114 - c
continued from part two
When he calls her to talk about it, Jeanne just says,
“Well, when I said advertising, that’s not exactly what I had in mind, but you used to be a musician, so I can understand you veering off in that direction. We could make it work.”
“Good,” Ryan says. Ryan knows he’s shifted responsibility to her, and the dread that’s still lodged in the bottom of his lungs is outweighed by the relief he feels at having it just be over with. “Thank you,” he adds, almost belatedly.
“You know, normally you’d be talking to an agent about this, not a publisher,” she says, a tinge of laughter in her voice. Ryan hadn’t even realized he knew her that well; it’s something of a relief to know that he does. He shrugs, even though she can’t see it.
“Well, um. Want to be my agent, then?”
“If you feel the need to give it a name, Ryan Ross,” she says, and Ryan smiles.
“Sometimes,” he says.
+
Gerard calls when Ryan is out picking up more tea, so he can actually answer it before it goes to voicemail.
“Hello,” he says. He’s smiling; he wonders if Gerard can tell.
“Whoa, hi,” Gerard says. He sounds surprised and maybe, maybe pleased, also. “You actually answered your phone.”
“I’m outside my apartment building, so,” Ryan says, leaving off that there are definitely people he would rather not talk to on the phone. Pete, for one. Brendon, sometimes. Most of the rest of the United States.
“Gasp! Shock!” Gerard says, and bursts into laughter, high pitched and uncontrolled.
“Shut up,” Ryan replies, deadpan, and rolls his eyes. He pushes open the doors to the grocery story, tucking his phone between his ear and his shoulder, grabbing a basket from beside the entrance.
“Whatever, anyway.” Ryan imagines Gerard’s gesturing arm stirring the air next to his head. “So, I think Jeanne and Brian are talking.” Ryan hmm?s and heads to the tea isle, grabbing a few boxes of the earl grey he likes so much, and snagging some Bombay chai. He’d tried this awesome peach ginger stuff last time, but they seem to be out of it, so he picks up pomegranate instead, because the red color of the box is interesting, and he’s never had it before. “Brian’s been giving me these looks,” Gerard is saying.
“What kind of looks?” Ryan asks, looking down at the four boxes of tea in his basket. That should be enough for a few weeks. Also, he needs more pasta. And cheese.
“Like, y’know, those ahh-now-I-get-it kind of looks, only I really don’t know what he finally got.”
“Yeah, I used to get that from Spencer all the time. I’d give it probably a three day margin, and after that you’re safe never knowing. Does this mean that you’re actually coming with?” Ryan thinks that he safely manages to keep the incredulity out of his voice, and decides to get both the bowties and the elbows, figuring he eats enough pasta to make it worth it. He snags some grated parmesan from the cheese display in the middle of the isle, and heads to the checkout.
“For a while. We’re still recording, for the next week or so, at least, but I assume Brian and Jeanne will figure something out. The organizational types always do.”
Ryan smiles, and then laughs when Gerard says, “I can hear you smiling, Ross, don’t think I can’t.”
+
If someone asked Ryan, and he’s relatively sure someone has, in some interview too far in the past for him to remember, if he’s dated more boys or girls, his answer would have been, almost immediately, girls. It’s still true. Besides the odd backstage makeout session and high school experimentation, Ryan’s girlfriends have tended to be just that. Girls.
He and Brendon briefly dated during that first Academy tour, but that was mostly stolen kisses in the backseat of the van (fingertips pressed to fogged windows, jokes about Titanic) and late night IHOP dates (Spencer and Brent sitting two booths back and pretending not to notice). It was nice, sweet, but it wasn’t epic, wasn’t exactly what Ryan wanted, so when Brendon had said, “y’know, Ryan, I love you, man, it’s just -” Ryan had been mostly relieved. Ryan wasn’t ever and continues not to be good at getting out of relationships, no matter how unhealthy they might be, or how unhappy they might make him.
Besides Brendon he had the Pete thing, but, really, that wasn’t ever as sexual as everyone thought it was, and they were too alike for it to work much past the recording of Fever. Pete’s a friend, Pete understands him, but Pete’s just too wrapped up inside his own head to pull Ryan out of his own.
During that summer tour after the third album, fourteen songs, when Jon had dislocated his shoulder badly enough that he’d been off the tour for the first leg, Ryan had this thing with Adam, their stand-in bassist. He’d been nice enough - had enough time, really - to come on tour with them, and Ryan hadn’t been sure exactly how to thank him - hadn’t meant to press him against the dressing room wall and kiss him, exactly. Hadn’t meant much of anything, but it had happened anyway. Long days of shared bunks and cold feet and hands curling in his hair. It hadn’t lasted long past the leg of the tour, and seeing Adam off at the airport, Ryan had known that goodbye meant a few phone calls and some texts, the lengthening of time between, and he hadn’t felt bitter about it. He’d smiled and said,
“Thanks.”
“You too,” Adam had said, his light hair shorn close to his scalp, and given Ryan a light punch on the shoulder. He’d pulled his hood over his head and turned away, boarding.
But - but three or so exceptions doesn’t mean much of anything. After all, he’d almost married Keltie.
He’s not sure if the Gerard thing counts yet. He’s actually pretty sure that he wants it to.
+
Jeanne emails him his itinerary on June 27th, and, as per his request, he sees that the last date is in Chicago. He texts Pete quickly when he sees it, saying July 17th, be there, and the name of the bookstore. The first date is in two days, at the Barnes and Noble in Union Square. He’s glad that it’s downtown, he likes the feel of the city better when he’s closer to the village. But - he has two days. It suddenly seems so short notice, and then the next day he’s somewhere in New Jersey, Providence next, and then Boston after that. He still has to pack.
He takes a deep breath, and wonders how he could be so stupid as to insist that he’d be fine doing this by himself. Running his hands through his hair, he wishes that he could be satisfied with his own weakness, instead of trying to change it, to fix it. He’s been around Gerard too much.
+
When Pete texts him back, all it says is,
dont worry dude already on top of it
+
The room is bigger than he’d expected it to be, like there are actually going to be large numbers of people watching him, and Ryan stuffs his hands in his pockets just to keep them from picking at the fabric of his sweater. They’ve set it up on the first floor, just near the entrance, moving the display tables to the side to make room for the chairs and the podium. Ryan’s two hours early, isn’t supposed to show up for another half an hour, but he had nothing better to do besides worry, and so he found himself on the subway at 11:51, taking the 4 to Union Square and walking the two and a half blocks from the station.
There’s a table to the left stacked up with copies of the book, and Ryan runs his fingers over the covers.
Temperance, or, the Journey of Johnny Wilson and What Happened Next, by George Morris, it says in simple block letters. The illustration is Gerard’s, and the name is nobody’s, and there’s nothing tying Ryan to the book except the fact that he wrote it. Except that fact that he left his band for it.
He has an hour and forty minutes.
+
“Hi,” he says from the podium, looking out onto a sea of faces - women in sharp business suits, women with their sweaters pulled tightly across their shoulders, with nose rings and lip rings and tattoos peeking out at their wrists, with their hair pulled away from their faces sloppily, tendrils falling around the curves of their cheeks. Men with thinning hair, and with jeans made more of holes than fabric, and with fingernails painted black and red. “I’m Ryan Ross. Thanks for coming.”
He smiles. He doesn’t look away.
+
Gerard ambushes him at the signing afterward, sliding into the empty chair next to him as he’s signing a copy of the book for a woman holding a small child by the hand. Ryan doesn’t have the time to be surprised.
“Nancy,” she says, “my name’s Nancy,” and Ryan smiles at her, signs the front page, Dear Nancy, thanks for your support! I hope you enjoyed the book, ♥, Ryan Ross
“You sign with a heart?” Gerard asks, and he sounds remarkably amused.
“Yes,” Ryan says, and doesn’t look over. He turns to the kid next in line and says, surprised, “Oh, you brought a CD.”
The kid smiles, his hair still in that sweep across the left side of his face, and slides a copy of colorburn and lightsoft across the table to Ryan.
“It’s not that I don’t like the book. I do. Just - I never got a chance to have a CD signed, you know?”
Ryan hasn’t actually seen a CD case in awhile, not since most music went digital, and so he says, “Sure, yeah, what’s your name?”
“Nick,” the kid says, and Ryan smiles at him, nodding.
“You did a good job, Ryan,” Gerard says, clasping a hand firmly against the back of Ryan’s neck, and stands.
+
“What’re you doing here?” Ryan asks Gerard, after. He’s still standing by the signing table, just about to grab his bag to head home. Gerard shrugs, and winds the fingers of his left hand into his hair, pulling lightly at the strands.
“We finished recording for today, and I wanted to hear you, so,” Gerard says. He’s got his backpack slung over one shoulder, and his expression is unexpectedly awkward. Ryan stuffs his hands in his back pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Sorry that I can’t make the earlier signings.”
“It’s okay. You’ll be at the one in Chicago, though?” Ryan asks, even though the itinerary said so. He just wants to make sure.
“Yeah, and the two before that.”
“Okay, then. You’re off the hook. I think I can survive without you, anyway.”
