126
avert our eyes from his fingertips
McFly/Panic At The Disco (Tom Fletcher/Ryan Ross)
7,762 words, pg-13, third person. For hypaethral, because she asked me to, and because she's a shameless enabler who knew I wanted to write it anyway. Title is taken from Vertebrae, by Christine Fellows. A huge, huge thank you to britchick5000 for the beta/britpicking! For reference, this is McFly (Tom, Dougie, Danny, Harry), and this is Panic (Ryan, Jon, Spencer, Brendon). They are all pretty awesome, I have to say. ♥
Tom’s surprised, but Ryan actually does email him first. He gets four sparse sentences, pared down to their simplest forms, and he can’t help but admire that, just a little.
Tom’s surprised, but Ryan actually does email him first. He gets four sparse sentences, pared down to their simplest forms, and he can’t help but admire that, just a little.
May 14th, 12:56 AM
To: Tom Fletcher (t.fletcher@googlemail.com)
From: Ryan Ross (ryro@gmail.com)
Cc:
Subject: (no subject)
Tom -
Wasn’t sure if you actually wanted me to email you. Figured I would anyway. We’re in London through the summer, recording. Call me, if you want.
- Ryan
Tom reads it twice, elbows propped on the cold marble worktop in his kitchen, before clicking reply in the upper left-hand corner. He’s not sure, yet, how to respond, but he knows that sooner is better than later. He doesn’t want Ryan to think he forgot, or didn’t get it, or didn’t care. He sighs, and knows that he’s over-thinking again. He doesn’t know Ryan well enough to know what he’s supposed to say, exactly, so he’ll just have to do what he does best - bullshit and hope he gets the answer right.
May 14th, 10:17 AM
To: Ryan Ross (ryro@gmail.com)
From: Tom (t.fletcher@googlemail.com)
Cc:
Subject: RE: (no subject)
Ryan -
Well, I wasn’t sure you actually would email me. I’m glad you did, though, if that counts for anything. We should meet up. I can probably even get you passes for a gig. Your mates too, if you wanted.
My mobile number is 07027 561837. Give me a call when you get a chance, if you like.
- Tom
Tom bites his lower lip, clicking send, and drinking down the last of his coffee. He really doesn’t know much about Ryan - this is possibly why he’s so curious.
+
It was coincidence that Tom met Ryan Ross in the first place- not something he’d ever initiate himself, that much is for sure. The event was crowded with famous bands, and they’d known well beforehand that they might have to share their dressing rooms with some of the other guys and gals. Tom had shrugged it off - as long as there was an empty chair and a plug for his laptop, he figured he’d be fine. Tom was easy-going where it mattered, and the event was important - funded AIDS research, support for poverty-stricken communities in Africa.
They’d walked into the room, Danny laughing loudly at something Dougie’d said about the hostess of the event - something about her gigantic breasts because, well, since when has Dougie ever restricted himself to appropriate topics of conversation? Harry’d just smacked him on the back of the head, and Tom had rolled his eyes at them, pushing the door open with the flat of his palm.
He’d been looking over his shoulder at the three of them, but he knew they weren’t alone by the way Danny’s laugh stopped abruptly, like he’d been startled out of it.
Tom had turned his eyes to the front and seen two young men playing cards on the floor - something involving a lot of slapping. A third was reading a magazine with a bored look on his face, leaning back against one of the armrests of the sofa against the far wall. The fourth was curled up on the chair in the corner, a notebook on his lap and a pencil in his hand. The two playing cards looked up. The other two didn’t.
“Hi,” he’d said, tentatively. He knew that if he didn’t say anything, no one else would, at least not on their end - it was always his job, to speak first, to put his best foot forward. He didn’t usually mind. “We’re McFly. I’m Tom. That’s Danny, Dougie, and Harry behind me.” He jerked his thumb in their direction, and saw Danny wave from the corner of his eye. Harry smiled. Dougie bounced on the balls of his feet.
Tom knew he recognized them, that he should know who they are, but their names escaped him, so he just smiled politely, and hoped he wasn’t being rude by accident.
“Hi, I’m Brendon,” one of the boys playing cards said. American, though Tom didn’t know nearly enough about accents to tell where from. He combed his hair out of his face with his fingers. “This is Jon, and the two antisocial losers are Ryan and Spencer.”
“I’m Spencer, he’s Ryan, and Brendon, you’re a tool,” the one on the couch - Spencer - said. He glanced up, smiling briefly, and Tom wondered why he didn’t do it more often. Maybe he didn’t want to come off as nice.
“Nice to meet you,” Tom said, still not quite placing them.
“Wanna play?” Jon asked, gesturing the cards between him and Brendon. “Egyptian Rat Screw - it’s fun,” he said, laughing at what was probably an interesting expression on Tom’s face. His laugh was pleasant, easy-going, and not as deep as Tom had expected, given his appearance. “We promise not to hurt you -”
“ - that much,” Brendon interrupted, and Jon rolled his eyes.
“Cheesiest joke ever, Brendon.”
“And you’re surprised why?” Brendon waggled his eyebrows, and it reminded Tom of Groucho Marx. Danny laughed, and said,
“Teach me how to play.”
Tom nodded to himself, figuring they’d be okay. He glanced over at the kid in the corner - Ryan - only to see he’d looked up and was watching Brendon gesticulate wildly in Dougie’s direction. Dougie giggled and bit his lip. Behind him, Harry rolled his eyes. Ryan didn’t move, and his expression didn’t change; he just looked back down at his sketchbook, and something about his face seemed familiar -
Panic At The Disco, that was it. They were all in Panic At The Disco.
Tom shrugged and pulled his laptop out of its case. He figured that he had about fifteen minutes before Danny broke something, or before Harry wanted company to go smoke. He didn’t want to waste the quiet.
+
Ryan texts him about twelve hours later, right as Tom’s leaving to go to Danny’s - something about a new riff, and he’d wanted a second ear. Tom’s almost always willing to oblige, and they’re going to have to think about recording again soon, anyway. The text says,
check check, one two and Tom is reminded of almost every sound check in his entire career. He programs Ryan’s number into his phone and texts back, quickly,
receiving you loud and clear, before locking the door behind him.
+
Ryan, it turns out, doesn’t like the phone. He doesn’t mind texting, and he’s incredibly fast at typing, but he hates actually speaking into the receiver, hates the sound of his voice in open space like that. Tom doesn’t know why he’s surprised - it took Ryan a good three hours to even speak to them in person.
He gets used to texts at odd times - just after Ryan’s finished recording for the night, in the wee hours of the morning, when Tom would much rather be sleeping. He’s never sure when Ryan sleeps, exactly, because there seems to be no consistent time for it. It’s possible that he’s almost completely nocturnal.
which do you think is a better number, fourteen or seventeen? Ryan asks one night, a few weeks after first contact. Tom’s slightly tipsy, sitting on the couch in his living room, trying not the think about what’s taking Dougie so long in the bathroom, and Danny’s asleep, stretched out on the rest of the couch, his feet pressed against Tom’s thigh. Harry’s popped outside for a smoke. They’re only about halfway through their Die Hard marathon, but Tom’s always known that his bandmates are weaklings.
in terms of what? he asks. lyrically? track numbers? something else entirely? Tom sometimes has no idea what Ryan is talking about, like the time he asked whether an A flat or a G sharp look better when notated, even though he’s very aware that they are, in fact, the same note. Tom kind of likes it that way, though. He’s so used to Danny and Dougie and Harry, he can tell their moods from what they’re doing with their hands, from the shape of their mouths. He likes knowing them that well, knowing that they know him, but Ryan’s still a mystery, and that’s - interesting.
no, i just - which is a better number? in general, Ryan types, and Harry walks back in. Tom can smell the sharp twist of cigarette smoke from across the room, and he says,
“Which is a better number, fourteen or seventeen?” Harry raises an eyebrow, and pushes Danny’s legs off the couch so he can sit next to Tom. Danny makes a protesting noise in the back of his throat, and Harry sighs, pulling Danny’s feet into his lap.
“Ryan ask you that?” he asks. Tom’s really beginning to worry about Dougie. They haven’t been drinking that much, really, but Dougie’d never had the best alcohol tolerance. Not that Tom’s one to talk, just about ever.
“Yep,” he says.
“Fourteen,” Dougie says, from the doorway to the hall. Tom jumps, just a little, and then turns to look at him. His glare leaves much to be desired, this he knows.
“Were you just hanging out there to be creepy and surprise me?” he asks, but Dougie just grins.
“The right answer is fourteen.”
“Why?” Tom asks, and Harry snorts.
“Because Dougie and I like it more,” he says. “You are way too literal, Tom. Not everything needs context.” Tom sighs.
I took a poll, and the consensus seems to be fourteen, he types back to Ryan. Harry looks over his shoulder and laughs.
cool, Ryan says. good choice.
Tom still doesn’t really get it. He’s pretty much okay with that.
+
Ryan had said nothing almost the entire time they’d sat in the dressing room together. Tom had taken the chair nearest to him, simply because it was the quietest corner, and whenever he looked up, Ryan was scribbling in his notebook, or looking at the boys playing cards on the floor. Harry wasn’t actually taking part; he was just looking over Danny’s shoulder, mostly to annoy him. Tom couldn’t help but be curious - even Spencer had joined in when they’d started a new game, but Ryan had yet to even speak. Tom found himself idly wondering what Ryan’s voice even sounded like.
The first word out of Ryan’s mouth when he finally, finally spoke, was,
“Um.” Tom had glanced up, and found Ryan looking at him. He raised his eyebrows, smiling slightly. Danny and Harry were off somewhere smoking, at this point, and Dougie’d fallen asleep in one of the chairs - they’d all been up late the night before. Tom saw Spencer glance over when Ryan spoke up, but he didn’t comment, just raised both his eyebrows and turned back to the quiet conversation he was having with Brendon and Jon.
“Hm?” Tom said, minimizing the document he’d had pulled up on his laptop. They all told him to work less, but if they really wanted that to happen, they’d have to give him less to do.
“I, um,” Ryan started and then shook his head. “What’s another good word for mystify?”
