryan shrugged, elaborately casual. He slid his shades back on. “Just to let people know what’s up.”
“…All right,” Jon said after a pause. But his eyes slid to the side, and it looked like he was biting his tongue.
“We’re going to have to do one eventually,” Ryan said a little tensely.
“No, you’re right,” Jon said.
And that had been the end of that. It was a short conversation, like most of theirs were now. Which is good. Longer conversations usually complicate things.
“I think I’ve got the melody line sorted out now,” Jon says quietly, hefting the guitar in his hands.
“That’s great,” Ryan says, managing a small smile. “I can start working on lyrics.”
“Yeah,” Jon says. He positions his hands, starts plucking.
It’s nice. Ryan closes his eyes and lets himself slip into the lighthearted, whimsical tune. Dimly, he can hear Jon humming along. It doesn’t exactly fit with the guitar melody, and Ryan frowns.
* * *
Ryan presses ignore with his thumbnail, tapping his foot on the ground idly. He wonders how long it’ll take Pete to stop calling.
Afternoon sunlight sneaks in through the blinds, reflecting off the phone and obscuring Pete’s name.
Maybe longer than it took Brendon. But not as long as it took Spencer.
Ryan just wants to make a clean break. It’s understandable. Reasonable, even. He’s going in a different direction, now. A better one. He doesn’t need any blasts from the past distracting him.
Resolutely, Ryan doesn’t think about what it says about him that a month ago is a blast from the past.
* * *
It’s usually pretty hard for Ryan to go to sleep at night. Pete’s insomnia probably rubbed off on him. Although, he did have the problem before. But it’s getting worse now.
It’s a lot harder to avoid thinking about what you don’t want to think about when it’s dark and quiet. And the only movement is his own chest going up and down.
Ryan rubs at his forehead. This is a good thing, the split-up. And it was handled just fine. No screaming, no yelling. No fumbled attempts at second chances.
Ryan picks at his quilt, pulling up a turquoise thread. His nail snags and tears it off. Methodically, Ryan twines it around his index finger and pulls, tight. The tip of his finger slowly turns white. He stares at it.
Unbidden, Spencer’s face is swimming up in his mind. It really does feel like it’s swimming to the surface, little bits of his cheek, his eyes, his downturned lips darting to the forefront of his mind before Ryan pushes it back down. Spencer had frowned, Ryan remembers. Or not really. More like a press of the lips into a straight line.
It was odd. That’s why Ryan is thinking about it. Because it was the first time he had no idea what Spencer was thinking.
“You and Jon?” Spencer said slowly, eyes clouding over.
Ryan shrugged. “Well, you know. We wrote through the tour, yeah, and it feels like a good fit. But…it’s not very Panic at the Disco, you know what I mean?”
Spencer stayed silent.
Ryan refused to babble. He didn’t do it when they were thirteen and Spencer caught him with that awful porn magazine, and he wasn’t going to do it fucking now.
Finally, Spencer said, “Brendon should be here.”
“No,” Ryan said firmly. “He’ll be fine with it. And it’s not like his input is going to change anything.”
Ryan thought he was probably being what people would call bitter. So young, and so bitter, Ginger used to say about him. Well, Ryan was always ahead for his age.
Spencer just nodded sharply, but not before one of his eyebrows lowered down in a quick movement.
They spent the rest of the lunch talking about sports. How about them Lakers?
Spencer never even argued. That was odd, too. Another reason why the memory just wouldn’t go away. Spencer used to be the only one who could get away with standing up to him when they were younger. Then Brendon came along, and he did it too.
And now none of them were.
Ryan’s glad, anyhow. It really is better this way. He wasn’t lying in the MTV interview—it was all very amicable. Very civilized. He’s happy that Spencer didn’t fight with him over it. That Spencer didn’t put up more of a struggle. It’s not like Ryan wanted him to, like, beg him to stay or whatever.
That’s why he didn’t want Brendon there. Because Brendon always complicated things. Brendon’s complicated things from the very beginning.
Ryan ran his eyes up and down the loud, jittering, clearly nervous boy that Brent was towing behind him. His eyes were too bright, he was talking too fast, and he had a habit of stumbling over his words.
Unimpressed, Ryan wrote him off. Back then, Ryan still split people into two categories—Threat or Not-A-Threat. This boy fell clearly into the latter.