“Well, just in case,” Gerard starts, and pulls off his backpack, unzipping it. He yanks a black mass of fabric from inside the front pocket, and holds it out for Ryan to take. Ryan is confused for just a moment before he realizes - oh, Gerard’s hoodie, probably still unwashed from the last time Gerard did laundry. Ryan pulls his hands from his pockets, and balls the hoodie up between them, holding it close to his torso. “I mean, not that I think you can’t, I just -”
“Thanks,” Ryan says, interrupting, “I mean. It’s nice of you.”
“I just - thought you might like it.” Gerard is smiling more nervously than Ryan has seen since the first time they talked. Ryan bounces on the balls of his feet and doesn’t think about what this means.
“I do. I do like it,” he says. He means it. The tension in Gerard’s shoulders melts away, and Ryan shrugs on the hoodie. The sleeves are long enough to cover halfway to the ends of his fingers, and when he presses the cuff to his nose, he can smell Gerard on the fabric.
+
That evening, Ryan calls Spencer and gets all of them on speakerphone.
“Tell us everything,” Brendon says, his voice serious, and they are silent, waiting.
“It was -” Ryan starts, before laughing to himself. “It was terrifying, actually. I mean, I wanted to vomit for approximately half of the reading, but they clapped at the end, and stayed after, to wait for me to sign their books, so. I think it went alright.”
Ryan hears Spencer snort, and Jon says,
“How long ‘til we get to see you, again?” And then, “Ow, Brendon, share.”
“I can’t hear, asshole, lean back,” Brendon says, his voice slightly farther away.
“About two and a half weeks,” Ryan says. He figures it doesn’t matter if they hear him or not, because Spencer will, and Spencer will make sure they know.
“Brian told me,” Spencer says, and Ryan can hear the grin in his voice, like bright sparks in his mind. Ryan laughs. “He called after he talked to Ms. Benson, so I have it written down.”
“You’re the best, Spencer,” Ryan says, and he really means it.
“Aww,” Jon says, “how cute is that?” Brendon laughs, loudly, and Ryan misses all of them with a sharp jolt.
“You bet I am,” Spencer says. “You’d all be lost without me.”
+
Ryan has to get used to traveling again, but this time he gets train rides and hotel rooms instead of buses and bunks, road dust and cold showers and the smell of boy everywhere. He’s used to sleeping by himself, got used to it over three years ago when he decided to forgo the tours by choice. Still, he remembers Zack handing them key cards on the nights when they actually got to stay in hotels, and the tour manager letting them know that they’d have to wake up at 6:00 to get to the venue on time.
He wonders if this is how single musicians feel, alone in unfamiliar territory every evening and moving on the next day, and all without the close pressure and presence of the rest of the band. Ryan’s used to being on his own; he’s used to making his own tea when he wakes up, and reading the newspaper in his bed, and avoiding the news channels on the television. There is none of that here - just a small coffee maker on the counter in the corner, and CNN on the television. It’s either CNN or the Spanish soap channel, which Ryan only understands in terms of gesticulation and raised voices, wine glasses thrown against the wall.
Settling in the bed at 9:30 in the evening, just outside of downtown Boston, Ryan texts Brendon and says,
the only thing better about this hotel room than my apartment is the cell reception.
Three minutes later, Brendon texts back, saying,
buck up kid, it only gets better from here on out.
Ryan snorts, pulls Gerard’s hoodie up over his shoulders, and burrows under the covers.
+
At the reading in Providence, Ryan finally looks up from the words long enough to look at their faces - some of them with their eyes closed, some of them almost asleep, some of them staring right at him, seeing right into him. It’s almost more intimate than being onstage - the focus all on his face and his voice, there is no Brendon to distract them, and the only instrument is sitting on the table in front of him. No diversions, no shifting their focus, nothing to look at that isn’t him. He couldn’t have done this with Panic. Not at the beginning; not even at the end.
+
Ryan’s woken up at 6:32 AM on the 10th of July to the vibration of his cell phone against the outside of his thigh, where it had apparently migrated sometime during the night. He’s pretty sure he’s somewhere in Ohio, maybe; he’s always been bad about remembering locations when he’s not grounded in any way.
hey, sleepyhead, Gerard’s text says, record’s done.
what makes you think I was sleeping? he asks, taking about twice as long as usual to text, while he tries to make his fingers work.
i know you on tour, dude. we did tour with you at least three times for those last two albums
Instead of texting Gerard back, Ryan calls him, his fingers pressing out the numbers without thinking, still mostly asleep.
“The record’s finished?” he asks, his voice thick with fatigue. He yawns at the end of the sentence, stretching out the last -ed. Gerard laughs at him, but it’s a soft laugh. Affectionate, maybe. Ryan likes the way it sounds.
“Yeah,” Gerard says, and Ryan can hear the sleepy pleasure in his voice, satisfaction. “Didn’t sleep last night, actually, finishing it.”
“So that’s why you’re up this early,” Ryan says, intelligently.
“Well, that and I’m, like, an old man, and y’know, the older you get the earlier you wake up.”
“Closing in on the big four-oh, yeah? At this rate, looks like you’ll be single forever.” Ryan’s not exactly thinking before he talks, something he is much better at when he hasn’t just been woken up, and when he’s gotten more than two-and-a-half hours of sleep. Which is why he winces when Gerard says,
“Been there, done that. Married life isn’t exactly all I’d thought it would be. Either time.”
Ryan’s gathered that Gerard’s split from Lyn-z was almost totally amiable - a year and a half after their marriage and they’d finally realized that, hey, they never saw each other. Both bands toured almost constantly, and they’d never even lived together in all their time being married and - well, from what Frank’s said it wasn’t that bad on Gerard, all things considered.
Adrianne, though, Gerard had met Adrianne at some function somewhere (an ad-exec maybe? Ryan’s never really been sure), six months after the Lyn-z thing, and then six months after that had been the marriage. Ryan had gone to the ceremony, actually, and they’d seemed happy, and Ryan had genuinely liked her.
They’d stayed married for three years, and Ryan’s just glad that they never had children, because if they had, the divorce would have scarred them for life. Adrianne argued for a living, held on to her anger with her teeth, and Gerard was just barely staying sober. It was not fun to watch.
Just after that was when he and Gerard actually became friends, and in all the time since, Gerard’s spoken about it maybe twice. Three times now, sort of.
“Sorry,” Ryan says, “wasn’t thinking.”
“Whatever.” There’s a shrug in Gerard’s voice, a well, I really shouldn’t mind talking about it anymore, but who is Ryan to criticize for latent issues?
“Just. Sorry,” he says again, and Gerard laughs, softly.
“Yeah, you sort of always are, aren’t you?”
“Um,” Ryan says, not sure if that’s sarcasm or a compliment or something else entirely.
“No, I mean it. How can anyone apologize as much as you do, and still be genuine every time?”
Ryan doesn’t say anything about the years between middle school and the record contract when he wouldn’t apologize for anything, ever, even after he learned, inevitably, that it was his fault. He figures he still probably has some catching up to do.
“Ask Spencer some time. Maybe he’ll tell you.”
“You’re a mysterious dude, Ross. I gotta say, I kind of like it.”
Ryan wishes he could see the expression on Gerard’s face as he says it, and he wonders, because Gerard’s voice is almost wistful, a bittersweet curl like the quirk of his lips.
“I’ll see you in five days,” Ryan says.
+
One thing Ryan does appreciate about this particular sort of tour is the fact that he’s left to himself most of the time. He’s used to his own hours, and as long as he checks in with Jeanne is the mornings and meets with the coordinators at the bookstore and doesn’t miss the arrival time, it’s up to him to get to the train station on time, or the airport, up to him to check into his hotel and grab his own tea from Starbucks on his way out the door.
It’s a little lonely, maybe, but it’s independent, and somehow that almost matters more.
+
Ryan’s at the hotel when Gerard arrives. He’s half asleep and half watching a movie on the television, curled up under the covers - it’s just after 10:30, and the reading is in the morning the next day. Gerard calls him from outside, and says,
“Hey, I just got out of my cab. Meet me in the lobby?” Ryan doubts that Gerard needs his help on the luggage side of things, but he doesn’t protest. He’s maybe a little excited to see Gerard.
He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror before he goes down. He’s in his pajama pants, still wearing Gerard’s hoodie, and his hair is mussed. There’s not much he can do but run his fingers through it and hope for the best. He doubts that Gerard will care either way. Ryan still does. He sticks the electronic keycard in the pocket of his pajamas and slips on his flipflops, walking out to the elevator.
When he gets to the ground floor, he sees Gerard in the lobby, sitting cross-legged on one of the over-stuffed couches. His backpack in slumped on the floor at his feet, the dirty, black canvas of it clashing with the burgundy and gold of the carpet. Hotel lobbies are always so much plusher than the rooms themselves, as if showing luxury on the way in will prove something about overall quality. Ryan’s feet are silent on the carpeted floor, but his flipflops thwack softly with every step, and so Gerard looks up, a wide grin spreading across his face. Ryan’s wrapped up in a tight hug before he can even say hello, Gerard’s fingers fisted tightly in the back of his sweatshirt. Ryan can feel the press of Gerard’s jeans against his thighs, and he wonders if, maybe, he should have gotten dressed before coming down. He feels strangely exposed, and he might be blushing, and he just says,
“Oh,” without thinking about it at all. Gerard pulls back enough to look him in the face, amusement in the set of his eyebrows and the wrinkles in the corners of his mouth.