“Uh. Confuse? Hold on.” Tom checked the thesaurus on his computer. “Well, according to Microsoft Word, synonyms are perplex, bewilder, stump, confound, and, my personal favourite, bamboozle.” Tom looked at Ryan with a grin. Ryan smiled back at him, and Tom remembers being slightly surprised by how openly pleasant the expression was. Shy or reclusive as he was, Ryan Ross did not have a mean face. Tom suspects that he should have expected this.
“Bamboozle, huh?” Ryan said, his voice even and flat, lilting up at the ends of his sentences. “I’ll have to remember to hit up the guy with the laptop more often.” He hit his pencil against the open page in his lap, something about the length of his fingers making the movement awkward rather than simply restless.
“I leave my thesaurus open for you to use,” Tom said. Ryan smiled at him again, and Tom remembers wondering just how hard he would have to work to get that expression all the time.
+
It’s Brendon and Danny, surprisingly, who become closest the fastest. Panic is recording their third album, back at Abbey Road after the success of their second, so they’re staying at a hotel nearby. Ryan and Tom text and email regularly, but have yet to meet in person - Tom’s hoping this will change soon. Brendon and Danny, on the other hand, have wasted no time in mapping out all of the pubs between Brendon’s hotel and Danny and Dougie’s house - their goal is to get drunk in each and every one before Panic finishes recording. Given their track record thus far, Tom will not be surprised if they manage it.
Tom is surprised, however, when Ryan calls him at two-thirty in the morning on a Wednesday. He manages to answer his phone before it goes to mail, but he’s still mostly asleep when Ryan starts talking.
“What?” he says, intelligently. “Start over.”
“I just wanted you to know that I have your guitarist,” Ryan says patiently, his voice even flatter than usual.
“Is he okay?” Tom asks, because that’s always the first thing on his mind when he gets a call like this. First, is he okay? and then what can I do?.
“If you call puking in Brendon’s toilet okay, then, sure,” Ryan says. Tom can hear the arched eyebrows in his voice. For someone with so little vocal expression, he makes his feelings perfectly clear. “I just wanted to make sure you knew.”
“Should I come get him?” Tom asks, yawning. Ryan doesn’t answer immediately, and Tom wonders if he’s imagining the sound of retching in the background. He doesn’t want to know.
“Tomorrow. Not right now, he’d probably just puke all over your upholstery.” Tom sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Is Brendon okay, at least?”
“Uh,” Ryan says. “He will be, I’m sure. Next time, though, I’m telling them to go to your house.”
“We can alternate,” Tom says. “It’ll be great.”
+
The next day, Tom calls Ryan’s room from the front desk - the concierge asks him for his name first, so Tom assumes that he’s on some sort of pre-approved calling list. It makes sense, given that Panic is a pretty popular band, and some of the fans have to have figured out the name of the hotel. Tom’s just not sure what he’s done to deserve being on that list in the first place.
The phone rings four times, and then Ryan answers, his voice hoarse and rough, like he’s been sleeping.
“Hello?” he says.
“Hi, uh,” he says. “It’s Tom. I’m here to hopefully collect my wayward guitarist?” Normally he’d be more careful with his words - even the concierge might sell choice quotes to disreputable papers - but either way, he’s still a member of McFly visiting Panic At The Disco in their hotel suite. He’s not sure it would take much more spin than that, in any case.
“Oh,” Ryan says, “sure, uh. I think he’s around here somewhere? Why don’t you just come up?”
“What’s your room number?” Tom asks.
“We’re on the fifth floor, room 513, but you need a key card to work the elevator anyway, so. I’ll just come down and get you.” Ryan yawns, and Tom hopes he hasn’t actually woken Ryan; it is after noon, but given the odd hours of recording schedules, and the obvious antics of the night before, it’s hard to know when he even went to bed.
“Sounds like a plan,” Tom says.
“See you in a minute,” Ryan replies, and hangs up. Tom sits in the lobby to wait.
+
Tom only waits by the lifts for about two minutes before the doors slide open, revealing a smiling Ryan Ross. Tom notices the sweep of his hair across his forehead, artfully messy, and the sharp lines of his neck, visible tendons.
“Hi -” Tom starts to say, feeling a returning grin curl around his mouth, but Ryan just reaches out and wraps a hand around the delicate bones of his wrist, fingers more than long enough to completely encircle it - Tom can feel the guitar calluses against his skin. Ryan yanks Tom firmly into the elevator, barely waiting for him to stumble forward before pressing the door close button.
“Hi,” he says, and the doors slide shut. His hand is still wrapped around Tom’s wrist, like he’s trying to keep him from getting away. Tom isn’t going anywhere.
+
They’d gone their separates ways for sound check and performances, although Tom had managed to watch from offstage as Panic performed. They were smooth, polished in some fundamental way. Comfortable. Jon moved around stage like someone perfectly balanced there - engaging, but not attention-seeking. Spencer was a fucking powerhouse on drums, startling Tom - his feral smile onstage was a sight to see. Brendon was just as energetic as it seemed like he’d be, spurring the crowd with his wide mouth and words like polished marbles. Ryan mostly looked at his guitar unless he was singing, but the confidence in the set of his shoulders, the firm press of his fingers, was - unexpected. Interesting.
Tom stood back as they piled offstage, unsure whether they’d welcome distraction or not. After a few uncertain moments, he tapped Ryan on the shoulder.
“Great show,” he said, trying to make it clear with his voice how much he actually meant it - yes, he was the diplomatic member of the band, but he could’ve said nothing at all. Ryan just smiled.
“Thanks,” he said. Tom noticed Spencer look over at them - his expression considering and even, hands on his hips with his used drumstick in his back pocket. He nodded to himself and turned away, back to one of the techs. Tom turned his attention back to Ryan when he started to talk again. “It’s always weird performing at benefits. It feels more like an award show that a real gig.” Ryan shook his head, glancing over at the stage. The next band was still being set up.
“Couldn’t tell from offstage, anyway,” Tom said, arching an eyebrow. He was watching the spread of sweat across Ryan’s temples and the back of his neck, the sheen on his skin even in the half-light. His hair was sticking to the sides of his face in tufts, messy and unruly, like he’d been running his fingers through it.
“Yeah,” Ryan replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Thanks.”
There was an awkward pause, not quite a lull in the conversation, but more like they’d both run out of words. Tom was about politely excuse himself, when Ryan started speaking again.
“Shit, sorry,” he said. “I’m no good at this whole - meeting people thing. You seem like a cool guy, I just. Talking isn’t something I’m good at - bullshitting for interviewers, sure, but. Yeah.” He shrugged, the movement more an apology than a gesture of indifference.
“Mate,” Tom said, biting him lip to keep from laughing. “I figured.”
Ryan smiled, shy curve to the corner of his lips.
“Just keep smiling like that,” Tom said, waving a hand loosely at Ryan’s face. “You’ll do fine.”
Ryan laughed. “Yeah?” he said, lips quirking in something closer to a smirk.
Tom bit his lip again, could feel the blush spread across his cheeks. “Yeah,” he said.
+
Panic’s rooms are nice - plush furniture and large windows, carefully arranged books and photographs - but Tom isn’t at all surprised. The fact that Danny is awake, however, is a surprise. He’s next to Jon on the couch in the sitting room, watching TV. He looks a little rough around the edges, squinting over at Tom as Ryan pulls him through the doorway. Something explodes on the television, Danny winces visibly, and Jon laughs at him.
“Wimp,” Jon says, pulling his legs up onto the couch until he’s sitting cross-legged. Danny mumbles something probably vulgar into the mug of coffee he has clenched in one hand.
“C’mon,” Ryan says, softly, tugging Tom toward the hallway. Tom opens his mouth to say, but Danny’s right there, and Ryan snorts. “He’ll still be there when you get back. I want to show you something.” Ryan’s fingers are still tight around Tom’s wrist, and he glances down, says,
“Okay.”
“C’mon,” Ryan says again, and smiles. Tom glances over his shoulder at Danny, who just shrugs and makes a shooing motion with his hands. Tom follows Ryan down the hall.
+
Ryan’s room is messy - covered in crumpled t-shirts and wads of paper, nine or ten used coffee cups.
“Uh,” Ryan says, looking around, “I’ve been telling the cleaning people not to come in here. For, er. Obvious reasons.” He scrubs a hand through his hair.
“Looks kind of like my room at home,” Tom says. Except with more coffee, which is something Tom hadn’t really thought possible.
“Okay, so, this is going to sound really weird,” Ryan says, leaving Tom standing in the doorway as he rummages around in the bedding, patting down the duvet and frowning, and then overturning the pillows until he finds the notebook Tom had seen him writing it at the gig. “But, just.” He stops like he’s not sure exactly what to say, mouth pressed in a firm line. “Here,” he finishes, finally, holding the notebook out in front of him. The expression on his face, mostly flat and unreadable, makes Tom think that he’s expecting to be refused, though Tom has no idea why.
“I -” Tom starts, then shakes his head, reaching out. He can see the way Ryan shifts his weight as Tom opens it, flipping though.
“It’s - last few pages,” Ryan says like it’s ripped from him, and he’s nervous. Tom glances at his face and Ryan gives him a slightly sick smile. Tom’s careful with the thin paper, sharp handwriting in multi-coloured pen. Lines and lines of careful poetry, rhythmic and measured, and Tom’s fingers itch for a guitar because - he can hear the melody for these words.
But it’s not his place.
“Lyrics?” he says, and tries not to let his fingers play the chords on air - A and G and D sharp - even though that’s what he wants. “These’re. Wow, Ryan. This for the album?”
He can hear the breath Ryan lets out without looking up - the pen on the page is in red, red and then black, words scratched out and rewritten in blue and purple, a mosaic of all the time spent crafting them.
“No, not this,” Ryan says, collapsing back onto the bed and pulling his feet up onto the mattress. He doesn’t sound unhappy about it; relieved, more like, but Tom thinks it’s a waste. A waste of good words.
“Why not? They’re certainly good enough,” Tom says, sitting carefully next to Ryan, just on the edge of the bed. Ryan shifts a little, so he can face Tom, just slightly.