But then a few days later, Brendon opened his mouth and sang a line. His eyes fixed on Ryan, clear and unwavering. The notes wove in and out of each other, swooping neatly but never colliding discordantly.
He smirked.
Ryan bit his lip and reevaluated.
If Brendon had been at the lunch, he might have fought about the split. He probably would have made some sort of embarrassing scene.
Or not. Ryan doesn’t even really know anymore.
Ryan closes his eyes, runs his hand down the seam in his blanket.
He misses Hobo.
* * *
Jon meets him at the door of the studio, biting his lips and looking fretful.
Ryan raises an eyebrow at him.
Jon fidgets.
“What?” Ryan finally says. It comes out more snappish than he intended. Last night was a bad night, and he hadn’t gotten to sleep for more than three hours. It’s been kind of a series of bad nights.
Jon shrugs, doing a little jerky hand-raise before visibly putting his hands back down by his sides. It kind of irks him how Jon seems to think Ryan will explode at any moment, like he has to soothe Ryan or whatever the fuck.
Jon clears his throat. “They just, uh, changed their web lay-out,” he says, striving to sound offhanded. And failing.
“Who?” Ryan asks. It’s a redundant question.
“You know.” Jon shrugs. “Spencer. And Brendon.”
“Oh.” Ryan pauses for a moment. The daylight from the window makes a white square on the floor, illuminating dust motes. He stares at them. “Well, good for them.”
“Yeah,” Jon says, looking insultingly heartened by his positive response. “Have you, um. Have you listened to the demo yet?”
“No,” Ryan says shortly.
Jon furrows his brow. “You should, man, it’s pretty good, and—“
“Why?” Ryan interrupts. “It’s not like we’re in the same band anymore. Does it really matter? We already know they’re going back to the Fever days, and frankly, that’s all I need to know.”
“They’re not duplicating Fever,” Jon says, frowning. “They’re just taking a step back from Pretty.Odd. And you know, for them, that’s probably a good thing, especially because Spencer—“
“Whatever. Can we start working already?” Ryan turns away from Jon pointedly and starts turning on the machines.
“You’re not going to be able to avoid their music forever,” Jon says, coming to stand behind him.
It’s weird for Jon to be pushing him like this. Ryan is pretty sure he doesn’t like it.
Jon lets out a sigh when Ryan doesn’t say anything. A few moments later, he ventures, “Do you ever wonder if we, you know. Made the wrong decision, or whatever?”
“Of course not,” Ryan says dismissively.
His throat feels a little dry, and he swallows several times, convulsively.
* * *
Their new lay-out is good. It’s great. Just Brendon and Spencer’s faces, happy and intent and giving no sign that Panic had ever been more than just the two of them.
Jesus Christ. What the fuck is he even doing?
Ryan pushes away from the computer deliberately, turning his head from the obnoxiously white Click to Play text gleaming on his monitor.
The light from his computer washes over his right arm, making it look fuzzy and cool and alien. Ryan wonders if Brendon’s growing out his stubble, wants to turn around to check again, and half-does, before he stops.
Silently, he reaches around to turn the monitor off without looking. The room’s dark again. Dark and quiet and warm. Ryan likes it better this way.
* * *
Red and green and blue and purple lights bombard him from all directions, swiping over him roughly and then fleeing to opposite corners of the room before slinking back again.
It kind of hurts.
Some loud, thumping music is playing in the background that Ryan is only vaguely registering in his ears. It’s very techno. Obnoxiously so. Which is why Ryan wanted to diverge from Fever in the first place, not—Ryan forcibly turns his thoughts elsewhere. This isn’t why he’s here.
There’s a girl in his lap, grinding. Ryan can feel himself getting half-hard, lazily, kind of indifferently. She’s alright. A blonde, but a fake one, if her roots are any indication. Her breasts are nice, sort of.
She leans forward to whisper in his ear, lip-glossed mouth sliding stickily over it. Ryan can’t make out what she’s saying, but he laughs anyway. It’s great. This is great. He’s got a girl in his lap and the coke is bound to kick in any minute, so.
He’s goddamn happy. Fuck Brendon and Spencer and fucking Panic at the fucking Disco (now with reintegrated exclamation point!). He laughs harder to himself, and reaches clumsily into his pocket to get out his phone.
