the picture frames have changed and so has your name
Title: if you want peace, stop fighting.
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Word Count: 6453
Rating: pg
Summary: There is something wholly satisfying about the crunch of Brendon's car tyres over the white limestone driveway. He rolls the windows down and enjoys the feel of the sun beating down. There is not a cloud in the sky and Brendon can hear birdsong from the large, lush trees that pepper the country-side. It is, in a word, picturesque. futurefic. fixing things.
Author's Notes: OH MY GOD. Let me first say, foxxcub I love you to pieces but writing for someone I adore is A BRAINFRYING TASK. But also, Ilyhon, for giving me fifty million extensions every time I sent an email saying, "shit! I need more time." To jocondite, SURPRISE! I'm a shitty liar, but here you go. This is for Monday nights, Tuesday afternoons, and the treasure trove of things on Glebe Point Road. For being my Sydney Uni friend. I also believe this fulfills my end of the Ryan Ross abroad fic bargain. (I'm sneaky like that.) I also owe huge debts of gratitude to sekkritbandomlj softlyforgotten and witheveryspark for not letting me give up on this and kick it to the curb. You are three wonderful ladies, and I am blessed to have you in my life.
There is something wholly satisfying about the crunch of Brendon's car tyres over the white limestone driveway. He rolls the windows down and enjoys the feel of the sun beating down. There is not a cloud in the sky and Brendon can hear birdsong from the large, lush trees that pepper the country-side. It is, in a word, picturesque. Brendon taps his fingers against the steering-wheel of his Smart Car and winds up the driveway, eyes straying to the browned workers, diligently tending rows of grape vines, stretching over the rolling hillsides. It's not the first place he would have chosen for Ryan to disappear to, but when he reaches the house, there's a record playing and Ryan stands in the doorway, waiting in a linen suit.
"Salut." Brendon is barely out of the car, pushing his sunglasses up off his face, scowling because there's no way to get out of a Smart Car and still look graceful and Ryan is speaking fucking French to him. "Bienvenue, Brendon. Ça va?"
Brendon fixes him with a dark look, sagging back against his car. He would be lying if he said he didn't think this would be difficult. "Ryan, no matter where you live, or how you dress, you're American. For god's sake, please. Speak English to me." He sighs, bringing his hand up to the bridge of his nose. He and Ryan haven't really been friends for years, and they've been fighting for longer. He knows it's the reason Spencer and Pete holed up in the hotel at Marseilles, sending Brendon to get the fireworks out of the way early so they can come up after and holiday in the sun.
Ryan saunters down the top few steps smiling, and there's nothing Brendon expects more than for Ryan to continue in French. It's not like he's ever been any good at doing anything for Brendon. But maybe the provençal air has mellowed him out, or maybe it's old age, because Ryan stops at the bottom of the stone staircase, leaving the door open to Brendon.
"I suppose if you've driven all this way." Ryan says lightly, "I guess it couldn't hurt for you to stay at least for a drink or two." He smiles graciously and steps aside, ignoring Brendon's muttered, "Oh good, you're still a dick."
--
Inside, the house is dark but cool, and Brendon's body wilts in relief. France in the summertime sounded like a good idea at the outset, but after hours in a car barely bigger than a can of sardines, Brendon feels more like an overbaked souffle. Hot, dry and sunken in the middle.
"Anne-Sophie and I have made up a room for you," Ryan announces, leaning against a wall, obviously enjoying Brendon's discomfort in the heat. Insolent loafing and easy acclimatisation have always been talents of Ryan's. He pushes himself with casual elegance away from the wall and brushes a few stray hairs off his face, walking deeper into his home. "You don't mind sleeping in the wine cellar, right?"
--
Brendon's room, as it transpires, is not the wine cellar, but a small, whitewashed room on the top floor of Ryan's chateau. It is airy and light, and the smell of lavender puts Brendon immediately at ease, falling back onto the bed.
"It's good to see that your taste has finally evolved past custard-coloured suits," Brendon smiles and kicks out, feeling lighter than he has in days.
Ryan sniffs, dwelling in the doorway like he's scared to get too close to Brendon. "When you don't show up on my doorstep wearing that tatty naked woman shirt that you've had for ten years, then you can say something about my fashion sense."
Brendon can think of a million ways to retort, to get under Ryan's skin or just bring up the rosevest, because that thing will never be allowed to die, but instead he allows them to lapse into silence, watching Ryan with his head bent at an awkward angle.
A long time ago in the heat of an argument, Ryan snapped that he'd run out of things to say to Brendon. It rings true in this moment, lingering awkwardly until the silence gets too much.
"When's Spencer getting here?"
Brendon sits up, blinking before he shrugs. "A few days, maybe a week." He casts his eyes down to his shorts, and then up and out the window. "He needs a little while to come to terms with the fact that we found out you've been living here for three years from a book."
"Brendon," Ryan says like he can't decide if he wants to apologise or refuse to, but Brendon doesn't give him the chance to do either.
"He keeps hoping you're going to turn out to not be a douche, god knows why."
"Oh." Ryan grimaces and turns around. Brendon remains on the bed, idly texting back and forth with Pete and Spencer until he hears the cough and splutter of an unhealthy engine, and gets up to watch Ryan disappear down the driveway in an-of-fucking-course it is-mint green Volkswagen Beetle. It's afternoon and the sun reflects invitingly off the surface of an expansive pool. He shouldn't really venture until he and Ryan have forged some sort of peace agreement, but Brendon is hot and worn, and in need of a little refreshment.
He has no idea if Ryan lives alone, if the Anne-Sophie he mentioned is his girlfriend or his housekeeper, so he pads quietly through the house, keeping an eye out for others, until he reaches the swimming pool.
Shaded by the massive oak trees, the water is cool and invigorating, and Brendon slides in easily, submerging himself and a host of uneasiness under the water.
--
Brendon's not sure how much later it is when he's woken by the rumble of Ryan's car returning from where ever he's been, but when he blinks the sleep out of his eyes and wiggles in the poolside deck chair, he notices something warm and furry has found itself a nice, comfy bed on his chest.
"Napoleon," Ryan calls out, coming around the corner. "Napoleon. Venez ici."
The cat doesn't even stir when Brendon snorts, tilting his head back to look at Ryan. "I don't know what's worse. That you called your cat Napoleon, or that you speak to it in French."
Irritably, Ryan scoops up the cat who yowls and unsheathes it's claws. "It's not my cat," He huffs, setting. "I only tolerate this monster for Anne-Sophie."
"Huh." Girlfriend, then. Brendon conjures up the most beautiful Provençal girl he can think of, with long legs, dark hair, a really amazing rack and a tyrannic cat that Ryan actually tolerates. Napoleon mewls, still relaxing on Brendon's chest. Clearly, life in the south of France is not only picturesque, but good for you.
"There's dinner, if you want some," Ryan's still hanging on the periphery in a dress shirt with the top buttons open. "Anne-Sophie is pretty insistent about when we eat."
"Is she." It comes out as a statement, a tiny little rebellion. Brendon reaches up to idly comb his fingers through Napoleon's tawny-coloured fur and wonders if they'll ever make up, if they'll ever relearn how to treat each other nicely. Spencer's parting words had been, "Go easy, Bden," and it still stung that he wasn't hurt at all. He'd long ago learned how to react to Ryan.
"Her company is worth it," Ryan sighs. "Everyone says. But if you don't want to, that's fine. I'll leave something out for you."
Ryan's making the effort not to be an asshole, and Brendon knows things would be a lot easier if he reciprocated, but there are still lingering traces of bitterness he can't swallow, so instead he thinks, Author Ryan Ross has spent the last three years in Provence where he writes, makes wine, and occasionally also music with American partner Jonathan Walker.
"Thanks," Brendon says as Ryan turns on his heel and disappears into the house.