“They wouldn’t gel with the rest of the album - too maudlin, I think.” Ryan shrugs, and Tom snorts.
“Maudlin? You really do get your vocabulary straight from the dictionary.” Ryan laughs, and Tom thinks about the chords on his fingertips. “It all depends on how you play it, I think. I mean - d’you have a guitar handy?”
Ryan smiles, then; a real one. He says,
“I was half-hoping you’d say that.”
+
Danny knocks on the door to Ryan’s room about an hour and a half later - Ryan and Tom already have the song half worked out. A chorus and verse, the skeleton of a second. It’s a good day’s work.
“I’m feeling mostly recovered whenever you’re - oh,” Danny says, and grins that wide, pleased smile of his. “Making sweet, sweet music, the two of you?” he asks, though it’s not really a question.
“Idiot,” Tom says, affectionately. Danny shrugs, his grin still wide, exposing the rows of his white teeth.
“What’ve you got so far?” he asks, a real question this time.
“I’m not -” Tom starts, glancing over at Ryan, who has gone quiet, leaning back against the headboard.
“No,” he says. “We can play it. If you want.” He folds back the cover of the notebook, fingers pressing hard into the black leather. Tom lets his fingertips brush lightly over the strings of the acoustic guitar, and shrugs.
“Sure,” he says, “pull up a seat.” Danny rolls his eyes - there aren’t any chairs in the room - and sits on the floor with his back to the wall, managing to choose a spot mostly free of clutter. The desk is to his immediate right, and if he stretched his legs out to their full extent he could probably almost reach the bed. The room isn’t that big.
Ryan does the singing, his voice rough in a way that Tom likes - his voice fits him. Tom hums a harmony to himself, quietly, and strums the guitar. They haven’t actually figured out the harmony, but Tom can’t always keep himself from singing. He glances at his fingers on the strings, then back at Danny. He’s used to taking his cues from Danny, used to the way that Danny tilts his head when he hears something he likes, nodding at the closure at the end of the phrase. He’s used to Danny’s restless foot, tapping out the beat, keeping time. He’s used to Danny’s fingers helplessly following along on his thighs, fingertips against well-worn denim. Tom’s used to Danny, and so he knows before Danny opens his mouth what he is going to say.
He doesn’t, however, know what to make of Spencer in the doorway.
“Well?” Ryan asks, and he’s looking right at Spencer - Spencer is leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth pursed, his hair falling soft over one eye. He looks casually calculating, and Tom has no idea how long he’s been standing there.
“You haven't written anything that dense -”
“Since Fever, yeah,” Ryan says, fingers tapping a rhythm against the sheet. “It’s not anything, I just missed writing prose.” Spencer doesn’t look sceptical, only vaguely relieved.
“Okay,” he says. “It just made me -”
“Don’t,” Ryan says, interrupting again. “It’s not.”
“Yeah,” Spencer says, and smiles. Ryan smiles back, and that, Tom recognizes. That is a best friend smile, an I’ve known you forever smile, that says, you get it and I’ve got you at the same time. Tom looks at Danny, who waggles his eyebrows, grinning like he wants to laugh, and Tom is so grateful for them sometimes that he doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know how to tell them. Mostly, he just trusts that they know.
“I liked it too,” Danny says. “Just in case any of you, y’know, care.”
“I know,” Tom says.
“You would,” Danny says, and somehow it sounds like both a cheerful accusation and a relief.
+
After that, Tom gets invited up a few times a week. Most often they write, but sometimes they don’t, and that’s fine, too; usually they do. Tom has to admit that it’s interesting composing with someone else - everything he’s written has been with the same people. James, and then Danny, Dougie, Harry. Ryan goes about it differently. Danny comes at it similarly to how Tom does - they both reach for the guitar first, and once they have something interesting, then they start on words. Ryan is almost the opposite; he lets the rhythm of the words dictate how the song feels and where it goes.
“Okay, so, how many syllables is this line, again?” Tom asks, yawning. It’s just after one and Tom’s hanging around. Panic had finished recording early, and Danny had asked Tom to be a designated driver for Harry and him - they were going out with Brendon and Jon, pub-crawling. Tom’s pretty sure they still have something like thirty or thirty-five pubs left, at least. Tom said yes, as long as Danny lets him use his car - he’s having no vomiting on his upholstery.
“Mm,” Ryan says, biting on the end of his pen, “seventeen.”
“Huh,” Tom says, and hums the melody again. “Can we maybe shorten that by one? I think sixteen works better.”
“Think so.” Tom glances over at Ryan, who has his eyes rolled toward the ceiling, fingers ticking off numbers on his forearm. Tom watches his lips move around the words, and think about how much of his accent disappears when he sings. Tom likes the sharp way syllables leave his mouth; they fit with the angles of his body, hard planes and the outline of bone. “What?” Ryan asks, glancing over at Tom. Tom smiles.
“Nothing,” he says. “I like this one.”
+
Danny and Harry come back completely loaded; Danny is, as usual, worse off than Harry. Brendon and Jon aren’t much better, if their giggling is anything to go by - Tom just knows less about their tells. Danny’s got one arm wound around Harry’s shoulders, grinning so wide it looks like it hurts, and when Harry says something quietly into his ear, he laughs, burying his face in Harry’s neck. Harry stumbles a little under the sudden shift in weight.
“Ryan, Ryan,” Brendon says, “everything here is so expensive.” His eyes are wide, his fingers sort of twitching by his sides.
“Like you care,” Jon says, “you’re a fucking rock star, man. You can totally pay for whatever shit you want.”
“Plus,” Harry says, pointing at Jon, somewhere near his forehead. “You can take alcohol on the street. On the tube, even. Totally worth it.” He says it like it’s some major revelation, and Brendon seems to take it that way.
“Wow,” he says, the vowel stretched much longer than it would normally be. Danny laughs loudly again, the sound muffled by Harry’s neck and shoulder. Tom’s pretty sure he has one hand shoved in the back pocket of Harry’s jeans. Or, possibly, clutching his shirt on the side where Tom can’t see it. Tom sighs.
“Yeah, I think it’s time to get these drunkards home,” he says. He glances at Ryan, who has a hand up to cover his smile.
“I see you there, Ryan Ross,” Jon says, seriously. “Don’t think you can hide your smile from us.” Ryan snorts, and then Brendon says,
“Yeah, I think I’m going to go puke now.” He scuttles out of the room, and Ryan looks after him for a second, before he sighs, also.
“Okay, so, I should maybe take care of that. I’ll see you later?” Tom kind of wants to push Ryan’s hair out of his face with both hands, but he just nods.
“Later.”
He puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry steers Danny toward the door.
“You’re really awesome, Tom,” Danny says, rolling his head on Harry’s shoulder so that he can look Tom in the eye. Tom laughs.
“I really am. Let’s go, arseholes.”
+
Tom spends the night in Harry’s guest room - he’s exhausted by the time he gets there, and it’s not like Harry minds. He’s in the kitchen with a cup of coffee the next morning, texting Ryan, when Harry stumbles down the stairs. Tom wordlessly hands him two aspirin and a cup of water; it must be room temperature by now, from the expression on Harry’s face.
“I lucked out,” Harry says, after he drains the whole glass. “Danny’s going to have to deal with Dougie first thing when he wakes up. I get you, and you give me pills.” He collapses into a chair, and Tom looks up from his phone.
“You definitely made messes of yourselves last night,” Tom says, but there’s a smile in his voice. Drunk is drunk. Not usually a problem unless alcohol poisoning is involved.
“Ah,” Harry says, half-heartedly raising an eyebrow. “But it was worth it. Why do hangovers make me hungry? You’d think it would be the other way around.”
“I have no idea,” Tom says, as he types to Ryan. Harry’s awake, he sends. Brendon and Jon?
“I don’t suppose you’ll cook for me,” Harry says, eyeing Tom from his seat. Tom just gives him a look. “Yeah, thought not.”
Brendon’s still passed out, Ryan replies. Jon’s drinking all the coffee. It’s accompanied by a sad emoticon, and Tom laughs.
“So, you and Ryan, huh?” Harry asks, right as Tom is typing Harry’s set on cooking. Should probably make sure he doesn’t cause fire. He presses send, and looks up.
“Hm?” he says and then processes Harry’s words. “What?”
“Oh, come on,” Harry says, rolling his eyes and grabbing a pan from where it’s hanging over his sink. “Don’t tell me you’re actually that dense.”
“Ryan’s cool,” Tom says. “I like him.”
“Yeah,” Harry replied, “and you’re writing music together.” He manages to sound both sarcastic and genuine at the same time. It’s a Harry thing.
“So? We’re musicians, it’s kind of what we do.” Tom takes a sip from his coffee mug, and leans back against the worktop. Despite what he texted to Ryan, under normal circumstances, Harry’s the best cook out of the four of them. Not that it takes much skill. Harry snorts, and grabs a carton of eggs from the fridge, some cheese and a few tomatoes. Omelette, then, probably.
“Whatever you say, Tom.” Harry slices up the cheese and tomato, before turning to glance at Tom. “You’re so obvious.”
“Am not,” Tom says. “Fuck you.” His phone beeps, then - Ryan again. You coming over later? it says, and Tom looks at Harry. “I am so not.”
“Sure, Tom,” Harry says, and this time he doesn’t even bother to try for genuine. “You having any?”
+
Tom’s warm when he wakes up, and he yawns, stretching his arms over his head. He finds himself curled up on Ryan’s bed, the guitar on the comforter next to him. Ryan’s scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm, leaning back against the headboard with a pen in hand and his notebook on his lap. Tom looks at the clock -it’s 4:54 AM.
“Fuck,” he says, and glances around on the floor for his cons - he can see one peeking out from under the bed, but he can’t spot the other one. “I can’t believe I fell asleep - I should’ve gone home hours ago. I said I’d meet the guys at eleven for breakfast.” There’s a hole in the toe of his right sock, and he still can’t see his other shoe anywhere - could he have taken it off in the living room? He squints down at the floor, and pulls at the hem of his t-shirt, trying to straighten it.
