Chapter Text
Brendon found the note at exactly three am the next day.
It was after a few final youtube tutorials, and several last touches on his slideshow presentation, that Spencer decided he was ready. It was all right and fun playing drums in the garage, fumbling with beats and rhythm, but he wanted to get a little more serious with it. And to do that, he needed lessons. Preferably with a private tutor that wouldn’t talk down to him, or force him to only play old songs. Surely Pete and Patrick could afford it—they just needed convincing. Thus, presentation.
He’d been working on this maybe a little longer than he should’ve. But that was how he did things now. Life was unpredictable, his family even more so. Getting things done meant rigorous planning and not being afraid to make do with what you had. It also meant stepping aside.
Spencer considered himself, well, not bland, but pretty darn normal compared to the people lived with. His problems paled in comparison. His struggles fell flat. So if when the time came to try and do something, he found himself alone in his room while a mini war raged outside, Spencer was fine with that. Really. It wasn’t anything new.
It’s for those reasons that Spencer wasn’t so surprised when his walk downstairs was interrupted by a sobbing Brendon, clutching a scrap of paper in his fist.
He set his computer on the ground. “Something wrong?”
“Everything,” Brendon choked out. The more he looked at Brendon’s face, the more worried Spencer got. It was all splotchy and red. Dotted with fingernail marks. “Everything is wrong. He’s gone, so is my sanity, and I just tried to make some toast and--”
Sooner or later Brendon was shaking in Spencer’s outstretched arms. “You’re stuttering again. Who’s ‘he’?”
“The toast came out absolutely burnt, Spence. Almost as dark as Ryan’s hair that one christmas. Cold, too. I got to it late, and it was cold as hell, my god. Basically stone. Maybe I’m cursed. First my parents abandon me, then Dallon abandons me, now the toast--”
The image of Dallon, stumbling out of Brendon’s room, flashed through Spencer’s mind. No one could’ve had all the puzzle pieces right then, but this was no great mystery. He felt like pushing Brendon out of his arms and down the stairs. “Dallon’s gone?”
“That's what I said.” Brendon sniffed. “I also said a few other things if you happened to be fucking listening.”
Dallon, walking away. Whispers behind doors. Gossip. Missing skirts. The paper in Brendon’s tight grip. Spencer’s hands reached out to take it—
“What? No!” Brendon jumped back. “That’s mine! You can’t have it! I hate you!”
“What are we in, kindergarten?” Spencer did his best impression of a glare.
Brendon wasn’t impressed. “You can’t see it! Ever!” His back was now against the soft beige wall, and his chattering teeth betrayed the angry look in his eyes. It was hard not to analyze the way his whole body was contradicting itself. Spencer swore against getting involved in too much sibling drama, but analyzing from afar was okay. Safe, even.
Then, of course, Jon popped up from behind a gold-plated display case. “I saw it,” he said with a familiar spaced-out drawl. “Real meaty stuff. Brendon basically no-homoed his soulmate. Heck, I’d be sad too.”
“Jon, I told you to stop censoring yourself,” Spencer said, all while cautiously approaching Brendon.
“Oh yeah. Sorry man. I’m all fricked up.”
The paper was getting more and more crumpled in Brendon’s half-white fist. Spencer reminded himself it’s stupid to be scared of your brothers. “Bren. Please. Let me see if I can help. That’s what I do.”
Silence. Spencer wasn't used to silence.
“Come on. Give me some credit--I’ve never made things worse.”
If Brendon noticed the resigned way Spencer said those words, he didn’t show it. Something behind his eyes settled, and with the utmost care the note was passed from hand to hand. For such a weighty object, Spencer took it in easily. It amounted to not much more than a few scribbles and a signed name. Clearly written with shaky fingers.
It also did little more than confirm what Spencer already knew. He folded it up, and looked Brendon right in the eyes. “You’re an idiot.”
“Damn, that’s a callout.” Jon tsked. “Can breadbin take the heat?
“Stop trying to give me nicknames Jon, they’re dumb and you’re addicted to weed.” Brendon crossed his arms.
“And you’re gay.” Jon blinked. “Like, what else is poppin?”
