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There’s a certain sort of uncanny placidity when Ryan enters the room, leather jacket slung across his shoulders, Helena at his side. There are, in all fairness, at least fifty people here, because Brendon is forever thankful for everyone who might have done even the smallest thing for him, and Ryan remains convinced that if Zack had let him, Brendon would have invited every Panic! fan to the Fever anniversary. Really, the room isn’t unwelcoming, it’s not like anyone is intentionally ignoring him (yet) - it’s simply that there are more important things to attend to than Ryan Ross (as is usually the case). Regardless, Ryan has to shake off the overwhelming desire to turn tail and run. When he’d mentioned to Z that he was thinking about coming, she had, in her blunt way, said, “You’ll regret every second of it, Ross, and then you’ll drink yourself half-dead and come back home and sit on your porch until you pass out.”
Staring around the room, Ryan wonders why he didn’t listen to her. He ignores the voice in his head that knows exactly why.
Lips locking, breath trembling, and then all of a sudden Brendon’s on his knees, a mischievous look on his face, and God, Ryan loves him. He loves him there, loves him with his head on his shoulder, loves him when there’s two guitars between them and the music making it work. He won’t ever say that, not out loud, will never be able to tell Brendon how he feels to his face, but somehow he thinks Brendon might be catching on anyways.
His pants are down his thighs before he can quite process that Brendon Boyd Urie is disrobing him, and then he’s got a hand in his lead singer’s hair, as perfect lips wrap around his cock and suck.
Somewhere between Brendon licking from base to tip and Ryan crying out as he comes, there is a moment of clarity where he realizes Brendon will never love him back.
He’s got a flask with him, which makes him feel less like a burgeoning alcoholic and more like one in denial, but he can’t ignore the sanctity of whiskey burning down his throat and dulling the way his stomach turns with every step he takes. Standing at the sink in the men’s room, he feels better looking in the mirror and seeing his lips wet from the bottle, takes comfort in the fact that if he has to do this, at least he can do it with a slight buzz loosening his lips and keeping him together. Helena watches him return from the bathroom with judgemental eyes, but hey, they adopted a dog together, and he’s watched her subsist off of cigarettes and packs of gum before, and she met him while he was fucking hammered, so really, she should have known this was what she was getting into when she started dating a has-been rock star.
Helena dressed up for this, her dress cost well over a thousand dollars, and her heels are higher than the Eiffel Tower - if she weren’t a model, Ryan would doubt her ability to walk around in the damn things. Ryan, meanwhile, has come semi-formal, having bothered to wash and comb his hair, shave off the unkempt mess of a beard that had grown out of neglect, and putting on the black slacks (with accentuating off-white pinstripes, woah) in memory of better days, even if they are a size too small now and feel like a corset around his hips, molding him into a form that doesn’t suit him anymore.
Across the floor, Brendon has appeared, with Sarah at his side, and the two of them are similarly semi-formal, but the way they look at each other, they might as well be at their own wedding. Brendon gazes at her like he’s just realized how absolutely gorgeous his wife is, and she looks at him like she knows a secret about his soul that not even Brendon himself knows. It’s likely that both are true; were Ryan married to Sarah, he thinks he’d find a new reason to be in love with her every day, and anyone who gets close enough to Brendon knows that you start to notice things about him that never quite make it to the surface when you’re around other people. Ryan used to know those sorts of things about him, but they haven’t looked each other in the eye in six years, haven’t really known each other like that in seven, and he is no longer on the receiving end of whispers at midnight that tell him about the stars and the sun and the moon and all the things they couldn’t do to compare to Ryan Ross.
Ryan keeps forgetting that that love wasn’t romantic on both sides, maybe because he so desperately wanted it to be. Really, that’s what made him hate Sarah when they first met - desperation, jealousy. Because I want to be in your place so badly that I would rip out my own heart and put it on a plate for this man translated to, “What’s the big deal? She’s just another crazy emo fangirl who happened to get picked up by a half-decent bassist.” Ryan thinks maybe that was one of the first times Brendon hated him. Truly hated him, not just a glimmer of dislike shining through the veneer of a perfect friendship. Although he knows that hatred’s died. Now, he’s pretty sure neither Brendon nor Sarah cares about him in even a remote way.
Of one thing he is absolutely certain: Brendon and Ryan, they were a glass house, it cracked and fell apart, and now Ryan’s got some sliver of starved hope wondering if this invitation is the first step to putting it back together. Wishful thinking, but it’s most of the reason Ryan hasn’t washed down the little white pills in his wallet with the rest of the whiskey in his jacket pocket.
