Rock-a-Bye Baby part 3/4
Title: Rock-a-Bye Baby part 3/4
Type: Bandom, MPreg
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon, bonus side Jon/Spencer
Word Count: ~29000
Time: three months
Rating: NC-17
Author's Note: This. Is pretty much completely self-indulgent. I have no excuse for myself. Be warned that there is indeed mpreg so if you really can't handle that, then you must turn away. Oh, god, if you found this by googling yourself and don't know what mpreg even is. Please leave. Please. hopefulgenius is the person I worship for her mad beta skill. Adore her. She is forever my favorite.
ETA: It has come to my attention that Rock-a-Bye Baby has been plagiarized twice now. I'd just like to encourage everyone to please notify the author any time you believe their work has been plagiarized. I also want to say thank you to the people who have notified me about these instances. It means a lot to us. Stay awesome, guys :)
Summary: "It’s a normal day in the House of Urie-Ross-Smith-Walker, more commonly known as The Bus."
Brendon has no clue how he makes it to Ryan’s condo alive. He remembers something like swerving to miss a semi and a lot of honking, but that’s pretty much it.
He doesn’t really care. He just pounds on the door as hard as he can. “Ryan! Ryan, answer the god damn door!”
He can hear Hobo barking her crazy little head off. Through the thick wood of the door, he can hear Ryan say, “Hobo, move, I can’t get it if you’re in the way. It's not like you’re terrifying anyway.”
Hobo whines, but apparently moves because Ryan swings the door open.
Brendon throws his arms around Ryan, his fingers twisting into the back of Ryan’s t-shirt.
“Brendon? Are you okay?”
Brendon sniffles. “No.”
Ryan’s hand curls around Brendon’s back and pulls him inside, shutting the door softly behind him. Hobo sniffs at Brendon’s feet and yips her cheerful greeting. When Brendon doesn’t respond by immediately picking her up and cuddling her, she scratches at his ankle and yowls.
Brendon smiles a little at her. “Hi, Hobo-girl.”
Hobo whimpers and bites at his shoe in response.
“Hush, Hobo,” Ryan says, but he doesn’t mean it. He can never tell Hobo what to do; it just isn’t in him. That, and Hobo’s a pushy bitch when she wants her way. “Brendon’ll play with you later, hush.”
Brendon’s breathing falters. “You were right.”
Ryan’s fingers trace softly beneath the hem of Brendon’s shirt, gliding across the dip of Brendon’s back. “Yeah.”
Brendon nods against Ryan’s shirt and sniffles again. “Mostly, anyway.”
“Come on.” Ryan guides him over to the couch, helping him sit down. He starts to move away and Brendon grabs his wrist. He doesn’t want Ryan to leave him again, ever. Ryan places his hand over Brendon’s and squeezes. “I’ll be right back.”
Brendon tentatively lets go and anxiously watches Ryan disappear into the kitchen, returning seconds later with a glass of water. “Here, drink.”
Brendon obeys, taking the cup and sipping on it slowly. “Thanks.”
Ryan settles on the couch next to him. “So, what happened?”
Brendon takes another sip and wedges himself underneath Ryan’s arm, flush against his side. It’s a bold move to make right after their fight, but Brendon needs to touch. He feels like his hands have forgotten what Ryan feels like beneath them and Brendon despises that. “I had a revelation.”
“Revelation?” Ryan quirks an eyebrow.
“Yeah. I was with Jon and Spencer.” He’s not going to say to get over you because that would be so pathetic right now and his rep is already going to take a serious blow if he ends up crying at some point. He’s almost positive he will. “I was upset so Jon beat me bad at Guitar Hero and he said that I was a loser. It called for retaliation so I tackled him.”
“Like that?” Ryan is staring at his belly and Brendon blushes. Come on, he’s not that big yet. There’s no way everyone can be so obsessed with the baby when he’s only a little larger than before. He can still fit into his jeans, for heaven’s sake.
“Yeah. Anyway, he wouldn’t fight with me and Spencer came in with coffee. And I couldn’t have coffee. And I was already upset because you were pissed, and everything was the baby’s fault. And I.” He stops, his words catching in his throat. Water gathers in the corners of his eyes and he scratches at them. “I hated our baby.”
Ryan squeezes his arm reassuringly.
