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❝ Parlez vous, or something like that
Le velo pour deux or something like that
And that’s what I’ll say to get you to ride away with me
— Le Velo Pour Deux, The Brobecks (2009)
I.
In music, you are expected to do one thing and one thing only with the limited amount of time you have before your inevitable decay: perform.
Or so they have you think. In reality, it’s a cock-sucking industry where men twice your age (Pete Wentz, almost always Pete Wentz,) exploit you for your voice, or so they have you think, because before you know it you’re curled over the tour bus toilet with your fingers down your throat, or you’re passing out between acts because you haven’t eaten a proper meal in days.
The magazines will reward you or criticize you on your music, or so you think, but soon it’s about the drugs you do, the men you may or may not sleep with (okay, it was a few times, who hasn’t fucked their best friend?), Pete Wentz, always Pete Wentz,
And, most importantly, the weight. A perfect 100 pounds, always. Never dipping lower—no, he’d be too skinny then—but never spilling over, either.
And it was fine, Ryan was fine, he had it under control. He could perform on stage with Jon, he didn’t need Brendon to sing his words or Spencer to play behind him, he was fine, and he had a girlfriend and he was doing fuckin’ great, no need to worry about him, nope.
So maybe all he’s had to eat in the last few days consists of whatever Cassie brought to Jon in the studio, maybe he’s done way too much cocaine and drunken way too much booze and, well, fuck, how could he eat anything else when alcohol had so many calories?
He didn’t care how much he weighed. It wasn’t about that, it was about the control. He could control his life, keep himself together even, if he could keep that pretty little number right where it needed to be, if he could keep his stomach empty and clean.
And it’s all the validation he needs when Brend—when Z—runs her hands over his ribs.
It’s all the validation he needs when the magazines comment on the way he’s grown into his body.
And it’s a shock to his system, the biggest fuckin’ wakeup call there is, when he notices little habits of his own start to appear in those that he loves because, really, it’s never a good thing to be like Ryan Ross, even he was aware of that.
So when Z Berg comes home too late for meals, pushes food around her plate strategically, disappears into bathrooms too early after meals, Ryan knows.
He knows, he knows, he knows, and suddenly it doesn’t feel like he has much control anymore, because the knowledge that Z, his Z, could ever think she was anything short of fuckin’ perfect, filled him with a sense of dread.
He didn’t know to fix that.
So he didn’t. Easy. Problem solved.
It’d go away if he ignored it, surely. Z knew how to take care of herself, c'est la vie and all that, right?
Whatever the fuck that means.
II.
If you compartmentalize something for long enough, it eventually gets so wound up it comes back and punches you, pulls the rug from underneath you, knocking the breath out of you when you least expect it.
This has been the case for years now. Ryan didn’t work well under stress and, as it turns out, all he’s ever under is… well, aside from Z Berg (Haha), a whole lot of stress.
He likes to think he’s funny, his inner-monologue cracks him up, but he’s reminded of all the times nobody fucking laughed, so his smile fades real quick.
It was never really funny to begin with, not when Z is so shaky and so pale pressed against him, rubbing her hands over his ribs, his hip bones…
She wasn’t built like him. Naturally, of course, women and men, obvious biological differences, he wasn’t a fucking idiot, but she wasn’t as skinny as other girls he’d been with.
Nor did her hip bones jut out anywhere near as much as Brendon’s—all ass and a sexy, skinny waist that one was—but she was fucking perfect in a way none of his other partners had been.
She had just the right amount of skin over her bones, the kind she fit into perfectly, and he didn’t mind saying—okay, thinking—that she had the perfect rack.
Misogynistic bullshit, sue him, he knew Z was worth more than her near-perfect tits and her definitely perfect body, but it was hard to think of much else when he wasn’t allowed to take her shirt off. At the end of the day, he really was just a man.
And, okay, look, maybe he was a little selfish. But he wanted a quick fuck, something to get his body to relax so he didn’t kill John in the studio, and now he was once again faced with these quirks that shouldn’t have been obvious to him, but were, and what was he even supposed to say? ‘Hey, I know you have an eating disorder, I don’t care, take off your shirt and let me fuck you?’ Yeah, that was a real good one.
Ryan sighs, not meaning to. He got wrapped in himself, always, even on stage.
Especially on stage.
He tucks a piece of hair behind Z’s ear, she’d been growing it out lately.
Ryan wondered briefly how long that would last, usually not very long with her.
“Hey,” He says. It was a start, he was winging the fuck out of this.