--
Whatever time the sun rises in Luberon, it's too fucking early, and Brendon wishes that it would implode and take him with it. He rolls over and pulls the pillow over his head, but any attempt at sleep is quashed by the happy nattering of voices from outside, and off-key warbling from within. Female, so not Ryan. Groaning, he swings out of bed and pulls some clothes on, a clean t-shirt and his shorts from the day before. be nice today :) the text on his phone from Pete reads. Brendon scowls, throws his phone on the bed and stomps out of the room. Pre-coffee is not a good time for him.
With a day's worth of knowledge, negotiating the maze of Ryan's stupid illogical chateau to the kitchen is less confusing, leaving Brendon's temper simmering at mild tantrum when he stumbles into the kitchen. It help that it smells strongly of coffee, that sweet, delicious, elixir of life. Brendon inhales greedily, feeling a little closer to human.
"I thought you might like coffee the French way," Ryan sets his newspaper down and gestures to the bench behind him where the French press and a red mug sit. Brendon can't get across the room fast enough. He picks up the bowl sized mug sitting on the counter with both hands, groaning appreciatively.
"God bless you and your pornographically large mugs, Ross." He stares down his mug adoringly. "I am going to fill you with the sweet, sweet juice of life."
Ryan picks up the newspaper again, shaking his head. "Still a sweet talker," he mutters.
Brendon settles himself at the table, choosing not to dignify Ryan with an answer. Ryan says nothing when Brendon moans and groans and practically orgasms over his coffee, and Brendon likewise resists being drawn into conversation as Ryan makes interested noises over his newspaper. Eventually, they sink into silence like it's a competition.
Finally, when Brendon is down to the dregs of his coffee and contemplating another, Ryan says from behind his newspaper,
"Anne-Sophie has invited us to dinner tonight." Sitting down to a meal with Ryan and his girlfriend is the last thing on earth Brendon wants to do. He wants to yell and get it out of the way so Pete and Spencer will man up and come down here, and Brendon and Ryan can go back to existing with people in between them.
Ryan sets his newspaper down, folding it along the creases. "She would really like it if you were there," Ryan says, his tone suggesting that while he does not care one way or another, he will be angry if Brendon upsets his girlfriend. Brendon bitterly tries not to think of the time when Ryan's bros came before his hos.
Standing up with a sigh, Brendon says, "Just name the time and the place." He hooks his finger through the mug handle, drops it in the sink, and leaves, calling over his shoulder, "You know where I am."
--
Avoiding Ryan is hard, especially because Brendon's never been any good at staying indoors. There's only so much lying on his bed and firing off texts to Pete and Spencer he can take before he wants to launch his cell out the window in frustration. The sky is so blue, voices twitter happily in through his window from the vineyard. Fuck, even the breeze ruffles his curtains invitingly and Brendon just has to lie here, texting inanities back and forth just so Ryan doesn't find out he doesn't like Ryan's stupid girlfriend. It's such a joke.
You've never liked his girlfriends so why start now?
Spencer is sometimes beholden to too many truths, too much knowledge, and someday might overdose on "I told you so"s, but right now Brendon loves him so much that he kisses the display screen of his phone in lieu of the real thing and leaves.
--
There are so many people in the vineyard, so many not-Rosses that Brendon can walk amongst and talk to that he feels lighter than he has in days. Kids of Californian wine growers, Mediterranean and Provençal workers, even backpackers talk with him so freely and easily. It's nice to have a conversation about the sunshine, the appeal of Luberon, the appeal of being paid in cash and wine. They share packed lunches with him, and hoist him into the grandiose barrels of grapes, laughing and cheering as he dances, crushing the grapes underfoot. It's an old ritual, not necessary in this new era of sterilised, mechanised presses, but he enjoys it all the same, held aloft by the tangy sweet smell of the grapes underfoot and good cheer.
With stained-red feet and jeans rolled up to his knees, he wanders the property and takes photos with a cheap digital camera. Shane would like the picture of the bird perched on the vines, he thinks as he snaps it, or maybe the one of the sunlight filtering through the oak trees on the crest of the hill. He wanders for hours, some of the pictures aren't even in focus, but that's the beauty of digital cameras he deletes the ones he doesn't like and earmarks others he wants to send to Shane. Walking around through the vineyard, and then the rest of the land, he can see why Ryan settled down in this place. It's peaceful and open and he's only been in Luberon a day, but Brendon feels like he fits here. It's nothing like life was when they were both in California, despite their continuing inability to be friends.
He wanders back to the house as the sun sets, laughing when he can hear a record playing deep in the house, somewhere else Ryan sings along in his funny, flat voice. Brendon joins in when he's far away enough that Ryan can't hear.
--
Brendon has nearly dozed off when Ryan knocks at the door, dressed a little more like the old days, in a pressed, grey three-piece suit, and that old hat with a feather, now looking a little worse for wear. Brendon considers his own outfit, black dresspants and a button-down white shirt, always classic, and shakes his head.
"I guess I shouldn't give up on your custard suit after all," Brendon can't help himself, pushing up off the bed. Ryan pointedly ignores him, looks at his watch, and turns to leave.
"We're running late."
Brendon trips along a few steps behind Ryan almost all the way there-damn Ryan and his coltish, spindly legs-thinking of all the ways the night is going to end as spectacularly as the Titanic. It's not like he's ever enjoyed being the third wheel on Ryan's dates, and it probably says more than they both care to think about their relationship that this is far from the first time that Ryan has dragged him along on a date. It probably says even more about Brendon that he lets Ryan drag him along, all the time thinking about his first apartment and nights they'd share bowls of ramen and his mattress. He was mine before he was yours, he thinks at his pervasive mental image of Anne-Sophie. Not that it matters much, he reflects, traipsing behind Ryan through the vineyard. There's a house on the far side with warm light spilling out onto the porch, and Ryan smiles at the sight of it, happy and unguarded. Maybe this is how he does commitment now, Brendon thinks, two houses on the one property.
Ahead of him, Ryan stops as a small blur speeds across the landscape, throwing itself into his arms.
"Ryannnnnnnn!" The thing-little girl-cries happily, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging tightly. Even in the dim light, Brendon's jaw hangs open. He takes a few halting, stumbly steps closer, reminding Ryan of his presence.
"Brendon," Ryan turns, little girl still in his arms. "This is Anne-Sophie."
After everything they've been through, Brendon doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
--
Coaxed onto the porch by Anne-Sophie, who is dressed inexplicably as a pirate, Ryan's apologetic eyes, and the smell of something truly delicious, Brendon collapses into a large wicker chair and accepts a glass of wine from an old lady with kind eyes. He barely registers a brief fight between Ryan and Anne-Sophie about who should sit next to him until Anne-Sophie climbs, defeated, into Brendon's chair with him with a tattered copy of Vampirates! and announces with no room for argument that Brendon will read to her.
"You know, I kind of regret that we never went through a vampirates stage," Brendon muses quietly, fifteen minutes later when Anne-Sophie is bored with the story and disappears to help her grandmother in the kitchen. "I think I would have rocked fangs and a sword." He thinks of one Halloween, their last Halloween as a band, and smiles. "We almost got there, nearly. With Twilight and all, we could have totally ridden that wave of popularity."
Ryan snorts, reaching across the table for a bottle of rosé. "Aren't you and Spence still popular enough that you can do that sort of thing?"
"We don't really do costumes anymore," Brendon says. What he really means is that they haven't contemplated it since Panic became a two-man band with a reinstated exclamation point. "Besides, you know how Spence feels about costumes." Brendon holds out his wine glass, trying to ignore the wistful smile that passes over Ryan's face, and the correlation it has with the smile that crosses his.
"Yeah, but you used to love making Spence wear them anyway." Ryan sloshes a healthy amount of wine into his glass, then the same in Brendon's. They think about the days when two boys were more obnoxious than one, when Brendon and Ryan would team up to annoy Spencer then laugh while he cussed them out.
Quiet descends over the table for a moment. Brendon takes a sip of wine, then falls back in his chair. "People grow up, things change. You of all people should know that." Brendon stopped blaming Ryan for the break-up years ago, but there is something about being here that makes everything new and freshly bitter.
