114 - b
continued from part one
Spencer is sitting at the gate when Ryan walks off the plane, his legs crossed at the knee, and a copy of Rollingstone open on his lap. Ryan stalls next to the check-in booth, stopping suddenly enough that he disrupts the business man behind him, earning himself a grunt and a glare. Spencer hasn’t seen him yet, flipping to the next page of whatever article he’s reading, but he will soon. Ryan sucks a breath through his teeth, the hiss it makes loud to his ears, and he digs his fingers further into the pocket of Gerard’s hoodie, making himself step forward.
“Spence,” he says, and automatically dislikes the tone of his voice. Too low, too breathy, too delicate. He stops in front of Spencer’s knees, glancing down at the magazine in Spencer’s lap - the picture is of Brendon and Jon, Tom and that kid, Dave. The quote in the margin says, “We all kind of wanted something new - Ryan just needed something else entirely. - Jon Walker” It’s funny seeing his name in a magazine after so long, but he can’t expect them not to talk about him. Half the world blames Ryan for the fact that Panic broke up, anyway. Ryan just doesn’t care about them.
Also, it’s not precisely true that Ryan doesn’t need the music anymore. Not precisely.
“You know, I could ignore you for two weeks and it still wouldn’t be reparations for the all trouble you put us through,” Spencer says, but there’s a smile in his voice, so Ryan knows that he’s not exactly serious.
“You couldn’t do it,” Ryan says, and wishes that his voice were more firm.
“Probably not,” Spencer agrees, “but you’d still deserve it.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, “I know.” He really, really does.
Spencer looks up, then, and smiles the secret smile he saves for Ryan, for all those times when Ryan came to his house slightly bruised, visible or not. The breath catches in Ryan’s throat, and he lets himself smile back. He’s missed them. Missed Spencer. Spencer shrugs like he’s saying yeah, we missed you too, in case you couldn’t tell.
Ryan may not always remember, but he can tell.
+
Spencer’s living full time in Chicago now, staying near the band, his new band. The thought hurts less than Ryan thinks it’s going to, mostly because Spencer, at least, isn’t precisely band so much as family - maybe something else entirely. Ryan figures that it’s Spencer’s due for putting up with Ryan for so long.
Brendon hasn’t really moved to Chicago, but he lives there all the time, anyway. He doesn’t actually have an apartment; he’s let the lease run out on his room in Vegas, and put ninety percent of his stuff in storage, crashing semi-permanently in Spencer’s spare bedroom, with the remaining ten percent of his possessions strewn out across the floor. Brendon doesn’t pay rent - instead, he buys his own groceries and keeps the kitchen clean mostly of his own accord, just to keep things even. Ryan would bet that Spencer likes having Brendon around enough not to care anyway, but that he also doesn’t mind getting out of doing the dishes. He would also bet that Spencer would, under no circumstances, admit it.
“Yay!” Brendon says instead of hello when Spencer pushes the front door open. Ryan has his bag slung over his shoulder, following Spencer up three flights of hard wood stairs, and he stops slightly outside the open doorway. The living room is bright, sunny, with large windows facing out onto the street. Ryan can only just see down the hall - the doors of the bedrooms are half open, the bathroom down at the end. The kitchen is to the left of the door, connected to the large common room.
“It’s nice,” Ryan says, stepping onto the beige carpet. He can feel it sink under the weight of his shoes. “Your apartment, I mean. It’s really nice.”
“I know,” Spencer says, and even though he’s facing away, Ryan knows that he’s smiling. “Thanks.”
Brendon is on the couch, looking over his shoulder, and is clearly not disturbed by the fact that neither of them have responded to him. He’s had a lot of time to get used to it.
“Also, I live here, which makes it better,” he says, waggling his eyebrows self-deprecatingly.
“Hi, Brendon,” Ryan says, putting his bag on the floor behind the couch.
“Hey,” Brendon says, grin widening. “Glad to see that Gerard managed to keep you alive.”
“He’s kind of good at that, actually,” Ryan says, picking at the hem of Gerard’s sweatshirt with his fingers.
“Yeah,” Spencer says, “I know. That’s why I trusted him with your address. Now c’mon, we have to meet Jon in, like, twenty minutes.”
+
They manage to leave the apartment only after Brendon almost suffocates Ryan, hugging him for more than thirty seconds and probably squeezing as hard as he possibly can.
“Ow,” Ryan says in the car. Spencer is driving mostly because Ryan doesn’t have a car, and Brendon’s musical taste makes their ears bleed. Also, Spencer is just the kind of control freak who slams on imaginary brakes whenever he’s not behind the wheel.
“See, all that time away from us has made you weak, Ryan Ross. You are weak in the face of hugging. I am disappointed in you.” Brendon tsks from the backseat, and Ryan rolls his eyes. He’s had an almost constant sense of deja vu since entering Spencer’s apartment, and it’s not unpleasant, but it’s not exactly comfortable, either. More like falling into old patterns.
“Whatever.” Ryan shakes his head, and Brendon sighs in what sounds like pity.
“If I lived like you, Ryan, I’d probably shrivel up and die.” Ryan thinks that this is probably true.
“That’s why you aren’t me,” Ryan says, turning in his seat to look back at Brendon. Spencer snorts, keeping his eyes on the road in front of him.
“One of you is quite enough, Ryan.”
This, though, this is definitely true.
+
Jon meets them at the studio, and Ryan figures that he should’ve known. Tom is sitting in the back of the room, on the hardwood floor with his back to the whitewashed wall. The scowl on his face makes Ryan think that he’s somehow uncomfortable with their intimacy and tired of it, and maybe a little jealous. Ryan knows how he feels. Tom nods in his direction, just extending his chin more than anything else.
“Ross,” he says, his voice gruff and low in his throat.
“Conrad,” Ryan replies, stuffing his hands in his back pockets. “Nice to see you.” Tom shrugs, but the corner of his mouth tilts to the side and up, half a smile.
“We wanted you to hear,” Brendon says from the entranceway, looking at Spencer as if for approval. Spencer nods. Dave, the drummer, comes out of the hall with a can of coke in one hand, and he extends the other to Ryan.
“Left handed?” Ryan asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Sure, sometimes,” Dave says, smiling.
Ryan says, “nice to meet you,” and even mostly means it, so when Dave ducks his head and grins like maybe that means something, he doesn’t feel bad.
“Likewise, for sure.” Spencer steers Dave with a hand on the back of his neck, and Tom stands, grabbing his acoustic from where it’s leaning in the corner.
“We’re playing, yeah?” he asks. The question is mostly directed at Jon, and Jon nods, and then, they are.
They’re good - it’s all that Ryan can think, at first. It’s different music - different writers and a different sound - Brendon’s piano is upbeat and staccato, sharp notes that hang in the air for minute seconds before decaying completely, and his voice is the same, but the words are so much broader and farther apart. He lets them scoop down low and wind their way back up, following them back to the melody. Jon and Tom stand side by side, comfortable, and Ryan watches the way Tom looks at Jon’s fingers on his bass, the way Tom’s hands are steady and clean against the strings, the way he bites his lip and doesn’t look at his own playing. He’s confident in his fingers and ears and muscle memory, and he closes his eyes as he leans back. Jon is grinning at Ryan, bobbing his head in time with the music that is possibly more his this time around. There’s more of him in it, anyway.
“Good, right?” Spencer asks against his ear, leaning his chin on Ryan’s shoulder, one hand curled up in the sweatshirt. Ryan can feel the pads of Spencer’s fingertips against his shoulder blade. Ryan presses his nose into the hair at the top of Spencer’s head, smelling the strawberry vanilla of his shampoo.
“Fucking good, Spencer,” he says, quiet, but he knows that Spencer hears him. “Fucking good.”
+
Somehow, Ryan ends up lying on his back on the sofa bed in the guest room of Jon’s apartment, Tom’s fingers sliding up under his shirt, Tom’s thighs on either side of his hips. They’ve been partying since they got back from the studio, Brendon dancing on the table in the living room, Jon trying to run damage control while Spencer watches from the couch, nursing his drink, relaxed smile curled up over his lips. Ryan doesn’t think they’ll notice for a little while longer. Ryan hasn’t had sex for somewhere close to a year, not since his last girlfriend broke up with him, and so he can’t help squirming at the weight pressed against him, pleasant and just this side of too heavy.
He’s slightly tipsy, light headed with alcohol he hasn’t touched since their last tour, almost three years ago. The back of his mouth tastes slightly sour, like whiskey, and he breathes through his nose when Tom’s fingernails skid up over his rib cage, bunching up the loose cotton fabric. Gerard’s sweatshirt is on the floor somewhere, and Tom’s tongue is sliding up his neck, teeth against the juncture of neck and jaw, lips just under his ear. Ryan shudders, makes a shunted noise in the back of his throat, and Tom pulls back, looks down at him with hazy eyes. Tom is drunker than he is.
“Ryan Ross,” Tom says, lips curling up in a smile that is almost nice, almost pleasant, his hair swooping down over one eye, and Ryan uncurls his fingers from where he discovers them fisted in the sheets, wrapping one in the collar of Tom’s shirt and the other around the back of his head, pulling him in. Tom’s hair is soft and slightly dirty under his fingertips, and he lets himself be pulled, his fingers pushing Ryan’s shirt all the way up to his armpits. Tom understands, Ryan thinks. Tom knows what it’s like, being not in a band anymore. Tom is in Ryan’s band. Also, Tom’s pretty mouth is pouting as he leans in, and Ryan can feel the warmth of his skin under the thin fabric of his shirt.
“That’s me,” Ryan says, voice quiet and cool. Tom laughs, but Ryan doesn’t care, because Tom’s fingers are brushing over his stomach, leaving his shirt bunched and useless, pooled over his collarbones, and Tom’s hair is in his eyes, and Ryan is feeling pretty good.