“Just stay here,” Ryan says, voice flat in that way Tom still can’t always get a read on; especially not when he’s just woken up. Maybe that’s why Ryan uses it. “It’s not a big deal, we have to wake up early for recording anyway.”
“I - what?” Tom asks. “You’re serious?” Ryan’s looking at some point in the middle of Tom’s forehead, but he just shrugs.
“Sure, why not?”
“I - uh. Don’t know? I don’t want to be a bother.” Ryan smiles, then, like what he’s said is particularly idiotic.
“You’ve already been sleeping there for almost two hours. If I had a problem with it I’d’ve kicked you out a long time ago.”
Tom yawns again, and stops looking for his shoes.
+
The smell of coffee wakes him again; the clock on the bedside table says 9:28 AM, and Ryan is still sleeping, both hands fisted into the edge of the pillow, bedding pulled up over his shoulders. Tom stretches, and then reaches out to touch Ryan’s shoulder. He’s warm through the fabric of his shirt, and Tom’s not sure why this surprises him. Ryan wrinkles his nose and purses his lips, half-waking at the touch, and Tom laughs softly.
“Ryan,” he says, touching his shoulder again, “I think there’s coffee in the living room.”
“Mmmm?” Ryan says, and opens his eyes, half-lidded. Tom kind of wants to kiss him. “What?”
“Coffee,” Tom says. “Good morning.”
“’Morning,” Ryan says, and smiles, lopsided, in a way Tom’s never seen before. He looks rumpled. Happy. “Wasn’t sure you’d still be around when I woke up.”
“Why not?” Tom asks, but Ryan just shrugs. “As you can see, my life is staggeringly busy.”
“What, you’re here cause there’s nothing else for you to do?” Ryan asks, but he’s still smiling.
“Well,” Tom amends, “Nothing else I’d rather be doing, anyway.” He’s telling the truth, but he’s pretty certain Ryan’s not going to take him seriously.
“Ha,” Ryan says, pushing the covers off and sliding out of the bed. “You said something about coffee?”
+
When Tom finally manages to check his phone, half an hour later, he has two texts from Danny, one from Harry, and a missed call from Dougie.
Danny’s first text says, 25 pubs and counting!!, and the second says, Bren says Ryan likes you a lot dude i don’t see it but whatever. Tom rolls his eyes - Danny’s not a particularly able texter in any case, but his punctuation goes out the window when he’s drunk.
Harry’s just says, Dougie says you’re not home - up to anything we should know about?
Dougie hadn’t left a message, but he rarely ever does, not if the situation isn’t important. Tom sighs, and drains his coffee, setting the empty cup on the side table.
“I should probably be going. I have to be home in an hour.” Ryan is sitting on the couch next to him, close enough that Tom can feel his body heat, and he nods. Tom’s just standing, when Ryan wraps a long-fingered hand around his wrist, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek, quick and soft.
“I’ll see you later?” he asks, biting his bottom lip. His voice is slightly softer than just a minute earlier.
“Yeah,” Tom says, restraining himself from touching his cheek. “Yeah, definitely.”
+
Dougie is the first to arrive to Tom’s house, surprisingly. Tom’s only been in for about ten minutes - he’d had to run to the supermarket to fetch supplies for breakfast.
“You haven’t started cooking yet?” Dougie asks as he enters the kitchen, sitting with the soft thump on one of the bar stools in front of Tom’s worktop.
“Do I ever?” Tom asks, but he’s already cutting up vegetables. “Come lend a hand.”
“Just as long as you don’t expect me to actually cook anything harder than toast,” Dougie says, setting two loaves of bread on the worktop, still in their paper wrappings. He slides off the stool, and hooks his chin over Tom’s shoulder, standing slightly on his tiptoes to be tall enough.
“Toast duty it is, then,” Tom says, and shoves his small pile of onions and tomatoes off of the cutting board. “Where the hell is Dan? You two didn’t come together?”
“Nah, he was at Harry’s for the night. I think Brendon stayed there, too. Where were you?” Dougie asks like he knows something already, and Tom sighs.
“What do you mean?”
“I called, but you didn’t answer, so I swung ‘round. You have big plans, or something?” Tom leans his head to the side so he can nudge Dougie, working on cutting up the cheese.
“I fell asleep at Ryan’s,” he says, and Dougie snickers. He jabs Tom in the side with his elbow, pulling away before Tom can retaliate.
“Harry told me something was up, but I didn’t believe him. Our dear Tom? Never! I thought you weren’t ever going to get laid again in your entire life.” He giggles again, and leans back against the worktop. Tom just shakes his head.
“It’s not like anything happened. I just stayed too late, and fell asleep. No big deal.”
“Sure,” Dougie says, drawing out the vowel, just to show his disbelief. Tom hears the slam of a car door outside in the driveway, signalling the arrival of Danny and Harry.
“None of you are going to leave this alone, are you?” Tom asks Dougie, turning around and putting his hands on his hips.
“Nope,” Dougie says. “You’re pretty much doomed.”
“Great,” Tom says. “Today is going to be fabulous.”
+
Tom kicks them out around 2:30, citing a need for peace and quiet, although the look Dougie shoots him as he leaves tells Tom just how much they actually believe him. You’d think they’d get bored of making fun of him, eventually, but it never seems to happen. Harry and Danny are still laughing as they leave.
He cleans up the kitchen, scrubbing pans and pots, putting cutlery in the dishwasher, and wiping down the worktop and table. After he’s finished, he goes into his music room, and opens up the piano.
He’s not playing anything in particular, and not paying enough attention to the sound to try to identify the piece, but something about playing the piano clears his mind out, wipes it clean. Everything seems so much simpler with his fingers on the keys, pressing lightly, foot tapping the pedal. He scoots the bench a little closer, letting his fingers just trail over the keys, cool against his fingertips. He remembers buying this piano - he’d seen it through the window and known, then, without playing it, that it was going to be his. He’s always had good sense about musical instruments - almost like they choose him, instead of the other way around.
Playing in earnest again, he thinks he can hear the faint notes of She Falls Asleep, before his fingers get restless with the familiar rhythm of it and move on. Half, he knows, he’s never played before and will never write down - he doesn’t mourn this as a loss, just the casualty of a clear head. Guitar, more than piano, turns into something real, songs, melodies, tangible evidence - piano he can play for hours and have nothing come of it. He likes having the choice.
The resistance of the pedal against the ball of his bare foot is more than he’s used to. He’s been playing his stage piano for so long now that he’s out of practice with this one - it’s less sensitive, requires more finger strength, less subtle dynamics. He hums along, absently, and lets his left hand find the rhythm, while his right works out the melody, accompanying harmony.
He’s not sure how long he’s been playing for, but he’s startled out of it when his phone rings, shoved down into the bottom of his jean’s pocket. It’s a text, not a phone call, so he’s not surprised to find that it’s from Ryan.
What’re you playing? the text says, and it takes Tom a moment to get it, that Ryan must be outside his house, listening through the window. He realizes that he’s breathing hard, sweating in the small of his back and the back of his neck, the hollow of his chest. He swipes the back of his arm over his forehead and stands, pulling at the hem of his shirt. There’s no way to make himself presentable, so he just leaves the piano open and goes the front door, feet soft on the hard wood floor.
Ryan’s sitting on the front stoop, elbow propped on one knee, his chin on his hand. He looks up when the door opens, and Tom sees him close his mobile, shoving it into his back pocket.
“I didn’t know you played piano,” he says, by way of greeting, and Tom’s still breathing too fast, his heart thudding in his chest; he’d forgotten how much energy the playing took out of him.
“Yeah, I do,” he says. “Even onstage, sometimes.” He half wants to ask how Ryan got here, how he knows where Tom lives, but he’s pretty sure it would sound rude.
“Brendon would probably be happy to know that,” Ryan says, and then cocks his head to the side. “I asked him to ask Danny for your address. I hope you don’t mind.” The last sentence is almost a question, his voice lifting at the end, just slightly. Tom’s still not entirely used to the flat tone of his voice, but he thinks he might be getting better at interpreting. He does know, however, that Danny is never going to let him live this down, and what Danny knows, Harry and Dougie know as well. Tom will maybe start caring about this later, but right now, Ryan’s sitting on his doorstep like it’s where he wants to be.
“Want to come in?” Tom asks, and pulls the door open the rest of the way. Ryan peers down the hall, staring past Tom’s knees, and then stands. He’s graceful in a gawky sort of way - used to the length and leanness of his limbs, but not sure that anyone else is, yet.
He meets Tom’s eyes, almost defiant, and then grabs his hand. His fingers are dry, callused, his palm warm and slightly sweaty, and Tom lets his other hand fall from the doorknob. Ryan asks,
“Want to come out with me?” Tom can hear the hesitation where he wants to trip over the words, but doesn’t let himself. “Just for coffee, or something.”
“You -” Tom cuts himself off before he can say you mean, like a date?, because he left school a long time ago, and even then the words felt stupid. “Let me - get my shoes.”
He laces his fingers through Ryan’s, and pulls him into the house.
+
“Here,” Tom had said, biting his lip. Panic was grabbing their things from the dressing room, and Ryan had his back to Tom, stuffing his notebook in a bag, jacket still unbuttoned. He glanced over his shoulder, looking down at the scrap of paper in Tom’s hand, before looking back up at Tom’s face, a question in the set of his features.
“What is it?” he asked, reaching out, despite himself, and taking it. His fingers brushed Tom’s, and Tom pretended not to notice.
“My email,” he said, trying on a smile. He had a nice smile, he knew, dimple and all, and he wanted Ryan to like him. “Email me sometime. You guys are in London for a while, right?”
“Yeah,” Ryan said, glancing down at the paper in his fingers, folding it carefully and stuffing it in his pocket.
“Okay. I - sure.”
He smiled back, then, and Tom rocked on his heels. When Spencer tapped Ryan on the inside of his elbow, jerking his head toward the door, Ryan just nodded.
“Bye,” he said, turning back to Tom. “I’ll - I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Bye,” Tom said, and thought, I’m holding you to that. I’m holding you to that.