Ryan stares at Brendon-or through him, Brendon can't quite tell anymore-blankly, like he's trying to see inside Brendon's head. Brendon takes a bigger mouthful of rosé this time and shifts under Ryan's hard look. Anne-Sophie's excited babble bounces around the house as she follows the progress of her grandmother, until she bursts out onto the porch, clutching a different book.
"Monsieur Brendon, Monsieur!" She doesn't wait before climbing back up into the chair with Brendon, unknowingly breaking the tense atmosphere. She places the book in his hands and smiles. "I have new book."
Brendon laughs when he sees it, a child's book with a plain, white cover and a prince standing in the centre. "Prince Rose, by Ryan Ross," he reads aloud, eyes sparkling with mirth as he holds the book out for Ryan to see, his likeness standing on the cover in a vest of roses, holding a sword aloft. "You wrote a children's book?"
Flushing red, Ryan ducks his head and mutters, "Shut up and read it, will you?"
Brendon laughs louder, opening the book. "Don't worry Ross, I'll stroke your ego. Prince Rose by Ryan Ross," he reads again, unsurprised when he launches into the story and Anne-Sophie reads it right along with him. Ryan grumbles and mutters darkly until dinner is served and Anne-Sophie's grandmother joins them with more wine and a bevy of delicious dishes. Before Brendon realises, the entire meal has passed in a blur of happy chatter, directed largely by the tiniest pirate in a mixture of French and broken English.
--
"Her parents died," Ryan says as soon as they're out of earshot of the house, candid and warm thanks to a bottle of red or three shared over dinner. "They used to live in the chateau before I did, but after the accident, Aline, her grandmother, couldn't bear to stay there any longer, and moved them to the vigneron's cottage. I got the house for a song because no one else could take a crying five year-old turning up on the doorstep occasionally."
It's the most Ryan has said to him in one go since Brendon got here. "You hate kids."
Ryan shrugs. "In case you noticed, she's not your average kid."
Brendon thinks back to dinner and the serious-faced pirate girl who grilled him about his reasons for coming to visit Ryan.
"Yeah," he says on the exhale, slumping forward with weariness. "No kidding."
--
Even drunk, Brendon is fairly sure that Ryan's room is not in the same part of the house as his or even on the same floor, so he isn't quite sure why Ryan hovers behind him, humming and stumbling every few steps.
"You suck at holding your liquor, Ross," Brendon announces gleefully, thinking of the two or three empty bottles of red left on Aline's table and how he is in full possession of his faculties, barely even slurring his words.
"Mmmnnhmmn," Ryan replies, voice muffled as he falls forward and presses his face into Brendon's shoulder. Ryan stays there, warm and heavier than Brendon remembers, as they stumble into Brendon's bedroom.
"Mmmnnhmmn," Ryan repeats, objecting to being moved. He snakes his hands around Brendon's waist.
"Whoa," Brendon looks down, eyes wide. "Getting personal, Ross?" Ryan grunts something Brendon isn't sure is English. He has no idea what's come over Ryan, but it has to be more than a peace treaty forged because they're both suckers for small, French orphans. "Come on." He has to resist yelping when Ryan's hands slide lower. "No, hey! You'll definitely regret that when you're sober."
"Don't care," Ryan mumbles.
Brendon wonders at what point in the evening he ever issued an invitation for sex, fuck, he wonders at what point over the past ten years he's ever given any indication he felt anything other than resignation and eventual disappointment when their friendship fell apart.
Ryan's hands slip under Brendon's t-shirt. "No, shit! Ryan!" Brendon leaps across the room, frowning at Ryan. "I am not here to amuse you just because you're drunk and horny."
Pressing his lips into a firm line, Ryan focuses a glare on Brendon, standing awkwardly, unhappily across the other side of the room. He sighs heavily, then swipes at one eye with the heel of his hand. "But I'm too drunk to get back downstairs."
Brendon wants to laugh. He doesn't even know how he got caught up in this fucking ridiculous soap opera. "Fine." He stomps to the bed, picks up a pillow, and throws it at Ryan. "But I'm your fucking guest, so you can sleep on the floor."
The night is warm enough that Brendon settles Ryan with just a pillow and a sheet, but it's also warm enough to keep Brendon awake, lying on top of the covers, listening to the buzz of nighttime insects and Ryan's snoring, wondering why on earth he doesn't just get out of bed, tiptoe to the door, and drive back to Marseilles, evil Smart Car be damned.
--
When Brendon finally surfaces the next morning, he has angry pillow creases cutting into his left cheek and arm, is covered with a thin sheen of sweat, and the sun is high in the sky. The floor is thankfully Ryan-free, and Brendon stares at the pillow and crumpled up sheet lying there for a moment, praying that Ryan doesn't remember. Not that Brendon has any idea how he is going to avoid the awkwardness that will spring from last night.
Avoidance is clearly the way to go. A bath kills another hour, and Brendon spends it hiding in the deep, luxurious, claw footed tub, thinking of all the excuses he can come up with to avoid talking to Ryan. He slides deeper into the water, closing his eyes to the daylight as he goes under. Everything is simpler underwater, reduced to the thud of his heartbeat in his ears, the burning of his lungs as he fights to hold his breath just a moment longer.
Thud. Thud. Brendon's eyes open under the water before he has to a chance to surface, gasping when he does like a sea monster, snatched from its watery home. He shakes his head, dislodging water from his ears, coughing and spluttering. It's now that he notices Ryan, perched on the vanity laughing-ostensibly-at him.
"Dude!" is the first thought that crosses his mind, sitting bolt upright in the bath. "A little privacy, please?"
Ryan shrugs, kicking his heels against the wooden door of the vanity. "It's nothing I haven't seen before." Which, fine. Brendon's not going to deny that, but it doesn't make it any more okay now, twelve years and a lot more maturation later.
"That does not mean you have an access all areas pass to activities involving my dick."
Ryan smirks, and sitting there in an old, black t-shirt and jeans with his hair falling into his eyes it is so much like their teenage years that Brendon blinks and reminds himself he's an adult now. "I just came to be nice and invite you to lunch or whatever. I can't be fucked to make anything myself, so I figured we'd drive into town."
"And you couldn't ask that through the door?"
Another shrug, and Ryan pushes himself off the counter and smiles. "That's just not how I roll."
--
Ryan's mint green Beetle is barely any better than the Smart Car of doom, but at least it has leg room and a CD player, even if they can't really hear the music over the car's rattle and clank. Grinding too, whenever Ryan tries to change gears.
It makes it impossible for them to have a conversation, but things suit Brendon better that way. He rests his head against the glass and takes in the scenery, olive-green, rolling hills, covered in grape vines. He smiles, ever the human jukebox, and sings "Heard It Through the Grapevine" softly, practically unheard through the rattle of the car. When he looks up again, Ryan is smiling, watching Brendon more than the road.
"I missed that about you," he says when they idle at a farm gate, waiting for a flock of geese to get off the road. A plump lady in a black dress and purple pinafore waves to them once her geese are safe, and Brendon smiles tightly, watching her progress up the hill.
He doesn't say how unfair Ryan is being, or how he was the one to walk away from the friendship. They lurch into motion again and Brendon waits for the roar of the engine before he sighs, the sound hidden underneath the noise.
--
By the time they reach the town, the grey clouds blanketing the sky open up and unleash an unholy downpour that pins Brendon and Ryan under the awning of a mostly-empty café, decorated with copious amounts of pink and lace. Brendon's eyes feel violated even before he notices the series of portraits of kittens dressed in bonnets and ensconced in cradles on the far wall. Despite Ryan's proclamations of disbelief behind him, they're both drawn forward by the warm, slightly sour smell of baked bread.
A middle-aged lady smiles at them as they reach the counter, but Ryan steps in front of Brendon, ordering for him in French, confidence infused in his tone. It grates on Brendon's nerves, so instead he turns and finds a table by the window where he watches the rain beat down on the street. He hums with the song drifting through the speakers and watches a woman dash across the street, protected from the rain by a soggy copy of Le Monde. Ryan slides into the seat opposite him and spreads his hands on the table.