“Yeah, kid,” Tom says, voice soft, slurring just slightly, and kisses him. Ryan doesn’t even mind the condescension - he’s thirty, not a kid anymore - just pushes his hips up and lets it all go.
+
Ryan is up early the next morning. Tom’s gone, but Ryan actually doesn’t care - he’s too relaxed and loose and well-used. He just pulls on his pants and sweatshirt and wanders back into Jon’s living room.
Spencer is asleep on the couch in the same clothes he was wearing the night before, with Brendon half draped over him and half falling off. Brendon makes a small noise as Ryan passes, shifting a little, but despite his precarious position, he just curls his fingers more firmly into the belt loops of Spencer’s pants. Ryan raises his eyebrows, decides he doesn’t care, and goes to make himself some tea. Jon’s bedroom door is open, so after Ryan fills the teakettle with hot water and turns on the gas stove, he checks in. Jon is reading the newspaper, lying with his head by the foot of his bed, the comics section spread out in front of him.
“Morning,” Ryan says, his voice low and rough. Jon looks up with a grin.
“Hey,” he says, pausing just momentarily before asking, “Tom? Really?” Ryan shrugs.
“Not really. Just - it was fun.” Which is mostly true, although not exactly. Ryan doesn’t know how to explain the way Tom understands. Tom knows all about not fitting where he’s been placed, about not knowing where he fits, and that’s maybe something that Ryan needs.
“Okay,” Jon says, and that’s about that. Sometimes Ryan appreciates how collected Jon can be. Sometimes he doesn’t. This situation is the former.
“Besides,” Ryan says, pulling the sweatshirt sleeves down over his fingers, “I think I have a crush on Gerard.” His voice is as even as ever, but he’s not really looking Jon in the eyes so much.
“Really?” Jon doesn’t sound incredulous, or skeptical, just slightly surprised. Ryan wonders if he should have waited, and talked to Spencer about this first.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s a little sad. I’ve been wearing his sweatshirt around all the time.” He pauses. “I should probably give it back.”
“I can’t say I ever pegged you for the sappy type,” Jon says, and Ryan collapses onto the bed next to him with a slight thump.
“Clearly -”
“You haven’t known him long enough,” Spencer finishes from the doorway, hair ruffled and shirt slightly askew. “Your tea water woke us up.”
“Sorry,” Ryan says, shifting until he’s on his stomach, chin propped on his hands.
“Wouldn’t have wanted to miss the moment,” Spencer says. “And, yes, you should probably give it back. And also wash it first.”
“What did I miss?” Brendon calls from the living room.
“Nothing,” Spencer and Ryan say at the same time, sharing a look. Jon laughs.
+
Slumped on the floor with his back to the wall, Ryan watches them practice and itches for a pen and paper. He doesn’t know what the words will come out like - song lyrics or measured prose or just the complicated, messy inside of his own head - but Brendon is singing with his eyes closed like he’s concentrating on making the words fit the right way, and Jon is leaning against the piano for support, and Tom is biting his lower lip, nose ring gleaming in the bright fluorescent lighting. Ryan drums his fingers on his thigh, impatient, and closes his eyes.
Later, when they file out of the studio, Tom winks at Ryan as he passes, sort of a hey, thanks and sort of a maybe, you know, if you want, and Ryan doesn’t respond, just shrugs his shoulders.
Ryan thinks about Gerard’s hands and the warmth of his fingertips, thinks maybe, but probably not.
+
Ryan goes back on Saturday, and they all accompany him to the airport. Brendon and Jon say goodbye from the car. Brendon stuffs an unopened bag of gummi bears into Ryan’s backpack, his voice trailing into,
“What if your blood sugar gets low, Ryan? What then?” in his best mother hen voice - his smile gives him away, not that Ryan wouldn’t have seen through it otherwise. Ryan calls Brendon a tool, and considers them even. He sits through hugs from both of them, and while his fingers itch just to get back into the car and stay, he knows that would be a bad idea. Instead, he digs his fingernails into his palms and stays still. They would let him drop everything in New York and stay here with them, but Ryan’s too stubborn for that. He has three months until his book is published. He has to wash and give back Gerard’s sweatshirt.
Spencer accompanies him to security, walking close enough that their shoulders touch, wrists brushing.
“Less radio silence this time around, okay, Ry?” Spencer says as they stop in front of Terminal A, and Ryan can hear the threat in his voice, the seriously, I have ins with My Chem, and not just Gerard, and they actually live near you, and he knows to respect it as best he can.
“Sure,” he says, and Spencer rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment. “I mean it, Spencer. I’ll try.”
Spencer sighs and runs one hand through his hair. “I just don’t understand why -” he starts, and then cuts himself off. This is something they’ve agreed not to talk about anymore. He means I just don’t understand why you can’t do this with us, near us, but Ryan’s answer is that same as ever. They are the pattern he can’t fall back into, not even if he wants to. “Never mind,” Spencer says.
“Don’t be mad,” Ryan says, shifting so his bag is hiked up higher on his arm.
“Not mad,” Spencer says, leaning in so he can perch his sharp chin on the ridge of Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan thinks about them as kids, as teenagers, as adults. Somehow the dynamic hasn’t changed as much as he would have thought.
The thought fills him with relief.
+
After Ryan gets back into his apartment, he throws his clothing in the wash (including the well-worn sweatshirt), and goes outside to call Frank.
“Hello?” The voice is rough, and molasses thick with sleep, and not Frank.
“Hi, Mikey,” Ryan says. “You’re not Frank.”
“Not usually,” Mikey says, and Ryan can hear him shifting. “He’s, hm, I think he’s in the shower.
“Okay. Sorry I woke you up.” Ryan realizes that it’s still in the actual AM hours of the day, and that they were probably in the studio until late.
“S’ok,” Mikey says, and yawns, “Gerard’s not here though. At his house, I think.”
“I figured. I actually wasn’t calling for him this time, anyway. Think you could help me out with something?”
“Does it involve much thought? I usually reserve thinking for after I’ve had caffeine.” Mikey makes a vague stretching noise, exhaling air against the receiver.
“Not really. I just, um. I need Gerard’s address.” Ryan bites his lip and looks out across the street, watching people stop in the 7-11 on the opposite corner. “Preferably without him knowing I have it.”
“Why?” Mikey asks, the hint of suspicion in his voice. Ryan thinks that this is why it would’ve been easier to get it from Frank. Less protective brother instincts. Ryan doesn’t know Mikey all that well, but he’s pretty sure that these are the kind of instincts that go marrow-deep.
“It’s - actually a surprise. I promise there’re no explosives involved.”
“Mm,” Mikey says, “’kay.”
“Thanks. Also, maybe give me his cell number? I feel a little bad for calling Frank all the time.”
“Fuckin’ finally,” Mikey says, a smile in his voice. “Took you fucking long enough. Frank will be so heartbroken.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Ryan Ross - heartbreaker.” Ryan snorts, rolling his eyes, despite the fact that there’s no one around to see it.
“Hey, you never know,” Mikey says, yawning again. Ryan smiles to himself, tapping his foot against the concrete.
“I guess not.”
+
Ryan carefully folds Gerard’s sweatshirt, putting it in the box on his floor. He looks over the sheaf of papers sitting on the coffee table next to him and runs his fingers through his hair, before placing them carefully on top of the sweatshirt. He’s scribbled a note long enough to take up two post-its, sticking them on the top page.
Gerard, the note says,
Here’s your sweatshirt back - sorry for borrowing it for so long. It’s really comfortable. Enclosed is the first chapter of the book. We’re not done editing everything yet, but I think it’s finished enough for you to take a look at it. If you want. You don’t have to.
There’s two lines scratched out in thick black pen, that previously read, I hope you like it. If you read it, I mean.
In the bottom corner, he’s signed it,
Ryan.
+
He gets a manila envelope in the mail eight days later, with no return address attached. There are only four or five people who actually know where he lives, so his mail is limited to bills most days. He sits down at the table in the kitchen nook, and pops open the metal tabs, lifting the flap on the envelope. Inside, he finds a plastic folder the size of a sheet of printer paper and a folded piece of lined notebook paper.
Unfolded, the notebook paper is just a note. It says,
ryan,
your writing makes me want to draw. send me more chapters.
gee
Ryan brushes his fingers over the familiar handwriting, before sliding the folder closer, and flipping it open.
Inside is another note, and a drawing on a sheet of unlined paper. The note just says, I’m not sure if this is what you meant, but, and the drawing. The drawing is a boy sitting on the front porch of an old house - one of those wood paneled, shingle-roofed houses with wraparound porches, faded blue paint and a swing to the left of the front door. The boy’s feet are on the front steps, and he’s propping his elbow on his knee, his chin on his palm, his expression half bored and half wistful. What makes Ryan bite his lip, though, are the wings that arch gracefully from behind his back, mottled light brown and white. Smaller than Ryan imagined, maybe, but the picture is the soft colors of faded memory, light blues and browns and greens. It’s not Gerard’s normal aesthetic - not blood and guts enough, not darkly gothic enough - it’s still his hand and his art, though, still sharply angled lines and swaths of faded watercolor. Ryan wants this for every scene, wants paintings to narrate his text, to show what he can’t with words.
When he calls Gerard’s cell, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, Gerard’s phone is off, and he just gets the answering machine - hey, you’ve called Gerard’s cell, leave me a message. Or don’t. It probably doesn’t really matter much either way. I’ll call you back, if I like you - and so he says,
“It’s Ryan. Um. Call me back.”
+
“Is it too late, do you think?” he asks, about a week later, and Jeanne just shrugs.
“It’s your book. We’re going to have some opinions on what does or doesn’t go in, but overall, your writing, your vision. Besides, I think it sounds like a good idea, in a general sense. Show me what you come up with.”
“Okay,” Ryan says, and then turns back to the chapter spread across Jeanne’s desk.