“Oh?” Gerard replies, taking one step back. Ryan hopes he looks less bashful than he feels, and he shrugs.
“I mean, hi.”
“Hi,” Gerard says, grinning in the bright way that makes Ryan want to smile back, and maybe, maybe kiss him. “You’re wearing the sweatshirt.” His tone is pleased and almost surprised; Ryan looks down at himself, his white t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, the hoodie unzipped and clinging to his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he says. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with them?” In truth, Ryan has barely taken it off, but it’s not something he’s quite ready to admit to out loud - except maybe to Spencer. Not to anyone else.
“I suppose so.” Gerard doesn’t stop smiling, just pulls at the ends of the zipper, his hands only a few inches from Ryan’s hips. He’s closer than Ryan should probably be comfortable with, and saying that Ryan is comfortable is maybe too certain a statement, but Ryan’s pretty sure he doesn’t feel like running. “Chicago’s going to be madhouse,” Gerard adds.
“I know,” Ryan says, and he does. Pete’s from Chicago. Pete pretty much owns Chicago, or all the parts that matter, which really says just about everything it needs to. “Are your guys coming up for it?”
Gerard’s laugh is self-deprecating, but not quite humorless, and it makes Ryan’s toes want to curl, makes him want to press his fingers to the curve of Gerard’s throat. Gerard says, “You bet. Someone’s gotta keep me in line.”
Ryan bends to pick up Gerard’s backpack, tugging Gerard toward the elevator by his wrist.
“C’mon,” he says.
+
He texts Pete at 3:43 AM, with Gerard sleeping in the bed next to his.
want to tell me the plans for the 17th? he asks, and he isn’t shocked by the reply he gets, four minutes later.
its a surprise asshole dont go trying to ruin it, Pete says.
just, maybe no police at this one? The last time Ryan went to one of Pete’s parties, it had ended with about twelve arrests. Luckily, no one was actually hurt, and they were all released in the morning, after Pete promised to pay for all the property damage. That had been almost two years ago, but Ryan knows that Pete hasn’t changed much.
ill see what i can do. the things i do for my friends, is Pete’s only response. Ryan imagines the sigh that comes with it, and the eye roll. It’s been too long since he saw Pete in person.
i love you too, dude, Ryan says, and listens to Gerard breathing quietly in the darkness.
+
The reading on the 17th is actually quieter than Ryan was expecting. It’s like no one told the press that there were going to be actual celebrities in the audience, and Ryan is pretty happy about this, however it came about. Gerard hasn’t actually talked during the readings except to introduce himself, and this one is no different. He still takes questions about his artistic process during the Q&A and he sits next to Ryan at the signing table with a sharpie, leaving his own quick notes under Ryan’s.
Ryan keeps his eyes on the page in front of him for the most part, trying not to meet Spencer’s eyes, or see any of them (BrendonJonPete) sitting in the back row. At some point Gerard’s fingers press against the small of his back through his t-shirt, and Ryan takes a deep breath. He’s not sure why reading in front of them is worse - except that they know how to read his tones and his face, and they know when he reads aloud that these are his words in his mouth for the first time, and what that means.
He’s relieved when it’s over.
“Ryan,” Spencer says, after the last copy has been signed. His voice is thick, like it wants to stick in the back of his throat, and Ryan looks into his eyes.
“It’s better hearing you read it,” Brendon says from behind Spencer, hooking his chin over Spencer’s shoulder. “I mean - you know what I mean.”
Spencer nods, and Ryan can’t make himself say anything.
“I think we should all hug before one of you starts crying,” Jon says, coming up behind Ryan, pressing his hands against Ryan’s rib cage. Ryan just holds out his arms.
+
Ten hours later, Ryan is slightly intoxicated. The drink in his hand, currently, is some fatal, fruity combination of coconut rum, pineapple juice, and cranberry juice. It tastes about as alcoholic as water and much sweeter, but Ryan knows that this is pretty fucking false. Ryan, also, has never had a high tolerance for alcohol, after all of the years of vehemently not drinking and the years after that of intermittent and infrequent contact with alcohol. He’s not sure that’s a bad thing, exactly.
Still, Ryan’s a little lightheaded, and so he wraps his arm around Pete’s waist, and figures it might be a good idea to sit down sometime soon. Also, he hasn’t seen Gerard in awhile. They’d gone in together, Ryan knows, with Gerard’s arm warm around his shoulders, but then the rest of My Chem had showed up and Ryan had lost track of all of them. He wonders if Gerard had said goodbye before he left.
“Where do you think Gerard went?” Ryan asks Pete, his voice a little too loud. It’s okay, though; the music isn’t very quiet either, and Ryan doesn’t want his voice to get lost in it. Pete laughs, his smile wide enough to expose all of his extremely white teeth.
“Oh, I see how it is. I throw you a party, and you just want to hang with Gerard?” The club, Pete’s club, the one he opened in Chicago after the last Fall Out Boy album, is packed full, and Ryan’s seen about half of The Academy, in it’s current incarnation -Ryan’s not even sure he knows the members anymore, besides Carden and Beckett - all of Fall Out Boy, plus My Chem, Honesty Unlimited, and what seems like a few hundred other people Ryan has never met, most of which are probably in some way related to Pete’s label.
“It’s not really a party for me. I’m just the excuse for you to get all these people in the same room,” Ryan says, smiling crookedly.
“And, dude, was it worth it or what? I just hope Conrad and Carden end up punching each other out.” Ryan laughs. The last time Tom talked to Carden was probably eight years ago, according to Jon, and now they’ve settled into a routine of never acknowledging each other, even when they’re at the same event, or tour, or house party. Tom apparently still talks to Beckett on occasion, though. Ryan thinks, secretly, that this is probably at least partially Jon’s doing.
Patrick comes over, at some point, distracting Pete, and Ryan wanders off into the crowd. He’s finished his drink, and so he sets the empty glass on a table and wonders if another would be a good idea. Probably not.
It’s his party, sort of, and Ryan figures that he shouldn’t be alone. He doesn’t want to be, anyway. He wants to find Gerard.
Instead, he runs into Tom by the bar, where he’s sitting on a stool with his back against the dark wood. The drink in his hand in amber and half empty, and he sips it when he meets Ryan’s eyes.
“Ross,” Tom says, saluting him with his glass. Ryan can hear the ice clink together in the bottom, and a smile curls around his lips like warmth, but Tom’s face is serious.
“Conrad,” Ryan replies. He remembers last time, and how Tom had looked, with his shirt pushed up off of his stomach, straddling Ryan’s thighs. He remembers Tom’s nose ring and his smile, his well kissed lips. He remembers how it felt, to think that Tom might actually understand. Tom who had taken his place - in name if not in feeling.
“Ross, man,” Tom says, the look on his face the same combination of jealousy and hope as it had been, earlier, in Chicago. His tone says, if you don’t get it, I don’t think anyone does. And Ryan knows what he means, about how band sometimes means family and sometimes it doesn’t. Tom, Ryan thinks, has never found that exact right combination. Ryan has, and Ryan gave it up, gave it up on purpose.
Tom’s smiling at him, now, with his lips quirked in that well, what do you think? kind of invitation. Ryan thinks that it sounds like fun, sounds like the sort of thing a person does when they’re drunk and they want to taste someone’s skin and don’t much care who it is, as long as they understand. It sounds like what he might have needed, six months ago, when he was still uncertain, still out of place.
He doesn’t do it. As easy as would be to step in closer, push Tom’s thighs apart with his hands and put himself between them, he thinks about Gerard’s fingers pushed against the small of his back and fisted into his shirt. And that’s mostly enough.
“They’re my family, dude,” he says, because he’s sorry, he is, but, “I don’t have anyone else. They love you, though, so. Let them.” He watches Tom’s expression change to something like surprise, and he maybe wants to lean closer and run his fingers through Tom’s hair, feel Tom’s breath against his cheek, but understanding isn’t the only thing he needs anymore. Not from Tom, anyway. Ryan shrugs, and says,
“I get it, I do,” and wanders back into the crowd.
+
He ends up outside, sitting on the curb with his feet in the street and his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. He can hear the noise of the club behind him, the bass booming out into the street, and most of the melody is lost. The streetlights are bright, and the sky is clear in that polluted way that blots out the stars, and the air is dry against his skin, not like the humidity of the east coast. It’s not cold enough to need the hoodie, but Ryan’s too stubborn to take it off. He’s still a little off-balance, still tipsy, and he still doesn’t care.
“The party’s in your honor, you know.”
Ryan turns his head. Spencer is standing behind him with his hands on his hips, not quite smiling, but not expressionless, either. Ryan knows that he’s happy, anyway - he might as well be grinning. Ryan pats the ground beside him, and Spencer doesn’t hesitate, just sits next to him, close enough that they’re pressed together hip to knee.
“I talked to Tom,” Ryan says, instead of responding. He can almost hear Spencer’s eyebrows raise, and he half-smiles at the familiarity of it.
“What about?” Spencer asks, not surprised, exactly. His voice sounds closer to curious. Ryan shrugs.
“Band things,” he says. “I don’t think that he quite - it still feels to him like I’m in the band. Taking up space. Instead of -” Ryan cuts himself off, shaking his head and shrugging again.