“He’s got you there,” Z said from a nearby doorway.
Spencer jumped. “When the fu--”
“Like,” Z started chewing, on what he assumed was gum. “Ten, fifteen minutes ago? Jon showed me the love note, so.”
“All I ever wanted--” Brendon started sobbing again, “--was some privacy in this giant ass house. And some non-burnt toast. And to not be attacked again and again for presenting my original thoughts.”
Seeing a certain look in Z’s eye, Spencer decided to step back. So did a still vaguely unaware Jon. Brendon didn’t realize until Z’s hand was digging into his shoulder. “Listen up you whiny little prick,” she said, her words backed up by a gravelly undertone. “I’m not going to sugarcoat shit here. Ryan, your brother, is in the hospital right now. Critical fucking condition. You know what that means, ‘critical’?”
Brendon swallowed. “W-well--”
“It means his frail little body is dealing with some real ass challenges, Brenny. If it weren’t for the simple fact that I’m not family, believe me, I’d be by his side right now. Because he’s my friend. I like him--I trust him. I don’t like you. Not in the slightest.” Throughout it all, she maintained an acid-red smile. “Still, while I’m here, I might as well do a little reality check. I’ve talked a bit with Dallon these past few days. I get why you fell for him. He’s tall, smart, not too self-absorbed. ”
There was a faint cough from down the hall, but it couldn’t have bothered anyone. Jon’s eyes were big as saucers. His mouth rhythmically opening and closing. “Miss Berg…” Spencer heard him whisper.
“He deserves someone who’ll be kind to him. Who won’t shit on his heart whenever their brain does a little fuck up.” Somehow, Brendon thought, it would be better if she were yelling.
Z saw the skin under her fingernails flush red. “And right now, Brendon? You’re not that. At all. You’re like the discount version of the discount version of that. So if you want your precious dally boy, you’re going to have to fucking improve, or else I will take that tall string bean on a road trip, and I will, believe me I will, find him another mans. Got it?”
“Yep.” Brendon’s throat felt dry.
“Good!” She released his shoulder from her grasp. Jon exhaled. “That’s all I wanted to say really. I’m gonna head over to the hospital where Ryan’s at. See if the nurses will give me another chance.”
And with the smallest of hand waves, Z was gone from their sight.
Not long after, Brendon was lying on the floor. Spencer knew better than to ask him to get up. He decided to walk away, and trust in Z’s words having had some effect on his younger brother. It had taken years of trying to coax out some remnant of a normal family for him to realize sometimes, it just wasn’t his place. A lot of times, it just wasn’t his place.
Dear Brendon,
Here is a letter you will never read. Because we’re not living together anymore, and also because I’m a coward. Not sure you care, but I’m back at my dad’s. He’s mad, but that’s nothing new. At least this time it’s understandable; I ran away. I ran away to you, another boy, because that’s the kind of person I wanted to be.
I’m not mad at you, by the way. I don’t think I can feel ‘mad’ anymore. Or whatever it is. Hate to be a typical teen, but it’s all whatever. You’re whatever. I’m whatever. We’re whatever.
Love,
Dallon
peterick_shitposts_owo just tweeted:
Guys….Dallon fucking LEFT Brendon’s house…...I’m having trouble coping honestly. I hope they’re alright. My little babey boys….
kelseywantschicken: @peterick_shitposts_owo do you think they’re breaking up???? :((
peterick_shitposts_owo: @kelseywantschicken probably :/...I might not be active for a bit. I’m dealing with exams, and then this on top of everything...it’s just too much. Peace and luv babes xx
Spencer thought it was only fitting he found Patrick hiding in the sun. Crouching in the one sunny place in the study. Slideshow forgotten, he decided a speech would have to do. Maybe Patrick would mistake his stricken expression as commitment to the craft.
He was stricken, after all. Basic familial bond was something that often did him a great deal of bad, and this morning so far had been no exception.
The second Patrick saw him, he cleared his throat. “Oh, Spence. Sweetie. I almost didn’t see you there.”
“Yeah. I, um, had something I wanted to ask you?”