“Hi.” She responds, all sleepy, soft smiles. Ryan kisses her forehead, he hadn’t meant to wake her, but duty calls, and if he could get morning sex, hey, he wasn’t going to complain.
Ryan isn’t sure where to go from here. An attack in the morning was no good, and, of course, that’s exactly what she’d take it as: an attack.
“You’re so pretty,” He murmurs against her skin, kissing wherever his lips could reach.
“You’re so handsome,” She returns.
Naturally, the next step is to undress her, caress her lovingly, before she removes his clothes and reminds him she doesn’t necessarily need to be treated like she was porcelain.
He didn’t do it on purpose. He didn’t know how else to take care of something so precious, he couldn’t fuck this one up.
He had a feeling he’d fuck it up anyway.
“...You know your body’s fuckin’ perfect, yeah?” Ryan says, running his hands hesitantly under her shirt, unsure if she would get mad at him or not.
It was too early for anger; they should be curled up together, whispering naughty things into each other’s ears, followed by soft laughs.
His life was way too complicated.
“You tell me that all the time.” She says, her hands coming down to still Ryan’s.
“And you know your life is like, the most put together out of anyone I’ve ever met, right?”
“Where is this going, Ryan?”
“Nowhere.” Ryan says defensively. “It’s going nowhere. Les amours aux amours ressemblent c’était hier que je t’ai dit nous dormirons ensemble, or something like that.”
“What’s that mean?” She asks.
“It’s French, French is always sexy.”
“Not what I asked.”
“I don’t know what it means, I memorized it from some girl we met on tour. Brendon slept with her.” Yeah, good one, bring up the ex-boyfriend-slash-ex-best-friend-slash-ex-band-member when you’re half hard against your current girlfriend-slash-best-friend-slash-co-worker.
“French is always sexy.” She concedes, kissing him.
Oh, thank god. Thank fucking god and everything above, below, and around him that Z Berg happens to be the coolest fuckin’ chick he’d ever met.
“Elle est retrouvée. Quoi? L’Éternité.”
“What’s that mean?” Ryan asks.
“It’s French.” She says, smirking. “French is always sexy.”
Touche. Hey, if it turned him on, it turned him on.
III.
Ryan can’t remember the last time he’s really been on a date.
Brendon was showy, sure, but Ryan hadn’t been very keen on being shown-off in public, per-se.
Ryan silently cursed himself for always finding his thoughts wandering to Brendon, months later, with the most perfect girl sitting across from him, or laying under him, or, better yet, laying on top of him.
It’s not like he still had feelings for Brendon, those had died a long time ago by now, fizzling out and settling into his bones until nothing was left but a dull feeling of doubt he couldn’t quite shake.
Z liked dates, Ryan knew that. Most girls did.
Most girls hardly ate on first dates, which was fine, Ryan had been with enough people in the industry to know how that went.
But Z wasn’t ‘other girls’, and this wasn’t a first date, and this wasn’t how that was supposed to be. The tension between them grew increasingly more hard to ignore, and Ryan knows.
He knows this is just the calm before the storm, he knows the fights will happen, he knows he has once again revealed that he is, fundamentally, unloveable in this capacity, and he knows the end is coming. Quickly, with no regard for how it would crash his life.
“Eat more,” Z says, stabbing a fancy looking mushroom, morose, really, from her plate onto Ryan’s. It’s a slick move, but Ryan knows better. “You’re so skinny these days.”
And you’re not?
Ryan just rolls his eyes. “I eat more than you do.”
Low blow, he knows, and not at all what either of them were thinking. Because, at some point, their habits had turned into a competition of sorts, as most things did with them. Who could last the longest in sex (Ryan, Brendon hadn’t been completely useless), who looked the best in pink (truce), who could choke back the most shots (Z), and, now, who could lose the most weight without ringing any real alarm bells?
Ryan was 98 pounds, maybe, give or take depending on the night. He watched the numbers wax and wane each night now.
Z is unimpressed, like it’s something she already knew. Of course he eats more than her, he’s a man, he ought to. Of course he eats more than her, he’s skinny enough as is, etc. etc.
None of these remarks come, of course, they were in a public setting. Ryan had pushed it, it’d be another thing for Z to stow away for one of their fights.
Stupid, petty squabbles, really. Vivre et laisser mourir, live and let die, The Beatles said it, so he knows it’s worth living by and not just some hoighty toighty French bullshit.
Ryan eats the mushroom, he doesn’t really want to fight tonight. It’s covered in some fancy wine-based sauce, altogether not bad at all.