Brendon doesn’t sob, but he wants to. “It was so stupid, Ryan. I hated our baby over a cup of coffee and a wrestling match that would have ended in me busting my head on the couch again. I hated him for making me have to hide from the press when I do anyway. I hated him for making me get fat. I hated him for all the morning sickness.” He buries his head in Ryan’s shoulder and purses his lips. “I’m such a shitty person.”
Ryan half gathers Brendon up and Brendon half crawls on top of him. They adjust so that Brendon fits in Ryan’s lap, knees bent at both sides of Ryan’s waist. Ryan rubs his back again. “Not really. Having a baby has to be screwing your body’s chemistry all to hell. You didn’t mean it.”
“But I did.” Brendon lowers his head. “I should love him. More than anything. He’s a person. He should feel loved and nurtured no matter what kind of weird my body is.”
“Okay.” Ryan’s lips press against his temple. “And?”
Brendon closes his eyes tight and prepares to be dumped out on the floor. He’s scared; he doesn’t want to do this. But it has to be said, in fairness to all parties. “I’m keeping him.”
“Why?”
“It’s not enough, I know, but I love him. I want to buy his baby clothes and fix his scrapes and I don’t want to deal with the unpleasantries that come with them, you’re right.” He keeps his eyes closed and the words tumble out one after another. “But I’m willing to go through all that to get to the good parts. I want to raise this baby. I want to be someone he can look up to, who he can cry to, who he’ll scream at when he doesn’t get his way. I know I need a lot of work, but I’m willing to do it.”
He swallows hard and repeats, “So I’m really sorry, but I’m keeping the baby.”
Not having an abortion has the potential to steamroll everything he’s ever cared about. It might steal everything he’s worked for. It might make Ryan hate him. But Brendon will not kill this baby.
His baby.
Their baby.
Ryan nods. “All right.” Hobo jumps up between them into Brendon’s lap and climbs over his tummy. Ryan hastily shoos her away. “Stop, Hobo, you’ll hurt him.”
Brendon’s stomach flips and he can’t believe what he thinks might be happening. A slow smile settles across his face. “So… you don’t mind?”
Ryan busily pushes Hobo away when she continues her onslaught of hyper puppy attack-love. “No, why would I?”
Brendon lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and slumps forward, pressing against Ryan tiredly. “Because you’re a douche, and I thought I was going to have to raise Baby by myself?”
Ryan snorts. “Yeah, because I’m the one who didn’t answer my Sidekick when you called. I’m the one that didn’t even try to make conversation after our fight. I’m definitely the one that blatantly ignored you when you were trying to make peace offerings out of cans of Pringles and pickles. Yeah, I’m the douche.”
Brendon pulls back and adjusts on Ryan’s lap so that they can face each other. “You called?”
“I haven’t stopped since I got home, you asshole.”
“Oh.” Brendon blinks. “I hid my phone so I wouldn’t call you. It’s probably out of batteries by now, I guess. Why didn’t you use my house phone?”
Ryan’s lips twist into a smile. “You have a house phone?”
Brendon tosses his head back and laughs. Ryan shakes his head and leans forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of Brendon’s mouth.
***
August: Month Four
Things change quickly over the next couple of weeks. For one, Brendon doesn’t go back to his house more than twice, and that was only to get jeans because his hips have never been able to fit into Ryan’s pants. No, no, scratch that, he’d made one more trip the day after he’d made up with Ryan to make sure he hadn’t left the stove on. So he’s been to his condo all of three times since he left to play Guitar Hero with Jon and Spencer.
Another thing that changes is that he and Ryan are moving. Yeah, huge change. It totally catches Brendon off guard.
One morning, he wakes up and is surrounded by cream colored bedding, but no Ryan. He closes his eyes again and huffs, tossing his arm behind him to search. But Ryan isn’t next to him.
Brendon quickly sits up. Hobo is in her proper place across Brendon’s feet, keeping them warm, but Ryan really isn’t there. Ryan never leaves the bed unless Brendon is awake too. Brendon likes to imagine that it’s because Ryan likes watching him sleep as much as Brendon likes watching Ryan, but it’s probably more like Ryan doesn’t want to wake him up.
So, yeah, he’s a little worried when Ryan isn’t curled up next to him.