“Oh!” Patrick’s mouth broke into a half-smile. “Sure! Sit right next to me, okay? I’ll get to it in a second. Let me show you this little thing first though.”
Spencer sat down. Now he saw there was a photo album open in Patrick’s lap. He did his best to hold back a groan.
Every once in a while Patrick got like this—lost in the past. Maybe it wasn’t terrible to reminisce every now and then, but Patrick always took it one step further. Buying perfumes that reminded him of their elementary school. Tracking down old teachers and babysitters just to talk. And of course, photos. Scrapbooks. Anything he could get his hands on and stare at.
And Spencer would never understand it. News articles, biographies, and song lyrics all said the same thing: the early years of him and his brother’s lives had been the hardest on Patrick. By all accounts they were awful memories. So why keep remembering them?
It wasn’t his place to argue though. So he let Patrick pull out a picture of a much younger Brendon, facing the camera, thoroughly covered in blue and yellow paint. “Look at this one,” Patrick sighed. “His hair’s almost green.”
“Prank Fridays,” Spencer supplied.
“Yes, exactly!” The photo went back in it’s slot. “We used to do that every--”
“Month.”
For that, he got a nudge to the shoulder. “Every month, yes. All members of the house against each other in ‘war.’ Team-ups optional. That was from when Pete tried to turn it into an impromptu game of paintball, and of course you boys got the worst of it.”
Normally, Pete was a shining beacon of chaos and confusion. He got worse during Prank Fridays--becoming merciless. He didn’t care what wreckage he wrought in his path to victory. Spencer had a very real kind of fear reserved for those days when Pete would escalate things even further, becoming a sort of prank demon.
“Yeah.”
“I wonder why we gave it up.”
“Ryan got third-degree burns from a stray fireball on Christmas Eve,” Spencer said slowly.
“Oh. Right.”
“He almost died.”
“I--I’m not denying that.”
Before Spencer could take advantage of the pause, and recite his speech, Pete’s heavily cloaked figure appeared in the doorway. “Speaking of Ryan, patty we’ve gotta go or we’ll miss our ride,” Pete said.
Patrick’s mind seemed to settle on the one thing it had been avoiding. The photo album fell to the floor with a small clunk. “Thank you so much for reminding me!”
“Wait, I--” Spencer struggled to remember the careful words he’d written on slides. In his stammer, Patrick moved quickly across the room.
“So, so sorry! Will be back soon!” Patrick blew a kiss as he walked away on Pete’s arm. “They let us visit him in shifts. Can’t miss ‘em. Be back soon, I promise. We will bring food.”
“A lot of food. You’ll get fat.”
“Peter!”
“Honey, you know I don’t mean it.”
Spencer counted to ten in his head. His parents left around eight, and at nine, his fists unclenched. The drums were waiting for him, back in the garage with a pair of noise-cancelling headphones.
Dear Brendon,
I keep telling myself it could be worse. That’s how I got through most everything before we met. A single stupid coping mechanism, and Matt. I never told you about him—you were too busy with other things—but he was my only friend for a while. ‘Friend’ is generous, of course. We texted occasionally, and he got me shitfaced on my sixteenth birthday.
For a long time I thought that was all the human connection I was gonna get. Happy is relative when you’re alone. You made me hate being alone.
Cheesy as it sounds, I thought I could be okay, hiding my feelings with you lying right next to me.
I thought we might work out.
Love,
Dallon
Deep in the uncanny valley of dreams and reality, George Ryan Ross Wentz felt a gum wrapper be pressed into his palm.
“Hey, hey.” Z flicked his forehead once, twice. “Wake up nerd. I didn’t come all this way for you to be asleep.”
Ryan’s eyes dutifully opened. His brain registered, bit by bit, the quirks of his surroundings. The way one white wall melded into the beeping machine, and the machine into the plastic curtain. Above all, there was her. Z. Staring down at him. Her normally braided hair falling down to her shoulders.
He blinked. “Hello.”
She forced his fingers to close around the gum. “Chew this. The doctors say they need proof your jaw is relaxing, or something.”