He twirls a piece of pasta off of his plate. Z always ordered for him, claiming he had a penchant for ordering the most juvenile thing on the menu at the most high-end places. He lays the pile on Z’s plate, a peace offering, and takes a savoring sip of wine.
Spencer would shit his pants if he found out what a high-end life Ryan had settled into. Pairing wine with dinner? Absurdité.
They settle into easy conversation, warm laughter draping over them like a blanket. It was times like these he forgot a storm was brewing, constantly, over their heads. Z reaches a hand halfway across the table, settling it there casually, and, really, Ryan doesn’t know why she doesn’t just grab his. She didn’t have to play hard to get or act cute for him, he’d already been head over heels for months now.
Still, he meets her halfway, rubbing the side of her hand with his thumb, rubbing calloused hands over her knuckles, relishing the quiet squirm.
Ryan presses a kiss to her knuckles, and she rubs the base of his ring finger.
Ah, there it was. Something to ruin the moment. Really, he didn’t get the point of marriage. He’d never loved anybody enough to vow monogamy and his life to them, and, at the end of the day, a bunch of paperwork and an overly priced ceremony wouldn’t change anything if he did love somebody enough for that. A wedding ring is just a thing that weighs down your finger.
Sure, he had dreams of a wedding—it wasn’t girly—but he could never see himself actually settling down enough to go through with it.
Despite this, he constantly found himself with partners who had the fairytale wedding in mind. Z was no exception, though often just as, if not more so, cynical as Ryan, she had lofty dreams of romance and marriage, too.
She wanted the matching rings, wanted the giant dress (black, not white, and it is, unfortunately, a very compelling argument for Ryan. Who doesn’t want to marry the girl who wants to get married in a black fuckin’ wedding dress?)
It was nice to dream, but it was quickly shattered by feelings of melancholy. Z would have her bridesmaids, of course, she was well loved.
Good. She deserves it.
Ryan would have a nice bachelor’s party, get wasted one last night before putting it behind him for a life of domesticity.
But it wouldn’t be the same. His boys wouldn’t be there. Jon was great, but it should be Spencer at his side, not Jon, and the thought hurts too much to entertain any further than that.
And, anyway, this kind of lifestyle fit somebody like Jon or Brendon much better than it fit him. Brendon was built for domestic life. Breakfast in bed, not leaving shared warmth behind until afternoon, babies, the whole deal. It’d suck for him, sure, leaving behind his lifestyle for marriage, but Ryan knew Brendon would do it.
A lifetime of laughter at the expense of the death of a bachelor? Yeah, Brendon would do it, alright.
Ryan just wouldn’t be there to see.
“...You should order dessert,” Ryan says. It wasn’t like he went quiet when he got stuck in his head, although he sometimes did, he could still keep up with and partake in conversations. Even then, he knew this time he had lost track of what Z had been saying, and he was certain this had nothing to do with the previous topic.
“I’m okay.” She says. “I don’t think I could eat another bite.” At least she let him get away with it, usually. She fixed him with a sad look, as if knowing where his mind had wandered as she talked.
“Come on, there’s always room for dessert. I’ll split something with you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Always. Le velo pour deux.” He says, kissing her knuckles again.
“You’re so cryptic.” She says, sighing. It didn’t lack fondness, but he could tell she was beginning to grow tired of how often Ryan was in his head these days.
“Bicicyle for two,” He says.
“What?”
“Le velo pour deux, that’s what it means. The bicycle built for two.”
“You’re romantic tonight,” Z muses, leaning over to kiss him sweetly, briefly. Ryan smiles into it, still unused to such public displays of affection after years of the shit-show relationship he had been in.
“It’s my plan to get you all to myself, forever. Le velo pour deux, let’s ride away together.”
“You’re full of it.” She says, smiling.
It’s a nice smile. Ryan would do anything to see it again. Over and over, he’d do anything for it to be the last thing he saw, really.
“Only for you, baby.” It’s a lame retort, spoken in possibly the worst Jersey accent.
He’d been hanging out with Jon too much, clearly. But Z laughs, and that’s all that really matters.
IV.
“Baby,” Ryan says, knocking softly on the bathroom door. It was late, he was tired. He wished this wasn’t happening, he wanted to be curled up in her, soft hands rubbing his arms.
“Go away.” Z calls. She had disappeared into the bathroom 20 minutes after dinner, 10 minutes after settling into bed. In what world does Ryan ever fall asleep that fast? He couldn’t ignore this anymore. It’s been a good run, a year or two now, give or take. “I’ll be back soon.”