"I spoke to Spencer this morning," he says casually, glancing out the window then back, resting his eyes somewhere behind Brendon's left ear. "He says if everything goes to plan, he should be down here in the next day or so." A smile makes his face warmer-more happiness than Brendon has probably elicited from him in years-and Brendon shifts uncomfortably. He slides his hands under his thighs to try and keep still.
"Pete too."
Ryan nods, and Brendon isn't surprised he knew. The intricacies of Pete and Ryan's friendship have escaped Brendon for years. "And Spencer's wife?"
Brendon half-laughs, loud and abrasive. He looks over to the pictures of kittens and isn't surprised to see Jon's signature in the bottom corner. "She's not your biggest fan."
"No," Ryan sighs. "But that's okay. She's good for him."
"Not that you'd know," Brendon says carelessly, words sliding out before he can stop them.
Ryan rubs his hand over his face. He and Brendon are both in their mid-thirties, Brendon feels older than that. They smile blankly when the waitress slides the food on the table between them, waiting until she retreats from the table to continue the conversation.
"The thing is," Ryan starts quietly, folding his hands together. "You keep expecting me to treat you like a friend when you've spent years making it crystal clear that we aren't."
Brendon leans forward, angry. "I'm not the one who-"
"I know there's a list as long as my arm of things you don't like about me," Ryan says calmly, halting Brendon's outrage. "So fucking what. There are a lot of things I don't-or never did-like about you either."
"The difference being I never wanted to end our friendship because of them!" Brendon explodes, loud enough in the empty café that the staff frown at him from behind the counter. He doesn't care, lifting his chin defiantly.
"I can't believe you've been holding onto this for this long," Ryan shakes his head. "Fuck, Brendon. We haven't been friends longer than we ever were."
There's a moment of silence as the CD shuffles from one to the next and Brendon ducks his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. This cutesy, pink tourist trap is not where he wants to do this.
"I spent so much time hating you," he starts, ignoring when Ryan scoffs and opens his mouth to object. "You pretty much singled me out. Spencer is your best friend and you know, with Jon. You chose him. And he still emails me on my birthday and calls me from time to time. Even though he's yours or whatever. You were the only one to act like you were too good for me."
Ryan sits opposite him, staring blankly. "We had different tastes in music. It wasn't about what was better or whatever. Everyone came to terms with this years ago. I don't know why you still care."
Brendon takes a deep breath in and pushes himself back from the table. "Yeah," he exhales and stands up. "I'm going to go. Go-go, like," he chucks his thumb over his shoulder, grimacing. "Back to L.A. Spencer will be here this afternoon, so. You can, uh. If you want, you can have his fifth wedding anniversary party if you're back in the States for it. I really would like to have Bronx's thirteenth birthday, but um. If there are any other big events you want, just let Spence or whoever know. He can sort something out."
Brendon turns around, crosses towards the door when Ryan says, "We're not having joint custody of our friends, Urie. That's the dumbest fucking idea you've ever had."
Closing his eyes, Brendon takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. This way things will be easier. He knows Ryan knows this. He's just arguing to be contrary.
--
Brendon makes it to the other side of town, standing saturated and arguing with the man behind the counter at the post office when Ryan catches up with him. He pushes the door open and Brendon turns away from the man, irritated, hugging his arms around himself for protection moreso than warmth.
"We're done, I get it. You didn't need to follow me across town to rub it in."
Ryan rolls his eyes, stepping out of the way for a harried, wet business man. He jingles his car keys nervously in one hand. "My apologies don't mean shit," he says. "And I don't want to apologise, because you're the one who came to me. And your last album sounded like the sort of music we should have been playing all along."
The doorbell clangs and Ryan steps closer to Brendon. Customers come and go, tactfully ignoring the scene unfolding in front of them. Brendon thinks about pushing Ryan's buttons, saying things he doesn't really mean, but he has flashes of the last time that happened-angry kisses and pressing fingers-and shakes his head.
"You don't get it, Ross. Fuck. Spencer and I didn't want to play that music all along. We wanted to play the music that we did, whether you liked it or not. This isn't a big fuck you, or a chance for you to say you were right all along. It's just the album we made because it's how we feel right now."
Ryan furrows his brow, silent and frowning. Brendon wonders if any of what he's said actually sunk into Ryan's head, or maybe they're having two completely different conversations. "Let me drive you back, at least," Ryan says finally. "We don't have cabs here, anyway."
Well, fuck. Brendon thinks, and has no choice but to follow.
--
Brendon bristles during the whole car-ride, impatiently jostling his leg up and down. There's nothing more he wants to say to Ryan; he wants to get the fuck out of here and forget that he ever planned this trip in a spontaneous fit of self-righteousness and hope. For once, Ryan says nothing, fingers tight around the steering wheel of his car. It feels oddly like it used to when they were fighting years ago, but this time without escape. They turn down a road, heading away from the town. Silently, Brendon thinks hurry up, hurry up, go faster. Ancient car aside, Ryan's not the greatest driver at the best of times, but right now Brendon can't handle trundling down one road, speeding like a demon up the next. Ryan's foot hovers over the accelerator until they turn a corner, and the scenery in front of them opens up, an ancient, grey building framed by fields of lavender. Even in the rain it looks beautiful, but Brendon wants to get back, to get out, not take the time to travel the scenic route. Ryan slows to what seems like five miles an hour, eyes on the field, instead of the road.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Brendon mutters under his breath, crossing his arms over his chest. Ryan slams his foot on the break, growling.
"For fuck's sake you!" Ryan snaps, as the car jerks to a stop. Rain hammers down on the roof, loud and heavy as they stare at each other, a million things going on between them at once.
"What the fuck do you actually want from me?" Ryan demands, curling his hands into fists. "Because I've thought about it. I fucking have. I don't owe you anything, Brendon. I haven't for years and years. Shit. I've had whole years go by where I've barely thought about you at all, but yet you turn up here like I walked out on you a week ago. You're just too goddamn much."
Brendon can't look at him, hot from anger and the small car. He doesn't know what to say, so instead he throws the car door open and yanks his seatbelt off. Fuck it. He can walk the rest of the way. It can't be more than a couple of miles, and in the June warmth, he's not likely to catch cold. Even if he were, anything has to be better than being here, listening to Ryan.
"What are you doing?" Ryan calls out in surprise, and when Brendon turns around, he's surprised by the calm he feels. Wet before he's gotten even ten feet from the car, Brendon wipes his hair where it has already started to stick to his face. "Brendon," Ryan calls again, trailing behind him. This whole thing is so ridiculous and he knows it. It's such a farce he laughs, forgetting himself even when Ryan catches up.
"I was in love with you when I was seventeen," Brendon says and feels his chest lighten, as if that secret piece of information has been crushing him for years.
"I was in love with you when I was twenty," Ryan counters, and Brendon isn't surprised, he knew all along, just like Ryan. "I was in love with you when I heard your last record."
Brendon doesn't know how to respond to that; it's too fresh to think about. He shifts uncomfortably, water seeping in through the canvas of his sneakers. When he steps backwards, the ground squelches.
"I'm not now," he says, mustering conviction. "I wrote that album for a girl."
Ryan's face is unreadable till the moment he laughs, and even then Brendon isn't quite sure what it means.
"It's okay," Ryan shakes his head, droplets of water flying everywhere. "I don't know if I even remember how to be friends with you."
"Assuming it would work," Brendon takes a deep, nervous breath, on the verge of trusting Ryan. "Flattery, coffee, bribery, music, and if all else fails, maybe a clean, dry set of clothes."
Ryan rolls his eyes, smiling at memories or perhaps at something else. "Is this where I make joke about you wanting to get into my pants?"
"Not yet," Brendon answers honestly, treading carefully through the long grass back to the car. "But maybe. Someday. If you're lucky."
Ryan snorts and rolls his eyes, climbing into the driver's seat. Brendon follows, and they both sit there for a minute, taking in the scent of the fresh air and lavender. When Ryan turns the key to the ignition, Brendon takes a deep breath in.