“You think we’re leaving him out.” It’s not a question, and Ryan knows from Spencer’s tone that he’s not hurt, just that he’s thinking about it.
“Yeah, I mean. You kind of are. And he needs you more.” Ryan watches his fingers against his knees, and he figures that talking about Tom is easier than talking about himself. And just as truthful.
“Because of the Gerard thing?”
“Yeah, I - If you could even call it that.” When Ryan looks over at Spencer, he’s mid-eye-roll. “What?” he asks.
“You.” Spencer knocks his knee against Ryan’s, grinning.
“Spence -”
“Whatever, Ryan.” Spencer’s voice is amused, and Ryan curls his fingers into the sleeves of Gerard’s hoodie. Ryan knows what Spencer is thinking, but Spencer is wrong. Ryan is almost certain of it - certain enough, anyway.
“No, I mean, I really don’t think -” he says, trying again, but Spencer interrupts him.
“You never think you’re going to get what you want,” Spencer says. “You never have, not ever.
“Yeah, well,” Ryan says, knowing that if he says well, I don’t it will be a complete lie. Ryan’s just never gotten entirely used to expecting the good things to happen to him. Too much time spent waiting for the other shoe. “There’s nothing wrong with being cautious.”
“Someday, I swear, I’m going to teach you the difference between caution and pessimism. It’s a lesson well learned,” Spencer says, leaning into Ryan’s shoulder. “Seriously, dude, just go make babies or whatever.” Ryan shrugs, and Spencer snorts. It’s Ryan’s thanks, and Spencer’s you’re welcome, and Ryan just leans his head onto Spencer’s shoulder.
He should probably know by now that Spencer is the one who is always right.
“I’ll talk to Tom,” Spencer says, pausing for a moment. “We’re really proud of you, you know that?” he adds, almost like he’s not sure Ryan will want to hear it. Ryan glances up at him, caught between being grateful and surprised, but Spencer’s just looking off down the street.
“Yeah,” Ryan replies. He knows.
+
Ryan gets back to the hotel at 2:34 AM with a promise to Spencer that the four of them will have breakfast in the morning, before his flight back to New York. Gerard is on his bed staring at the ceiling when he opens the door, but is apparently still awake. He glances up when Ryan closes the door behind him.
“Have fun at your party?” Gerard asks, smiling crookedly and propping himself up on his elbows.
“Kind of. It was a little weird,” Ryan says, truthfully. He puts the key card, his wallet, and his cell phone on the dresser, before turning back to look at Gerard. “Didn’t see you around much.”
Gerard shrugs. “I default to using my band as guard dogs at parties with alcohol. It’s instinctive at this point.” He pauses for a moment, before holding out his hand. “C’mere,” he says.
Ryan blinks, but walks over to the bed, and lets Gerard pull him down. He can feel the warmth from Gerard’s skin, and he lets his feet press against Gerard’s calf, curling until he’s on his side.
“What?” he asks.
“You ready to be back in New York tomorrow?” Gerard asks, turning his head so that he’s looking at Ryan. Ryan’s not sure if that’s what’s on Gerard’s mind, really. He figures if Gerard wants to tell him, he will.
“Maybe,” is what he says. Gerard laughs.
“Very enthusiastic.”
“Trying not to think about it, actually,” Ryan admits. It’s not that he won’t be grateful to be back in his own space again, just that this is the first time in three years that he’s been left without a clear next step. He doesn’t think it will ever stop being frightening. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” Gerard says, turning onto his side. His face is openly curious. Ryan looks at his smile, slightly crooked, and thinks about Spencer, and about how Gerard pulled him down onto the comforter. He thinks about Gerard’s skin warm under the soles of his feet.
“So, I’m not -” he starts, and then takes a deep breath. “Would you mind if I, um. How much would you mind if I kissed you?” He watches Gerard’s eyes widen and tries not to hide his face in his hands, or shift away too perceptibly.
“How much would I mind?” Gerard asks, like he hasn’t heard right. Ryan can’t actually speak anymore; it’s taking all of the energy he has not to just take it back, say never mind and wonder for the rest of his life if it was self-preservation or cowardice. He just nods, instead. “Jesus Christ, Ryan,” Gerard says, like he’s out of breath or holding on for dear life, but Ryan has no idea what that means.
He doesn’t manage to hold in the flinch when Gerard’s fingers skate over his cheekbones, down the side of his face.
“Gerard?” he asks, finally. He bites his lips, staying as perfectly still as he can. Gerard’s fingers tug on the end of his hair, pushing it away from his forehead.
“I promise you, I wouldn’t mind,” Gerard says, his fingers pressing against the side of Ryan’s neck, fingernails scraping over his adam’s apple. “Not at all, I promise.”
“I - really?” Ryan asks, rabbit-still under the probing of Gerard’s fingers. He looks at the swoop of Gerard’s dark hair over his forehead, pale skin, and wonders how that could possibly be true. He’s Ryan, and this is Gerard.
“Yes, Ryan,” Gerard says, his voice soft and exasperated.
Ryan curls in close because he can’t help it, curving his finger in the hem of Gerard’s shirt, his knuckles brushing against ribs. He tucks his chin into the crook of Gerard’s neck.
“Okay,” He says, against the pale smoothness of Gerard’s skin. “Okay.”
+
The next morning, Ryan leaves while Gerard is still asleep, curled on his side with his legs tangled in the blue comforter. Ryan scribbles down a quick note on a post-it, and sticks it to the bedside table.
gee, it says,
sorry, early ihop date with the band. if I’m not back in by noon, send help.
♥ ryan
Gerard’s arm is still flung into the space where Ryan’s body had been, his fingers grasping at the bottom sheet. Ryan smiles, and heads for the door.
+
If Ryan is honest with himself, completely, he can accept that it hurts him less, now, to sit with Brendon’s arm around his shoulders, and Jon sleepy-smug across the table from him. Spencer smiles like he understands, pressing his foot against the side of Ryan’s ankle under the table, popping a piece of chocolate-chip pancake into his mouth.
“So, you go back to New York, and than what?” Jon asks, yawning. The redness around his eyes suggests that he’s still hung over - from what Ryan can tell, he spent the latter part of the night knocking back shots with Tom. Brendon reaches across and steals a piece of French toast from Jon’s plate, dripping syrup onto the tabletop.
“I have no idea,” Ryan says.
“Come to Chicago and live with us, Ryan Ross,” Brendon says. “We still miss having you around.” Brendon’s arm tightens momentarily around Ryan’s shoulders, and then moves away as he picks up his glass of orange juice.
“I can’t,” Ryan says, half-apologetic and a little surprised. “New York is home.” He thinks about how he actually misses his apartment, shitty cell phone reception and all, and how he thinks he should hang more paintings on the walls, buy more furniture. How he should actually settle in, finally, after more than nine years. “Visit me, instead.”
“We’ll be on tour soon, anyway, so I’ll see what I can do,” Spencer says. It’s not really a necessary part of his job that he go on tour with his band, but Spencer’s never gotten out of the habit, and no one bothers to correct him. There’s something like approval in his voice, and Ryan leans back against the plastic of the booth.
“Can’t get rid of us that easily,” Jon says, his voice firm. Ryan really, really knows this by now.
+
Gerard is packed when Ryan gets back to the hotel, sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching the television.
“Hi,” Ryan says, sitting on the edge of the bed, next to him. His smile is somewhat tentative, but he doesn’t back away.
“Hi,” Gerard replies, smiling. “I see you didn’t need help.”
“I was less clingy than I thought I’d be,” Ryan says, and can see the understanding in Gerard’s eyes. Gerard knows bands and family - his are even more mixed than most people’s - and for all the times he’s had to leave them behind, for him it’s never been permanent. Gerard, Ryan is sure, believes that he can’t survive without them. Ryan is not so sure. If Ryan can do it, anyone can.
Gerard’s smile softens at the edges, and his fingers grasp Ryan’s chin. His touch is light, a barely-there hint of skin, and he turns Ryan’s head until their eyes meet. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says; there is no hesitation in his voice.
Ryan can feel his breath stutter over his tongue, staccato; he says, “Okay,” and he means it.
Gerard’s lips are dry and soft, and he’s firm, saying, I’ve been waiting for this with only the pressure of his mouth, and Ryan thinks, oh. He thinks, oh, okay, and he kisses back, Gerard’s pulse quick against his chin, apparent in the press of his fingers against Ryan’s skin. Ryan tangles his hands in the hem of Gerard’s shirt and opens his mouth, tugging on the cotton to pull Gerard closer.
“Paint me something, when we get home,” Ryan says against Gerard’s lips, and feels Gerard laugh, breath warm against his skin. Gerard’s stomach shudders as he runs his fingers up over it, shirt fabric bunching up almost awkwardly over his wrists.
“Write me something to paint,” Gerard says. Ryan makes a noise, only half in response, when Gerard’s fingers move from his chin to curl into his hair, and he shifts onto his knees, pushing at Gerard’s shirt. He pulls out of the kiss with a gasp, presses his face against Gerard’s neck, the slight slickness of first sweat, and he says,
“Yeah, yeah, okay.”
+
The plane leaves at 5:40 PM for JFK, three years, six months, and twenty-eight days after Panic ends. Ryan hooks his hand into the crook of Gerard’s elbow, and doesn’t let go until landing.