I think I just LMFAOD’d, he types in shakily.
(But really, what he means is Fuck you. )
Recklessly, he grabs onto the girl’s blonde hair (her fake blonde hair) and kisses her deeply, tongues sliding slickly and familiarly.
She tastes like cheap alcohol and stomach-turning perfume.
Ryan deepens the kiss.
* * *
Ryan is doing fine, thank you very much. He’s actually quite busy right now, so if you could go away, that would be fantastic. And no, he isn’t high, goddammit.
Jon leaves without any further comment. Ryan waves a desultory middle finger at his receding back before returning to the task at hand. Namely, his photos. He presses delete again and again, almost giddy, as he sends picture after picture spinning off into the black hole of the computerized recycling bin.
Tour photos—delete. Recording photos—delete. Press photos—delete. Fan photos—delete.
Ryan’s not doing this because he cares, or anything. He’s just purging, is all. Can anyone really blame him if he doesn’t want Brendon’s stupid, grinning face lurking in the bowels of his hard drive?
It’s like a bad break-up, a voice says unbidden in his mind. Which, it is. A break-up, that is. But not a bad one, by any means. It was very amicable. Extremely good natured.
Ryan presses the delete button particularly viciously, accidentally causing the mouse to slide away from his index finger and over the edge of the table.
Goddamn technology.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Jon walking closer, phone outstretched.
“It’s for you,” Jon says, and then shoves it into Ryan’s hand.
Ryan glares at Jon—he was busy, for fuck’s sake—but puts the phone to his ear anyway.
“Who’s this?” he says.
“Hey, Ryan. Long time no talk, huh?”
Ryan nearly drops the phone. But he doesn’t. He does stomp on Jon’s foot, though. He bets Jon’s regretting wearing flip flops now.
“What do you want, Pete,” Ryan says finally.
“Just to talk,” Pete says.
“That’s a lie,” Ryan says, snorting.
“I was just wondering how you and Jon were coming along,” Pete continues, unperturbed. “Getting some good progress on your album, yeah?”
“It’s all right,” Ryan says. He folds his arms and tries not to care about Jon rolling his eyes. He’s not being sullen. He’s just being…reserved.
“Well. That’s good,” Pete says, and then he falls silent for a few moments. Ryan can vaguely hear a baby crying in the background. Bronx.
Suddenly, he feels guilty.
“How’s, um.” Ryan clears his throat. “How’s Bronx?”
“He’s doing good,” Pete says, exhaling. “Doing better at sleeping the whole night through. He’s not as fussy anymore. Takes after his mom in that respect, I guess.”
Ryan hums noncommittally.
“Ryan, you do realize—“ Pete says, before pausing for a second. “You do realize that this isn’t about sides, right? Like, Brendon and Spencer—“
“Of course I do,” Ryan snaps. “They’re on your label. And I’m not anymore. I’m not a fucking idiot, okay? I get how these things work.”
“I don’t think you do,” Pete mutters under his breath, but before Ryan can object to that, he rushes on, “I’d still like to help out, you know. Just because I’m not your boss anymore, or whatever, doesn’t mean that you get to completely ignore my calls.”
“I ignored your calls even when I was in your employment,” Ryan says, but only to be petulant.
“You know what I mean.” Pete sighs, sounding kind of tired. “I’m still your friend, dude. And having to be the emotionally mature person in a relationship is really getting to me, by the way.”
Ryan huffs out a reluctant laugh. “Okay, whatever. There’s really not much you can do right now, though, so…”
“Yeah, I get that. But, I mean, I just wanted to, like…reopen the channel of communication,” Pete says, and Ryan can practically see the stupid grin curling around his lips.
“The same goes for your ex-bandmates,” Pete says after a beat.
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Are you serious? You’re going to be the one to lecture me about this?”
“You can’t keep avoiding them forever,” Pete says, voice slightly on edge. “Because, like it or not, they are also your friends. Even if you seem to have forgotten the meaning of the word.”
“I’m not—“ Ryan says, frustrated, before stopping. He takes a breath and picks at his nail. “I just need a break from them, okay? It’s actually healthy to go a few weeks without talking to someone, you know.”
“This hasn’t been going on for a few weeks, Ryan,” Pete says evenly. “It’s been going on for the past few months. You and I both know that the split has nothing to do with it. Or, well—the split didn’t instigate it.”