McFly/Panic At The Disco (Tom Fletcher/Ryan Ross)
7,762 words, pg-13, third person. For hypaethral, because she asked me to, and because she's a shameless enabler who knew I wanted to write it anyway. Title is taken from Vertebrae, by Christine Fellows. A huge, huge thank you to britchick5000 for the beta/britpicking! For reference, this is McFly (Tom, Dougie, Danny, Harry), and this is Panic (Ryan, Jon, Spencer, Brendon). They are all pretty awesome, I have to say. ♥
Tom’s surprised, but Ryan actually does email him first. He gets four sparse sentences, pared down to their simplest forms, and he can’t help but admire that, just a little.
Tom’s surprised, but Ryan actually does email him first. He gets four sparse sentences, pared down to their simplest forms, and he can’t help but admire that, just a little.
May 14th, 12:56 AM
To: Tom Fletcher (t.fletcher@googlemail.com)
From: Ryan Ross (ryro@gmail.com)
Cc:
Subject: (no subject)
Tom -
Wasn’t sure if you actually wanted me to email you. Figured I would anyway. We’re in London through the summer, recording. Call me, if you want.
- Ryan
Tom reads it twice, elbows propped on the cold marble worktop in his kitchen, before clicking reply in the upper left-hand corner. He’s not sure, yet, how to respond, but he knows that sooner is better than later. He doesn’t want Ryan to think he forgot, or didn’t get it, or didn’t care. He sighs, and knows that he’s over-thinking again. He doesn’t know Ryan well enough to know what he’s supposed to say, exactly, so he’ll just have to do what he does best - bullshit and hope he gets the answer right.
May 14th, 10:17 AM
To: Ryan Ross (ryro@gmail.com)
From: Tom (t.fletcher@googlemail.com)
Cc:
Subject: RE: (no subject)
Ryan -
Well, I wasn’t sure you actually would email me. I’m glad you did, though, if that counts for anything. We should meet up. I can probably even get you passes for a gig. Your mates too, if you wanted.
My mobile number is 07027 561837. Give me a call when you get a chance, if you like.
- Tom
Tom bites his lower lip, clicking send, and drinking down the last of his coffee. He really doesn’t know much about Ryan - this is possibly why he’s so curious.
+
It was coincidence that Tom met Ryan Ross in the first place- not something he’d ever initiate himself, that much is for sure. The event was crowded with famous bands, and they’d known well beforehand that they might have to share their dressing rooms with some of the other guys and gals. Tom had shrugged it off - as long as there was an empty chair and a plug for his laptop, he figured he’d be fine. Tom was easy-going where it mattered, and the event was important - funded AIDS research, support for poverty-stricken communities in Africa.
They’d walked into the room, Danny laughing loudly at something Dougie’d said about the hostess of the event - something about her gigantic breasts because, well, since when has Dougie ever restricted himself to appropriate topics of conversation? Harry’d just smacked him on the back of the head, and Tom had rolled his eyes at them, pushing the door open with the flat of his palm.
He’d been looking over his shoulder at the three of them, but he knew they weren’t alone by the way Danny’s laugh stopped abruptly, like he’d been startled out of it.
Tom had turned his eyes to the front and seen two young men playing cards on the floor - something involving a lot of slapping. A third was reading a magazine with a bored look on his face, leaning back against one of the armrests of the sofa against the far wall. The fourth was curled up on the chair in the corner, a notebook on his lap and a pencil in his hand. The two playing cards looked up. The other two didn’t.
“Hi,” he’d said, tentatively. He knew that if he didn’t say anything, no one else would, at least not on their end - it was always his job, to speak first, to put his best foot forward. He didn’t usually mind. “We’re McFly. I’m Tom. That’s Danny, Dougie, and Harry behind me.” He jerked his thumb in their direction, and saw Danny wave from the corner of his eye. Harry smiled. Dougie bounced on the balls of his feet.
Tom knew he recognized them, that he should know who they are, but their names escaped him, so he just smiled politely, and hoped he wasn’t being rude by accident.
“Hi, I’m Brendon,” one of the boys playing cards said. American, though Tom didn’t know nearly enough about accents to tell where from. He combed his hair out of his face with his fingers. “This is Jon, and the two antisocial losers are Ryan and Spencer.”
“I’m Spencer, he’s Ryan, and Brendon, you’re a tool,” the one on the couch - Spencer - said. He glanced up, smiling briefly, and Tom wondered why he didn’t do it more often. Maybe he didn’t want to come off as nice.
“Nice to meet you,” Tom said, still not quite placing them.
“Wanna play?” Jon asked, gesturing the cards between him and Brendon. “Egyptian Rat Screw - it’s fun,” he said, laughing at what was probably an interesting expression on Tom’s face. His laugh was pleasant, easy-going, and not as deep as Tom had expected, given his appearance. “We promise not to hurt you -”
“ - that much,” Brendon interrupted, and Jon rolled his eyes.
“Cheesiest joke ever, Brendon.”
“And you’re surprised why?” Brendon waggled his eyebrows, and it reminded Tom of Groucho Marx. Danny laughed, and said,
“Teach me how to play.”
Tom nodded to himself, figuring they’d be okay. He glanced over at the kid in the corner - Ryan - only to see he’d looked up and was watching Brendon gesticulate wildly in Dougie’s direction. Dougie giggled and bit his lip. Behind him, Harry rolled his eyes. Ryan didn’t move, and his expression didn’t change; he just looked back down at his sketchbook, and something about his face seemed familiar -
Panic At The Disco, that was it. They were all in Panic At The Disco.
Tom shrugged and pulled his laptop out of its case. He figured that he had about fifteen minutes before Danny broke something, or before Harry wanted company to go smoke. He didn’t want to waste the quiet.
+
Ryan texts him about twelve hours later, right as Tom’s leaving to go to Danny’s - something about a new riff, and he’d wanted a second ear. Tom’s almost always willing to oblige, and they’re going to have to think about recording again soon, anyway. The text says,
check check, one two and Tom is reminded of almost every sound check in his entire career. He programs Ryan’s number into his phone and texts back, quickly,
receiving you loud and clear, before locking the door behind him.
+
Ryan, it turns out, doesn’t like the phone. He doesn’t mind texting, and he’s incredibly fast at typing, but he hates actually speaking into the receiver, hates the sound of his voice in open space like that. Tom doesn’t know why he’s surprised - it took Ryan a good three hours to even speak to them in person.
He gets used to texts at odd times - just after Ryan’s finished recording for the night, in the wee hours of the morning, when Tom would much rather be sleeping. He’s never sure when Ryan sleeps, exactly, because there seems to be no consistent time for it. It’s possible that he’s almost completely nocturnal.
which do you think is a better number, fourteen or seventeen? Ryan asks one night, a few weeks after first contact. Tom’s slightly tipsy, sitting on the couch in his living room, trying not the think about what’s taking Dougie so long in the bathroom, and Danny’s asleep, stretched out on the rest of the couch, his feet pressed against Tom’s thigh. Harry’s popped outside for a smoke. They’re only about halfway through their Die Hard marathon, but Tom’s always known that his bandmates are weaklings.
in terms of what? he asks. lyrically? track numbers? something else entirely? Tom sometimes has no idea what Ryan is talking about, like the time he asked whether an A flat or a G sharp look better when notated, even though he’s very aware that they are, in fact, the same note. Tom kind of likes it that way, though. He’s so used to Danny and Dougie and Harry, he can tell their moods from what they’re doing with their hands, from the shape of their mouths. He likes knowing them that well, knowing that they know him, but Ryan’s still a mystery, and that’s - interesting.
no, i just - which is a better number? in general, Ryan types, and Harry walks back in. Tom can smell the sharp twist of cigarette smoke from across the room, and he says,
“Which is a better number, fourteen or seventeen?” Harry raises an eyebrow, and pushes Danny’s legs off the couch so he can sit next to Tom. Danny makes a protesting noise in the back of his throat, and Harry sighs, pulling Danny’s feet into his lap.
“Ryan ask you that?” he asks. Tom’s really beginning to worry about Dougie. They haven’t been drinking that much, really, but Dougie’d never had the best alcohol tolerance. Not that Tom’s one to talk, just about ever.
“Yep,” he says.
“Fourteen,” Dougie says, from the doorway to the hall. Tom jumps, just a little, and then turns to look at him. His glare leaves much to be desired, this he knows.
“Were you just hanging out there to be creepy and surprise me?” he asks, but Dougie just grins.
“The right answer is fourteen.”
“Why?” Tom asks, and Harry snorts.
“Because Dougie and I like it more,” he says. “You are way too literal, Tom. Not everything needs context.” Tom sighs.
I took a poll, and the consensus seems to be fourteen, he types back to Ryan. Harry looks over his shoulder and laughs.
cool, Ryan says. good choice.
Tom still doesn’t really get it. He’s pretty much okay with that.
+
Ryan had said nothing almost the entire time they’d sat in the dressing room together. Tom had taken the chair nearest to him, simply because it was the quietest corner, and whenever he looked up, Ryan was scribbling in his notebook, or looking at the boys playing cards on the floor. Harry wasn’t actually taking part; he was just looking over Danny’s shoulder, mostly to annoy him. Tom couldn’t help but be curious - even Spencer had joined in when they’d started a new game, but Ryan had yet to even speak. Tom found himself idly wondering what Ryan’s voice even sounded like.
The first word out of Ryan’s mouth when he finally, finally spoke, was,
“Um.” Tom had glanced up, and found Ryan looking at him. He raised his eyebrows, smiling slightly. Danny and Harry were off somewhere smoking, at this point, and Dougie’d fallen asleep in one of the chairs - they’d all been up late the night before. Tom saw Spencer glance over when Ryan spoke up, but he didn’t comment, just raised both his eyebrows and turned back to the quiet conversation he was having with Brendon and Jon.
“Hm?” Tom said, minimizing the document he’d had pulled up on his laptop. They all told him to work less, but if they really wanted that to happen, they’d have to give him less to do.
“I, um,” Ryan started and then shook his head. “What’s another good word for mystify?”