He yawns and rubs the sleep out of his eyes before climbing out of bed, wrapping the blankets over his head and shoulders. Hobo whines at him for being disturbed, but stretches and jumps down on the floor, looking up at him expectantly. Brendon smiles at her, leaning down to scratch behind her ear before getting up and opening the bedroom door to let her out. She trots out ahead of him and immediately into the kitchen, toward Ryan, Brendon assumes, so he follows her.
She’s sitting at Ryan’s heels, wagging her little beagle tail as she eats what has to be the remains of his breakfast. He’s holding a highlighter in one hand and a spoon buried inside a jar of peanut butter in the other. This morning’s paper is spread out in front of him and he only looks away from it for a second when he scratches Hobo.
Warmth spreads inside Brendon’s chest.
Ryan’s always made Brendon a little weird, a little softer around the edges, but lately he’s just been a ball of mush every time he sees Ryan’s face or hears his name. Brendon blames it on the hormones. “You’re up early.”
“Morning to you too. And, yeah, I wanted to get an early start,” Ryan tells him, returning to his paper and highlighting a passage.
“Kay.” Brendon grabs one of the table’s chairs and drags it next to Ryan’s. He plops down in it and nuzzles his face in Ryan’s arm. He sticks his finger in Ryan’s peanut butter jar and licks it clean. “What are you starting on?”
He looks at the newspaper articles. Everything highlighted says something like ‘2 bedroom, 1 1/2 bath, walk-in closet,’ ‘3 bedroom, 2 bath, for sale by owner,’ or ‘lease-purchase, 2 bedroom, 1 extra room’.
Ryan highlights one that says ‘3 bedroom, huge living room, lease to own’. “House hunting.”
Brendon stops with his finger half in his mouth. “What?”
“House hunting,” Ryan repeats easily. “We need to get a new house before the baby comes.”
Brendon pushes up off of Ryan’s shoulder and stares at him. “But. I love your house. I don’t want to move. I just got here.” Well, not really. He’s been there for a couple of weeks and he’s stayed over for long periods of time before. It’s just that now it’s starting to feel like his house too and he doesn’t want to give it up so soon.
Ryan looks back at him. “Brendon, this place isn’t big enough for me, you, Hobo, and a baby who will eventually get bigger than a… lime?”
“Dr. Shelley says Baby is more like an avocado now,” Brendon corrects him, gesturing with his hands the size difference between a little lime and a big avocado. Though he has a new obstetrician now and Dr. Shelley is in Chicago, he still talks to her every week. He likes her a lot and stubbornly refused to leave her out of the pregnancy despite the distance.
“Okay, whatever. Baby is going to get bigger than that.” He softly pokes Brendon’s stomach, pleasantly round and stretching his shirt after four months. “We need the room. Besides, this place isn’t exactly baby-proof. We’ve got more points here than a porcupine.”
Brendon has to admit that Ryan’s right. From the kitchen table to the bookshelf in the living room to the ultra sharp edges of every corner that can be turned, Ryan’s house is not baby-proof.
Brendon groans. He hated house shopping the first time around and he’s going to despise it the second, he’s sure. He can never find everything he wants in anything. It’s not that he’s particularly picky. On the contrary, he was actually okay with almost everything the realtor showed him. It’s more that he doesn’t really have a preference over where he lives as long as it has electricity and windows that can open for the sunshine.
The only reason he’d been able to decide on the house he currently owns is because Spencer threatened to strangle him if he didn’t pick one that week (“For fuck’s sake, Brendon, just shuffle the addresses, close your eyes, and draw one; it doesn’t even matter this much!”).
“We could always just put cotton over everything,” Brendon suggests hopelessly, swirling his finger in the peanut butter jar.
Ryan ignores his idea, but rubs his knee. “Don’t worry. We won’t have Spencer breathing down our necks since we already are living somewhere. We can take our time. Is there absolutely anything you want the house to have?”
Brendon tries to think, he honestly does, but his brain just doesn’t worry about breakfast bars and stairwell nooks often enough to care. Those things don’t particularly matter to him. “Other than a place for us to sleep, a nursery, and, like, somewhere to put my piano? No, not really.”
“Shit, forgot.” Ryan scribbles ‘piano’ on the side of the newspaper. He hums and sucks the back of the highlighter into his mouth thoughtfully. “So at least three bedrooms, probably more like four because Spencer will bitch if we make him sleep on the couch whenever he and Jon stay over. Hobo needs a yard to play in.” He replaces his highlighter with a red pen and crosses out several of the houses that don’t fit the criteria.