When he calls her to talk about it, Jeanne just says,
“Well, when I said advertising, that’s not exactly what I had in mind, but you used to be a musician, so I can understand you veering off in that direction. We could make it work.”
“Good,” Ryan says. Ryan knows he’s shifted responsibility to her, and the dread that’s still lodged in the bottom of his lungs is outweighed by the relief he feels at having it just be over with. “Thank you,” he adds, almost belatedly.
“You know, normally you’d be talking to an agent about this, not a publisher,” she says, a tinge of laughter in her voice. Ryan hadn’t even realized he knew her that well; it’s something of a relief to know that he does. He shrugs, even though she can’t see it.
“Well, um. Want to be my agent, then?”
“If you feel the need to give it a name, Ryan Ross,” she says, and Ryan smiles.
“Sometimes,” he says.
+
Gerard calls when Ryan is out picking up more tea, so he can actually answer it before it goes to voicemail.
“Hello,” he says. He’s smiling; he wonders if Gerard can tell.
“Whoa, hi,” Gerard says. He sounds surprised and maybe, maybe pleased, also. “You actually answered your phone.”
“I’m outside my apartment building, so,” Ryan says, leaving off that there are definitely people he would rather not talk to on the phone. Pete, for one. Brendon, sometimes. Most of the rest of the United States.
“Gasp! Shock!” Gerard says, and bursts into laughter, high pitched and uncontrolled.
“Shut up,” Ryan replies, deadpan, and rolls his eyes. He pushes open the doors to the grocery story, tucking his phone between his ear and his shoulder, grabbing a basket from beside the entrance.
“Whatever, anyway.” Ryan imagines Gerard’s gesturing arm stirring the air next to his head. “So, I think Jeanne and Brian are talking.” Ryan hmm?s and heads to the tea isle, grabbing a few boxes of the earl grey he likes so much, and snagging some Bombay chai. He’d tried this awesome peach ginger stuff last time, but they seem to be out of it, so he picks up pomegranate instead, because the red color of the box is interesting, and he’s never had it before. “Brian’s been giving me these looks,” Gerard is saying.
“What kind of looks?” Ryan asks, looking down at the four boxes of tea in his basket. That should be enough for a few weeks. Also, he needs more pasta. And cheese.
“Like, y’know, those ahh-now-I-get-it kind of looks, only I really don’t know what he finally got.”
“Yeah, I used to get that from Spencer all the time. I’d give it probably a three day margin, and after that you’re safe never knowing. Does this mean that you’re actually coming with?” Ryan thinks that he safely manages to keep the incredulity out of his voice, and decides to get both the bowties and the elbows, figuring he eats enough pasta to make it worth it. He snags some grated parmesan from the cheese display in the middle of the isle, and heads to the checkout.
“For a while. We’re still recording, for the next week or so, at least, but I assume Brian and Jeanne will figure something out. The organizational types always do.”
Ryan smiles, and then laughs when Gerard says, “I can hear you smiling, Ross, don’t think I can’t.”
+
If someone asked Ryan, and he’s relatively sure someone has, in some interview too far in the past for him to remember, if he’s dated more boys or girls, his answer would have been, almost immediately, girls. It’s still true. Besides the odd backstage makeout session and high school experimentation, Ryan’s girlfriends have tended to be just that. Girls.
He and Brendon briefly dated during that first Academy tour, but that was mostly stolen kisses in the backseat of the van (fingertips pressed to fogged windows, jokes about Titanic) and late night IHOP dates (Spencer and Brent sitting two booths back and pretending not to notice). It was nice, sweet, but it wasn’t epic, wasn’t exactly what Ryan wanted, so when Brendon had said, “y’know, Ryan, I love you, man, it’s just -” Ryan had been mostly relieved. Ryan wasn’t ever and continues not to be good at getting out of relationships, no matter how unhealthy they might be, or how unhappy they might make him.
Besides Brendon he had the Pete thing, but, really, that wasn’t ever as sexual as everyone thought it was, and they were too alike for it to work much past the recording of Fever. Pete’s a friend, Pete understands him, but Pete’s just too wrapped up inside his own head to pull Ryan out of his own.
During that summer tour after the third album, fourteen songs, when Jon had dislocated his shoulder badly enough that he’d been off the tour for the first leg, Ryan had this thing with Adam, their stand-in bassist. He’d been nice enough - had enough time, really - to come on tour with them, and Ryan hadn’t been sure exactly how to thank him - hadn’t meant to press him against the dressing room wall and kiss him, exactly. Hadn’t meant much of anything, but it had happened anyway. Long days of shared bunks and cold feet and hands curling in his hair. It hadn’t lasted long past the leg of the tour, and seeing Adam off at the airport, Ryan had known that goodbye meant a few phone calls and some texts, the lengthening of time between, and he hadn’t felt bitter about it. He’d smiled and said,
“Thanks.”
“You too,” Adam had said, his light hair shorn close to his scalp, and given Ryan a light punch on the shoulder. He’d pulled his hood over his head and turned away, boarding.
But - but three or so exceptions doesn’t mean much of anything. After all, he’d almost married Keltie.
He’s not sure if the Gerard thing counts yet. He’s actually pretty sure that he wants it to.
+
Jeanne emails him his itinerary on June 27th, and, as per his request, he sees that the last date is in Chicago. He texts Pete quickly when he sees it, saying July 17th, be there, and the name of the bookstore. The first date is in two days, at the Barnes and Noble in Union Square. He’s glad that it’s downtown, he likes the feel of the city better when he’s closer to the village. But - he has two days. It suddenly seems so short notice, and then the next day he’s somewhere in New Jersey, Providence next, and then Boston after that. He still has to pack.
He takes a deep breath, and wonders how he could be so stupid as to insist that he’d be fine doing this by himself. Running his hands through his hair, he wishes that he could be satisfied with his own weakness, instead of trying to change it, to fix it. He’s been around Gerard too much.
+
When Pete texts him back, all it says is,
dont worry dude already on top of it
+
The room is bigger than he’d expected it to be, like there are actually going to be large numbers of people watching him, and Ryan stuffs his hands in his pockets just to keep them from picking at the fabric of his sweater. They’ve set it up on the first floor, just near the entrance, moving the display tables to the side to make room for the chairs and the podium. Ryan’s two hours early, isn’t supposed to show up for another half an hour, but he had nothing better to do besides worry, and so he found himself on the subway at 11:51, taking the 4 to Union Square and walking the two and a half blocks from the station.
There’s a table to the left stacked up with copies of the book, and Ryan runs his fingers over the covers.
Temperance, or, the Journey of Johnny Wilson and What Happened Next, by George Morris, it says in simple block letters. The illustration is Gerard’s, and the name is nobody’s, and there’s nothing tying Ryan to the book except the fact that he wrote it. Except that fact that he left his band for it.
He has an hour and forty minutes.
+
“Hi,” he says from the podium, looking out onto a sea of faces - women in sharp business suits, women with their sweaters pulled tightly across their shoulders, with nose rings and lip rings and tattoos peeking out at their wrists, with their hair pulled away from their faces sloppily, tendrils falling around the curves of their cheeks. Men with thinning hair, and with jeans made more of holes than fabric, and with fingernails painted black and red. “I’m Ryan Ross. Thanks for coming.”
He smiles. He doesn’t look away.
+
Gerard ambushes him at the signing afterward, sliding into the empty chair next to him as he’s signing a copy of the book for a woman holding a small child by the hand. Ryan doesn’t have the time to be surprised.
“Nancy,” she says, “my name’s Nancy,” and Ryan smiles at her, signs the front page, Dear Nancy, thanks for your support! I hope you enjoyed the book, ♥, Ryan Ross
“You sign with a heart?” Gerard asks, and he sounds remarkably amused.
“Yes,” Ryan says, and doesn’t look over. He turns to the kid next in line and says, surprised, “Oh, you brought a CD.”
The kid smiles, his hair still in that sweep across the left side of his face, and slides a copy of colorburn and lightsoft across the table to Ryan.
“It’s not that I don’t like the book. I do. Just - I never got a chance to have a CD signed, you know?”
Ryan hasn’t actually seen a CD case in awhile, not since most music went digital, and so he says, “Sure, yeah, what’s your name?”
“Nick,” the kid says, and Ryan smiles at him, nodding.
“You did a good job, Ryan,” Gerard says, clasping a hand firmly against the back of Ryan’s neck, and stands.
+
“What’re you doing here?” Ryan asks Gerard, after. He’s still standing by the signing table, just about to grab his bag to head home. Gerard shrugs, and winds the fingers of his left hand into his hair, pulling lightly at the strands.
“We finished recording for today, and I wanted to hear you, so,” Gerard says. He’s got his backpack slung over one shoulder, and his expression is unexpectedly awkward. Ryan stuffs his hands in his back pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Sorry that I can’t make the earlier signings.”
“It’s okay. You’ll be at the one in Chicago, though?” Ryan asks, even though the itinerary said so. He just wants to make sure.
“Yeah, and the two before that.”
“Okay, then. You’re off the hook. I think I can survive without you, anyway.”