“Uh. Confuse? Hold on.” Tom checked the thesaurus on his computer. “Well, according to Microsoft Word, synonyms are perplex, bewilder, stump, confound, and, my personal favourite, bamboozle.” Tom looked at Ryan with a grin. Ryan smiled back at him, and Tom remembers being slightly surprised by how openly pleasant the expression was. Shy or reclusive as he was, Ryan Ross did not have a mean face. Tom suspects that he should have expected this.
“Bamboozle, huh?” Ryan said, his voice even and flat, lilting up at the ends of his sentences. “I’ll have to remember to hit up the guy with the laptop more often.” He hit his pencil against the open page in his lap, something about the length of his fingers making the movement awkward rather than simply restless.
“I leave my thesaurus open for you to use,” Tom said. Ryan smiled at him again, and Tom remembers wondering just how hard he would have to work to get that expression all the time.
+
It’s Brendon and Danny, surprisingly, who become closest the fastest. Panic is recording their third album, back at Abbey Road after the success of their second, so they’re staying at a hotel nearby. Ryan and Tom text and email regularly, but have yet to meet in person - Tom’s hoping this will change soon. Brendon and Danny, on the other hand, have wasted no time in mapping out all of the pubs between Brendon’s hotel and Danny and Dougie’s house - their goal is to get drunk in each and every one before Panic finishes recording. Given their track record thus far, Tom will not be surprised if they manage it.
Tom is surprised, however, when Ryan calls him at two-thirty in the morning on a Wednesday. He manages to answer his phone before it goes to mail, but he’s still mostly asleep when Ryan starts talking.
“What?” he says, intelligently. “Start over.”
“I just wanted you to know that I have your guitarist,” Ryan says patiently, his voice even flatter than usual.
“Is he okay?” Tom asks, because that’s always the first thing on his mind when he gets a call like this. First, is he okay? and then what can I do?.
“If you call puking in Brendon’s toilet okay, then, sure,” Ryan says. Tom can hear the arched eyebrows in his voice. For someone with so little vocal expression, he makes his feelings perfectly clear. “I just wanted to make sure you knew.”
“Should I come get him?” Tom asks, yawning. Ryan doesn’t answer immediately, and Tom wonders if he’s imagining the sound of retching in the background. He doesn’t want to know.
“Tomorrow. Not right now, he’d probably just puke all over your upholstery.” Tom sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Is Brendon okay, at least?”
“Uh,” Ryan says. “He will be, I’m sure. Next time, though, I’m telling them to go to your house.”
“We can alternate,” Tom says. “It’ll be great.”
+
The next day, Tom calls Ryan’s room from the front desk - the concierge asks him for his name first, so Tom assumes that he’s on some sort of pre-approved calling list. It makes sense, given that Panic is a pretty popular band, and some of the fans have to have figured out the name of the hotel. Tom’s just not sure what he’s done to deserve being on that list in the first place.
The phone rings four times, and then Ryan answers, his voice hoarse and rough, like he’s been sleeping.
“Hello?” he says.
“Hi, uh,” he says. “It’s Tom. I’m here to hopefully collect my wayward guitarist?” Normally he’d be more careful with his words - even the concierge might sell choice quotes to disreputable papers - but either way, he’s still a member of McFly visiting Panic At The Disco in their hotel suite. He’s not sure it would take much more spin than that, in any case.
“Oh,” Ryan says, “sure, uh. I think he’s around here somewhere? Why don’t you just come up?”
“What’s your room number?” Tom asks.
“We’re on the fifth floor, room 513, but you need a key card to work the elevator anyway, so. I’ll just come down and get you.” Ryan yawns, and Tom hopes he hasn’t actually woken Ryan; it is after noon, but given the odd hours of recording schedules, and the obvious antics of the night before, it’s hard to know when he even went to bed.
“Sounds like a plan,” Tom says.
“See you in a minute,” Ryan replies, and hangs up. Tom sits in the lobby to wait.
+
Tom only waits by the lifts for about two minutes before the doors slide open, revealing a smiling Ryan Ross. Tom notices the sweep of his hair across his forehead, artfully messy, and the sharp lines of his neck, visible tendons.
“Hi -” Tom starts to say, feeling a returning grin curl around his mouth, but Ryan just reaches out and wraps a hand around the delicate bones of his wrist, fingers more than long enough to completely encircle it - Tom can feel the guitar calluses against his skin. Ryan yanks Tom firmly into the elevator, barely waiting for him to stumble forward before pressing the door close button.
“Hi,” he says, and the doors slide shut. His hand is still wrapped around Tom’s wrist, like he’s trying to keep him from getting away. Tom isn’t going anywhere.
+
They’d gone their separates ways for sound check and performances, although Tom had managed to watch from offstage as Panic performed. They were smooth, polished in some fundamental way. Comfortable. Jon moved around stage like someone perfectly balanced there - engaging, but not attention-seeking. Spencer was a fucking powerhouse on drums, startling Tom - his feral smile onstage was a sight to see. Brendon was just as energetic as it seemed like he’d be, spurring the crowd with his wide mouth and words like polished marbles. Ryan mostly looked at his guitar unless he was singing, but the confidence in the set of his shoulders, the firm press of his fingers, was - unexpected. Interesting.
Tom stood back as they piled offstage, unsure whether they’d welcome distraction or not. After a few uncertain moments, he tapped Ryan on the shoulder.
“Great show,” he said, trying to make it clear with his voice how much he actually meant it - yes, he was the diplomatic member of the band, but he could’ve said nothing at all. Ryan just smiled.
“Thanks,” he said. Tom noticed Spencer look over at them - his expression considering and even, hands on his hips with his used drumstick in his back pocket. He nodded to himself and turned away, back to one of the techs. Tom turned his attention back to Ryan when he started to talk again. “It’s always weird performing at benefits. It feels more like an award show that a real gig.” Ryan shook his head, glancing over at the stage. The next band was still being set up.
“Couldn’t tell from offstage, anyway,” Tom said, arching an eyebrow. He was watching the spread of sweat across Ryan’s temples and the back of his neck, the sheen on his skin even in the half-light. His hair was sticking to the sides of his face in tufts, messy and unruly, like he’d been running his fingers through it.
“Yeah,” Ryan replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Thanks.”
There was an awkward pause, not quite a lull in the conversation, but more like they’d both run out of words. Tom was about politely excuse himself, when Ryan started speaking again.
“Shit, sorry,” he said. “I’m no good at this whole - meeting people thing. You seem like a cool guy, I just. Talking isn’t something I’m good at - bullshitting for interviewers, sure, but. Yeah.” He shrugged, the movement more an apology than a gesture of indifference.
“Mate,” Tom said, biting him lip to keep from laughing. “I figured.”
Ryan smiled, shy curve to the corner of his lips.
“Just keep smiling like that,” Tom said, waving a hand loosely at Ryan’s face. “You’ll do fine.”
Ryan laughed. “Yeah?” he said, lips quirking in something closer to a smirk.
Tom bit his lip again, could feel the blush spread across his cheeks. “Yeah,” he said.
+
Panic’s rooms are nice - plush furniture and large windows, carefully arranged books and photographs - but Tom isn’t at all surprised. The fact that Danny is awake, however, is a surprise. He’s next to Jon on the couch in the sitting room, watching TV. He looks a little rough around the edges, squinting over at Tom as Ryan pulls him through the doorway. Something explodes on the television, Danny winces visibly, and Jon laughs at him.
“Wimp,” Jon says, pulling his legs up onto the couch until he’s sitting cross-legged. Danny mumbles something probably vulgar into the mug of coffee he has clenched in one hand.
“C’mon,” Ryan says, softly, tugging Tom toward the hallway. Tom opens his mouth to say, but Danny’s right there, and Ryan snorts. “He’ll still be there when you get back. I want to show you something.” Ryan’s fingers are still tight around Tom’s wrist, and he glances down, says,
“Okay.”
“C’mon,” Ryan says again, and smiles. Tom glances over his shoulder at Danny, who just shrugs and makes a shooing motion with his hands. Tom follows Ryan down the hall.
+
Ryan’s room is messy - covered in crumpled t-shirts and wads of paper, nine or ten used coffee cups.
“Uh,” Ryan says, looking around, “I’ve been telling the cleaning people not to come in here. For, er. Obvious reasons.” He scrubs a hand through his hair.
“Looks kind of like my room at home,” Tom says. Except with more coffee, which is something Tom hadn’t really thought possible.
“Okay, so, this is going to sound really weird,” Ryan says, leaving Tom standing in the doorway as he rummages around in the bedding, patting down the duvet and frowning, and then overturning the pillows until he finds the notebook Tom had seen him writing it at the gig. “But, just.” He stops like he’s not sure exactly what to say, mouth pressed in a firm line. “Here,” he finishes, finally, holding the notebook out in front of him. The expression on his face, mostly flat and unreadable, makes Tom think that he’s expecting to be refused, though Tom has no idea why.
“I -” Tom starts, then shakes his head, reaching out. He can see the way Ryan shifts his weight as Tom opens it, flipping though.
“It’s - last few pages,” Ryan says like it’s ripped from him, and he’s nervous. Tom glances at his face and Ryan gives him a slightly sick smile. Tom’s careful with the thin paper, sharp handwriting in multi-coloured pen. Lines and lines of careful poetry, rhythmic and measured, and Tom’s fingers itch for a guitar because - he can hear the melody for these words.
But it’s not his place.
“Lyrics?” he says, and tries not to let his fingers play the chords on air - A and G and D sharp - even though that’s what he wants. “These’re. Wow, Ryan. This for the album?”
He can hear the breath Ryan lets out without looking up - the pen on the page is in red, red and then black, words scratched out and rewritten in blue and purple, a mosaic of all the time spent crafting them.
“No, not this,” Ryan says, collapsing back onto the bed and pulling his feet up onto the mattress. He doesn’t sound unhappy about it; relieved, more like, but Tom thinks it’s a waste. A waste of good words.
“Why not? They’re certainly good enough,” Tom says, sitting carefully next to Ryan, just on the edge of the bed. Ryan shifts a little, so he can face Tom, just slightly.