Not just a wrapper then. He looked down at his arm, only to see a mummy-like bandage wrapped around his wrist and elbow. It itched. “What—“
“They said it might be itchy there. On behalf of your immune system, I’m sorry. Now eat the gum m’dude.”
His hand lifted up, and he felt a kind of soreness in his limbs he’d never experienced before. But he knew she was there to explain. That made everything less scary—a friend by his side, ready to sort out the disorienting world. “Okay.”
Still lying on his back, Ryan managed to start chewing. Mint. Awful. But okay. She was being awfully patient with him.
A few more objects in his line of vision set into place. The thin blanket covering him was cold. The cords attached to him, spiky and bright. There was a coiled sensation building up in his stomach that made him wonder if he’d been given anything.
“I’m pretty sure your dads are coming to visit you soon, by the way. If you want I’ll say you just passed out, like, right before they came. And I’ll do the talking.”
“Mm.” Chewing, chewing.
Z tapped her fingers on the bed. “Okay, I’m already doing the talking, but you know what I mean.”
Too late Ryan realized he couldn’t spit the gum out anywhere. On the bright side, it didn’t hurt to twist his head, or stuff the gum on one side of his cheek. “I—I don’t know.”
“That’s chill too. We can flip a coin.” She casually eyed the loudest beeping machine. “I checked with a few nurses. They say you’ve been doing pretty well. That you have a frail ass body, but somehow you’re gonna survive. Which is great. It’s really great.”
He was going to live. Had that been in doubt?
As her voice grew softer, she stared harder at the machine. “You know I’d miss you, right? That you’re my friend?”
“Yeah.” Not even needing to explain, he reached for her hand. “Yeah, I do.”
“Good.” She took it.
Their hands swayed back and forth for a bit, intertwined. Ryan giggled, then put a bandaged hand over his mouth.
“Oh my god, you laughed!”
“No. I did not.” The hand fell away.
She couldn’t be deterred. “You did. And it’s the best. I get to meet a happy Ryan. A happy boy. This is the best.”
“I...don’t know.” Maybe it was the drugs. Or the needles. But there was a fog settling in over Ryan’s mind again. “He might need some time.”
“I’ll wait,” she said, easily.
Ryan shook his head, and the fog seemed to part a bit. Rushing in to take its place, an ache around his temples appeared just as quick. Along his body, there was a fair selection of surface-level scrapes. He knew those would be cared for with band-aids and lotion. The real reason he was in here had to do with the tubes near his stomach and legs, and the dull pain in his head. No good thinking about though. It just made everything worse.
Of course, by distracting himself from one thing, he ran right into another. He surprised himself by not immediately giving into fear. And making a choice. “I’m gonna talk to my dads. You don’t need to lie.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ll do that.”
“Okay.” Z held onto him. “I’m not leaving, anytime soon.”
And for the first time in his long and storied history of being in and out of hospitals, Ryan knew he could rely on someone. He almost fell asleep right there, with her gum in his mouth. But of course, that didn’t happen.
Pete shoved open the door with a bang. His face was triumphant, and hair less so. Patrick was right behind him. Ryan lifted himself up, and spat out the gum. It landed just inside the tiniest of tins, and he collapsed right back on the bed with a groan. Seconds later, he felt Pete and Patrick’s shadows next to him.
Z left without another word.
“Sweetie.” Patrick put a hand on his cheek. “You’re warm. They said you’re improving—we’re very proud of you.”
Pete sniffed. “I’m mad as hell for you scaring me into thinking you might die, you little shit.”
Ryan turned his head so he could only see Patrick, beaming down on him. “He’s a little confused right now,” Patrick said. “But that doesn’t matter.”
A pit in his chest. No drugs involved.
Ryan did the best throat-clearing he could muster. Because there was no going back now. Somehow being at the point of no return wasn’t so scary anymore though. “I have to tell you both something.”
They sat down on either side of him, eyes wide. “We’re all ears,” Pete said.
“A year ago—“ he forced the words out one syllable at a time “—I had that accident? With the broken glass?”
More than three hundred and sixty five days later, a pink splotch of a scar still graced his palm. It was an unfriendly reminder of something he wished he could forget.