“And what would you know about that, exactly?” Ryan says, voice low and hoarse because he thinks if he doesn’t whisper, he’ll start shouting. “You don’t know anything about the fucking situation. And it isn’t any of your business, anyway. Not anymore. We’re done. It’s over. Time to sweep up those broken dreams of making a few more million dollars from the complete version of Panic at the Disco.”
“You’re not being fair, Ryan.”
“And you’re being a hypocrite,” Ryan shoots back.
“I didn’t call you as your fucking ex-boss, Ryan, what the fuck! I’m calling as a fucking person who’s concerned about his friend, Jesus Christ. And honestly, you’re not exactly allaying any of the concerns I have, sorry to say,” Pete says, slipping back into his old, familiar sarcasm.
“Well, you’ve called, checked in, and annoyed the hell out of me, so you can check off your friend duties for the day,” Ryan says, sneering. “And maybe stop sticking your nose into things that don’t fucking concern you and that you know nothing about!”
“That I know nothing about? That’s funny, because I seem to remember this thing I have? I think it’s a band? Something like Fall Out Boy? Oh, sorry, but of course I can’t possibly understand your emo, because it’s not like Fall Out Boy’s ever had its share of troubles, right? ‘Scuse me.”
“It’s not the same,” Ryan says, hearing the whine in his voice and hating himself for it.
“We’ve all been through bumps,” Pete says more calmly. “You guys didn’t get over yours. Maybe you weren’t meant to. But that doesn’t mean you get to act like a spoiled brat about it.”
“I’m not!” Ryan says, outraged.
“Refusing to speak to Brendon and Spencer? Not answering the calls of anyone even remotely connected to Decaydance? And taking it all out on Jon, who’s probably a step away from just making a break for it?”
“I just don’t want to talk to them, is that really so difficult to understand?”
“Not even just a five-second call?” Pete says. “To Brendon, even, who’s less likely than Spencer to call you out for being a special little asshole.”
“I don’t want to talk to Brendon,” Ryan says emphatically and too quickly. He stops, runs his tongue over his teeth. “I just don’t want to deal…I mean, Brendon’s just—so much. Too much. You know how he is. He’s just one hundred percent, all the time.”
There’s a silence. Ryan worries his bottom lip.
“You know,” Pete says, suddenly switching to a more conversational tone of voice, “we’re kind of weird.”
“Um,” Ryan says, disoriented from the sudden subject change. “Okay. Thanks for telling me?”
“I mean…” Ryan can hear him chewing on something over the phone. “Like, our gigs. Both of us are lyricists. But we don’t primarily sing our own lyrics. Well, that is, you didn’t while you were with Panic.”
“Do you have a point you’re getting to?”
Pete hums, and Ryan knows that he’s shrugging. “It’s a pretty rocky relationship, isn’t it? With our singers. Our mouthpieces, if you will. Giving away our lyrics and hoping they’ll sing them right.”
Ryan makes a disgusted sound. “What Brendon and I have is—was,” he quickly corrects himself, “nothing like what you and Patrick have. You practically worship at his alter. I mean—it’s you and Patrick. Kind of a disgustingly perfect relationship.”
“Yeah, no,” Pete says, snorting without humor. “That’s definitely not true. The thing is…the relationship between a lyricist and a singer in the same band is kind of—really complicated.”
“Yeah, I got that,” Ryan says.
“Shut up for a minute,” Pete says mildly, and because Pete Wentz is still Pete Wentz to a little teenager somewhere in the depths of Ryan’s mind, he does. Even though this is stupid.
“I mean, it can’t be…too messy,” Pete continues slowly. “It has to be a clean system. No problematic emotions clogging things up and getting in the way. Because when that starts happening, the fights begin. There has to be more of a clean, neat transfer. You’re giving away a personal statement of yours, an expression of your thoughts, and you’re trusting someone else to channel that to the outside world without losing its original intent. So it just…it can’t get too messy.”
Pete pauses and slurps on something. Ryan stares through the window outside, seeing but not really registering the golden-green leaves tickling the glass.
“At some point,” Pete starts again, quieter, “you have to make a decision. You have to decide whether you want to let it get messy and deal with the consequences, or whether you’ll put the music ahead of it all.”
It sounds like Pete’s using the word “messy” as a euphemism for…something. Ryan rubs at his forehead.