They’re fighting again, him and Brendon. Fighting like children, because they are, they so are, and it’s taken a while to sink in, but it finally is. Years late, they’re realizing that they got into this way too young, that it’s destroying them, that they want it anyways. Years late, Ryan is realizing he’s bisexual, because somehow that didn’t register when he started dreaming about kissing Brendon instead of a wide-eyed female fan around their age. Years late, Jon and Spencer are giving up on trying to stop the fistfights. Now, they just watch, with disbelieving expressions, because somehow Brendon and Ryan went from making out on every available surface and sleeping in the same bunk, to beating each other up with poison words and rough fists, in the blink of an eye.
Ryan spits out something cruel and unfair, Brendon’s hand smacks across his cheek, a sharp, angry sound paired with a growl. Ryan tackles him, Brendon makes a remark about his father, and within five minutes it’s over, Brendon has said something that’s gone too far, Ryan has bruised his chest with bony fists, and they retreat to lick their respective wounds. Again and again, a cycle of fighting and crying and forgiving and the torturous ambivalence of the entire situation.
Ryan’s a bookish man, and at some point he’s reading Romeo and Juliet out of sheer boredom, and if he starts calling his relationship with Brendon “brawling love” in his head, well, no one has to know.
“Hey,” Jon murmurs, coming up behind him, and Ryan doesn’t startle. That’s the kind of effect Walker has on you - calm as still water, an easy, slow tone that makes the world shake a little less. Ryan turns, their eyes meet, and they embrace wordlessly, pulling each other close and ignoring the sound of camera shutters when a few journalists notice, because they’ve been apart for a long time, and while The Young Veins is a dead project, there’s still a part of Ryan that he left with this man. A good part of him, something that made him tick the more in the way that normal people do.
“Jon, it’s been a while,” He says, and it’s the most natural happiness he’s been able to produce tonight in spite of the caustic gyrations of his stomach. Jon returns it, arm not leaving Ryan’s shoulder, a support beam for him to hang off of, because in the ten seconds that they’ve been reintroduced to one another, Jon has already assessed that Ryan needs some semblance of stability in this moment. Ryan knows he sees the flask at his hip, and one of the things he loves most about Jon is this - his silence. He won’t attack Ryan now, not when he’s like this. Spencer would, Brendon would, back when the four of them still truly mattered to one another. Spencer would have cornered him in a room and forced it out of him like an angry mother. Brendon would have struck him when he was weak, without mercy, when he was alone and drunk and his stomach acid was doing pirouettes around his esophagus. But Jon will wait until Ryan’s gone home and rested, until he wakes up tomorrow and finds a text asking him out to brunch, or something equally calm and low-stress. And then he’ll ask all the right questions, and Ryan will spill his guts and leave wondering how Jon always gets him.
Baby, seasons change, but people don’t, Ryan thinks acerbically, but out loud, he says, “How you doing, man?”
Jon shrugs. “Making music, raising a kid, the works. You?”
Ryan tries for the same nonchalance, “Working on some stuff, having fun, adopting dogs and attending parties as the estranged ex-member of a band, what I’ve been doing for the past six years.” He knows that Jon’s hearing, “Not finishing projects, developing serious and potentially debilitating addictions, making bad life decisions in a casual relationship, torturing myself,” because Jon can translate the Ross code, he hears the reality behind the seemingly flawless lies.
They stand, discussing irrelevant things like the weather in Vegas, new guitar models, and indie records coming out in the next year, until Ryan’s stomach has calmed from hurricane to thunderstorm. Then, he rights himself, bids Jon a farewell, and goes to find Spencer, so he can lie to his face about his life and hate how Spencer doesn’t see through it like he used to.
Pete is sitting across from him in the dressing room, a stormy expression on his face, and Ryan knows he’s fucked up big time. Brendon has already fled the scene, easily cowed by the wrath of an enraged manager. Pete had walked in on them, and the room had burst into a flurry of motion, the rack of stage clothes falling to the floor and jostling the leg of Ryan’s dresser, the make up rolling off of it and crashing against the ground, as Brendon jumped away from Ryan, trying to pull his clothes on, blathering half-formed apologies as he dashed out the door. Ryan isn’t sure whether they were for Ryan or Pete, but he presumes it was Pete. Brendon rarely apologizes to him anymore - when they’re not fighting, they’re fucking, and if they’re not doing either of those things, Ryan is lying on the ground hating the way his heart beats too fast around his best friend.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Ryan.” Pete says quietly, and that is perhaps the most intimidating part of this scenario. Pete vocalizes in only one manner, and it is LOUDLY. Pete’s inside voice is everyone else’s outside voice, and for him to be speaking so gently means that Ryan has done something unforgivable.
"Rule #3: Don’t fuck band members. Don’t fall in love with them. Don’t even think about it because nothing good ever comes from it."