“They wouldn’t gel with the rest of the album - too maudlin, I think.” Ryan shrugs, and Tom snorts.
“Maudlin? You really do get your vocabulary straight from the dictionary.” Ryan laughs, and Tom thinks about the chords on his fingertips. “It all depends on how you play it, I think. I mean - d’you have a guitar handy?”
Ryan smiles, then; a real one. He says,
“I was half-hoping you’d say that.”
+
Danny knocks on the door to Ryan’s room about an hour and a half later - Ryan and Tom already have the song half worked out. A chorus and verse, the skeleton of a second. It’s a good day’s work.
“I’m feeling mostly recovered whenever you’re - oh,” Danny says, and grins that wide, pleased smile of his. “Making sweet, sweet music, the two of you?” he asks, though it’s not really a question.
“Idiot,” Tom says, affectionately. Danny shrugs, his grin still wide, exposing the rows of his white teeth.
“What’ve you got so far?” he asks, a real question this time.
“I’m not -” Tom starts, glancing over at Ryan, who has gone quiet, leaning back against the headboard.
“No,” he says. “We can play it. If you want.” He folds back the cover of the notebook, fingers pressing hard into the black leather. Tom lets his fingertips brush lightly over the strings of the acoustic guitar, and shrugs.
“Sure,” he says, “pull up a seat.” Danny rolls his eyes - there aren’t any chairs in the room - and sits on the floor with his back to the wall, managing to choose a spot mostly free of clutter. The desk is to his immediate right, and if he stretched his legs out to their full extent he could probably almost reach the bed. The room isn’t that big.
Ryan does the singing, his voice rough in a way that Tom likes - his voice fits him. Tom hums a harmony to himself, quietly, and strums the guitar. They haven’t actually figured out the harmony, but Tom can’t always keep himself from singing. He glances at his fingers on the strings, then back at Danny. He’s used to taking his cues from Danny, used to the way that Danny tilts his head when he hears something he likes, nodding at the closure at the end of the phrase. He’s used to Danny’s restless foot, tapping out the beat, keeping time. He’s used to Danny’s fingers helplessly following along on his thighs, fingertips against well-worn denim. Tom’s used to Danny, and so he knows before Danny opens his mouth what he is going to say.
He doesn’t, however, know what to make of Spencer in the doorway.
“Well?” Ryan asks, and he’s looking right at Spencer - Spencer is leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth pursed, his hair falling soft over one eye. He looks casually calculating, and Tom has no idea how long he’s been standing there.
“You haven't written anything that dense -”
“Since Fever, yeah,” Ryan says, fingers tapping a rhythm against the sheet. “It’s not anything, I just missed writing prose.” Spencer doesn’t look sceptical, only vaguely relieved.
“Okay,” he says. “It just made me -”
“Don’t,” Ryan says, interrupting again. “It’s not.”
“Yeah,” Spencer says, and smiles. Ryan smiles back, and that, Tom recognizes. That is a best friend smile, an I’ve known you forever smile, that says, you get it and I’ve got you at the same time. Tom looks at Danny, who waggles his eyebrows, grinning like he wants to laugh, and Tom is so grateful for them sometimes that he doesn’t know what to do. Doesn’t know how to tell them. Mostly, he just trusts that they know.
“I liked it too,” Danny says. “Just in case any of you, y’know, care.”
“I know,” Tom says.
“You would,” Danny says, and somehow it sounds like both a cheerful accusation and a relief.
+
After that, Tom gets invited up a few times a week. Most often they write, but sometimes they don’t, and that’s fine, too; usually they do. Tom has to admit that it’s interesting composing with someone else - everything he’s written has been with the same people. James, and then Danny, Dougie, Harry. Ryan goes about it differently. Danny comes at it similarly to how Tom does - they both reach for the guitar first, and once they have something interesting, then they start on words. Ryan is almost the opposite; he lets the rhythm of the words dictate how the song feels and where it goes.
“Okay, so, how many syllables is this line, again?” Tom asks, yawning. It’s just after one and Tom’s hanging around. Panic had finished recording early, and Danny had asked Tom to be a designated driver for Harry and him - they were going out with Brendon and Jon, pub-crawling. Tom’s pretty sure they still have something like thirty or thirty-five pubs left, at least. Tom said yes, as long as Danny lets him use his car - he’s having no vomiting on his upholstery.
“Mm,” Ryan says, biting on the end of his pen, “seventeen.”
“Huh,” Tom says, and hums the melody again. “Can we maybe shorten that by one? I think sixteen works better.”
“Think so.” Tom glances over at Ryan, who has his eyes rolled toward the ceiling, fingers ticking off numbers on his forearm. Tom watches his lips move around the words, and think about how much of his accent disappears when he sings. Tom likes the sharp way syllables leave his mouth; they fit with the angles of his body, hard planes and the outline of bone. “What?” Ryan asks, glancing over at Tom. Tom smiles.
“Nothing,” he says. “I like this one.”
+
Danny and Harry come back completely loaded; Danny is, as usual, worse off than Harry. Brendon and Jon aren’t much better, if their giggling is anything to go by - Tom just knows less about their tells. Danny’s got one arm wound around Harry’s shoulders, grinning so wide it looks like it hurts, and when Harry says something quietly into his ear, he laughs, burying his face in Harry’s neck. Harry stumbles a little under the sudden shift in weight.
“Ryan, Ryan,” Brendon says, “everything here is so expensive.” His eyes are wide, his fingers sort of twitching by his sides.
“Like you care,” Jon says, “you’re a fucking rock star, man. You can totally pay for whatever shit you want.”
“Plus,” Harry says, pointing at Jon, somewhere near his forehead. “You can take alcohol on the street. On the tube, even. Totally worth it.” He says it like it’s some major revelation, and Brendon seems to take it that way.
“Wow,” he says, the vowel stretched much longer than it would normally be. Danny laughs loudly again, the sound muffled by Harry’s neck and shoulder. Tom’s pretty sure he has one hand shoved in the back pocket of Harry’s jeans. Or, possibly, clutching his shirt on the side where Tom can’t see it. Tom sighs.
“Yeah, I think it’s time to get these drunkards home,” he says. He glances at Ryan, who has a hand up to cover his smile.
“I see you there, Ryan Ross,” Jon says, seriously. “Don’t think you can hide your smile from us.” Ryan snorts, and then Brendon says,
“Yeah, I think I’m going to go puke now.” He scuttles out of the room, and Ryan looks after him for a second, before he sighs, also.
“Okay, so, I should maybe take care of that. I’ll see you later?” Tom kind of wants to push Ryan’s hair out of his face with both hands, but he just nods.
“Later.”
He puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry steers Danny toward the door.
“You’re really awesome, Tom,” Danny says, rolling his head on Harry’s shoulder so that he can look Tom in the eye. Tom laughs.
“I really am. Let’s go, arseholes.”
+
Tom spends the night in Harry’s guest room - he’s exhausted by the time he gets there, and it’s not like Harry minds. He’s in the kitchen with a cup of coffee the next morning, texting Ryan, when Harry stumbles down the stairs. Tom wordlessly hands him two aspirin and a cup of water; it must be room temperature by now, from the expression on Harry’s face.
“I lucked out,” Harry says, after he drains the whole glass. “Danny’s going to have to deal with Dougie first thing when he wakes up. I get you, and you give me pills.” He collapses into a chair, and Tom looks up from his phone.
“You definitely made messes of yourselves last night,” Tom says, but there’s a smile in his voice. Drunk is drunk. Not usually a problem unless alcohol poisoning is involved.
“Ah,” Harry says, half-heartedly raising an eyebrow. “But it was worth it. Why do hangovers make me hungry? You’d think it would be the other way around.”
“I have no idea,” Tom says, as he types to Ryan. Harry’s awake, he sends. Brendon and Jon?
“I don’t suppose you’ll cook for me,” Harry says, eyeing Tom from his seat. Tom just gives him a look. “Yeah, thought not.”
Brendon’s still passed out, Ryan replies. Jon’s drinking all the coffee. It’s accompanied by a sad emoticon, and Tom laughs.
“So, you and Ryan, huh?” Harry asks, right as Tom is typing Harry’s set on cooking. Should probably make sure he doesn’t cause fire. He presses send, and looks up.
“Hm?” he says and then processes Harry’s words. “What?”
“Oh, come on,” Harry says, rolling his eyes and grabbing a pan from where it’s hanging over his sink. “Don’t tell me you’re actually that dense.”
“Ryan’s cool,” Tom says. “I like him.”
“Yeah,” Harry replied, “and you’re writing music together.” He manages to sound both sarcastic and genuine at the same time. It’s a Harry thing.
“So? We’re musicians, it’s kind of what we do.” Tom takes a sip from his coffee mug, and leans back against the worktop. Despite what he texted to Ryan, under normal circumstances, Harry’s the best cook out of the four of them. Not that it takes much skill. Harry snorts, and grabs a carton of eggs from the fridge, some cheese and a few tomatoes. Omelette, then, probably.
“Whatever you say, Tom.” Harry slices up the cheese and tomato, before turning to glance at Tom. “You’re so obvious.”
“Am not,” Tom says. “Fuck you.” His phone beeps, then - Ryan again. You coming over later? it says, and Tom looks at Harry. “I am so not.”
“Sure, Tom,” Harry says, and this time he doesn’t even bother to try for genuine. “You having any?”
+
Tom’s warm when he wakes up, and he yawns, stretching his arms over his head. He finds himself curled up on Ryan’s bed, the guitar on the comforter next to him. Ryan’s scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm, leaning back against the headboard with a pen in hand and his notebook on his lap. Tom looks at the clock -it’s 4:54 AM.
“Fuck,” he says, and glances around on the floor for his cons - he can see one peeking out from under the bed, but he can’t spot the other one. “I can’t believe I fell asleep - I should’ve gone home hours ago. I said I’d meet the guys at eleven for breakfast.” There’s a hole in the toe of his right sock, and he still can’t see his other shoe anywhere - could he have taken it off in the living room? He squints down at the floor, and pulls at the hem of his t-shirt, trying to straighten it.