“Well, just in case,” Gerard starts, and pulls off his backpack, unzipping it. He yanks a black mass of fabric from inside the front pocket, and holds it out for Ryan to take. Ryan is confused for just a moment before he realizes - oh, Gerard’s hoodie, probably still unwashed from the last time Gerard did laundry. Ryan pulls his hands from his pockets, and balls the hoodie up between them, holding it close to his torso. “I mean, not that I think you can’t, I just -”
“Thanks,” Ryan says, interrupting, “I mean. It’s nice of you.”
“I just - thought you might like it.” Gerard is smiling more nervously than Ryan has seen since the first time they talked. Ryan bounces on the balls of his feet and doesn’t think about what this means.
“I do. I do like it,” he says. He means it. The tension in Gerard’s shoulders melts away, and Ryan shrugs on the hoodie. The sleeves are long enough to cover halfway to the ends of his fingers, and when he presses the cuff to his nose, he can smell Gerard on the fabric.
+
That evening, Ryan calls Spencer and gets all of them on speakerphone.
“Tell us everything,” Brendon says, his voice serious, and they are silent, waiting.
“It was -” Ryan starts, before laughing to himself. “It was terrifying, actually. I mean, I wanted to vomit for approximately half of the reading, but they clapped at the end, and stayed after, to wait for me to sign their books, so. I think it went alright.”
Ryan hears Spencer snort, and Jon says,
“How long ‘til we get to see you, again?” And then, “Ow, Brendon, share.”
“I can’t hear, asshole, lean back,” Brendon says, his voice slightly farther away.
“About two and a half weeks,” Ryan says. He figures it doesn’t matter if they hear him or not, because Spencer will, and Spencer will make sure they know.
“Brian told me,” Spencer says, and Ryan can hear the grin in his voice, like bright sparks in his mind. Ryan laughs. “He called after he talked to Ms. Benson, so I have it written down.”
“You’re the best, Spencer,” Ryan says, and he really means it.
“Aww,” Jon says, “how cute is that?” Brendon laughs, loudly, and Ryan misses all of them with a sharp jolt.
“You bet I am,” Spencer says. “You’d all be lost without me.”
+
Ryan has to get used to traveling again, but this time he gets train rides and hotel rooms instead of buses and bunks, road dust and cold showers and the smell of boy everywhere. He’s used to sleeping by himself, got used to it over three years ago when he decided to forgo the tours by choice. Still, he remembers Zack handing them key cards on the nights when they actually got to stay in hotels, and the tour manager letting them know that they’d have to wake up at 6:00 to get to the venue on time.
He wonders if this is how single musicians feel, alone in unfamiliar territory every evening and moving on the next day, and all without the close pressure and presence of the rest of the band. Ryan’s used to being on his own; he’s used to making his own tea when he wakes up, and reading the newspaper in his bed, and avoiding the news channels on the television. There is none of that here - just a small coffee maker on the counter in the corner, and CNN on the television. It’s either CNN or the Spanish soap channel, which Ryan only understands in terms of gesticulation and raised voices, wine glasses thrown against the wall.
Settling in the bed at 9:30 in the evening, just outside of downtown Boston, Ryan texts Brendon and says,
the only thing better about this hotel room than my apartment is the cell reception.
Three minutes later, Brendon texts back, saying,
buck up kid, it only gets better from here on out.
Ryan snorts, pulls Gerard’s hoodie up over his shoulders, and burrows under the covers.
+
At the reading in Providence, Ryan finally looks up from the words long enough to look at their faces - some of them with their eyes closed, some of them almost asleep, some of them staring right at him, seeing right into him. It’s almost more intimate than being onstage - the focus all on his face and his voice, there is no Brendon to distract them, and the only instrument is sitting on the table in front of him. No diversions, no shifting their focus, nothing to look at that isn’t him. He couldn’t have done this with Panic. Not at the beginning; not even at the end.
+
Ryan’s woken up at 6:32 AM on the 10th of July to the vibration of his cell phone against the outside of his thigh, where it had apparently migrated sometime during the night. He’s pretty sure he’s somewhere in Ohio, maybe; he’s always been bad about remembering locations when he’s not grounded in any way.
hey, sleepyhead, Gerard’s text says, record’s done.
what makes you think I was sleeping? he asks, taking about twice as long as usual to text, while he tries to make his fingers work.
i know you on tour, dude. we did tour with you at least three times for those last two albums
Instead of texting Gerard back, Ryan calls him, his fingers pressing out the numbers without thinking, still mostly asleep.
“The record’s finished?” he asks, his voice thick with fatigue. He yawns at the end of the sentence, stretching out the last -ed. Gerard laughs at him, but it’s a soft laugh. Affectionate, maybe. Ryan likes the way it sounds.
“Yeah,” Gerard says, and Ryan can hear the sleepy pleasure in his voice, satisfaction. “Didn’t sleep last night, actually, finishing it.”
“So that’s why you’re up this early,” Ryan says, intelligently.
“Well, that and I’m, like, an old man, and y’know, the older you get the earlier you wake up.”
“Closing in on the big four-oh, yeah? At this rate, looks like you’ll be single forever.” Ryan’s not exactly thinking before he talks, something he is much better at when he hasn’t just been woken up, and when he’s gotten more than two-and-a-half hours of sleep. Which is why he winces when Gerard says,
“Been there, done that. Married life isn’t exactly all I’d thought it would be. Either time.”
Ryan’s gathered that Gerard’s split from Lyn-z was almost totally amiable - a year and a half after their marriage and they’d finally realized that, hey, they never saw each other. Both bands toured almost constantly, and they’d never even lived together in all their time being married and - well, from what Frank’s said it wasn’t that bad on Gerard, all things considered.
Adrianne, though, Gerard had met Adrianne at some function somewhere (an ad-exec maybe? Ryan’s never really been sure), six months after the Lyn-z thing, and then six months after that had been the marriage. Ryan had gone to the ceremony, actually, and they’d seemed happy, and Ryan had genuinely liked her.
They’d stayed married for three years, and Ryan’s just glad that they never had children, because if they had, the divorce would have scarred them for life. Adrianne argued for a living, held on to her anger with her teeth, and Gerard was just barely staying sober. It was not fun to watch.
Just after that was when he and Gerard actually became friends, and in all the time since, Gerard’s spoken about it maybe twice. Three times now, sort of.
“Sorry,” Ryan says, “wasn’t thinking.”
“Whatever.” There’s a shrug in Gerard’s voice, a well, I really shouldn’t mind talking about it anymore, but who is Ryan to criticize for latent issues?
“Just. Sorry,” he says again, and Gerard laughs, softly.
“Yeah, you sort of always are, aren’t you?”
“Um,” Ryan says, not sure if that’s sarcasm or a compliment or something else entirely.
“No, I mean it. How can anyone apologize as much as you do, and still be genuine every time?”
Ryan doesn’t say anything about the years between middle school and the record contract when he wouldn’t apologize for anything, ever, even after he learned, inevitably, that it was his fault. He figures he still probably has some catching up to do.
“Ask Spencer some time. Maybe he’ll tell you.”
“You’re a mysterious dude, Ross. I gotta say, I kind of like it.”
Ryan wishes he could see the expression on Gerard’s face as he says it, and he wonders, because Gerard’s voice is almost wistful, a bittersweet curl like the quirk of his lips.
“I’ll see you in five days,” Ryan says.
+
One thing Ryan does appreciate about this particular sort of tour is the fact that he’s left to himself most of the time. He’s used to his own hours, and as long as he checks in with Jeanne is the mornings and meets with the coordinators at the bookstore and doesn’t miss the arrival time, it’s up to him to get to the train station on time, or the airport, up to him to check into his hotel and grab his own tea from Starbucks on his way out the door.
It’s a little lonely, maybe, but it’s independent, and somehow that almost matters more.
+
Ryan’s at the hotel when Gerard arrives. He’s half asleep and half watching a movie on the television, curled up under the covers - it’s just after 10:30, and the reading is in the morning the next day. Gerard calls him from outside, and says,
“Hey, I just got out of my cab. Meet me in the lobby?” Ryan doubts that Gerard needs his help on the luggage side of things, but he doesn’t protest. He’s maybe a little excited to see Gerard.
He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror before he goes down. He’s in his pajama pants, still wearing Gerard’s hoodie, and his hair is mussed. There’s not much he can do but run his fingers through it and hope for the best. He doubts that Gerard will care either way. Ryan still does. He sticks the electronic keycard in the pocket of his pajamas and slips on his flipflops, walking out to the elevator.
When he gets to the ground floor, he sees Gerard in the lobby, sitting cross-legged on one of the over-stuffed couches. His backpack in slumped on the floor at his feet, the dirty, black canvas of it clashing with the burgundy and gold of the carpet. Hotel lobbies are always so much plusher than the rooms themselves, as if showing luxury on the way in will prove something about overall quality. Ryan’s feet are silent on the carpeted floor, but his flipflops thwack softly with every step, and so Gerard looks up, a wide grin spreading across his face. Ryan’s wrapped up in a tight hug before he can even say hello, Gerard’s fingers fisted tightly in the back of his sweatshirt. Ryan can feel the press of Gerard’s jeans against his thighs, and he wonders if, maybe, he should have gotten dressed before coming down. He feels strangely exposed, and he might be blushing, and he just says,
“Oh,” without thinking about it at all. Gerard pulls back enough to look him in the face, amusement in the set of his eyebrows and the wrinkles in the corners of his mouth.