Ryan has broken a fundamental philosophy of Pete’s teachings, has been breaking them for a long time, now, and it occurs to him now that he feels more shame about disobeying a man who is only eight years older than him than any semblance of guilt he’d ever felt about crossing his father as a child. In a way, Pete Wentz has become his father, which is disturbing because Pete is not dad material. Pete introduced Ryan to cocaine. Pete introduced them to fuck-and-go tactics with groupies, had catapulted them into the limelight with barely a pep talk to run the basics by them. But Pete is his father, his Professor in Punk Rock 101, and for all that Pete has fucked up his life and the lives of those around him, he’s also probably the only reason Ryan hasn’t completely lost his head to anxiety in this mess.
“You did it first.” Ryan replies, and it’s a childish move, but damn it, Ryan is a child, he’s been a child since he sent Pete his demo, he’s been a child since he turned to Spence and said they should start a band. Ryan was never ready for all this. He still isn’t, and now he’s trapped, and in love with his lead singer, and he’s never wanted to die more than he does right now, with Pete staring at him like he killed Patrick.
Pete’s expression grows more thunderous as he snaps back, “That’s different and you fucking know it. Mikey wasn’t in my band. Sleeping with the lead singer has never worked for anyone, ask Frank.”
“Wait, Frank slept with-”
“Don’t try to distract me, Ross, you fucked up and you know it.” Pete cuts him off, and they sit in a brooding, frustrated silence. Ryan pretends he doesn’t know that there’s pity in Pete’s gaze, nor the reason why it’s there. Pete’s angry, but he’s also worried. Pete did this in 2005, and he might say it’s different, but really, it isn’t, not the way he’s trying to say it is. They both fell in love with someone they won’t be able to live happily ever after with, and they’re both running away from it, regretting every second, writing it down and turning it into something pretty and simplistic and in no way representative of just how badly they’ve managed to ruin themselves.
“Students become their mentors.” He murmurs quietly, and Pete grunts in agreement.
He feels a cool hand on the back of his neck and for a second he gets his hopes up, but it’s just Helena. Helena, who’s definitely had something to drink since she got here, who’s blowing cigarette smoke in his face and laughing when he coughs harshly, the little cancer cloud choking him for a moment.
“Hey,” He mumbles tersely, looking out at the parking lot. He’d slipped away from Spencer and Linda to smoke and calm his nerves, because around the time he’d said hello, his stomach had started whirling like a tempest and he’d started shaking. He knew enough about panic attacks to not draw out the small talk and excuse himself not too long after, feeling Spencer’s guilty gaze on him. There’s still a residual tremble in his hands, his heart tight and uncomfortable in his chest, like all his ribs have shrunk to squeeze against it. His stomach spirals as he tries to grasp his bearings, fresh air and tobacco mingling in his lungs as a two-kick sedative. He’d barely been able to get through a conversation with his once best friend. He’s the biggest embarrassment at this party and he fucking knows it.
Helena pouts, too distracted by the party (and now that he’s really looking at her, possibly too high) to notice just how close to freaking out he is. “You left me in there with them.” She murmurs, coming in closer, nuzzling her nose against his jaw. He doesn’t respond, because it’s not really an accusation. Helena’s outgoing as hell, she doesn’t need him to be her back-up. She’s always been the enthusiastic one in the group, the first to make new friends at a party and to introduce herself to the most intimidating crowd with a confident smile. She drops her cigarette now, stamping it out quickly beneath her heel, and presses a kiss to his cheek.
“I’ll be with Linda and Spencer, okay? Come find me if you need me.” She says, more affectionately this time, and he apologizes in his head for assuming she was as oblivious to the nightmare he was living as some of their friends were.
They bought a dog together, she doesn’t hate him. He’s made the mistake of assuming that before, and now he’s supposed to be in the same room as those people, and it’s worse now, because they don’t hate him, they just don’t give a shit.
He takes another drag and tries not to think. His eyes are starting to sting and there’s a bubble in his throat, and he’s just not that kind of girl. After a moment’s debate as to whether he’ll look like a total fool or not, he sits down on the gravel, ruining the seat of his pants with the dust and grounding himself so that he doesn’t collapse.
He thinks about how he hasn’t spoken to Brendon all night, not even in passing. He thinks about how much he hates that that was all he’d really wanted to do the entire time.
“I don’t love you,” Ryan lies sternly, staring Brendon in the eye. “I don’t, don’t be so fucking full of yourself, Bren. I don’t love you like that and you don’t have to worry about that. We’re just friends.”
“Friends who fuck.” Spencer mutters in the background, and Ryan ignores him steadfastly, because as this bus vaults down the road at 70 miles per hour, he needs to convince Brendon that Pete’s wrong and that everything’s fine. He needs to keep his lead singer on his side.
Brendon looks at him uncertainly, glancing at Spencer and then back. Ryan continues to stare him down, fists balled tight against the plastic table that separates their booths. On one side, Ryan, on the other, Brendon, and on the seat attached to the other wall of the bus, Spencer and Jon, looking tired and, in Spencer’s case, bitter.