+
“Well?”
Ryan shifts his weight from one foot to the other, watching Gerard’s face with something like anxiety. He hadn’t wanted to do this in Gerard’s house, or in his own apartment - he’d needed somewhere neutral, neither of theirs, so while the Starbucks down the street is more public than Ryan maybe wants this to be, it’s better than the alternatives.
“Seriously?” Gerard asks, his voice surprised, almost disbelieving. He glances down at his hands on the tabletop and then back up at Ryan’s face.
“I mean - yeah. Seriously. You’d get paid, of course. But. I know you’re busy so I can understand if -” Ryan starts, shifting his weight again, shrugging his shoulders, and focusing his eyes on some place just behind Gerard’s left ear.
“You’re really - Ryan. Shut up. Of course I’ll illustrate your fucking book.” Gerard is grinning when Ryan focuses in on his face again, wide and white and excited.
“You mean - really?”
“Yeah,” Gerard says, “but you know, this means you’re going to have to let me read it. All of it.”
“I, yeah,” Ryan says, letting out a breath in one puff of held air. “I know.”
+
The book is released on May fourteenth, and Ryan thinks that he’s probably going to puke. He wakes up nauseous, three hours earlier than usual, and drinks a large cup of tea in the morning. He can’t even think about eating.
“Spencer, Spencer, Spencer,” he says into the phone, and listens to Spencer laugh at him. It makes him feel better.
“Ryan, what’re you freaking out about? It’s not like there’re going to be lines around the door for it. Especially since you still haven’t told anyone your pseudonym. You’ll get a few reviews, and that’ll be that.”
“Spencer. People are reading my book. It’s in their hands and it’s my ideas and my words and Gerard’s illustrations.” Ryan takes a deep breath. He knows that, technically, the book was sent to reviewers over a week ago. It doesn’t really seem to matter.
“Calm, Ryan. Breathe,” Spencer says. He pauses for a few seconds, and Ryan can hear him thinking, remembering. “Remember when we went onstage that first time? And how fucking awesome that was?”
“Yeah, but, Spencer, I actually did puke then. Kind of a lot.”
“True, but this isn’t as bad.” Spencer is smiling, Ryan knows. He’s probably on the couch in his living room in Chicago, with Brendon asleep in the guestroom and Jon a fifteen minute drive away. Ryan sort of wants them here right now, but, yeah, he’s the one who always leaves.
“In some ways, it’s worse,” is all he says.
+
Ryan mails five copies of Temperance to the people that matter. On Gerard’s, he writes a small note, which says thanks for your help - feel free to share with your band. The rest he leaves unadorned.
Gerard sends him a text that says, hah, I already bought them all their own. It makes Ryan laugh.
The reviews start coming out a few days after the release, and they’re. Positive, overall. Ryan gets an email from Jeanne, five days after.
May 19th, 3:04 PM
To: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)
From: Jeanne Benson (jbenson@treehouse.com)
Cc:
Subject: Reviews
Ryan -
So far, so good. In case you haven’t seen them, I thought I’d send you a few links.
-Jeanne
After that is a list of six links to reviews. Ryan’s read half of them, has them printed out and taped to his fridge, actually. He has a tally of the good and the bad - the good are stuck to the left side, the bad to the right. So far the left is ahead with four, the right behind with only two. Ryan doesn’t think a 66% is really all that bad.
What Ryan does think, later, is that he really shouldn’t be surprised by Pete.
+
so, Pete’s blog post says, on May 31st, you guys remember ryan’s book, right?
Ryan doesn’t actually read the rest of the post - it wanders off into vague, descriptive, Pete-like phrases, all of them winding up together in too complicated a pattern for Ryan to want to decode it (it’s not that this is a betrayal, because that’s come and gone and wasn’t wasn’t wasn’t my fault. not this time. the view from my window reminds me of all the places i could be right now but you’re here so it doesn’t really matter that i’m not. i’d rather be stuck here with you sitting on this windowsill in the winter time). He sees the uploaded picture, the cover of the book, and exits out of the program.
“Goddamnit, Pete,” he says aloud. It’s probably revenge for letting Pete think that Ryan was mad at him for two months, no matter how accidental, and Ryan can understand revenge impulses. It still basically sucks.
+
Ryan doesn’t talk to anyone for nine days after that. It’s not an anger thing so much as self-preservation, and as much as he can see Spencer shaking his head and scowling (which, he’s sure, Spencer does, even after Ryan carefully tells Spencer he’s going awol), he needs the time to collect himself - gather together the bits he’s going to need next week, and the week after that.
He actually, actually doesn’t leave his apartment, living off of his dwindling supply of crackers and pasta, drinking tea like there’s nothing else keeping him alive. He spends most of his time writing, curled up on his bed with his back to the headboard, notebook paper spread around his knees and toes, crumpled pages and ripped passages. He doesn’t sleep much, he just watches his fingers put words on the paper, half prose and half outraged screaming, the things he’ll never say, even if he should. Mostly, though, he knows he shouldn’t.
When he finally winds down, it’s about 5:40 AM on June 9th, according to the clock on his dresser, and he can’t remember the last time he left his bedroom, even for food or caffeine. This probably means that he should, sometime soon, but his fingers hurt from clutching, pressing pen against blank paper, and when he holds his hands out in front of him, they shake. He also can’t remember the last time he slept - which doesn’t mean that it hasn’t happened recently, just that he hasn’t been paying enough attention to his body to know.
He doesn’t bother to push all the detritus from his comforter, just slides under the covers, and closes his eyes. It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep.
+
He wakes up about fourteen hours later, just before 8:00 PM. The first thing he does is go outside and text Pete. He’s still wearing his pajamas.
you’re an even bigger asshole than I am, he sends.
cuz i let the cat out of the bag? Pete asks.
mostly yeah, he replies, and it takes Pete twelve minutes, according to his cell phone’s clock, to text him back.
u gotta live up to it ryan ross. im just doing u a favor by ratting u out.
how is that, exactly? Ryan sits on the steps with his legs huddled up close to his chest, his chin resting soft against the flannel of his pants. He breathes out humid wetness, the coming of summer pressed all around him.
now theyll know how good u are
+
Jeanne left him a message on Tuesday, it seems, and when Ryan checks his messages, he feels vaguely guilty.
She says, “Hey, Ryan. It’s Jeanne. I’m just calling to let you know that the Temperance sales have gone up dramatically in the past week. Not to touch any sore spots, but you might want to start thinking about advertising - your book has potential. I’m not asking you to out yourself on television, or anything similarly dramatic, but - you should just think it over.”
Ryan knows that he should. He knows that he could sell more books if he just admitted that he wrote Temperance and got it over with, but that would be even wider exposure than just the people that read Pete’s blog. He’s not sure he’s ready for that.
And even if, hypothetically, he was (which he really, really isn’t), it’s still not the kind of thing he’d do.
Still. Ryan shrugs to himself and deletes Jeanne’s message. He still pretty much hates Pete.
+
A few days later, Spencer sends him a clip from a copy of Spin, some article about him that he missed. Ryan gets it when he checks his mail in the morning, shifting through assorted bills as he pours milk over his Rice Krispies. Spencer’s attached note is cryptic, saying only thought you might appreciate this, y’know, once you get over the dumb anger thing. The first few lines of the article say - Ryan Ross is hard to get a hold of these days. Since his band, Panic! At The Disco, broke up over three years ago, he’s almost completely disappeared from the public eye, showing up only infrequently to parties, even those thrown by the likes of Patrick Stump and Gerard Way. But, if business man and sometimes band member Pete Wentz is to be believed, he’s just recently published his own novel under a pseudonym.
“Yeah,” Wentz said when I spoke with him earlier this week. We were sitting at a table in Dunkin Donuts a few blocks down from his office, tucked back in the corner. Wentz leaned forward in his chair, one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee. “He’s probably going to be mad at me for talking about it at all.”
“Why’s that?” I asked. Wentz had his elbows propped up on the table, and laughed at the question, showing all of his teeth.
“I guess he just doesn’t want anyone to know how brilliant he really is. I’ve known him for ten years, and I still don’t get it.”.
Ryan rolls his eyes, taking the last bite of his cereal. He pauses, before sticking the article to his fridge with a magnet.
Ryan knows that Pete believes what he’s saying. He’s just not entirely certain that he believes Pete.
+
Gerard invites Ryan to come and hang out with his band, keep them company at the studio. Ryan doesn’t even think about declining the offer, which, later, makes him worry, just a little. He’s not used to giving in without a thought, not since he was forced to.
He doesn’t have a car anymore, so he takes the subway down to Penn station and catches the NJ Transit out of Manhattan. The nearest train station is still a twenty minute drive from the studio, and so Gerard picks him up, sunglasses firmly over his eyes, hood pulled up over his head. Ryan grins as he climbs down the steps to the parking lot, reaching out before he thinks about it, and tugging at the fabric around Gerard’s face.
“Just as inseparable as ever,” he says, pulling back his hand and tucking it in his pocket. Gerard laughs.
“What can I say? I missed it while it was gone.” Ryan half-smiles and looks down at his feet, rocking back on his heels. “Ah-ah. No guilt,” Gerard says, more than a note of sincerity clear in the amused tone of his voice. Ryan just laughs and wonders if he’s that much easier to read than he used to be, or if Gerard has had the time to actually learn his cues. He’s not sure which he would prefer, but he suspects the latter, if only because then he only has to worry about one hole in his defenses, not multiple. He lets Gerard tuck a hand in the crook of his elbow and tug him toward the car.
The first half of the ride is silent, mostly because Ryan can’t think of anything constructive to say, and Gerard appears completely at ease. Finally, Ryan says,
“Everyone really likes the illustrations.” It’s rather bland - an easy, safe compliment, but Ryan is fine with safe. Safe is nice, but not anything special. Ryan doesn’t think he’d mind, so much, being safe. Gerard grins at him, blindingly white, for half a second before turning back to the road.