Not soon enough. Ryan sighs. “Please?” He tries.
It works. Please really is the magic word. The door unlocks, and he pushes it open, sitting on the floor next to her. She looks as though she’s about to cry, and Ryan hopes for both their sakes that she doesn’t.
He’s never felt this exhausted in his life.
He wraps an arm around her, and she goes easily, burying her head into his chest. He wraps his other arm around her, kissing the top of her head. “I know.” He says quietly. “I know, baby. I know.”
Please, please don’t cry.
“I hate this.” She says, her voice thick with tears. She wasn’t crying yet, that was a relief.
“Shhh, I know.” Ryan says. “I love you.”
Z falters slightly, she’s surprised. Ryan is surprised, too. He was never one to say I love you casually, not to someone he was dating, anyway. He felt it, sure. He was consumed by it, even, but saying it somehow made it too real, and the only time it ever spilled from his lips was during sex, when his stomach coiled, springing words from his chest that he’d never say otherwise.
Ryan was good with words, it was his thing, he was a lyricist, after all. But they didn’t come easily, and he couldn’t ever say the right thing, which had made him and Brendon good. He had grown so used to singing Ryan’s words he somehow knew what Ryan was struggling to say before Ryan could decode it himself.
Z was good at reading Ryan by now, years of practice, but not like that. He didn’t know what to say to comfort her, to make this go away, he couldn’t find the words to say, fishing and coming up empty.
“You don’t get to act like this is some life ruining event.” Z says eventually, pulling away. Ryan reaches for her, wanting her touch, but she doesn’t want to be held, and so there’s nothing much he can do.
He really, really wishes he was curled up in bed right about now.
“I’m not,” Ryan defends. Because, really, he hadn’t even said anything. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.” She argues. “And I don’t want any bullshit from you, either. Not when you do the same thing. You don’t get to tell me I have to get better when you put no effort into it either.”
She was cracking under all her stress, all frayed edges. Ryan didn’t know how he didn’t realize sooner. He was selfish, maybe. Maybe Brendon was right, a terrible thing to have to recon with, really.
“It’s different with me,” Ryan says. It’s a weak response, even to his ears.
“It’s really not.”
“Can’t we just go to bed?”
“We would have, you pushed this.” She says. She was on the defense, and, normally, Ryan would be too.
But he felt like he was going to pass out, a bed would be nice to do that in.
“What do you want me to say?” Ryan asks, defeated.
“Tell me you’ll stop doing this shit!” She says. She was mad, too. Not a good combination on Z, but sexy as hell. “Tell me you’ll try to get better.”
How had she managed to flip this on him? “Will you try to get better?”
Z is quiet, that’s all the response he needs. It’s too complicated, too messy, he should have ignored it. Should have gone back to bed like Z said, let her blame it on a hangover or something. He knows it’s bad, knows they’ve had sex far too often, every week. Knows it’s common for her to start her period in the middle of sex, knows she hasn’t been on her period for at least two months.
He knows, he knows, he fucking knows, and he is completely helpess. There is no control to be had over the situation, it’s all around shitty, and possibly the worst thing to happen to him on top of all the bullshit he’d already been through in the past few years.
“I don’t know why you do this.” Ryan says after a while. He wished Z would let him hold her, it’d be more of a comfort to him than her, really. “You’re perfect, seriously.”
Z shakes her head. “Compliments are always so convenient for you.”
He wasn’t trying to deflect, he was being sincere.
“Why do we try?” She asks.
Ryan didn’t have to inquire more. They’d failed at this relationship thing too many times, killed each other too many times.
It wasn’t a stretch for him to say she’s the only one who would ever even try to love him, nor was it a stretch to wonder why she picked him out of all the other guys she could easily have.
“I love you,” Ryan says again, but he knows it’s a cop-out. A way to avoid talking about everything they needed to but would never talk about.
“Convenient.” She says sadly. “It feels like dying every time, you know.”
“Le velo pour deux, baby.” Ryan replies.
“Where are we riding?” She was upset, but she was entertaining him, good. It was a start. Or an end, maybe.
Ryan smiles, but it’s sad. It doesn’t reach his eyes all the way. “To our deaths, I suppose.”
Z smiles back, it’s just as sad.
It would be nice if things could be simple, always. If things weren’t so complicated, he could have seen himself with a band around his finger. Riding on a bicycle for two, away from all their troubles, or something like that.
As things stood, he didn’t think he’d ever see that ceremony.
It was nice to dream, though.