Ryan watches his singer take a deep breath to announce his verdict, and tenses.
Ross.” Ryan startles awake, eyes flying open. Above him, the starry sky, and Brendon Urie.
The first thing Ryan notices is, of course, how fucking amazing Brendon looks. His hair is neat and clean and brushed, his face clear and bright, a puzzled expression on his face. He’s wearing the new getup, the red satin and high collared black shirt. With a galaxy as his backdrop, Brendon looks nothing short of celestial.
The second thing Ryan notices is that he’s lying on the ground. Not sitting, as he had been what he swears was a minute ago, but rather his head is in the gravel and he can kind of feel the drool on his face.
He fell asleep. At a party. A press party that actually mattered.
“Fuck.” He says loudly, and Brendon stares at him silently for another moment before nodding and replying, “Fuck.”
They stay silent for another moment, and then move at the same time. Ryan starts to sit up while Brendon leans down to help him and their foreheads collide and they burst apart like a blown fuse. Ryan gets up, rubbing his head, and looks at Brendon, who’s cradling his jaw in a similar manner. The silence returns, and they stand there, eyes locked, mildly injured, the air heavy with expectation.
“Well, uh,” Brendon says, a flicker of a smile on his face, mostly weighed down with shame and discomfort (Ryan knows why and he’s not going to think about it right now), “Hi, Ryan, just came out here to say that. Uh, your girlfriend, Helena, she said you’d be out here - also apparently your dog bit Dan? I didn’t know you’d gotten a dog.”
“Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t know a lot of things about me,” Ryan snips at him, and no, no, no this is not how he was supposed to greet him. They were supposed to be civil and careful and maybe Ryan would say he missed him and that it would be nice to catch up some time and then he’d leave and Brendon would stare after longingly, or something. But instead Brendon looks perturbed and slightly wounded, and Ryan’s being an asshole, like they’re just picking up where they left off in 2009.
“Um,” Brendon says, clearly trying to find a way to navigate the situation, and Ryan makes a conscious effort to not be a dick, which is something he has only ever been capable of doing when Brendon is involved in the equation, and even then with varied success rates.
“Sorry, that was rude - yeah, we got a dog. And Dan probably pissed her off first, I’m sure he deserved it. I’ll tell her not to worry about it.” He laughs, and even if it is awkward and stilted, that’s already a hundred times better. This is better.
He has to tell himself that it’s better.
Brendon smiles back, unsure and blatantly uncomfortable, and Ryan holds out a hand, which he takes stiffly. Their hands slide against one another and they both pull away quickly, the physical contact alien and unpleasant.
“I, uh,” Brendon stutters, “I have to get back to Sarah, for the uh, the press bullshit, but we should talk sometime, alright? You weren’t wrong, I don’t know what’s going on with you anymore. It’d be nice to catch up, man.” The smile is genuine, but still not joyful or longing. Brendon still doesn’t love him the way he does. Ryan’s not sure why he expected different.
“Yeah, I’ll talk to you later.” Ryan responds, forcing a little conviction into his tone, trying to sound like a human for once. He waves, a gesture aborted halfway through and sealed with a crooked, insincere smile, and watches Brendon walk away.
As soon as Brendon’s back inside, he runs around the side of the building and vomits all over the bushes. He pours out all the sick that’s been burrowing deep inside him during the week leading up to the anniversary, and it’s like he’s emptying himself of all the things he’s thought about, because when he stops, the taste of bile sour and warm in his mouth, his mind is beautifully empty.
He doesn’t bother saying goodbye to anyone while he collects Helena, who makes him clean up quickly in the men’s bathroom - “You’re covered in dust and your breath smells like stomach acid, at least wash your mouth out.” They leave after she says goodbye to a few people she has turned into her loving admirers in the three hours they’ve been here, and he sits in the passenger seat, her hand wound up in his hair sympathetically as she drives them home. Even high and drunk, Helena’s vision is probably clearer than his when he has tears blurring his eyes, making everything bleed together. The world is too bright, and the space behind his temples is starting to pound, and Ryan just wants to be home, asleep, alone.
“Just friends.” Brendon declares, beaming as he unknowingly saves the room from earth-shattering heartbreak. Ryan grins back as jovially as he can muster, and when the boy retires to his bunk, Spencer slides in next to Ryan. They sit in silence as all the tension goes out of Ryan’s body, because he’s won, for now, Brendon hasn’t left him yet.
“That boy is gonna be the death of you.” Spencer says, not unlovingly, because since this tour started, Spencer and Brendon have been getting closer and closer, and Ryan and Spencer are losing their mojo. Ryan doesn’t want to spill all his secrets, and Spencer doesn’t want to hear them.
“There was a time when I’d disagree with you,” Ryan answers quietly into the table, “But you’re probably right.”