“Just stay here,” Ryan says, voice flat in that way Tom still can’t always get a read on; especially not when he’s just woken up. Maybe that’s why Ryan uses it. “It’s not a big deal, we have to wake up early for recording anyway.”
“I - what?” Tom asks. “You’re serious?” Ryan’s looking at some point in the middle of Tom’s forehead, but he just shrugs.
“Sure, why not?”
“I - uh. Don’t know? I don’t want to be a bother.” Ryan smiles, then, like what he’s said is particularly idiotic.
“You’ve already been sleeping there for almost two hours. If I had a problem with it I’d’ve kicked you out a long time ago.”
Tom yawns again, and stops looking for his shoes.
+
The smell of coffee wakes him again; the clock on the bedside table says 9:28 AM, and Ryan is still sleeping, both hands fisted into the edge of the pillow, bedding pulled up over his shoulders. Tom stretches, and then reaches out to touch Ryan’s shoulder. He’s warm through the fabric of his shirt, and Tom’s not sure why this surprises him. Ryan wrinkles his nose and purses his lips, half-waking at the touch, and Tom laughs softly.
“Ryan,” he says, touching his shoulder again, “I think there’s coffee in the living room.”
“Mmmm?” Ryan says, and opens his eyes, half-lidded. Tom kind of wants to kiss him. “What?”
“Coffee,” Tom says. “Good morning.”
“’Morning,” Ryan says, and smiles, lopsided, in a way Tom’s never seen before. He looks rumpled. Happy. “Wasn’t sure you’d still be around when I woke up.”
“Why not?” Tom asks, but Ryan just shrugs. “As you can see, my life is staggeringly busy.”
“What, you’re here cause there’s nothing else for you to do?” Ryan asks, but he’s still smiling.
“Well,” Tom amends, “Nothing else I’d rather be doing, anyway.” He’s telling the truth, but he’s pretty certain Ryan’s not going to take him seriously.
“Ha,” Ryan says, pushing the covers off and sliding out of the bed. “You said something about coffee?”
+
When Tom finally manages to check his phone, half an hour later, he has two texts from Danny, one from Harry, and a missed call from Dougie.
Danny’s first text says, 25 pubs and counting!!, and the second says, Bren says Ryan likes you a lot dude i don’t see it but whatever. Tom rolls his eyes - Danny’s not a particularly able texter in any case, but his punctuation goes out the window when he’s drunk.
Harry’s just says, Dougie says you’re not home - up to anything we should know about?
Dougie hadn’t left a message, but he rarely ever does, not if the situation isn’t important. Tom sighs, and drains his coffee, setting the empty cup on the side table.
“I should probably be going. I have to be home in an hour.” Ryan is sitting on the couch next to him, close enough that Tom can feel his body heat, and he nods. Tom’s just standing, when Ryan wraps a long-fingered hand around his wrist, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek, quick and soft.
“I’ll see you later?” he asks, biting his bottom lip. His voice is slightly softer than just a minute earlier.
“Yeah,” Tom says, restraining himself from touching his cheek. “Yeah, definitely.”
+
Dougie is the first to arrive to Tom’s house, surprisingly. Tom’s only been in for about ten minutes - he’d had to run to the supermarket to fetch supplies for breakfast.
“You haven’t started cooking yet?” Dougie asks as he enters the kitchen, sitting with the soft thump on one of the bar stools in front of Tom’s worktop.
“Do I ever?” Tom asks, but he’s already cutting up vegetables. “Come lend a hand.”
“Just as long as you don’t expect me to actually cook anything harder than toast,” Dougie says, setting two loaves of bread on the worktop, still in their paper wrappings. He slides off the stool, and hooks his chin over Tom’s shoulder, standing slightly on his tiptoes to be tall enough.
“Toast duty it is, then,” Tom says, and shoves his small pile of onions and tomatoes off of the cutting board. “Where the hell is Dan? You two didn’t come together?”
“Nah, he was at Harry’s for the night. I think Brendon stayed there, too. Where were you?” Dougie asks like he knows something already, and Tom sighs.
“What do you mean?”
“I called, but you didn’t answer, so I swung ‘round. You have big plans, or something?” Tom leans his head to the side so he can nudge Dougie, working on cutting up the cheese.
“I fell asleep at Ryan’s,” he says, and Dougie snickers. He jabs Tom in the side with his elbow, pulling away before Tom can retaliate.
“Harry told me something was up, but I didn’t believe him. Our dear Tom? Never! I thought you weren’t ever going to get laid again in your entire life.” He giggles again, and leans back against the worktop. Tom just shakes his head.
“It’s not like anything happened. I just stayed too late, and fell asleep. No big deal.”
“Sure,” Dougie says, drawing out the vowel, just to show his disbelief. Tom hears the slam of a car door outside in the driveway, signalling the arrival of Danny and Harry.
“None of you are going to leave this alone, are you?” Tom asks Dougie, turning around and putting his hands on his hips.
“Nope,” Dougie says. “You’re pretty much doomed.”
“Great,” Tom says. “Today is going to be fabulous.”
+
Tom kicks them out around 2:30, citing a need for peace and quiet, although the look Dougie shoots him as he leaves tells Tom just how much they actually believe him. You’d think they’d get bored of making fun of him, eventually, but it never seems to happen. Harry and Danny are still laughing as they leave.
He cleans up the kitchen, scrubbing pans and pots, putting cutlery in the dishwasher, and wiping down the worktop and table. After he’s finished, he goes into his music room, and opens up the piano.
He’s not playing anything in particular, and not paying enough attention to the sound to try to identify the piece, but something about playing the piano clears his mind out, wipes it clean. Everything seems so much simpler with his fingers on the keys, pressing lightly, foot tapping the pedal. He scoots the bench a little closer, letting his fingers just trail over the keys, cool against his fingertips. He remembers buying this piano - he’d seen it through the window and known, then, without playing it, that it was going to be his. He’s always had good sense about musical instruments - almost like they choose him, instead of the other way around.
Playing in earnest again, he thinks he can hear the faint notes of She Falls Asleep, before his fingers get restless with the familiar rhythm of it and move on. Half, he knows, he’s never played before and will never write down - he doesn’t mourn this as a loss, just the casualty of a clear head. Guitar, more than piano, turns into something real, songs, melodies, tangible evidence - piano he can play for hours and have nothing come of it. He likes having the choice.
The resistance of the pedal against the ball of his bare foot is more than he’s used to. He’s been playing his stage piano for so long now that he’s out of practice with this one - it’s less sensitive, requires more finger strength, less subtle dynamics. He hums along, absently, and lets his left hand find the rhythm, while his right works out the melody, accompanying harmony.
He’s not sure how long he’s been playing for, but he’s startled out of it when his phone rings, shoved down into the bottom of his jean’s pocket. It’s a text, not a phone call, so he’s not surprised to find that it’s from Ryan.
What’re you playing? the text says, and it takes Tom a moment to get it, that Ryan must be outside his house, listening through the window. He realizes that he’s breathing hard, sweating in the small of his back and the back of his neck, the hollow of his chest. He swipes the back of his arm over his forehead and stands, pulling at the hem of his shirt. There’s no way to make himself presentable, so he just leaves the piano open and goes the front door, feet soft on the hard wood floor.
Ryan’s sitting on the front stoop, elbow propped on one knee, his chin on his hand. He looks up when the door opens, and Tom sees him close his mobile, shoving it into his back pocket.
“I didn’t know you played piano,” he says, by way of greeting, and Tom’s still breathing too fast, his heart thudding in his chest; he’d forgotten how much energy the playing took out of him.
“Yeah, I do,” he says. “Even onstage, sometimes.” He half wants to ask how Ryan got here, how he knows where Tom lives, but he’s pretty sure it would sound rude.
“Brendon would probably be happy to know that,” Ryan says, and then cocks his head to the side. “I asked him to ask Danny for your address. I hope you don’t mind.” The last sentence is almost a question, his voice lifting at the end, just slightly. Tom’s still not entirely used to the flat tone of his voice, but he thinks he might be getting better at interpreting. He does know, however, that Danny is never going to let him live this down, and what Danny knows, Harry and Dougie know as well. Tom will maybe start caring about this later, but right now, Ryan’s sitting on his doorstep like it’s where he wants to be.
“Want to come in?” Tom asks, and pulls the door open the rest of the way. Ryan peers down the hall, staring past Tom’s knees, and then stands. He’s graceful in a gawky sort of way - used to the length and leanness of his limbs, but not sure that anyone else is, yet.
He meets Tom’s eyes, almost defiant, and then grabs his hand. His fingers are dry, callused, his palm warm and slightly sweaty, and Tom lets his other hand fall from the doorknob. Ryan asks,
“Want to come out with me?” Tom can hear the hesitation where he wants to trip over the words, but doesn’t let himself. “Just for coffee, or something.”
“You -” Tom cuts himself off before he can say you mean, like a date?, because he left school a long time ago, and even then the words felt stupid. “Let me - get my shoes.”
He laces his fingers through Ryan’s, and pulls him into the house.
+
“Here,” Tom had said, biting his lip. Panic was grabbing their things from the dressing room, and Ryan had his back to Tom, stuffing his notebook in a bag, jacket still unbuttoned. He glanced over his shoulder, looking down at the scrap of paper in Tom’s hand, before looking back up at Tom’s face, a question in the set of his features.
“What is it?” he asked, reaching out, despite himself, and taking it. His fingers brushed Tom’s, and Tom pretended not to notice.
“My email,” he said, trying on a smile. He had a nice smile, he knew, dimple and all, and he wanted Ryan to like him. “Email me sometime. You guys are in London for a while, right?”
“Yeah,” Ryan said, glancing down at the paper in his fingers, folding it carefully and stuffing it in his pocket.
“Okay. I - sure.”
He smiled back, then, and Tom rocked on his heels. When Spencer tapped Ryan on the inside of his elbow, jerking his head toward the door, Ryan just nodded.
“Bye,” he said, turning back to Tom. “I’ll - I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Bye,” Tom said, and thought, I’m holding you to that. I’m holding you to that.