“Oh?” Gerard replies, taking one step back. Ryan hopes he looks less bashful than he feels, and he shrugs.
“I mean, hi.”
“Hi,” Gerard says, grinning in the bright way that makes Ryan want to smile back, and maybe, maybe kiss him. “You’re wearing the sweatshirt.” His tone is pleased and almost surprised; Ryan looks down at himself, his white t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, the hoodie unzipped and clinging to his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he says. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with them?” In truth, Ryan has barely taken it off, but it’s not something he’s quite ready to admit to out loud - except maybe to Spencer. Not to anyone else.
“I suppose so.” Gerard doesn’t stop smiling, just pulls at the ends of the zipper, his hands only a few inches from Ryan’s hips. He’s closer than Ryan should probably be comfortable with, and saying that Ryan is comfortable is maybe too certain a statement, but Ryan’s pretty sure he doesn’t feel like running. “Chicago’s going to be madhouse,” Gerard adds.
“I know,” Ryan says, and he does. Pete’s from Chicago. Pete pretty much owns Chicago, or all the parts that matter, which really says just about everything it needs to. “Are your guys coming up for it?”
Gerard’s laugh is self-deprecating, but not quite humorless, and it makes Ryan’s toes want to curl, makes him want to press his fingers to the curve of Gerard’s throat. Gerard says, “You bet. Someone’s gotta keep me in line.”
Ryan bends to pick up Gerard’s backpack, tugging Gerard toward the elevator by his wrist.
“C’mon,” he says.
+
He texts Pete at 3:43 AM, with Gerard sleeping in the bed next to his.
want to tell me the plans for the 17th? he asks, and he isn’t shocked by the reply he gets, four minutes later.
its a surprise asshole dont go trying to ruin it, Pete says.
just, maybe no police at this one? The last time Ryan went to one of Pete’s parties, it had ended with about twelve arrests. Luckily, no one was actually hurt, and they were all released in the morning, after Pete promised to pay for all the property damage. That had been almost two years ago, but Ryan knows that Pete hasn’t changed much.
ill see what i can do. the things i do for my friends, is Pete’s only response. Ryan imagines the sigh that comes with it, and the eye roll. It’s been too long since he saw Pete in person.
i love you too, dude, Ryan says, and listens to Gerard breathing quietly in the darkness.
+
The reading on the 17th is actually quieter than Ryan was expecting. It’s like no one told the press that there were going to be actual celebrities in the audience, and Ryan is pretty happy about this, however it came about. Gerard hasn’t actually talked during the readings except to introduce himself, and this one is no different. He still takes questions about his artistic process during the Q&A and he sits next to Ryan at the signing table with a sharpie, leaving his own quick notes under Ryan’s.
Ryan keeps his eyes on the page in front of him for the most part, trying not to meet Spencer’s eyes, or see any of them (BrendonJonPete) sitting in the back row. At some point Gerard’s fingers press against the small of his back through his t-shirt, and Ryan takes a deep breath. He’s not sure why reading in front of them is worse - except that they know how to read his tones and his face, and they know when he reads aloud that these are his words in his mouth for the first time, and what that means.
He’s relieved when it’s over.
“Ryan,” Spencer says, after the last copy has been signed. His voice is thick, like it wants to stick in the back of his throat, and Ryan looks into his eyes.
“It’s better hearing you read it,” Brendon says from behind Spencer, hooking his chin over Spencer’s shoulder. “I mean - you know what I mean.”
Spencer nods, and Ryan can’t make himself say anything.
“I think we should all hug before one of you starts crying,” Jon says, coming up behind Ryan, pressing his hands against Ryan’s rib cage. Ryan just holds out his arms.
+
Ten hours later, Ryan is slightly intoxicated. The drink in his hand, currently, is some fatal, fruity combination of coconut rum, pineapple juice, and cranberry juice. It tastes about as alcoholic as water and much sweeter, but Ryan knows that this is pretty fucking false. Ryan, also, has never had a high tolerance for alcohol, after all of the years of vehemently not drinking and the years after that of intermittent and infrequent contact with alcohol. He’s not sure that’s a bad thing, exactly.
Still, Ryan’s a little lightheaded, and so he wraps his arm around Pete’s waist, and figures it might be a good idea to sit down sometime soon. Also, he hasn’t seen Gerard in awhile. They’d gone in together, Ryan knows, with Gerard’s arm warm around his shoulders, but then the rest of My Chem had showed up and Ryan had lost track of all of them. He wonders if Gerard had said goodbye before he left.
“Where do you think Gerard went?” Ryan asks Pete, his voice a little too loud. It’s okay, though; the music isn’t very quiet either, and Ryan doesn’t want his voice to get lost in it. Pete laughs, his smile wide enough to expose all of his extremely white teeth.
“Oh, I see how it is. I throw you a party, and you just want to hang with Gerard?” The club, Pete’s club, the one he opened in Chicago after the last Fall Out Boy album, is packed full, and Ryan’s seen about half of The Academy, in it’s current incarnation -Ryan’s not even sure he knows the members anymore, besides Carden and Beckett - all of Fall Out Boy, plus My Chem, Honesty Unlimited, and what seems like a few hundred other people Ryan has never met, most of which are probably in some way related to Pete’s label.
“It’s not really a party for me. I’m just the excuse for you to get all these people in the same room,” Ryan says, smiling crookedly.
“And, dude, was it worth it or what? I just hope Conrad and Carden end up punching each other out.” Ryan laughs. The last time Tom talked to Carden was probably eight years ago, according to Jon, and now they’ve settled into a routine of never acknowledging each other, even when they’re at the same event, or tour, or house party. Tom apparently still talks to Beckett on occasion, though. Ryan thinks, secretly, that this is probably at least partially Jon’s doing.
Patrick comes over, at some point, distracting Pete, and Ryan wanders off into the crowd. He’s finished his drink, and so he sets the empty glass on a table and wonders if another would be a good idea. Probably not.
It’s his party, sort of, and Ryan figures that he shouldn’t be alone. He doesn’t want to be, anyway. He wants to find Gerard.
Instead, he runs into Tom by the bar, where he’s sitting on a stool with his back against the dark wood. The drink in his hand in amber and half empty, and he sips it when he meets Ryan’s eyes.
“Ross,” Tom says, saluting him with his glass. Ryan can hear the ice clink together in the bottom, and a smile curls around his lips like warmth, but Tom’s face is serious.
“Conrad,” Ryan replies. He remembers last time, and how Tom had looked, with his shirt pushed up off of his stomach, straddling Ryan’s thighs. He remembers Tom’s nose ring and his smile, his well kissed lips. He remembers how it felt, to think that Tom might actually understand. Tom who had taken his place - in name if not in feeling.
“Ross, man,” Tom says, the look on his face the same combination of jealousy and hope as it had been, earlier, in Chicago. His tone says, if you don’t get it, I don’t think anyone does. And Ryan knows what he means, about how band sometimes means family and sometimes it doesn’t. Tom, Ryan thinks, has never found that exact right combination. Ryan has, and Ryan gave it up, gave it up on purpose.
Tom’s smiling at him, now, with his lips quirked in that well, what do you think? kind of invitation. Ryan thinks that it sounds like fun, sounds like the sort of thing a person does when they’re drunk and they want to taste someone’s skin and don’t much care who it is, as long as they understand. It sounds like what he might have needed, six months ago, when he was still uncertain, still out of place.
He doesn’t do it. As easy as would be to step in closer, push Tom’s thighs apart with his hands and put himself between them, he thinks about Gerard’s fingers pushed against the small of his back and fisted into his shirt. And that’s mostly enough.
“They’re my family, dude,” he says, because he’s sorry, he is, but, “I don’t have anyone else. They love you, though, so. Let them.” He watches Tom’s expression change to something like surprise, and he maybe wants to lean closer and run his fingers through Tom’s hair, feel Tom’s breath against his cheek, but understanding isn’t the only thing he needs anymore. Not from Tom, anyway. Ryan shrugs, and says,
“I get it, I do,” and wanders back into the crowd.
+
He ends up outside, sitting on the curb with his feet in the street and his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. He can hear the noise of the club behind him, the bass booming out into the street, and most of the melody is lost. The streetlights are bright, and the sky is clear in that polluted way that blots out the stars, and the air is dry against his skin, not like the humidity of the east coast. It’s not cold enough to need the hoodie, but Ryan’s too stubborn to take it off. He’s still a little off-balance, still tipsy, and he still doesn’t care.
“The party’s in your honor, you know.”
Ryan turns his head. Spencer is standing behind him with his hands on his hips, not quite smiling, but not expressionless, either. Ryan knows that he’s happy, anyway - he might as well be grinning. Ryan pats the ground beside him, and Spencer doesn’t hesitate, just sits next to him, close enough that they’re pressed together hip to knee.
“I talked to Tom,” Ryan says, instead of responding. He can almost hear Spencer’s eyebrows raise, and he half-smiles at the familiarity of it.
“What about?” Spencer asks, not surprised, exactly. His voice sounds closer to curious. Ryan shrugs.
“Band things,” he says. “I don’t think that he quite - it still feels to him like I’m in the band. Taking up space. Instead of -” Ryan cuts himself off, shaking his head and shrugging again.