“Have sales been higher since Pete did his little show-and-tell, or whatever the fuck you feel like calling it?”
Ryan sighs. “Yeah. I’m not sure if I appreciate the help or not.”
“That means that you sort of don’t appreciate it but feel like you should, right?” Gerard is trying not to laugh, Ryan can tell - his smile is a little too wide, and his eyes are crinkling at the corners. He wishes that Gerard wasn’t sort of really right.
“Kind of,” is what he actually says, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug. He wants to say something like how is it that you’ve become my main contact with the outside world?, but the words stick in his throat like anything important always does, and he’s left wondering if Gerard would say just lucky, I guess or well, someone has to do it, Ryan Ross. Instead, Ryan rests his head back against the seat and watches Gerard drive.
+
Mikey is waiting for them in the lobby when they reach the studio, curled up on one of the bland chairs lining the room.
“I thought I’d be the welcoming party,” Mikey says when Ryan stops in front of him, with what he assumes is a quizzical expression on his face.
“Kind of a lame party, isn’t it?” Gerard says, his fingers still wrapped lightly around Ryan’s wrist where he’d grabbed him in the parking lot, dragging Ryan into the building after him.
“Thought that counts, right?” Mikey says, shrugging fluidly and standing. Ryan doesn’t know Mikey that well, can’t read his silences in any helpful way, but he takes this gesture as welcoming, and appreciates it.
“Thanks,” he says. His voice is softer than he means it to be, and Mikey smiles at him.
“No problem.”
+
Frank is in the studio, watching Ray lay down guitar tracks, and he pounces on Ryan as they walk in, hugging him almost Brendon-tight, and Ryan has to remind himself not to tense up at the unexpected contact. Still, his shoulders come up slightly, and it takes him just a hair too long to hug back, but Ryan figures that Frank will forgive him. Gerard snorts.
“I’m glad you’re so happy to see me,” he says, standing just behind Ryan.
“You’ve only been gone an hour,” Frank replies, pulling away and slinging an arm around Mikey’s thin shoulders. Mikey is about five inches taller than Frank, so Frank has to stand on his tiptoes to reach, but Mikey just smiles down at him and doesn’t comment.
“Details,” Gerard says.
Ryan ends up curling up in the couch toward the back of the room and watching them work for a few hours. It’s surprisingly different than he’s used to - Panic had, after all, mostly started with the lyrics and worked it’s way outward, building drums as Spencer found the rhythm, and spreading, normally, to Jon for bass after that. The melody could come in at any time, and Brendon would mostly know at the beginning if he needed a piano part or not.
My Chem, on the other hand, seems to work from every direction at once, converging on something that only partially makes sense from the outside. It’s organic, comfortable, chaotic, and since this is the gestation of My Chem’s eighth album, the almost familiar rhythm of it makes sense, even to Ryan, who’s never seen it before.
“I swear, I’ll come up with the lyrics for that guitar part, Frank, but I need a rhythm section for the bridge of this one,” Gerard says, running his hands through his hair, the expression on his face almost manic.
“Yeah, yeah,” Frank says, “just, I have to finish this six measures first; otherwise, I’m going to lose it.”
“You could always work out in the car again,” Mikey says, helpfully, from where he’s talking bass with Ray, “although there’s actual heat this time. I’m not sure if that’s conducive or not.” His bass fits in his hands like an extension of his limbs, and he strums at it idly as he talks.
Ray doesn’t even bother to look up from his guitar, glancing over at the screen of his laptop, set up on a stool just to his left, every few minutes for confirmation. Ryan props his chin on his hands, and glances up when Bob sits next to him.
“Pretty chaotic,” Bob says, his face almost completely expressionless. Ryan shrugs, lifting one shoulder in acknowledgement.
“You’re not going to help out?” Ryan asks, shifting to look at Bob, who is tapping his drumsticks on his thigh, watching his band.
“Nah,” Bob says, “I usually wait for them to settle a bit before laying down drums. Toro may seem quiet, but I try to stay out of his way during recording. He and Frank tend to get in spats.” Bob inclines his chin toward Ray, who is looking at Frank with a scowl.
“What? I’m just making suggestions, Ray,” Frank says. The wide grin on his face tells Ryan that’s he’s probably just making shit up to provoke Ray, and is obviously happy that it’s working as well as it is. Gerard rolls his eyes from behind him.
“Mikey,” Ray says, “will you please take your boyfriend out for a walk?”
“As long as you’re not planning on needing us for, like, half an hour,” Mikey says, grinning as he glances at Frank. Ryan raises his eyebrows before he can think about it, and wonders how he missed that particular connection.
“Oh, ew,” Gerard says. “Just not near the soda machines this time, okay? I’m still traumatized from Wednesday.”
+
“I’m sorry,” Gerard says later, his hair askew from running his hands through it, his expression apologetic. He has two bags of Chinese in one hand and two sodas in the other, which, Ryan thinks, sort of makes up for it. “I’m a really bad host.” It’s a little bit true, but Ryan doesn’t mind. He takes his bag with a shrug and says,
“I don’t mind.” He doesn’t, really. “You work - really differently than what I’m used to.” Maybe because Gerard’s words are his to sing, and so he doesn’t have to be so careful with them, refitting them for someone else’s voice and face and feelings. Ryan’s never felt that he was missing something by letting Brendon sing, has never regretted that choice, but sometimes he wonders what it would’ve been like. With less hiding and less caution. He doubts he could handle it now, much less back when he’d written those first few songs. Tacks for Snacks and Camisado were songs he could only really produce knowing he wouldn’t have to sing them himself. He shifts in his chair, and Gerard raises an eyebrow in what might be skepticism and might be confusion.
“Well, crazy is sort of par for the course with us, I guess. You may never again see Ray angry. Kind of a once in a lifetime opportunity there.”
“Glad I didn’t miss it, then.” Gerard’s smile holds some degree of relief in it, like Ryan might actually mind. Ryan’s not sure what to say to change that, so he doesn’t say anything at all, just smiles at Gerard and hopes it’s enough.
“C’mon,” Gerard says, “let’s eat outside.”
+
Gerard waits until they’re driving back to the train station to bring it up.
“Ryan,” he says, his voice quieter than Ryan has ever heard it - not tentative, really, but careful. “Ryan, seriously.” Ryan doesn’t look at Gerard, knows that Gerard is glancing at him, trying to catch his eye in the reflection of the rearview mirror.
“What?” Ryan asks, and the tone is too defensive, too immediately on edge for his own comfort.
“You know what you should do?” Gerard’s voice has an undercurrent of excitement embedded in it like sparks, and Ryan sort of just wants to give it to him, whatever it is.
“What?” he asks. Ryan can hear the edge in his words, and he doesn’t really want it there, but he can’t help it.
“A book tour. You should do a book tour, totally.” Ryan glances over, then, and sees the smile on Gerard’s face, the too-wide slant of his eyes.
“A book tour? Why?”
“So you’ll stop hiding, dude. You know that you do. I think you’ve seen about four people in the past six months who aren’t part of your band. Like, eight at most, seriously.” Gerard is sincere in his earnestness, Ryan knows. It doesn’t mean he appreciates it. Ryan’s never really been that good at taking criticism.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey, I don’t -”
“Dude, don’t even give me that. You do. You do. Why the hell else would you be so against Pete’s little advertisement thing?”
“Maybe I don’t want his help,” Ryan says, his tone back to expressionless. He looks at his fingers where they’re curved over his knees, fingernails pressing into his jeans hard enough, probably, to bruise the skin underneath.
“Or maybe you just don’t want actual popularity.” Gerard is looking straight ahead when Ryan glances at him. Ryan looks immediately back at his legs.
“I just - I don’t want to be famous because of Panic. I don’t.”
“That’s pretty dumb, I gotta say.” Ryan feels himself flinch, because he knows that Gerard is honest, always, sometimes brutally so, but he’s never had that turned on him before. He bites into his lip, watching the pavement disappear under the wheels of the car, and he doesn’t want to hear this, even if he knows that he probably has to anyway. “Just because you’re not a part of Panic anymore doesn’t mean that it should be completely erased from public consciousness. Besides, I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t -”
“No, shut up. You can’t always use it as an excuse. It’s been more than three years - you don’t think that’s enough time? If you ask me, you’re just scared of dealing with all those people again. Which, y’know, I can totally understand. Just own up to it, man. If you’re scared, fine, just, like. Fucking do something about it. You can’t hide in your apartment forever, right?”
Ryan doesn’t say anything - the words he knows he should be saying wrap themselves around his vocal chords and refuse to leave, all of the I know, I know, you’re rights, and the I don’t know if I cans, and the nothing will ever be that good, you know thats. Instead, he watches the road trail away, ribbons of yellow lines and white boundaries, and he worries at his lower lip with his teeth.
“A book tour?” he asks, finally. Gerard looks over with a relieved laugh, and Ryan wonders if Gerard thought his silence was anger.
“Yeah, man, yeah,” he says. “It’ll be like old times, kind of.” He laughs again, and runs a hand through his hair. Ryan is silent again, letting the space stretch out behind them as he thinks, and - it’s not really such a bad idea. Not really. Even if it sort of terrifies the shit out of him.
“Okay,” he says. “Um, okay. Yeah. Just -” he sighs. “Okay. Come with me?” he asks, and it’s half joke but it’s half really, really not, and he puts on a smile to play it off, fingers rubbing against the words tattooed on his wrists. “I mean, you are the illustrator.”