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Word Count: 6453
Rating: pg
Summary: There is something wholly satisfying about the crunch of Brendon's car tyres over the white limestone driveway. He rolls the windows down and enjoys the feel of the sun beating down. There is not a cloud in the sky and Brendon can hear birdsong from the large, lush trees that pepper the country-side. It is, in a word, picturesque. futurefic. fixing things.
Author's Notes: OH MY GOD. Let me first say, foxxcub I love you to pieces but writing for someone I adore is A BRAINFRYING TASK. But also, Ilyhon, for giving me fifty million extensions every time I sent an email saying, "shit! I need more time." To jocondite, SURPRISE! I'm a shitty liar, but here you go. This is for Monday nights, Tuesday afternoons, and the treasure trove of things on Glebe Point Road. For being my Sydney Uni friend. I also believe this fulfills my end of the Ryan Ross abroad fic bargain. (I'm sneaky like that.) I also owe huge debts of gratitude to sekkritbandomlj softlyforgotten and witheveryspark for not letting me give up on this and kick it to the curb. You are three wonderful ladies, and I am blessed to have you in my life.
There is something wholly satisfying about the crunch of Brendon's car tyres over the white limestone driveway. He rolls the windows down and enjoys the feel of the sun beating down. There is not a cloud in the sky and Brendon can hear birdsong from the large, lush trees that pepper the country-side. It is, in a word, picturesque. Brendon taps his fingers against the steering-wheel of his Smart Car and winds up the driveway, eyes straying to the browned workers, diligently tending rows of grape vines, stretching over the rolling hillsides. It's not the first place he would have chosen for Ryan to disappear to, but when he reaches the house, there's a record playing and Ryan stands in the doorway, waiting in a linen suit.
"Salut." Brendon is barely out of the car, pushing his sunglasses up off his face, scowling because there's no way to get out of a Smart Car and still look graceful and Ryan is speaking fucking French to him. "Bienvenue, Brendon. Ça va?"
Brendon fixes him with a dark look, sagging back against his car. He would be lying if he said he didn't think this would be difficult. "Ryan, no matter where you live, or how you dress, you're American. For god's sake, please. Speak English to me." He sighs, bringing his hand up to the bridge of his nose. He and Ryan haven't really been friends for years, and they've been fighting for longer. He knows it's the reason Spencer and Pete holed up in the hotel at Marseilles, sending Brendon to get the fireworks out of the way early so they can come up after and holiday in the sun.
Ryan saunters down the top few steps smiling, and there's nothing Brendon expects more than for Ryan to continue in French. It's not like he's ever been any good at doing anything for Brendon. But maybe the provençal air has mellowed him out, or maybe it's old age, because Ryan stops at the bottom of the stone staircase, leaving the door open to Brendon.
"I suppose if you've driven all this way." Ryan says lightly, "I guess it couldn't hurt for you to stay at least for a drink or two." He smiles graciously and steps aside, ignoring Brendon's muttered, "Oh good, you're still a dick."
--
Inside, the house is dark but cool, and Brendon's body wilts in relief. France in the summertime sounded like a good idea at the outset, but after hours in a car barely bigger than a can of sardines, Brendon feels more like an overbaked souffle. Hot, dry and sunken in the middle.
"Anne-Sophie and I have made up a room for you," Ryan announces, leaning against a wall, obviously enjoying Brendon's discomfort in the heat. Insolent loafing and easy acclimatisation have always been talents of Ryan's. He pushes himself with casual elegance away from the wall and brushes a few stray hairs off his face, walking deeper into his home. "You don't mind sleeping in the wine cellar, right?"
--
Brendon's room, as it transpires, is not the wine cellar, but a small, whitewashed room on the top floor of Ryan's chateau. It is airy and light, and the smell of lavender puts Brendon immediately at ease, falling back onto the bed.
"It's good to see that your taste has finally evolved past custard-coloured suits," Brendon smiles and kicks out, feeling lighter than he has in days.
Ryan sniffs, dwelling in the doorway like he's scared to get too close to Brendon. "When you don't show up on my doorstep wearing that tatty naked woman shirt that you've had for ten years, then you can say something about my fashion sense."
Brendon can think of a million ways to retort, to get under Ryan's skin or just bring up the rosevest, because that thing will never be allowed to die, but instead he allows them to lapse into silence, watching Ryan with his head bent at an awkward angle.
A long time ago in the heat of an argument, Ryan snapped that he'd run out of things to say to Brendon. It rings true in this moment, lingering awkwardly until the silence gets too much.
"When's Spencer getting here?"
Brendon sits up, blinking before he shrugs. "A few days, maybe a week." He casts his eyes down to his shorts, and then up and out the window. "He needs a little while to come to terms with the fact that we found out you've been living here for three years from a book."
"Brendon," Ryan says like he can't decide if he wants to apologise or refuse to, but Brendon doesn't give him the chance to do either.
"He keeps hoping you're going to turn out to not be a douche, god knows why."
"Oh." Ryan grimaces and turns around. Brendon remains on the bed, idly texting back and forth with Pete and Spencer until he hears the cough and splutter of an unhealthy engine, and gets up to watch Ryan disappear down the driveway in an-of-fucking-course it is-mint green Volkswagen Beetle. It's afternoon and the sun reflects invitingly off the surface of an expansive pool. He shouldn't really venture until he and Ryan have forged some sort of peace agreement, but Brendon is hot and worn, and in need of a little refreshment.
He has no idea if Ryan lives alone, if the Anne-Sophie he mentioned is his girlfriend or his housekeeper, so he pads quietly through the house, keeping an eye out for others, until he reaches the swimming pool.
Shaded by the massive oak trees, the water is cool and invigorating, and Brendon slides in easily, submerging himself and a host of uneasiness under the water.
--
Brendon's not sure how much later it is when he's woken by the rumble of Ryan's car returning from where ever he's been, but when he blinks the sleep out of his eyes and wiggles in the poolside deck chair, he notices something warm and furry has found itself a nice, comfy bed on his chest.
"Napoleon," Ryan calls out, coming around the corner. "Napoleon. Venez ici."
The cat doesn't even stir when Brendon snorts, tilting his head back to look at Ryan. "I don't know what's worse. That you called your cat Napoleon, or that you speak to it in French."
Irritably, Ryan scoops up the cat who yowls and unsheathes it's claws. "It's not my cat," He huffs, setting. "I only tolerate this monster for Anne-Sophie."
"Huh." Girlfriend, then. Brendon conjures up the most beautiful Provençal girl he can think of, with long legs, dark hair, a really amazing rack and a tyrannic cat that Ryan actually tolerates. Napoleon mewls, still relaxing on Brendon's chest. Clearly, life in the south of France is not only picturesque, but good for you.
"There's dinner, if you want some," Ryan's still hanging on the periphery in a dress shirt with the top buttons open. "Anne-Sophie is pretty insistent about when we eat."
"Is she." It comes out as a statement, a tiny little rebellion. Brendon reaches up to idly comb his fingers through Napoleon's tawny-coloured fur and wonders if they'll ever make up, if they'll ever relearn how to treat each other nicely. Spencer's parting words had been, "Go easy, Bden," and it still stung that he wasn't hurt at all. He'd long ago learned how to react to Ryan.
"Her company is worth it," Ryan sighs. "Everyone says. But if you don't want to, that's fine. I'll leave something out for you."
Ryan's making the effort not to be an asshole, and Brendon knows things would be a lot easier if he reciprocated, but there are still lingering traces of bitterness he can't swallow, so instead he thinks, Author Ryan Ross has spent the last three years in Provence where he writes, makes wine, and occasionally also music with American partner Jonathan Walker.
"Thanks," Brendon says as Ryan turns on his heel and disappears into the house.