Pete nodded.
“It wasn’t an accident.”
Patrick exhaled. “Oh, sweetness—“
“I did it to myself. At lunch, with the first thing I found. There were just these kids that followed me around, and I couldn’t escape them. Every day I couldn’t, couldn’t do anything. They never, they never hit, or tried to, but, they, they did other things.” Tumbling over his phrases, Ryan felt for a moment like he was running out of air. “Taunts. Rhymes. I couldn’t fight back, so.”
“You could’ve told us.” Pete’s hands tightened their grip on his blanket. Squeezed.
No. “I couldn’t,” Ryan answered, hoping he didn’t come off as too dumb. “They would keep finding me. Again and again. There wasn’t anyone at the school who was my friend, they made sure of it. I figured if I, if I left a mark—maybe people would listen. And do something.”
Pete didn’t stop getting more and more tense. “We would’ve listened to anything you said, Ryan. Anything.”
Feeling a slight salt sting at the corner of his mouth, Ryan realized he was crying. It didn’t stop him from staring at the tiles on the ceiling. Counting their grooves instead of honing in on Patrick’s warm hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t know that.”
“Jesus, kid—“
“I didn’t want you to be sad. You asked me to tell you it was an accidental scratch, and I didn’t want to disappoint—“
Ryan’s still-bruised torso was pulled into a tight hug by Pete’s arms. “You could never disappoint me,” Pete said shakily. “Ever, kid. Ever.”
For a moment Ryan stood still. The next, he faded into the hug. It was at an awkward angle but he still didn’t—couldn’t—mind. Not with those words in his head. Spinning around and around and somehow not making him sick. Making him smile. Again.
Patrick’s fingers traced his surface cuts, even as Pete refused to let go. “We love you, Ryan,” Patrick murmured. “You’re our kid. Our son. We’re not going to be mad at you if you talk too much or too little, if you feel awful one day, or if someone’s bothering you. We couldn’t—it’s not how we’re made.”
Ryan felt himself weaken. Another round of tears threatened to break free. “I don’t talk a lot. I don’t think I’m ever going to. I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine,” Pete said. Almost growled. “Swear to fucking god, that’s completely fine. I don’t mind.”
“But—“
Pete just pulled him closer. With a jolt, Ryan realized he was crying too. “I really fucked up, huh? I really fucked up. I don’t want you to feel like this. You’re my son. I love you. Always.”
For once, Ryan’s throat didn’t tighten up. “I love you too dad.”
“I’m not going to lie, I do miss your voice sometimes. But I’m not the boss of you, okay? No one is. And dear god, I would burn down the north and south poles to make you happy.” It had been a while since Ryan was clung to. He found it wasn’t bad. “Don’t ever think you need to apologize over that. Okay?”
“O-okay.”
Pete’s faint beard began scratching at Ryan’s neck. “We accept things that aren’t totally ‘normal’ in this family. Remember when Jon was a surprise dyslexic?”
“Well, yeah—“
“And that was just another thing about him. We accepted that because Jon was our family, and because he deserves to be accepted. The kitten you kept in your room in seventh grade, a little harder to work with, but we made do.”
Ryan’s eyes widened. “You know about Mabel?”
“Everyone knew about Mabel,” Patrick added. Then frowned. “Mabel had diarrhea. All over my favorite coffee table.”
“I’m sorr—“
“No!” Pete shouted. “Stop saying that. The cat was a delight.”
Ryan nodded.
“How about…” Patrick’s tone was soft, his touch softer. “We get pancakes? In a few hours, they say they might let you go on a little trip.”
Ryan nodded. “Yes please.”
“I’m buying.” Pete reluctantly released him. “Ryan, don’t you even think of holding any bit of your order back. I’ll fucking go into million dollar pancake debt for you, I don’t care.”
For the second time that day, Ryan giggled. “Thanks dad.”
Dear Brendon,
Ah, fuck it.
I miss you. So much. I hate it here I hate it here I hate it here. I hate you but not as much. Not nearly as much. I couldn’t hate you. Fuck. I’ll never hate you.