Gerard looks at him, stopped at a traffic light, and he seems to be considering, weighing the pros and cons. Ryan tries not to twitch under his gaze, fingers still twisting against the ink in his skin. “Yeah,” Gerard says, eventually. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see what I can do.”
continued in part three
Spencer is sitting at the gate when Ryan walks off the plane, his legs crossed at the knee, and a copy of Rollingstone open on his lap. Ryan stalls next to the check-in booth, stopping suddenly enough that he disrupts the business man behind him, earning himself a grunt and a glare. Spencer hasn’t seen him yet, flipping to the next page of whatever article he’s reading, but he will soon. Ryan sucks a breath through his teeth, the hiss it makes loud to his ears, and he digs his fingers further into the pocket of Gerard’s hoodie, making himself step forward.
“Spence,” he says, and automatically dislikes the tone of his voice. Too low, too breathy, too delicate. He stops in front of Spencer’s knees, glancing down at the magazine in Spencer’s lap - the picture is of Brendon and Jon, Tom and that kid, Dave. The quote in the margin says, “We all kind of wanted something new - Ryan just needed something else entirely. - Jon Walker” It’s funny seeing his name in a magazine after so long, but he can’t expect them not to talk about him. Half the world blames Ryan for the fact that Panic broke up, anyway. Ryan just doesn’t care about them.
Also, it’s not precisely true that Ryan doesn’t need the music anymore. Not precisely.
“You know, I could ignore you for two weeks and it still wouldn’t be reparations for the all trouble you put us through,” Spencer says, but there’s a smile in his voice, so Ryan knows that he’s not exactly serious.
“You couldn’t do it,” Ryan says, and wishes that his voice were more firm.
“Probably not,” Spencer agrees, “but you’d still deserve it.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, “I know.” He really, really does.
Spencer looks up, then, and smiles the secret smile he saves for Ryan, for all those times when Ryan came to his house slightly bruised, visible or not. The breath catches in Ryan’s throat, and he lets himself smile back. He’s missed them. Missed Spencer. Spencer shrugs like he’s saying yeah, we missed you too, in case you couldn’t tell.
Ryan may not always remember, but he can tell.
+
Spencer’s living full time in Chicago now, staying near the band, his new band. The thought hurts less than Ryan thinks it’s going to, mostly because Spencer, at least, isn’t precisely band so much as family - maybe something else entirely. Ryan figures that it’s Spencer’s due for putting up with Ryan for so long.
Brendon hasn’t really moved to Chicago, but he lives there all the time, anyway. He doesn’t actually have an apartment; he’s let the lease run out on his room in Vegas, and put ninety percent of his stuff in storage, crashing semi-permanently in Spencer’s spare bedroom, with the remaining ten percent of his possessions strewn out across the floor. Brendon doesn’t pay rent - instead, he buys his own groceries and keeps the kitchen clean mostly of his own accord, just to keep things even. Ryan would bet that Spencer likes having Brendon around enough not to care anyway, but that he also doesn’t mind getting out of doing the dishes. He would also bet that Spencer would, under no circumstances, admit it.
“Yay!” Brendon says instead of hello when Spencer pushes the front door open. Ryan has his bag slung over his shoulder, following Spencer up three flights of hard wood stairs, and he stops slightly outside the open doorway. The living room is bright, sunny, with large windows facing out onto the street. Ryan can only just see down the hall - the doors of the bedrooms are half open, the bathroom down at the end. The kitchen is to the left of the door, connected to the large common room.
“It’s nice,” Ryan says, stepping onto the beige carpet. He can feel it sink under the weight of his shoes. “Your apartment, I mean. It’s really nice.”
“I know,” Spencer says, and even though he’s facing away, Ryan knows that he’s smiling. “Thanks.”
Brendon is on the couch, looking over his shoulder, and is clearly not disturbed by the fact that neither of them have responded to him. He’s had a lot of time to get used to it.
“Also, I live here, which makes it better,” he says, waggling his eyebrows self-deprecatingly.
“Hi, Brendon,” Ryan says, putting his bag on the floor behind the couch.
“Hey,” Brendon says, grin widening. “Glad to see that Gerard managed to keep you alive.”
“He’s kind of good at that, actually,” Ryan says, picking at the hem of Gerard’s sweatshirt with his fingers.
“Yeah,” Spencer says, “I know. That’s why I trusted him with your address. Now c’mon, we have to meet Jon in, like, twenty minutes.”
+
They manage to leave the apartment only after Brendon almost suffocates Ryan, hugging him for more than thirty seconds and probably squeezing as hard as he possibly can.
“Ow,” Ryan says in the car. Spencer is driving mostly because Ryan doesn’t have a car, and Brendon’s musical taste makes their ears bleed. Also, Spencer is just the kind of control freak who slams on imaginary brakes whenever he’s not behind the wheel.
“See, all that time away from us has made you weak, Ryan Ross. You are weak in the face of hugging. I am disappointed in you.” Brendon tsks from the backseat, and Ryan rolls his eyes. He’s had an almost constant sense of deja vu since entering Spencer’s apartment, and it’s not unpleasant, but it’s not exactly comfortable, either. More like falling into old patterns.
“Whatever.” Ryan shakes his head, and Brendon sighs in what sounds like pity.
“If I lived like you, Ryan, I’d probably shrivel up and die.” Ryan thinks that this is probably true.
“That’s why you aren’t me,” Ryan says, turning in his seat to look back at Brendon. Spencer snorts, keeping his eyes on the road in front of him.
“One of you is quite enough, Ryan.”
This, though, this is definitely true.
+
Jon meets them at the studio, and Ryan figures that he should’ve known. Tom is sitting in the back of the room, on the hardwood floor with his back to the whitewashed wall. The scowl on his face makes Ryan think that he’s somehow uncomfortable with their intimacy and tired of it, and maybe a little jealous. Ryan knows how he feels. Tom nods in his direction, just extending his chin more than anything else.
“Ross,” he says, his voice gruff and low in his throat.
“Conrad,” Ryan replies, stuffing his hands in his back pockets. “Nice to see you.” Tom shrugs, but the corner of his mouth tilts to the side and up, half a smile.
“We wanted you to hear,” Brendon says from the entranceway, looking at Spencer as if for approval. Spencer nods. Dave, the drummer, comes out of the hall with a can of coke in one hand, and he extends the other to Ryan.
“Left handed?” Ryan asks, raising his eyebrows.
“Sure, sometimes,” Dave says, smiling.
Ryan says, “nice to meet you,” and even mostly means it, so when Dave ducks his head and grins like maybe that means something, he doesn’t feel bad.
“Likewise, for sure.” Spencer steers Dave with a hand on the back of his neck, and Tom stands, grabbing his acoustic from where it’s leaning in the corner.
“We’re playing, yeah?” he asks. The question is mostly directed at Jon, and Jon nods, and then, they are.
They’re good - it’s all that Ryan can think, at first. It’s different music - different writers and a different sound - Brendon’s piano is upbeat and staccato, sharp notes that hang in the air for minute seconds before decaying completely, and his voice is the same, but the words are so much broader and farther apart. He lets them scoop down low and wind their way back up, following them back to the melody. Jon and Tom stand side by side, comfortable, and Ryan watches the way Tom looks at Jon’s fingers on his bass, the way Tom’s hands are steady and clean against the strings, the way he bites his lip and doesn’t look at his own playing. He’s confident in his fingers and ears and muscle memory, and he closes his eyes as he leans back. Jon is grinning at Ryan, bobbing his head in time with the music that is possibly more his this time around. There’s more of him in it, anyway.
“Good, right?” Spencer asks against his ear, leaning his chin on Ryan’s shoulder, one hand curled up in the sweatshirt. Ryan can feel the pads of Spencer’s fingertips against his shoulder blade. Ryan presses his nose into the hair at the top of Spencer’s head, smelling the strawberry vanilla of his shampoo.
“Fucking good, Spencer,” he says, quiet, but he knows that Spencer hears him. “Fucking good.”
+
Somehow, Ryan ends up lying on his back on the sofa bed in the guest room of Jon’s apartment, Tom’s fingers sliding up under his shirt, Tom’s thighs on either side of his hips. They’ve been partying since they got back from the studio, Brendon dancing on the table in the living room, Jon trying to run damage control while Spencer watches from the couch, nursing his drink, relaxed smile curled up over his lips. Ryan doesn’t think they’ll notice for a little while longer. Ryan hasn’t had sex for somewhere close to a year, not since his last girlfriend broke up with him, and so he can’t help squirming at the weight pressed against him, pleasant and just this side of too heavy.
He’s slightly tipsy, light headed with alcohol he hasn’t touched since their last tour, almost three years ago. The back of his mouth tastes slightly sour, like whiskey, and he breathes through his nose when Tom’s fingernails skid up over his rib cage, bunching up the loose cotton fabric. Gerard’s sweatshirt is on the floor somewhere, and Tom’s tongue is sliding up his neck, teeth against the juncture of neck and jaw, lips just under his ear. Ryan shudders, makes a shunted noise in the back of his throat, and Tom pulls back, looks down at him with hazy eyes. Tom is drunker than he is.
“Ryan Ross,” Tom says, lips curling up in a smile that is almost nice, almost pleasant, his hair swooping down over one eye, and Ryan uncurls his fingers from where he discovers them fisted in the sheets, wrapping one in the collar of Tom’s shirt and the other around the back of his head, pulling him in. Tom’s hair is soft and slightly dirty under his fingertips, and he lets himself be pulled, his fingers pushing Ryan’s shirt all the way up to his armpits. Tom understands, Ryan thinks. Tom knows what it’s like, being not in a band anymore. Tom is in Ryan’s band. Also, Tom’s pretty mouth is pouting as he leans in, and Ryan can feel the warmth of his skin under the thin fabric of his shirt.
“That’s me,” Ryan says, voice quiet and cool. Tom laughs, but Ryan doesn’t care, because Tom’s fingers are brushing over his stomach, leaving his shirt bunched and useless, pooled over his collarbones, and Tom’s hair is in his eyes, and Ryan is feeling pretty good.