--
Whatever time the sun rises in Luberon, it's too fucking early, and Brendon wishes that it would implode and take him with it. He rolls over and pulls the pillow over his head, but any attempt at sleep is quashed by the happy nattering of voices from outside, and off-key warbling from within. Female, so not Ryan. Groaning, he swings out of bed and pulls some clothes on, a clean t-shirt and his shorts from the day before. be nice today :) the text on his phone from Pete reads. Brendon scowls, throws his phone on the bed and stomps out of the room. Pre-coffee is not a good time for him.
With a day's worth of knowledge, negotiating the maze of Ryan's stupid illogical chateau to the kitchen is less confusing, leaving Brendon's temper simmering at mild tantrum when he stumbles into the kitchen. It help that it smells strongly of coffee, that sweet, delicious, elixir of life. Brendon inhales greedily, feeling a little closer to human.
"I thought you might like coffee the French way," Ryan sets his newspaper down and gestures to the bench behind him where the French press and a red mug sit. Brendon can't get across the room fast enough. He picks up the bowl sized mug sitting on the counter with both hands, groaning appreciatively.
"God bless you and your pornographically large mugs, Ross." He stares down his mug adoringly. "I am going to fill you with the sweet, sweet juice of life."
Ryan picks up the newspaper again, shaking his head. "Still a sweet talker," he mutters.
Brendon settles himself at the table, choosing not to dignify Ryan with an answer. Ryan says nothing when Brendon moans and groans and practically orgasms over his coffee, and Brendon likewise resists being drawn into conversation as Ryan makes interested noises over his newspaper. Eventually, they sink into silence like it's a competition.
Finally, when Brendon is down to the dregs of his coffee and contemplating another, Ryan says from behind his newspaper,
"Anne-Sophie has invited us to dinner tonight." Sitting down to a meal with Ryan and his girlfriend is the last thing on earth Brendon wants to do. He wants to yell and get it out of the way so Pete and Spencer will man up and come down here, and Brendon and Ryan can go back to existing with people in between them.
Ryan sets his newspaper down, folding it along the creases. "She would really like it if you were there," Ryan says, his tone suggesting that while he does not care one way or another, he will be angry if Brendon upsets his girlfriend. Brendon bitterly tries not to think of the time when Ryan's bros came before his hos.
Standing up with a sigh, Brendon says, "Just name the time and the place." He hooks his finger through the mug handle, drops it in the sink, and leaves, calling over his shoulder, "You know where I am."
--
Avoiding Ryan is hard, especially because Brendon's never been any good at staying indoors. There's only so much lying on his bed and firing off texts to Pete and Spencer he can take before he wants to launch his cell out the window in frustration. The sky is so blue, voices twitter happily in through his window from the vineyard. Fuck, even the breeze ruffles his curtains invitingly and Brendon just has to lie here, texting inanities back and forth just so Ryan doesn't find out he doesn't like Ryan's stupid girlfriend. It's such a joke.
You've never liked his girlfriends so why start now?
Spencer is sometimes beholden to too many truths, too much knowledge, and someday might overdose on "I told you so"s, but right now Brendon loves him so much that he kisses the display screen of his phone in lieu of the real thing and leaves.
--
There are so many people in the vineyard, so many not-Rosses that Brendon can walk amongst and talk to that he feels lighter than he has in days. Kids of Californian wine growers, Mediterranean and Provençal workers, even backpackers talk with him so freely and easily. It's nice to have a conversation about the sunshine, the appeal of Luberon, the appeal of being paid in cash and wine. They share packed lunches with him, and hoist him into the grandiose barrels of grapes, laughing and cheering as he dances, crushing the grapes underfoot. It's an old ritual, not necessary in this new era of sterilised, mechanised presses, but he enjoys it all the same, held aloft by the tangy sweet smell of the grapes underfoot and good cheer.
With stained-red feet and jeans rolled up to his knees, he wanders the property and takes photos with a cheap digital camera. Shane would like the picture of the bird perched on the vines, he thinks as he snaps it, or maybe the one of the sunlight filtering through the oak trees on the crest of the hill. He wanders for hours, some of the pictures aren't even in focus, but that's the beauty of digital cameras he deletes the ones he doesn't like and earmarks others he wants to send to Shane. Walking around through the vineyard, and then the rest of the land, he can see why Ryan settled down in this place. It's peaceful and open and he's only been in Luberon a day, but Brendon feels like he fits here. It's nothing like life was when they were both in California, despite their continuing inability to be friends.
He wanders back to the house as the sun sets, laughing when he can hear a record playing deep in the house, somewhere else Ryan sings along in his funny, flat voice. Brendon joins in when he's far away enough that Ryan can't hear.
--
Brendon has nearly dozed off when Ryan knocks at the door, dressed a little more like the old days, in a pressed, grey three-piece suit, and that old hat with a feather, now looking a little worse for wear. Brendon considers his own outfit, black dresspants and a button-down white shirt, always classic, and shakes his head.
"I guess I shouldn't give up on your custard suit after all," Brendon can't help himself, pushing up off the bed. Ryan pointedly ignores him, looks at his watch, and turns to leave.
"We're running late."
Brendon trips along a few steps behind Ryan almost all the way there-damn Ryan and his coltish, spindly legs-thinking of all the ways the night is going to end as spectacularly as the Titanic. It's not like he's ever enjoyed being the third wheel on Ryan's dates, and it probably says more than they both care to think about their relationship that this is far from the first time that Ryan has dragged him along on a date. It probably says even more about Brendon that he lets Ryan drag him along, all the time thinking about his first apartment and nights they'd share bowls of ramen and his mattress. He was mine before he was yours, he thinks at his pervasive mental image of Anne-Sophie. Not that it matters much, he reflects, traipsing behind Ryan through the vineyard. There's a house on the far side with warm light spilling out onto the porch, and Ryan smiles at the sight of it, happy and unguarded. Maybe this is how he does commitment now, Brendon thinks, two houses on the one property.
Ahead of him, Ryan stops as a small blur speeds across the landscape, throwing itself into his arms.
"Ryannnnnnnn!" The thing-little girl-cries happily, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging tightly. Even in the dim light, Brendon's jaw hangs open. He takes a few halting, stumbly steps closer, reminding Ryan of his presence.
"Brendon," Ryan turns, little girl still in his arms. "This is Anne-Sophie."
After everything they've been through, Brendon doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
--
Coaxed onto the porch by Anne-Sophie, who is dressed inexplicably as a pirate, Ryan's apologetic eyes, and the smell of something truly delicious, Brendon collapses into a large wicker chair and accepts a glass of wine from an old lady with kind eyes. He barely registers a brief fight between Ryan and Anne-Sophie about who should sit next to him until Anne-Sophie climbs, defeated, into Brendon's chair with him with a tattered copy of Vampirates! and announces with no room for argument that Brendon will read to her.
"You know, I kind of regret that we never went through a vampirates stage," Brendon muses quietly, fifteen minutes later when Anne-Sophie is bored with the story and disappears to help her grandmother in the kitchen. "I think I would have rocked fangs and a sword." He thinks of one Halloween, their last Halloween as a band, and smiles. "We almost got there, nearly. With Twilight and all, we could have totally ridden that wave of popularity."
Ryan snorts, reaching across the table for a bottle of rosé. "Aren't you and Spence still popular enough that you can do that sort of thing?"
"We don't really do costumes anymore," Brendon says. What he really means is that they haven't contemplated it since Panic became a two-man band with a reinstated exclamation point. "Besides, you know how Spence feels about costumes." Brendon holds out his wine glass, trying to ignore the wistful smile that passes over Ryan's face, and the correlation it has with the smile that crosses his.
"Yeah, but you used to love making Spence wear them anyway." Ryan sloshes a healthy amount of wine into his glass, then the same in Brendon's. They think about the days when two boys were more obnoxious than one, when Brendon and Ryan would team up to annoy Spencer then laugh while he cussed them out.
Quiet descends over the table for a moment. Brendon takes a sip of wine, then falls back in his chair. "People grow up, things change. You of all people should know that." Brendon stopped blaming Ryan for the break-up years ago, but there is something about being here that makes everything new and freshly bitter.