Love,
Dallon
wentzbae just tweeted:
my friend/fuck buddy @well_cunswealed who lives near Bren n Pete n the crew says she saw Dallon leave the house with a bunch of fuckin bruises on his face?? Don’t want this to be real, but wtf??? #weloveyoudallon
Sitting on a little black stool. Drumsticks in hand. This was usually when it happened—Spencer’s tutorial-laced brain would guide his hands to pick out some random rhythm, which he could build on for hours. The stress would leak out his pores and onto the kit. He would be alright.
Except now, he couldn’t do any of that. For whatever reason—probably that Pete and Patrick hadn’t been back with Ryan for a while—his brain couldn’t find a single beat. He was stuck. Trapped between the urge to do something and the relevant impossibility of the task.
His phone dinged.
From Pete: i am the worst father ever
Spencer shrugged out a reply. Maybe he’d stepped on a LEGO or something.
To Pete: no. You’re not. Where’s Ryan
From Pete: that’s the problem.
From Pete: he’s a victim of my terrible teachings/everything yk
From Pete: i’m buying him ice cream because patty says it goes good with pancakes
Spencer almost fell to the ground. Mystery fucking solved. Thank god.
To Pete: come home soon.
From Pete: pat might but i’m nwot
From Pete: *not
Seeing there was no point anymore (though still wondering what caused Pete to go into crisis mode) Spencer slipped the phone in his pocket. Patrick was coming home, probably. He had time to ask again. So he needed to ‘practice’.
He closed his eyes for just a moment, and—
“How did you know?”
—Sighed. Spencer turned around to see a much less bereft-looking Brendon, sitting right behind him. On the floor. He’d been there for god knows now long. Watching, probably. Waiting.
He just rolled with it. “What do you mean?”
“Throughout all of this…” Brendon’s voice was much smaller than he was used to hearing. “When I talked about, you know, possible feelings for guys...you never seemed surprised. How’d you know?”
The meaning of Brendon’s words was pretty clear around the edges. Spencer decided to push him anyway. “How’d I know that…?”
Brendon huffed. “That I maybe didn’t totally always like girls? You know. The possibility of it I guess..”
“Oh, that.” Spencer set his drumsticks aside. The garage was filled with random tools anyway, and they blended right in. “When you were younger, you were more open with me. You told me all the thoughts you had and...it wasn’t hard to figure stuff out.”
“I outed myself without knowing it?” Brendon’s face showed just a touch of lightness. “That’s on brand I guess.”
Spencer laughed. “Pretty much, yeah.”
“Well.” Brendon clicked his tongue. “What else do you know about me, Mr. Sleuth?”
Spencer pretended to deduce for a moment. “You’re really, really in love with him. You have been for a while.”
Brendon’s clicks stopped. “Who’s ‘him’?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
That was all it took for Brendon to begin to feel trapped. “And why do you think that?” He asked, his voice almost a whisper.
“I don’t think you would care this much if you didn’t love him. It’s only been about a day since he left, but you’ve been wandering this house looking lost for hours. You don’t know what to do with yourself. You don’t check the mirror anymore. And when Z implied you might not get him back, you fell to the ground.” Evidence. He saw, he observed, he remembered. Evidence of Brendon Urie falling in love.
New plan. When Brendon left the garage, he was going to call Patrick, beg for drum lessons like a man drowning, and not stop until he got them.
“We were always so distant. Even at the start,” Brendon said. Voice clear. “He had his secrets, I had mine. It didn’t matter because we weren’t that close. But I saw snapshots of him, in between everything. Little snapshots. And they made my day.”
“Little snapshots, huh?”
“Never claimed to be a poet, you dick.”
“You know—“ Spencer sighed. “Z spent some time with Dallon. She’s got a pretty good way of getting into people’s heads. She’ll probably help you with him if you can convince her. Granted she doesn’t really like you right now, but. Eh. Things change all the time.”
Brendon smiled up at him. “Thanks Spence.”
“No problem.”
“For everything. Past and present.”
“No problem.”
Dallon--
Hello imaginary Dally. I’ve got one goal from now on:
-getting you back
--Brendon :)