“Yeah, kid,” Tom says, voice soft, slurring just slightly, and kisses him. Ryan doesn’t even mind the condescension - he’s thirty, not a kid anymore - just pushes his hips up and lets it all go.
+
Ryan is up early the next morning. Tom’s gone, but Ryan actually doesn’t care - he’s too relaxed and loose and well-used. He just pulls on his pants and sweatshirt and wanders back into Jon’s living room.
Spencer is asleep on the couch in the same clothes he was wearing the night before, with Brendon half draped over him and half falling off. Brendon makes a small noise as Ryan passes, shifting a little, but despite his precarious position, he just curls his fingers more firmly into the belt loops of Spencer’s pants. Ryan raises his eyebrows, decides he doesn’t care, and goes to make himself some tea. Jon’s bedroom door is open, so after Ryan fills the teakettle with hot water and turns on the gas stove, he checks in. Jon is reading the newspaper, lying with his head by the foot of his bed, the comics section spread out in front of him.
“Morning,” Ryan says, his voice low and rough. Jon looks up with a grin.
“Hey,” he says, pausing just momentarily before asking, “Tom? Really?” Ryan shrugs.
“Not really. Just - it was fun.” Which is mostly true, although not exactly. Ryan doesn’t know how to explain the way Tom understands. Tom knows all about not fitting where he’s been placed, about not knowing where he fits, and that’s maybe something that Ryan needs.
“Okay,” Jon says, and that’s about that. Sometimes Ryan appreciates how collected Jon can be. Sometimes he doesn’t. This situation is the former.
“Besides,” Ryan says, pulling the sweatshirt sleeves down over his fingers, “I think I have a crush on Gerard.” His voice is as even as ever, but he’s not really looking Jon in the eyes so much.
“Really?” Jon doesn’t sound incredulous, or skeptical, just slightly surprised. Ryan wonders if he should have waited, and talked to Spencer about this first.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s a little sad. I’ve been wearing his sweatshirt around all the time.” He pauses. “I should probably give it back.”
“I can’t say I ever pegged you for the sappy type,” Jon says, and Ryan collapses onto the bed next to him with a slight thump.
“Clearly -”
“You haven’t known him long enough,” Spencer finishes from the doorway, hair ruffled and shirt slightly askew. “Your tea water woke us up.”
“Sorry,” Ryan says, shifting until he’s on his stomach, chin propped on his hands.
“Wouldn’t have wanted to miss the moment,” Spencer says. “And, yes, you should probably give it back. And also wash it first.”
“What did I miss?” Brendon calls from the living room.
“Nothing,” Spencer and Ryan say at the same time, sharing a look. Jon laughs.
+
Slumped on the floor with his back to the wall, Ryan watches them practice and itches for a pen and paper. He doesn’t know what the words will come out like - song lyrics or measured prose or just the complicated, messy inside of his own head - but Brendon is singing with his eyes closed like he’s concentrating on making the words fit the right way, and Jon is leaning against the piano for support, and Tom is biting his lower lip, nose ring gleaming in the bright fluorescent lighting. Ryan drums his fingers on his thigh, impatient, and closes his eyes.
Later, when they file out of the studio, Tom winks at Ryan as he passes, sort of a hey, thanks and sort of a maybe, you know, if you want, and Ryan doesn’t respond, just shrugs his shoulders.
Ryan thinks about Gerard’s hands and the warmth of his fingertips, thinks maybe, but probably not.
+
Ryan goes back on Saturday, and they all accompany him to the airport. Brendon and Jon say goodbye from the car. Brendon stuffs an unopened bag of gummi bears into Ryan’s backpack, his voice trailing into,
“What if your blood sugar gets low, Ryan? What then?” in his best mother hen voice - his smile gives him away, not that Ryan wouldn’t have seen through it otherwise. Ryan calls Brendon a tool, and considers them even. He sits through hugs from both of them, and while his fingers itch just to get back into the car and stay, he knows that would be a bad idea. Instead, he digs his fingernails into his palms and stays still. They would let him drop everything in New York and stay here with them, but Ryan’s too stubborn for that. He has three months until his book is published. He has to wash and give back Gerard’s sweatshirt.
Spencer accompanies him to security, walking close enough that their shoulders touch, wrists brushing.
“Less radio silence this time around, okay, Ry?” Spencer says as they stop in front of Terminal A, and Ryan can hear the threat in his voice, the seriously, I have ins with My Chem, and not just Gerard, and they actually live near you, and he knows to respect it as best he can.
“Sure,” he says, and Spencer rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment. “I mean it, Spencer. I’ll try.”
Spencer sighs and runs one hand through his hair. “I just don’t understand why -” he starts, and then cuts himself off. This is something they’ve agreed not to talk about anymore. He means I just don’t understand why you can’t do this with us, near us, but Ryan’s answer is that same as ever. They are the pattern he can’t fall back into, not even if he wants to. “Never mind,” Spencer says.
“Don’t be mad,” Ryan says, shifting so his bag is hiked up higher on his arm.
“Not mad,” Spencer says, leaning in so he can perch his sharp chin on the ridge of Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan thinks about them as kids, as teenagers, as adults. Somehow the dynamic hasn’t changed as much as he would have thought.
The thought fills him with relief.
+
After Ryan gets back into his apartment, he throws his clothing in the wash (including the well-worn sweatshirt), and goes outside to call Frank.
“Hello?” The voice is rough, and molasses thick with sleep, and not Frank.
“Hi, Mikey,” Ryan says. “You’re not Frank.”
“Not usually,” Mikey says, and Ryan can hear him shifting. “He’s, hm, I think he’s in the shower.
“Okay. Sorry I woke you up.” Ryan realizes that it’s still in the actual AM hours of the day, and that they were probably in the studio until late.
“S’ok,” Mikey says, and yawns, “Gerard’s not here though. At his house, I think.”
“I figured. I actually wasn’t calling for him this time, anyway. Think you could help me out with something?”
“Does it involve much thought? I usually reserve thinking for after I’ve had caffeine.” Mikey makes a vague stretching noise, exhaling air against the receiver.
“Not really. I just, um. I need Gerard’s address.” Ryan bites his lip and looks out across the street, watching people stop in the 7-11 on the opposite corner. “Preferably without him knowing I have it.”
“Why?” Mikey asks, the hint of suspicion in his voice. Ryan thinks that this is why it would’ve been easier to get it from Frank. Less protective brother instincts. Ryan doesn’t know Mikey all that well, but he’s pretty sure that these are the kind of instincts that go marrow-deep.
“It’s - actually a surprise. I promise there’re no explosives involved.”
“Mm,” Mikey says, “’kay.”
“Thanks. Also, maybe give me his cell number? I feel a little bad for calling Frank all the time.”
“Fuckin’ finally,” Mikey says, a smile in his voice. “Took you fucking long enough. Frank will be so heartbroken.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Ryan Ross - heartbreaker.” Ryan snorts, rolling his eyes, despite the fact that there’s no one around to see it.
“Hey, you never know,” Mikey says, yawning again. Ryan smiles to himself, tapping his foot against the concrete.
“I guess not.”
+
Ryan carefully folds Gerard’s sweatshirt, putting it in the box on his floor. He looks over the sheaf of papers sitting on the coffee table next to him and runs his fingers through his hair, before placing them carefully on top of the sweatshirt. He’s scribbled a note long enough to take up two post-its, sticking them on the top page.
Gerard, the note says,
Here’s your sweatshirt back - sorry for borrowing it for so long. It’s really comfortable. Enclosed is the first chapter of the book. We’re not done editing everything yet, but I think it’s finished enough for you to take a look at it. If you want. You don’t have to.
There’s two lines scratched out in thick black pen, that previously read, I hope you like it. If you read it, I mean.
In the bottom corner, he’s signed it,
Ryan.
+
He gets a manila envelope in the mail eight days later, with no return address attached. There are only four or five people who actually know where he lives, so his mail is limited to bills most days. He sits down at the table in the kitchen nook, and pops open the metal tabs, lifting the flap on the envelope. Inside, he finds a plastic folder the size of a sheet of printer paper and a folded piece of lined notebook paper.
Unfolded, the notebook paper is just a note. It says,
ryan,
your writing makes me want to draw. send me more chapters.
gee
Ryan brushes his fingers over the familiar handwriting, before sliding the folder closer, and flipping it open.
Inside is another note, and a drawing on a sheet of unlined paper. The note just says, I’m not sure if this is what you meant, but, and the drawing. The drawing is a boy sitting on the front porch of an old house - one of those wood paneled, shingle-roofed houses with wraparound porches, faded blue paint and a swing to the left of the front door. The boy’s feet are on the front steps, and he’s propping his elbow on his knee, his chin on his palm, his expression half bored and half wistful. What makes Ryan bite his lip, though, are the wings that arch gracefully from behind his back, mottled light brown and white. Smaller than Ryan imagined, maybe, but the picture is the soft colors of faded memory, light blues and browns and greens. It’s not Gerard’s normal aesthetic - not blood and guts enough, not darkly gothic enough - it’s still his hand and his art, though, still sharply angled lines and swaths of faded watercolor. Ryan wants this for every scene, wants paintings to narrate his text, to show what he can’t with words.
When he calls Gerard’s cell, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, Gerard’s phone is off, and he just gets the answering machine - hey, you’ve called Gerard’s cell, leave me a message. Or don’t. It probably doesn’t really matter much either way. I’ll call you back, if I like you - and so he says,
“It’s Ryan. Um. Call me back.”
+
“Is it too late, do you think?” he asks, about a week later, and Jeanne just shrugs.
“It’s your book. We’re going to have some opinions on what does or doesn’t go in, but overall, your writing, your vision. Besides, I think it sounds like a good idea, in a general sense. Show me what you come up with.”
“Okay,” Ryan says, and then turns back to the chapter spread across Jeanne’s desk.