Ryan stares at Brendon-or through him, Brendon can't quite tell anymore-blankly, like he's trying to see inside Brendon's head. Brendon takes a bigger mouthful of rosé this time and shifts under Ryan's hard look. Anne-Sophie's excited babble bounces around the house as she follows the progress of her grandmother, until she bursts out onto the porch, clutching a different book.
"Monsieur Brendon, Monsieur!" She doesn't wait before climbing back up into the chair with Brendon, unknowingly breaking the tense atmosphere. She places the book in his hands and smiles. "I have new book."
Brendon laughs when he sees it, a child's book with a plain, white cover and a prince standing in the centre. "Prince Rose, by Ryan Ross," he reads aloud, eyes sparkling with mirth as he holds the book out for Ryan to see, his likeness standing on the cover in a vest of roses, holding a sword aloft. "You wrote a children's book?"
Flushing red, Ryan ducks his head and mutters, "Shut up and read it, will you?"
Brendon laughs louder, opening the book. "Don't worry Ross, I'll stroke your ego. Prince Rose by Ryan Ross," he reads again, unsurprised when he launches into the story and Anne-Sophie reads it right along with him. Ryan grumbles and mutters darkly until dinner is served and Anne-Sophie's grandmother joins them with more wine and a bevy of delicious dishes. Before Brendon realises, the entire meal has passed in a blur of happy chatter, directed largely by the tiniest pirate in a mixture of French and broken English.
--
"Her parents died," Ryan says as soon as they're out of earshot of the house, candid and warm thanks to a bottle of red or three shared over dinner. "They used to live in the chateau before I did, but after the accident, Aline, her grandmother, couldn't bear to stay there any longer, and moved them to the vigneron's cottage. I got the house for a song because no one else could take a crying five year-old turning up on the doorstep occasionally."
It's the most Ryan has said to him in one go since Brendon got here. "You hate kids."
Ryan shrugs. "In case you noticed, she's not your average kid."
Brendon thinks back to dinner and the serious-faced pirate girl who grilled him about his reasons for coming to visit Ryan.
"Yeah," he says on the exhale, slumping forward with weariness. "No kidding."
--
Even drunk, Brendon is fairly sure that Ryan's room is not in the same part of the house as his or even on the same floor, so he isn't quite sure why Ryan hovers behind him, humming and stumbling every few steps.
"You suck at holding your liquor, Ross," Brendon announces gleefully, thinking of the two or three empty bottles of red left on Aline's table and how he is in full possession of his faculties, barely even slurring his words.
"Mmmnnhmmn," Ryan replies, voice muffled as he falls forward and presses his face into Brendon's shoulder. Ryan stays there, warm and heavier than Brendon remembers, as they stumble into Brendon's bedroom.
"Mmmnnhmmn," Ryan repeats, objecting to being moved. He snakes his hands around Brendon's waist.
"Whoa," Brendon looks down, eyes wide. "Getting personal, Ross?" Ryan grunts something Brendon isn't sure is English. He has no idea what's come over Ryan, but it has to be more than a peace treaty forged because they're both suckers for small, French orphans. "Come on." He has to resist yelping when Ryan's hands slide lower. "No, hey! You'll definitely regret that when you're sober."
"Don't care," Ryan mumbles.
Brendon wonders at what point in the evening he ever issued an invitation for sex, fuck, he wonders at what point over the past ten years he's ever given any indication he felt anything other than resignation and eventual disappointment when their friendship fell apart.
Ryan's hands slip under Brendon's t-shirt. "No, shit! Ryan!" Brendon leaps across the room, frowning at Ryan. "I am not here to amuse you just because you're drunk and horny."
Pressing his lips into a firm line, Ryan focuses a glare on Brendon, standing awkwardly, unhappily across the other side of the room. He sighs heavily, then swipes at one eye with the heel of his hand. "But I'm too drunk to get back downstairs."
Brendon wants to laugh. He doesn't even know how he got caught up in this fucking ridiculous soap opera. "Fine." He stomps to the bed, picks up a pillow, and throws it at Ryan. "But I'm your fucking guest, so you can sleep on the floor."
The night is warm enough that Brendon settles Ryan with just a pillow and a sheet, but it's also warm enough to keep Brendon awake, lying on top of the covers, listening to the buzz of nighttime insects and Ryan's snoring, wondering why on earth he doesn't just get out of bed, tiptoe to the door, and drive back to Marseilles, evil Smart Car be damned.
--
When Brendon finally surfaces the next morning, he has angry pillow creases cutting into his left cheek and arm, is covered with a thin sheen of sweat, and the sun is high in the sky. The floor is thankfully Ryan-free, and Brendon stares at the pillow and crumpled up sheet lying there for a moment, praying that Ryan doesn't remember. Not that Brendon has any idea how he is going to avoid the awkwardness that will spring from last night.
Avoidance is clearly the way to go. A bath kills another hour, and Brendon spends it hiding in the deep, luxurious, claw footed tub, thinking of all the excuses he can come up with to avoid talking to Ryan. He slides deeper into the water, closing his eyes to the daylight as he goes under. Everything is simpler underwater, reduced to the thud of his heartbeat in his ears, the burning of his lungs as he fights to hold his breath just a moment longer.
Thud. Thud. Brendon's eyes open under the water before he has to a chance to surface, gasping when he does like a sea monster, snatched from its watery home. He shakes his head, dislodging water from his ears, coughing and spluttering. It's now that he notices Ryan, perched on the vanity laughing-ostensibly-at him.
"Dude!" is the first thought that crosses his mind, sitting bolt upright in the bath. "A little privacy, please?"
Ryan shrugs, kicking his heels against the wooden door of the vanity. "It's nothing I haven't seen before." Which, fine. Brendon's not going to deny that, but it doesn't make it any more okay now, twelve years and a lot more maturation later.
"That does not mean you have an access all areas pass to activities involving my dick."
Ryan smirks, and sitting there in an old, black t-shirt and jeans with his hair falling into his eyes it is so much like their teenage years that Brendon blinks and reminds himself he's an adult now. "I just came to be nice and invite you to lunch or whatever. I can't be fucked to make anything myself, so I figured we'd drive into town."
"And you couldn't ask that through the door?"
Another shrug, and Ryan pushes himself off the counter and smiles. "That's just not how I roll."
--
Ryan's mint green Beetle is barely any better than the Smart Car of doom, but at least it has leg room and a CD player, even if they can't really hear the music over the car's rattle and clank. Grinding too, whenever Ryan tries to change gears.
It makes it impossible for them to have a conversation, but things suit Brendon better that way. He rests his head against the glass and takes in the scenery, olive-green, rolling hills, covered in grape vines. He smiles, ever the human jukebox, and sings "Heard It Through the Grapevine" softly, practically unheard through the rattle of the car. When he looks up again, Ryan is smiling, watching Brendon more than the road.
"I missed that about you," he says when they idle at a farm gate, waiting for a flock of geese to get off the road. A plump lady in a black dress and purple pinafore waves to them once her geese are safe, and Brendon smiles tightly, watching her progress up the hill.
He doesn't say how unfair Ryan is being, or how he was the one to walk away from the friendship. They lurch into motion again and Brendon waits for the roar of the engine before he sighs, the sound hidden underneath the noise.
--
By the time they reach the town, the grey clouds blanketing the sky open up and unleash an unholy downpour that pins Brendon and Ryan under the awning of a mostly-empty café, decorated with copious amounts of pink and lace. Brendon's eyes feel violated even before he notices the series of portraits of kittens dressed in bonnets and ensconced in cradles on the far wall. Despite Ryan's proclamations of disbelief behind him, they're both drawn forward by the warm, slightly sour smell of baked bread.
A middle-aged lady smiles at them as they reach the counter, but Ryan steps in front of Brendon, ordering for him in French, confidence infused in his tone. It grates on Brendon's nerves, so instead he turns and finds a table by the window where he watches the rain beat down on the street. He hums with the song drifting through the speakers and watches a woman dash across the street, protected from the rain by a soggy copy of Le Monde. Ryan slides into the seat opposite him and spreads his hands on the table.