“I don’t want to rush you when you get all vague and profound,” Ryan says dryly, “but what exactly does this have to do with me?”
“I’m saying,” Pete says slowly, “that I think what happened between you and Brendon was that…it got messy.”
“Thanks so much for informing me,” Ryan says impatiently.
“I’m not done yet,” Pete says with a slight edge. “It got messy, and both you and Brendon share the blame. Brendon wasn’t content on just being your mouthpiece. He needed to sing back at you, to respond to the words that you were putting in his mouth. He was more interested in connecting back to you than relaying all of it to the audience. There were just…too many feelings involved between you two.”
“Too many feelings?” Ryan says skeptically.
“Yes,” Pete says.
“What about you and Patrick? Don’t try to tell me that you guys don’t have too many feelings, or whatever. You’re best fucking friends.”
When Pete speaks again, he’s noticeably more subdued. “Patrick and I…yeah, we’re best friends. That doesn’t have—that doesn’t have too much to do with it. We decided a long time ago that we were going to put the music ahead of any, you know. Messy feelings.”
Ryan wants to object, to yell, to laugh at Pete over what he’s implying, but he can’t. Because he knows the way Pete looks at Patrick, sometimes, before he catches himself. They all know. But they also know the way Pete stares at Ashlee, and Bronx, and their beautiful little nursery.
It’s why Ryan thinks Pete’s so accepting of the insane fangirls on the internet. Because at least somewhere in the world, somewhere in cyberspace, Pete and Patrick is PeteandPatrick. And Pete just likes to think about how it exists, somewhere, in some people’s hearts.
“You still there, man?” Pete says, clearing his throat awkwardly.
Ryan pauses for a second before speaking. “Are you trying to tell me that Brendon and I have to make a decision over whether we value our music or our feelings more?” He tries to laugh, but it doesn’t—quite—come out.
“I’m saying,” Pete says quietly, “that by leaving the band, you’ve already made that decision.”
Ryan’s silent. He stares at his fingers, picks at his thumbnail over and over and over again.
Pete continues, “And you’re just too scared to admit it.”
* * *
The weather’s good, all full yellow sun and robin egg sky for miles. Ryan picks himself up, walks a few laps around the park with his shades on. No one takes any notice of him except for these two golden retrievers who came bounding up.
It’s… nice. But he feels kind of like a dumbass without Hobo there.
Frowning, he heaves himself up from the grassy spot under a tree he’d been sitting on, and walks back home. There’s a tree with overripe cherries along the way, and three blackberry tangles. Across the street, an old lady slowly gets her mail. Ryan takes off his sunglasses, polishes them, and then puts them back on.
His place is just as dark and vaguely dusty as it was when he left. He pulls open the blinds and switches on a few lights. It’s better, but the fluorescent lighting casts weird sallow shapes over his skin. Ryan turns off the lights again.
The house is completely silent, with little beams of light filtering through the dust and creating short, warm, friendly shadows. It’s quiet. And peaceful. No one arguing, yelling, trying to tell him how he’s supposed to feel.
Which is just how Ryan Ross likes it.
He’s sick and tired of confrontations complicating his life. Whatever the fuck Pete was trying to say with lyricists and singers and shit, Brendon is…Brendon is practically the definition of confrontational. He’s loud and he’s upfront and he’s honest to a fault.
And Ryan doesn’t want to deal with it anymore. Is it really too much, too selfish to want some fucking peace and quiet and simplicity? He’s spent his entire fucking life in confrontation after confrontation.
(“It’s your sixth fucking beer of the day and it’s not even noon!” Ryan screamed.
“So what? If I want to have a goddamn drink, I’ll have one!” His dad walked up to him, shoved his snarling, sweating face into Ryan’s. “I spend all week working my ass off to put food on the table and clothes on your body and giving you the fucking internet so you can do whatever the shit it is you’re doing on Life Journal. So you can shut up for once in your life, all right?”
“It’s Livejournal,” Ryan muttered.
“Do I look like I give a damn? Whatever faggy website you’re obsessed with.” He laughed hoarsely and took another swig of his beer.
“It’s not faggy, dumbass!” Ryan yelled, and then stopped, wide-eyed at his own daring.
“You shut the fuck up,” his dad said dangerously, looming over him again, before laughing when Ryan flinched.