+
“Well?”
Ryan shifts his weight from one foot to the other, watching Gerard’s face with something like anxiety. He hadn’t wanted to do this in Gerard’s house, or in his own apartment - he’d needed somewhere neutral, neither of theirs, so while the Starbucks down the street is more public than Ryan maybe wants this to be, it’s better than the alternatives.
“Seriously?” Gerard asks, his voice surprised, almost disbelieving. He glances down at his hands on the tabletop and then back up at Ryan’s face.
“I mean - yeah. Seriously. You’d get paid, of course. But. I know you’re busy so I can understand if -” Ryan starts, shifting his weight again, shrugging his shoulders, and focusing his eyes on some place just behind Gerard’s left ear.
“You’re really - Ryan. Shut up. Of course I’ll illustrate your fucking book.” Gerard is grinning when Ryan focuses in on his face again, wide and white and excited.
“You mean - really?”
“Yeah,” Gerard says, “but you know, this means you’re going to have to let me read it. All of it.”
“I, yeah,” Ryan says, letting out a breath in one puff of held air. “I know.”
+
The book is released on May fourteenth, and Ryan thinks that he’s probably going to puke. He wakes up nauseous, three hours earlier than usual, and drinks a large cup of tea in the morning. He can’t even think about eating.
“Spencer, Spencer, Spencer,” he says into the phone, and listens to Spencer laugh at him. It makes him feel better.
“Ryan, what’re you freaking out about? It’s not like there’re going to be lines around the door for it. Especially since you still haven’t told anyone your pseudonym. You’ll get a few reviews, and that’ll be that.”
“Spencer. People are reading my book. It’s in their hands and it’s my ideas and my words and Gerard’s illustrations.” Ryan takes a deep breath. He knows that, technically, the book was sent to reviewers over a week ago. It doesn’t really seem to matter.
“Calm, Ryan. Breathe,” Spencer says. He pauses for a few seconds, and Ryan can hear him thinking, remembering. “Remember when we went onstage that first time? And how fucking awesome that was?”
“Yeah, but, Spencer, I actually did puke then. Kind of a lot.”
“True, but this isn’t as bad.” Spencer is smiling, Ryan knows. He’s probably on the couch in his living room in Chicago, with Brendon asleep in the guestroom and Jon a fifteen minute drive away. Ryan sort of wants them here right now, but, yeah, he’s the one who always leaves.
“In some ways, it’s worse,” is all he says.
+
Ryan mails five copies of Temperance to the people that matter. On Gerard’s, he writes a small note, which says thanks for your help - feel free to share with your band. The rest he leaves unadorned.
Gerard sends him a text that says, hah, I already bought them all their own. It makes Ryan laugh.
The reviews start coming out a few days after the release, and they’re. Positive, overall. Ryan gets an email from Jeanne, five days after.
May 19th, 3:04 PM
To: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)
From: Jeanne Benson (jbenson@treehouse.com)
Cc:
Subject: Reviews
Ryan -
So far, so good. In case you haven’t seen them, I thought I’d send you a few links.
-Jeanne
After that is a list of six links to reviews. Ryan’s read half of them, has them printed out and taped to his fridge, actually. He has a tally of the good and the bad - the good are stuck to the left side, the bad to the right. So far the left is ahead with four, the right behind with only two. Ryan doesn’t think a 66% is really all that bad.
What Ryan does think, later, is that he really shouldn’t be surprised by Pete.
+
so, Pete’s blog post says, on May 31st, you guys remember ryan’s book, right?
Ryan doesn’t actually read the rest of the post - it wanders off into vague, descriptive, Pete-like phrases, all of them winding up together in too complicated a pattern for Ryan to want to decode it (it’s not that this is a betrayal, because that’s come and gone and wasn’t wasn’t wasn’t my fault. not this time. the view from my window reminds me of all the places i could be right now but you’re here so it doesn’t really matter that i’m not. i’d rather be stuck here with you sitting on this windowsill in the winter time). He sees the uploaded picture, the cover of the book, and exits out of the program.
“Goddamnit, Pete,” he says aloud. It’s probably revenge for letting Pete think that Ryan was mad at him for two months, no matter how accidental, and Ryan can understand revenge impulses. It still basically sucks.
+
Ryan doesn’t talk to anyone for nine days after that. It’s not an anger thing so much as self-preservation, and as much as he can see Spencer shaking his head and scowling (which, he’s sure, Spencer does, even after Ryan carefully tells Spencer he’s going awol), he needs the time to collect himself - gather together the bits he’s going to need next week, and the week after that.
He actually, actually doesn’t leave his apartment, living off of his dwindling supply of crackers and pasta, drinking tea like there’s nothing else keeping him alive. He spends most of his time writing, curled up on his bed with his back to the headboard, notebook paper spread around his knees and toes, crumpled pages and ripped passages. He doesn’t sleep much, he just watches his fingers put words on the paper, half prose and half outraged screaming, the things he’ll never say, even if he should. Mostly, though, he knows he shouldn’t.
When he finally winds down, it’s about 5:40 AM on June 9th, according to the clock on his dresser, and he can’t remember the last time he left his bedroom, even for food or caffeine. This probably means that he should, sometime soon, but his fingers hurt from clutching, pressing pen against blank paper, and when he holds his hands out in front of him, they shake. He also can’t remember the last time he slept - which doesn’t mean that it hasn’t happened recently, just that he hasn’t been paying enough attention to his body to know.
He doesn’t bother to push all the detritus from his comforter, just slides under the covers, and closes his eyes. It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep.
+
He wakes up about fourteen hours later, just before 8:00 PM. The first thing he does is go outside and text Pete. He’s still wearing his pajamas.
you’re an even bigger asshole than I am, he sends.
cuz i let the cat out of the bag? Pete asks.
mostly yeah, he replies, and it takes Pete twelve minutes, according to his cell phone’s clock, to text him back.
u gotta live up to it ryan ross. im just doing u a favor by ratting u out.
how is that, exactly? Ryan sits on the steps with his legs huddled up close to his chest, his chin resting soft against the flannel of his pants. He breathes out humid wetness, the coming of summer pressed all around him.
now theyll know how good u are
+
Jeanne left him a message on Tuesday, it seems, and when Ryan checks his messages, he feels vaguely guilty.
She says, “Hey, Ryan. It’s Jeanne. I’m just calling to let you know that the Temperance sales have gone up dramatically in the past week. Not to touch any sore spots, but you might want to start thinking about advertising - your book has potential. I’m not asking you to out yourself on television, or anything similarly dramatic, but - you should just think it over.”
Ryan knows that he should. He knows that he could sell more books if he just admitted that he wrote Temperance and got it over with, but that would be even wider exposure than just the people that read Pete’s blog. He’s not sure he’s ready for that.
And even if, hypothetically, he was (which he really, really isn’t), it’s still not the kind of thing he’d do.
Still. Ryan shrugs to himself and deletes Jeanne’s message. He still pretty much hates Pete.
+
A few days later, Spencer sends him a clip from a copy of Spin, some article about him that he missed. Ryan gets it when he checks his mail in the morning, shifting through assorted bills as he pours milk over his Rice Krispies. Spencer’s attached note is cryptic, saying only thought you might appreciate this, y’know, once you get over the dumb anger thing. The first few lines of the article say - Ryan Ross is hard to get a hold of these days. Since his band, Panic! At The Disco, broke up over three years ago, he’s almost completely disappeared from the public eye, showing up only infrequently to parties, even those thrown by the likes of Patrick Stump and Gerard Way. But, if business man and sometimes band member Pete Wentz is to be believed, he’s just recently published his own novel under a pseudonym.
“Yeah,” Wentz said when I spoke with him earlier this week. We were sitting at a table in Dunkin Donuts a few blocks down from his office, tucked back in the corner. Wentz leaned forward in his chair, one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee. “He’s probably going to be mad at me for talking about it at all.”
“Why’s that?” I asked. Wentz had his elbows propped up on the table, and laughed at the question, showing all of his teeth.
“I guess he just doesn’t want anyone to know how brilliant he really is. I’ve known him for ten years, and I still don’t get it.”.
Ryan rolls his eyes, taking the last bite of his cereal. He pauses, before sticking the article to his fridge with a magnet.
Ryan knows that Pete believes what he’s saying. He’s just not entirely certain that he believes Pete.
+
Gerard invites Ryan to come and hang out with his band, keep them company at the studio. Ryan doesn’t even think about declining the offer, which, later, makes him worry, just a little. He’s not used to giving in without a thought, not since he was forced to.
He doesn’t have a car anymore, so he takes the subway down to Penn station and catches the NJ Transit out of Manhattan. The nearest train station is still a twenty minute drive from the studio, and so Gerard picks him up, sunglasses firmly over his eyes, hood pulled up over his head. Ryan grins as he climbs down the steps to the parking lot, reaching out before he thinks about it, and tugging at the fabric around Gerard’s face.
“Just as inseparable as ever,” he says, pulling back his hand and tucking it in his pocket. Gerard laughs.
“What can I say? I missed it while it was gone.” Ryan half-smiles and looks down at his feet, rocking back on his heels. “Ah-ah. No guilt,” Gerard says, more than a note of sincerity clear in the amused tone of his voice. Ryan just laughs and wonders if he’s that much easier to read than he used to be, or if Gerard has had the time to actually learn his cues. He’s not sure which he would prefer, but he suspects the latter, if only because then he only has to worry about one hole in his defenses, not multiple. He lets Gerard tuck a hand in the crook of his elbow and tug him toward the car.
The first half of the ride is silent, mostly because Ryan can’t think of anything constructive to say, and Gerard appears completely at ease. Finally, Ryan says,
“Everyone really likes the illustrations.” It’s rather bland - an easy, safe compliment, but Ryan is fine with safe. Safe is nice, but not anything special. Ryan doesn’t think he’d mind, so much, being safe. Gerard grins at him, blindingly white, for half a second before turning back to the road.