"I spoke to Spencer this morning," he says casually, glancing out the window then back, resting his eyes somewhere behind Brendon's left ear. "He says if everything goes to plan, he should be down here in the next day or so." A smile makes his face warmer-more happiness than Brendon has probably elicited from him in years-and Brendon shifts uncomfortably. He slides his hands under his thighs to try and keep still.
"Pete too."
Ryan nods, and Brendon isn't surprised he knew. The intricacies of Pete and Ryan's friendship have escaped Brendon for years. "And Spencer's wife?"
Brendon half-laughs, loud and abrasive. He looks over to the pictures of kittens and isn't surprised to see Jon's signature in the bottom corner. "She's not your biggest fan."
"No," Ryan sighs. "But that's okay. She's good for him."
"Not that you'd know," Brendon says carelessly, words sliding out before he can stop them.
Ryan rubs his hand over his face. He and Brendon are both in their mid-thirties, Brendon feels older than that. They smile blankly when the waitress slides the food on the table between them, waiting until she retreats from the table to continue the conversation.
"The thing is," Ryan starts quietly, folding his hands together. "You keep expecting me to treat you like a friend when you've spent years making it crystal clear that we aren't."
Brendon leans forward, angry. "I'm not the one who-"
"I know there's a list as long as my arm of things you don't like about me," Ryan says calmly, halting Brendon's outrage. "So fucking what. There are a lot of things I don't-or never did-like about you either."
"The difference being I never wanted to end our friendship because of them!" Brendon explodes, loud enough in the empty café that the staff frown at him from behind the counter. He doesn't care, lifting his chin defiantly.
"I can't believe you've been holding onto this for this long," Ryan shakes his head. "Fuck, Brendon. We haven't been friends longer than we ever were."
There's a moment of silence as the CD shuffles from one to the next and Brendon ducks his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. This cutesy, pink tourist trap is not where he wants to do this.
"I spent so much time hating you," he starts, ignoring when Ryan scoffs and opens his mouth to object. "You pretty much singled me out. Spencer is your best friend and you know, with Jon. You chose him. And he still emails me on my birthday and calls me from time to time. Even though he's yours or whatever. You were the only one to act like you were too good for me."
Ryan sits opposite him, staring blankly. "We had different tastes in music. It wasn't about what was better or whatever. Everyone came to terms with this years ago. I don't know why you still care."
Brendon takes a deep breath in and pushes himself back from the table. "Yeah," he exhales and stands up. "I'm going to go. Go-go, like," he chucks his thumb over his shoulder, grimacing. "Back to L.A. Spencer will be here this afternoon, so. You can, uh. If you want, you can have his fifth wedding anniversary party if you're back in the States for it. I really would like to have Bronx's thirteenth birthday, but um. If there are any other big events you want, just let Spence or whoever know. He can sort something out."
Brendon turns around, crosses towards the door when Ryan says, "We're not having joint custody of our friends, Urie. That's the dumbest fucking idea you've ever had."
Closing his eyes, Brendon takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. This way things will be easier. He knows Ryan knows this. He's just arguing to be contrary.
--
Brendon makes it to the other side of town, standing saturated and arguing with the man behind the counter at the post office when Ryan catches up with him. He pushes the door open and Brendon turns away from the man, irritated, hugging his arms around himself for protection moreso than warmth.
"We're done, I get it. You didn't need to follow me across town to rub it in."
Ryan rolls his eyes, stepping out of the way for a harried, wet business man. He jingles his car keys nervously in one hand. "My apologies don't mean shit," he says. "And I don't want to apologise, because you're the one who came to me. And your last album sounded like the sort of music we should have been playing all along."
The doorbell clangs and Ryan steps closer to Brendon. Customers come and go, tactfully ignoring the scene unfolding in front of them. Brendon thinks about pushing Ryan's buttons, saying things he doesn't really mean, but he has flashes of the last time that happened-angry kisses and pressing fingers-and shakes his head.
"You don't get it, Ross. Fuck. Spencer and I didn't want to play that music all along. We wanted to play the music that we did, whether you liked it or not. This isn't a big fuck you, or a chance for you to say you were right all along. It's just the album we made because it's how we feel right now."
Ryan furrows his brow, silent and frowning. Brendon wonders if any of what he's said actually sunk into Ryan's head, or maybe they're having two completely different conversations. "Let me drive you back, at least," Ryan says finally. "We don't have cabs here, anyway."
Well, fuck. Brendon thinks, and has no choice but to follow.
--
Brendon bristles during the whole car-ride, impatiently jostling his leg up and down. There's nothing more he wants to say to Ryan; he wants to get the fuck out of here and forget that he ever planned this trip in a spontaneous fit of self-righteousness and hope. For once, Ryan says nothing, fingers tight around the steering wheel of his car. It feels oddly like it used to when they were fighting years ago, but this time without escape. They turn down a road, heading away from the town. Silently, Brendon thinks hurry up, hurry up, go faster. Ancient car aside, Ryan's not the greatest driver at the best of times, but right now Brendon can't handle trundling down one road, speeding like a demon up the next. Ryan's foot hovers over the accelerator until they turn a corner, and the scenery in front of them opens up, an ancient, grey building framed by fields of lavender. Even in the rain it looks beautiful, but Brendon wants to get back, to get out, not take the time to travel the scenic route. Ryan slows to what seems like five miles an hour, eyes on the field, instead of the road.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Brendon mutters under his breath, crossing his arms over his chest. Ryan slams his foot on the break, growling.
"For fuck's sake you!" Ryan snaps, as the car jerks to a stop. Rain hammers down on the roof, loud and heavy as they stare at each other, a million things going on between them at once.
"What the fuck do you actually want from me?" Ryan demands, curling his hands into fists. "Because I've thought about it. I fucking have. I don't owe you anything, Brendon. I haven't for years and years. Shit. I've had whole years go by where I've barely thought about you at all, but yet you turn up here like I walked out on you a week ago. You're just too goddamn much."
Brendon can't look at him, hot from anger and the small car. He doesn't know what to say, so instead he throws the car door open and yanks his seatbelt off. Fuck it. He can walk the rest of the way. It can't be more than a couple of miles, and in the June warmth, he's not likely to catch cold. Even if he were, anything has to be better than being here, listening to Ryan.
"What are you doing?" Ryan calls out in surprise, and when Brendon turns around, he's surprised by the calm he feels. Wet before he's gotten even ten feet from the car, Brendon wipes his hair where it has already started to stick to his face. "Brendon," Ryan calls again, trailing behind him. This whole thing is so ridiculous and he knows it. It's such a farce he laughs, forgetting himself even when Ryan catches up.
"I was in love with you when I was seventeen," Brendon says and feels his chest lighten, as if that secret piece of information has been crushing him for years.
"I was in love with you when I was twenty," Ryan counters, and Brendon isn't surprised, he knew all along, just like Ryan. "I was in love with you when I heard your last record."
Brendon doesn't know how to respond to that; it's too fresh to think about. He shifts uncomfortably, water seeping in through the canvas of his sneakers. When he steps backwards, the ground squelches.
"I'm not now," he says, mustering conviction. "I wrote that album for a girl."
Ryan's face is unreadable till the moment he laughs, and even then Brendon isn't quite sure what it means.
"It's okay," Ryan shakes his head, droplets of water flying everywhere. "I don't know if I even remember how to be friends with you."
"Assuming it would work," Brendon takes a deep, nervous breath, on the verge of trusting Ryan. "Flattery, coffee, bribery, music, and if all else fails, maybe a clean, dry set of clothes."
Ryan rolls his eyes, smiling at memories or perhaps at something else. "Is this where I make joke about you wanting to get into my pants?"
"Not yet," Brendon answers honestly, treading carefully through the long grass back to the car. "But maybe. Someday. If you're lucky."
Ryan snorts and rolls his eyes, climbing into the driver's seat. Brendon follows, and they both sit there for a minute, taking in the scent of the fresh air and lavender. When Ryan turns the key to the ignition, Brendon takes a deep breath in.