“You think we’re leaving him out.” It’s not a question, and Ryan knows from Spencer’s tone that he’s not hurt, just that he’s thinking about it.
“Yeah, I mean. You kind of are. And he needs you more.” Ryan watches his fingers against his knees, and he figures that talking about Tom is easier than talking about himself. And just as truthful.
“Because of the Gerard thing?”
“Yeah, I - If you could even call it that.” When Ryan looks over at Spencer, he’s mid-eye-roll. “What?” he asks.
“You.” Spencer knocks his knee against Ryan’s, grinning.
“Spence -”
“Whatever, Ryan.” Spencer’s voice is amused, and Ryan curls his fingers into the sleeves of Gerard’s hoodie. Ryan knows what Spencer is thinking, but Spencer is wrong. Ryan is almost certain of it - certain enough, anyway.
“No, I mean, I really don’t think -” he says, trying again, but Spencer interrupts him.
“You never think you’re going to get what you want,” Spencer says. “You never have, not ever.
“Yeah, well,” Ryan says, knowing that if he says well, I don’t it will be a complete lie. Ryan’s just never gotten entirely used to expecting the good things to happen to him. Too much time spent waiting for the other shoe. “There’s nothing wrong with being cautious.”
“Someday, I swear, I’m going to teach you the difference between caution and pessimism. It’s a lesson well learned,” Spencer says, leaning into Ryan’s shoulder. “Seriously, dude, just go make babies or whatever.” Ryan shrugs, and Spencer snorts. It’s Ryan’s thanks, and Spencer’s you’re welcome, and Ryan just leans his head onto Spencer’s shoulder.
He should probably know by now that Spencer is the one who is always right.
“I’ll talk to Tom,” Spencer says, pausing for a moment. “We’re really proud of you, you know that?” he adds, almost like he’s not sure Ryan will want to hear it. Ryan glances up at him, caught between being grateful and surprised, but Spencer’s just looking off down the street.
“Yeah,” Ryan replies. He knows.
+
Ryan gets back to the hotel at 2:34 AM with a promise to Spencer that the four of them will have breakfast in the morning, before his flight back to New York. Gerard is on his bed staring at the ceiling when he opens the door, but is apparently still awake. He glances up when Ryan closes the door behind him.
“Have fun at your party?” Gerard asks, smiling crookedly and propping himself up on his elbows.
“Kind of. It was a little weird,” Ryan says, truthfully. He puts the key card, his wallet, and his cell phone on the dresser, before turning back to look at Gerard. “Didn’t see you around much.”
Gerard shrugs. “I default to using my band as guard dogs at parties with alcohol. It’s instinctive at this point.” He pauses for a moment, before holding out his hand. “C’mere,” he says.
Ryan blinks, but walks over to the bed, and lets Gerard pull him down. He can feel the warmth from Gerard’s skin, and he lets his feet press against Gerard’s calf, curling until he’s on his side.
“What?” he asks.
“You ready to be back in New York tomorrow?” Gerard asks, turning his head so that he’s looking at Ryan. Ryan’s not sure if that’s what’s on Gerard’s mind, really. He figures if Gerard wants to tell him, he will.
“Maybe,” is what he says. Gerard laughs.
“Very enthusiastic.”
“Trying not to think about it, actually,” Ryan admits. It’s not that he won’t be grateful to be back in his own space again, just that this is the first time in three years that he’s been left without a clear next step. He doesn’t think it will ever stop being frightening. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” Gerard says, turning onto his side. His face is openly curious. Ryan looks at his smile, slightly crooked, and thinks about Spencer, and about how Gerard pulled him down onto the comforter. He thinks about Gerard’s skin warm under the soles of his feet.
“So, I’m not -” he starts, and then takes a deep breath. “Would you mind if I, um. How much would you mind if I kissed you?” He watches Gerard’s eyes widen and tries not to hide his face in his hands, or shift away too perceptibly.
“How much would I mind?” Gerard asks, like he hasn’t heard right. Ryan can’t actually speak anymore; it’s taking all of the energy he has not to just take it back, say never mind and wonder for the rest of his life if it was self-preservation or cowardice. He just nods, instead. “Jesus Christ, Ryan,” Gerard says, like he’s out of breath or holding on for dear life, but Ryan has no idea what that means.
He doesn’t manage to hold in the flinch when Gerard’s fingers skate over his cheekbones, down the side of his face.
“Gerard?” he asks, finally. He bites his lips, staying as perfectly still as he can. Gerard’s fingers tug on the end of his hair, pushing it away from his forehead.
“I promise you, I wouldn’t mind,” Gerard says, his fingers pressing against the side of Ryan’s neck, fingernails scraping over his adam’s apple. “Not at all, I promise.”
“I - really?” Ryan asks, rabbit-still under the probing of Gerard’s fingers. He looks at the swoop of Gerard’s dark hair over his forehead, pale skin, and wonders how that could possibly be true. He’s Ryan, and this is Gerard.
“Yes, Ryan,” Gerard says, his voice soft and exasperated.
Ryan curls in close because he can’t help it, curving his finger in the hem of Gerard’s shirt, his knuckles brushing against ribs. He tucks his chin into the crook of Gerard’s neck.
“Okay,” He says, against the pale smoothness of Gerard’s skin. “Okay.”
+
The next morning, Ryan leaves while Gerard is still asleep, curled on his side with his legs tangled in the blue comforter. Ryan scribbles down a quick note on a post-it, and sticks it to the bedside table.
gee, it says,
sorry, early ihop date with the band. if I’m not back in by noon, send help.
♥ ryan
Gerard’s arm is still flung into the space where Ryan’s body had been, his fingers grasping at the bottom sheet. Ryan smiles, and heads for the door.
+
If Ryan is honest with himself, completely, he can accept that it hurts him less, now, to sit with Brendon’s arm around his shoulders, and Jon sleepy-smug across the table from him. Spencer smiles like he understands, pressing his foot against the side of Ryan’s ankle under the table, popping a piece of chocolate-chip pancake into his mouth.
“So, you go back to New York, and than what?” Jon asks, yawning. The redness around his eyes suggests that he’s still hung over - from what Ryan can tell, he spent the latter part of the night knocking back shots with Tom. Brendon reaches across and steals a piece of French toast from Jon’s plate, dripping syrup onto the tabletop.
“I have no idea,” Ryan says.
“Come to Chicago and live with us, Ryan Ross,” Brendon says. “We still miss having you around.” Brendon’s arm tightens momentarily around Ryan’s shoulders, and then moves away as he picks up his glass of orange juice.
“I can’t,” Ryan says, half-apologetic and a little surprised. “New York is home.” He thinks about how he actually misses his apartment, shitty cell phone reception and all, and how he thinks he should hang more paintings on the walls, buy more furniture. How he should actually settle in, finally, after more than nine years. “Visit me, instead.”
“We’ll be on tour soon, anyway, so I’ll see what I can do,” Spencer says. It’s not really a necessary part of his job that he go on tour with his band, but Spencer’s never gotten out of the habit, and no one bothers to correct him. There’s something like approval in his voice, and Ryan leans back against the plastic of the booth.
“Can’t get rid of us that easily,” Jon says, his voice firm. Ryan really, really knows this by now.
+
Gerard is packed when Ryan gets back to the hotel, sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching the television.
“Hi,” Ryan says, sitting on the edge of the bed, next to him. His smile is somewhat tentative, but he doesn’t back away.
“Hi,” Gerard replies, smiling. “I see you didn’t need help.”
“I was less clingy than I thought I’d be,” Ryan says, and can see the understanding in Gerard’s eyes. Gerard knows bands and family - his are even more mixed than most people’s - and for all the times he’s had to leave them behind, for him it’s never been permanent. Gerard, Ryan is sure, believes that he can’t survive without them. Ryan is not so sure. If Ryan can do it, anyone can.
Gerard’s smile softens at the edges, and his fingers grasp Ryan’s chin. His touch is light, a barely-there hint of skin, and he turns Ryan’s head until their eyes meet. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says; there is no hesitation in his voice.
Ryan can feel his breath stutter over his tongue, staccato; he says, “Okay,” and he means it.
Gerard’s lips are dry and soft, and he’s firm, saying, I’ve been waiting for this with only the pressure of his mouth, and Ryan thinks, oh. He thinks, oh, okay, and he kisses back, Gerard’s pulse quick against his chin, apparent in the press of his fingers against Ryan’s skin. Ryan tangles his hands in the hem of Gerard’s shirt and opens his mouth, tugging on the cotton to pull Gerard closer.
“Paint me something, when we get home,” Ryan says against Gerard’s lips, and feels Gerard laugh, breath warm against his skin. Gerard’s stomach shudders as he runs his fingers up over it, shirt fabric bunching up almost awkwardly over his wrists.
“Write me something to paint,” Gerard says. Ryan makes a noise, only half in response, when Gerard’s fingers move from his chin to curl into his hair, and he shifts onto his knees, pushing at Gerard’s shirt. He pulls out of the kiss with a gasp, presses his face against Gerard’s neck, the slight slickness of first sweat, and he says,
“Yeah, yeah, okay.”
+
The plane leaves at 5:40 PM for JFK, three years, six months, and twenty-eight days after Panic ends. Ryan hooks his hand into the crook of Gerard’s elbow, and doesn’t let go until landing.