“Whatever,” Ryan said, trying to straighten up again. “I’m going to Spencer’s. And don’t expect me back until tomorrow! You can find your own dinner!”
“Good fucking riddance,” his dad yelled after his back.)
(“Where the fuck were you?” Ryan asked angrily, mopping sweat up with a towel, before swearing at the eyeliner he accidentally rubbed off.
“No one called me!” Brent said lamely, but with a defensive, frustrated glint in his eyes.
“Who needs to fucking call someone to be at fucking soundcheck? Isn’t that like some kind of given when you’re in a band?” Ryan demanded.
“How am I supposed to know when no one fucking tells me anything anymore?” Brent shot back, looking sullen.
“Maybe we would if you made some kind of effort! You never want to be around us. How the hell are we supposed to tell you shit then?”
Brent stared at him for a long moment, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Whatever,” he finally said, voice barely shaking. “This is getting so fucking old.”
He walked off, ignoring Ryan’s yells for him to come back and fucking face the issue.
“Why am I the only person who fucking cares what happens to this band?” he asked his towel. It didn’t answer, and he threw it down onto the ground disgustedly.)
(“One more time,” Ryan said firmly, ignoring the look Spencer threw him.
“What the fuck?” Brendon said. “We’ve been here forever! And it sounds fine, Jesus Christ.”
“You could at least sound like you wanted to be singing the lyrics!” Ryan said, frustrated.
“I do sound like that! And I’m singing about fucking sugarcane and weathervanes! Not exactly some deep, profound shit.”
“It’s not supposed to be deep and angsty!” Ryan could feel his voice getting louder and the subsequent warning eyebrow raises Spencer kept shooting him, but seriously, fuck. “I just want you to sing it right.”
“Look, Ryan, you’re the only one here who isn’t happy with what we have,” Brendon said, voice going low and tight. “And I’m not going to let your stupid obsessive compulsive needs get in the way of me getting some fucking dinner.”
He brushed past Ryan roughly and walked quickly out the door.
“Ryan,” Spencer said, sounding bone-weary. He didn’t say anything else.
He didn’t need to.)
It’s stupid to keep dealing with this kind of shit when he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t need anything complicating his life that doesn’t need to be there, regarding Brendon or otherwise. So he isn’t. Ryan’s done with it. He’s really, truly done.
And it’s better for everyone fucking involved.
* * *
His phone buzzes with a new text.
U talk to bdon yet?
Ryan contemplates blocking all of Pete’s calls. It’s a beautiful, beautiful thought.
* * *
Suddenly, randomly, Ryan jolts awake. His eyes fly open and focus on the bland, white ceiling. He checks his clock. It’s three in the fucking morning.
Sighing, he drapes an arm over his eyes and lies there for a few minutes. The room is almost completely dark, with only a stray streetlamp sneaking light in around the blinds. Ryan counts his breaths as he takes them—inhale, exhale, one; inhale, exhale, two; inhale, exhale, three.
Without thinking about, he sits up and throws his blanket off of himself. He shuffles across the wood floor, refusing to think about where he’s going.
His hand moves the mouse mechanically, clicking and then typing and then—
Ryan closes his eyes slightly, breathes in. Breathes back out.
Brendon sings to him, “Oh, glory…”
Ryan blinks, and the music ends.
It’s not half bad.
* * *
Ryan wakes to some insistent knocking on his front door. Grumbling to himself, he shoves a shirt on and then goes to answer the door. It must be one of those freaking FedEx guys who don’t know when to quit and just go the fuck away.
He peers through the peephole.
It’s not a FedEx guy.
Ryan kind of wishes it was, now, though.
It’s like one of those instant lessons life sends you—all, be grateful for what it’s like now because it’s about to get a hell of a lot worse. Or, rather, be grateful for those annoying FedEx people because at least they’re not members of your ex-band.
Ryan contemplates this for a few minutes until Spencer shoves his eye right up to the other end of the peephole so that all Ryan can see is a gigantic blue eye. It’s a little freaky, to be honest.
“I know you’re fucking there, Ross,” Spencer says, not moving his eye.
“No, you don’t,” Ryan says, frowning, before scowling. Oops.
“Just open the fucking door, for fuck’s sake,” Spencer says impatiently. “We can do that or I can call Jon over here because I know that he has a fucking key.”