“Have sales been higher since Pete did his little show-and-tell, or whatever the fuck you feel like calling it?”
Ryan sighs. “Yeah. I’m not sure if I appreciate the help or not.”
“That means that you sort of don’t appreciate it but feel like you should, right?” Gerard is trying not to laugh, Ryan can tell - his smile is a little too wide, and his eyes are crinkling at the corners. He wishes that Gerard wasn’t sort of really right.
“Kind of,” is what he actually says, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug. He wants to say something like how is it that you’ve become my main contact with the outside world?, but the words stick in his throat like anything important always does, and he’s left wondering if Gerard would say just lucky, I guess or well, someone has to do it, Ryan Ross. Instead, Ryan rests his head back against the seat and watches Gerard drive.
+
Mikey is waiting for them in the lobby when they reach the studio, curled up on one of the bland chairs lining the room.
“I thought I’d be the welcoming party,” Mikey says when Ryan stops in front of him, with what he assumes is a quizzical expression on his face.
“Kind of a lame party, isn’t it?” Gerard says, his fingers still wrapped lightly around Ryan’s wrist where he’d grabbed him in the parking lot, dragging Ryan into the building after him.
“Thought that counts, right?” Mikey says, shrugging fluidly and standing. Ryan doesn’t know Mikey that well, can’t read his silences in any helpful way, but he takes this gesture as welcoming, and appreciates it.
“Thanks,” he says. His voice is softer than he means it to be, and Mikey smiles at him.
“No problem.”
+
Frank is in the studio, watching Ray lay down guitar tracks, and he pounces on Ryan as they walk in, hugging him almost Brendon-tight, and Ryan has to remind himself not to tense up at the unexpected contact. Still, his shoulders come up slightly, and it takes him just a hair too long to hug back, but Ryan figures that Frank will forgive him. Gerard snorts.
“I’m glad you’re so happy to see me,” he says, standing just behind Ryan.
“You’ve only been gone an hour,” Frank replies, pulling away and slinging an arm around Mikey’s thin shoulders. Mikey is about five inches taller than Frank, so Frank has to stand on his tiptoes to reach, but Mikey just smiles down at him and doesn’t comment.
“Details,” Gerard says.
Ryan ends up curling up in the couch toward the back of the room and watching them work for a few hours. It’s surprisingly different than he’s used to - Panic had, after all, mostly started with the lyrics and worked it’s way outward, building drums as Spencer found the rhythm, and spreading, normally, to Jon for bass after that. The melody could come in at any time, and Brendon would mostly know at the beginning if he needed a piano part or not.
My Chem, on the other hand, seems to work from every direction at once, converging on something that only partially makes sense from the outside. It’s organic, comfortable, chaotic, and since this is the gestation of My Chem’s eighth album, the almost familiar rhythm of it makes sense, even to Ryan, who’s never seen it before.
“I swear, I’ll come up with the lyrics for that guitar part, Frank, but I need a rhythm section for the bridge of this one,” Gerard says, running his hands through his hair, the expression on his face almost manic.
“Yeah, yeah,” Frank says, “just, I have to finish this six measures first; otherwise, I’m going to lose it.”
“You could always work out in the car again,” Mikey says, helpfully, from where he’s talking bass with Ray, “although there’s actual heat this time. I’m not sure if that’s conducive or not.” His bass fits in his hands like an extension of his limbs, and he strums at it idly as he talks.
Ray doesn’t even bother to look up from his guitar, glancing over at the screen of his laptop, set up on a stool just to his left, every few minutes for confirmation. Ryan props his chin on his hands, and glances up when Bob sits next to him.
“Pretty chaotic,” Bob says, his face almost completely expressionless. Ryan shrugs, lifting one shoulder in acknowledgement.
“You’re not going to help out?” Ryan asks, shifting to look at Bob, who is tapping his drumsticks on his thigh, watching his band.
“Nah,” Bob says, “I usually wait for them to settle a bit before laying down drums. Toro may seem quiet, but I try to stay out of his way during recording. He and Frank tend to get in spats.” Bob inclines his chin toward Ray, who is looking at Frank with a scowl.
“What? I’m just making suggestions, Ray,” Frank says. The wide grin on his face tells Ryan that’s he’s probably just making shit up to provoke Ray, and is obviously happy that it’s working as well as it is. Gerard rolls his eyes from behind him.
“Mikey,” Ray says, “will you please take your boyfriend out for a walk?”
“As long as you’re not planning on needing us for, like, half an hour,” Mikey says, grinning as he glances at Frank. Ryan raises his eyebrows before he can think about it, and wonders how he missed that particular connection.
“Oh, ew,” Gerard says. “Just not near the soda machines this time, okay? I’m still traumatized from Wednesday.”
+
“I’m sorry,” Gerard says later, his hair askew from running his hands through it, his expression apologetic. He has two bags of Chinese in one hand and two sodas in the other, which, Ryan thinks, sort of makes up for it. “I’m a really bad host.” It’s a little bit true, but Ryan doesn’t mind. He takes his bag with a shrug and says,
“I don’t mind.” He doesn’t, really. “You work - really differently than what I’m used to.” Maybe because Gerard’s words are his to sing, and so he doesn’t have to be so careful with them, refitting them for someone else’s voice and face and feelings. Ryan’s never felt that he was missing something by letting Brendon sing, has never regretted that choice, but sometimes he wonders what it would’ve been like. With less hiding and less caution. He doubts he could handle it now, much less back when he’d written those first few songs. Tacks for Snacks and Camisado were songs he could only really produce knowing he wouldn’t have to sing them himself. He shifts in his chair, and Gerard raises an eyebrow in what might be skepticism and might be confusion.
“Well, crazy is sort of par for the course with us, I guess. You may never again see Ray angry. Kind of a once in a lifetime opportunity there.”
“Glad I didn’t miss it, then.” Gerard’s smile holds some degree of relief in it, like Ryan might actually mind. Ryan’s not sure what to say to change that, so he doesn’t say anything at all, just smiles at Gerard and hopes it’s enough.
“C’mon,” Gerard says, “let’s eat outside.”
+
Gerard waits until they’re driving back to the train station to bring it up.
“Ryan,” he says, his voice quieter than Ryan has ever heard it - not tentative, really, but careful. “Ryan, seriously.” Ryan doesn’t look at Gerard, knows that Gerard is glancing at him, trying to catch his eye in the reflection of the rearview mirror.
“What?” Ryan asks, and the tone is too defensive, too immediately on edge for his own comfort.
“You know what you should do?” Gerard’s voice has an undercurrent of excitement embedded in it like sparks, and Ryan sort of just wants to give it to him, whatever it is.
“What?” he asks. Ryan can hear the edge in his words, and he doesn’t really want it there, but he can’t help it.
“A book tour. You should do a book tour, totally.” Ryan glances over, then, and sees the smile on Gerard’s face, the too-wide slant of his eyes.
“A book tour? Why?”
“So you’ll stop hiding, dude. You know that you do. I think you’ve seen about four people in the past six months who aren’t part of your band. Like, eight at most, seriously.” Gerard is sincere in his earnestness, Ryan knows. It doesn’t mean he appreciates it. Ryan’s never really been that good at taking criticism.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey, I don’t -”
“Dude, don’t even give me that. You do. You do. Why the hell else would you be so against Pete’s little advertisement thing?”
“Maybe I don’t want his help,” Ryan says, his tone back to expressionless. He looks at his fingers where they’re curved over his knees, fingernails pressing into his jeans hard enough, probably, to bruise the skin underneath.
“Or maybe you just don’t want actual popularity.” Gerard is looking straight ahead when Ryan glances at him. Ryan looks immediately back at his legs.
“I just - I don’t want to be famous because of Panic. I don’t.”
“That’s pretty dumb, I gotta say.” Ryan feels himself flinch, because he knows that Gerard is honest, always, sometimes brutally so, but he’s never had that turned on him before. He bites into his lip, watching the pavement disappear under the wheels of the car, and he doesn’t want to hear this, even if he knows that he probably has to anyway. “Just because you’re not a part of Panic anymore doesn’t mean that it should be completely erased from public consciousness. Besides, I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t -”
“No, shut up. You can’t always use it as an excuse. It’s been more than three years - you don’t think that’s enough time? If you ask me, you’re just scared of dealing with all those people again. Which, y’know, I can totally understand. Just own up to it, man. If you’re scared, fine, just, like. Fucking do something about it. You can’t hide in your apartment forever, right?”
Ryan doesn’t say anything - the words he knows he should be saying wrap themselves around his vocal chords and refuse to leave, all of the I know, I know, you’re rights, and the I don’t know if I cans, and the nothing will ever be that good, you know thats. Instead, he watches the road trail away, ribbons of yellow lines and white boundaries, and he worries at his lower lip with his teeth.
“A book tour?” he asks, finally. Gerard looks over with a relieved laugh, and Ryan wonders if Gerard thought his silence was anger.
“Yeah, man, yeah,” he says. “It’ll be like old times, kind of.” He laughs again, and runs a hand through his hair. Ryan is silent again, letting the space stretch out behind them as he thinks, and - it’s not really such a bad idea. Not really. Even if it sort of terrifies the shit out of him.
“Okay,” he says. “Um, okay. Yeah. Just -” he sighs. “Okay. Come with me?” he asks, and it’s half joke but it’s half really, really not, and he puts on a smile to play it off, fingers rubbing against the words tattooed on his wrists. “I mean, you are the illustrator.”
Gerard looks at him, stopped at a traffic light, and he seems to be considering, weighing the pros and cons. Ryan tries not to twitch under his gaze, fingers still twisting against the ink in his skin. “Yeah,” Gerard says, eventually. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see what I can do.”
continued in part three