“Fucking fine,” Ryan mutters. He unlocks the door and wrenches it open. “Happy now?”
“It’s not like this was my idea,” Spencer says, frowning ferociously. “But Pete said he’d fire us if we didn’t talk to you already. And he’d fire you, too, if he could.”
“Trigger-happy little fucker,” Ryan murmurs. “Well, fine. You’ve woken me up, probably annoyed the hell out of my neighbors, and talked to me. Can we call it good?”
“Stop being such a jackass,” Brendon says from behind Spencer, which—shit. Ryan didn’t even realize he was there.
“Brendon,” he says, and then stops.
Spencer, apparently fed up, shoves him out of the way and marches to his kitchen. “You haven’t been answering any of our calls, asshole.”
“That’s my coffee,” Ryan says.
“Some fucking coffee is the least of what you owe me, Ross,” Spencer says, scowling even deeper, and sets the coffeemaker to percolate.
“Look,” Ryan says finally, “what is there to talk about? We used to be a band. And now we’re not. And you know what, stop acting like this is my fault, okay?” Ryan says, getting some steam going. “Don’t try to pretend like the drumlines in Pretty.Odd weren’t killing your fucking artistic soul or whatever when you played them! We all saw the faces you were making. This is good for you, for fuck’s sake. So stop complaining about i—“
“Don’t even try to make this about anything but yourself,” Spencer interrupts, voice low and angry. “And you can quit with the ‘oh, poor, self-sacrificing me’ routine while you’re at it.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Ryan says, lowering his volume too, because if this is how Spencer wants to do it, this is what he’ll fucking get. “Of course it’s not about me! It’s about our fucking musical differences and that tambourine you fucking hated and tried to kill on a daily basis—“
“I’m not talking about the band split, you fucking idiot!” Spencer throws up his hands in disgust. “I’m talking about the way you’ve become some sort of recluse who can’t even bother talking to his closest friends!”
“I don’t—I’ve just been busy, okay, I—“
“Bullshit,” Brendon says quietly. He’s leaning against the counter, lips set into a thin line.
He’d been quiet the entire time. So quiet that Ryan had almost forgotten he was there.
“You haven’t been talking to us because you don’t want to deal with us. It’s like you don’t even know how to deal with us outside of the context of Panic at the Disco.” Brendon’s eyes are dark and solemn. Ryan looks away uncomfortably.
“I just wanted some time alone. Just—writing music. I wanted some peace and quiet, you know?”
“You wanted peace and quiet. Right.” Spencer scoffs derisively.
“Don’t even fucking—“ Ryan is aware that he is yelling right now, but he can’t bring himself to stop. “You out of all people should know that I hate confrontations because of my…I just don’t want things to get messed up and complicated and fucked up! Jesus Christ, Spencer.”
“You are in such denial it’s almost funny,” Spencer says, curling his lip. “That’s why you brought Jon along with you, isn’t it? Jon, because he’s so fucking easy-going and mellow that he won’t stand up to you unless it’s absolutely fucking necessary. Jon, because he’s too much of a decent human being and a good friend to tell you what a shithead you’re being.”
“I brought Jon along because our musical tastes fucking mesh!” Ryan yells back. “Because I can actually have a good time writing music with him instead of fucking stressing out all the time!”
“Oh, and his personality wasn’t a bonus? You always fucking do this, Ryan,” Spencer says, looking frustrated.
“Do what? Be a rational fucking adult?”
Spencer laughs hollowly at that. “You tell yourself you don’t want complications, you don’t want confrontations, you don’t want any fucking excitement in your life and then you self-destruct when that actually happens! Because you itch when you haven’t got anyone to argue with, Ryan, we’ve all seen it. You just get bored so easily that when it’s not complicated, you make it fucking complicated!”
“I don’t—“ Ryan starts, but then he realizes he doesn’t know what he’s going to say, and then Spencer bowls over him anyway.
“You need everything to be bigger than life! What about that fucking Nothing Rhymes With Circus Tour? You needed all the works, the dancers, the costumes, the fucking make-up, oh my god. And then you make a complete 180 and go all out with that too, the paisley, the bowl cut, the hats with feathers!”
“And you ruined a completely good relationship,” Brendon says quietly, fiddling with his belt loop.
“What?” Ryan says, but only for appearance’s sake. He picks at his thumbnail and tries to will his voice to stay monotone.
“Keltie was pretty much the perfect girlfriend, but she was too safe for you, wasn’t she? Just wasn’t exciting enough. So you blew up the relationship in the showiest, loudest, most flamboyant way—on fucking Valentine’s Day.” Brendon shuts his mouth firmly after he stops talking, like if he doesn’t stop himself, he could continue for hours.
“So don’t even try to use peace and quiet as an excuse,” Spencer says, voice considerably more subdued after Ryan doesn’t do anything except open and close his mouth and swallow a few times.
Spencer wets his lips before continuing. “You’re just too scared to continue relationships that you think are doomed. And you need to be the one to break it off first.”
Behind them, the coffee machine pings once to signal the finished coffee. None of them moves.
“It’s like you’ve got a phobia of healthy relationships,” Brendon finally says, lips quirking slightly.
Ryan rolls his eyes and continues staring at the ground.
There’s the sound of a key turning in the lock—all of them flinch and turn around almost comically—and Jon pokes his head inside.
“Oh, hey, Jon,” Spencer says, face relaxing into a smile for the first time. “You’re just in time for the coffee.”
“Sweet,” Jon says easily, smiling back. “I thought so, anyway, my coffee radar was pinging like crazy.”
“One of the benefits left over from working at Starbucks?” Spencer quips.
“Totally. I can now sense coffee from up to twenty yards away,” Jon says, winking. He pauses and looks around the room, like he’s taking note of all their positions and strategizing accordingly.
Spencer’s standing by the coffeemaker, still looking slightly aggressive with his feet spread and his shoulders tense. Brendon stands by him with his shoulders hunched and his hand tapping a quick rhythm on the counter. Ryan’s standing a few feet away and still trying to melt into the ground.
Spencer follows Jon’s eyes to Ryan, and he starts frowning again. Brendon quickly steps in.
“Hey, guys, can you go grab some breakfast for us? I’m starving,” Brendon says with an only slightly forced sunny smile.
It’s a genius idea, and Ryan can already hear Spencer unloading on Jon as they walk down the stairs. It’ll be good for Spencer to vent. Hopefully, by the time they come back, Spencer will be ready to reclassify Ryan as a human being, rather than the scum of the earth.
“Are you okay?” Brendon asks Ryan, walking a few steps closer cautiously.
Ryan huffs out a small laugh. “Yeah, no, I’m just…I’m just processing,” he says.
And he is.
He doesn’t want to say that Spencer’s completely right, because he isn’t and also his head is swelled up enough as it is, but…Ryan thinks about his dark, empty house at night, about the walk in the park dogless, about the way his heart skipped a beat when he finally got over himself enough to listen to Oh Glory.
Ryan chews on his lip. “I’ve been kind of an asshole, haven’t I,” Ryan says quietly, eyebrows furrowing.
Brendon barks out a rough laugh. “Also incredibly slow and dense, but I think I can let that slide,” he says wryly.
Ryan lets the corners of his mouth turn up slightly and doesn’t bother objecting to Brendon’s words.
“You know…you know we’re always going to be your friends, right?” Brendon says slowly, carefully. “Because that’s not contingent on being in a fucking band together. And we’re not going to stop being your friends, whatever you feel about it.”
Ryan swallows and smiles ruefully. “Yeah, I think I get it now, thanks.”
Brendon rolls his eyes at him.
“And…I am sorry,” Ryan continues, twisting his index finger almost nervously. “For cutting you guys out. I mean, you’ve been, um…all right, yeah? These past few weeks?”
Brendon gives him a look. “I’ve been fine, Ryan. You know…” and he steps closer to him, close enough to bump shoulders gently.
“I know what?” Ryan asks.
“It’s actually you that I’ve been worried about,” Brendon says confidingly.
“Me?” Ryan says warily.
“Well, yeah. Haven’t you seen that twitter topic, #ryansacokehead?” Brendon asks innocently. “I’ve been thinking of staging an intervention.”
“Oh my god, you asshole,” Ryan says, and he hits Brendon with his hand, but Brendon snatches it and laces his fingers through, grinning with crinkled eyes and too many teeth.
So, yeah. It’s almost like old times. But it’s not, really.
It’s kind of…better.
End.
Feedback is always appreciated. :)