“Maybe we should be careful about a lot of extra things?” Brendon suggests. “I don’t want Baby to get hurt or bust his head or something.” He shudders at the thought. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Baby actually made it through all of this, through this weird pregnancy, through being a medical anomaly, through feeling unloved his first few months of existing (and Brendon knows that he knows; it’s one of those things that he can just tell) only to die from hitting his delicate little head on the breakfast nook.
“Mm. Anything else?”
Brendon sighs. “You shouldn’t have to give up your house, Ryan.” Honestly, it’s making him feel like a crappy person. He doesn’t get angry at Baby for the changes anymore, but he blames himself a lot.
Of course, Ryan is completely chill and lets it go without a problem. “It’s not that big a deal. I needed to redecorate anyway.”
Brendon knows the last part is for his benefit. Ryan redecorated right before they left for the tour. But if Ryan can not care about this, then Brendon can too. “Got another highlighter?”
Ryan offers him a blue pen instead and Brendon circles everything he likes the sound of, meaning that he mostly circles everything Ryan has already highlighted. After his third choice, he looks up at Ryan and kisses him. He tastes like peanut butter and this morning’s coffee (decaf, since Brendon would go crazy if there was caffeine in the house that he wasn’t allowed to have). “I love you.”
***
The first time Brendon feels the baby kick for real and not just in his head, he isn’t even sure what it is. The best and only way he can think to describe it is that it felt like a popcorn kernel popping in his stomach.
He thinks it’s weird but doesn’t give it a second thought. Then it happens again, harder, like the baby is saying, “I’m right here, you idiot.”
When he realizes what he’s feeling, he runs to the bathroom and locks himself in. Everything seems so real so suddenly and it’s utterly terrifying. He calls Dr. Shelley, thankful that he has his Sidekick stuffed in his back pocket. She laughs and assures him that everything's fine and that, yes, she's arranging everything so she can be at the hospital in Vegas when he goes into labor, "So stop having a heart attack, Brendon."
But he can't. Even after Dr. Shelley's encouragement, when they hang up, he still thinks he's going to lose it.
Brendon looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror with a hand pressed firmly below his bellybutton, where he’d felt the movement and thinks, 'Oh, god, it's not just me anymore'.
Of course, Ryan starts to freak out when Brendon won’t open the bathroom door after about ten minutes or so. He threatens and begs and bribes, but it isn’t until he threatens to call Spencer that Brendon lets him in.
“What the hell, Brendon? What happened?”
“I felt him.” Brendon shakes his head. “I felt him kick.” Brendon is about to freak out, just completely unravel, and it won’t be pretty when he does.
Ryan must sense the oncoming breakdown, because he wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. His free hand rests on Brendon’s stomach.
Brendon curls into Ryan pathetically and whispers, “He’s seriously there,” into Ryan’s neck, muffled and half-broken.
Beneath the alarm though, there’s something else that Brendon hasn’t particularly felt yet. There’s this new awareness of the baby now, this brand new connection outside of a heartbeat and simple knowing.
After Ryan calms him down, the complete wonder of having someone inside him, just kind of chilling out until they’re ready to make their debut appearance as the perfect little person, takes over every feeling of anxiety in Brendon, and.
Brendon never thought he could love somebody like he loves this baby.
***
Ryan’s first time feeling the baby kick is a little funny. He’s got his head in Brendon’s lap, half-asleep from the pure laziness of not having to do shows or a million interviews for the past couple months.
Brendon has his fingers in Ryan’s hair, humming a song that may or may not have been from The Little Mermaid as he watches a Planet’s Ugliest Dog Competition on Animal Planet. He coos over several of them and laughs over more. Ryan just presses his cheek to Brendon’s stomach and closes his eyes.
A soft pressure runs along the side of his face and he and Brendon both jump, resulting in Ryan being dumped on the floor.
Brendon laughs until he can’t breathe.
Yeah, Ryan knows where this kid gets his sense of humor.
***
September: Month Five
Being pregnant in September, the hottest month of the entire fucking year in Vegas, completely sucks. Brendon is tired and he’s burning up and his body generally aches a lot.
Being pregnant in September while house-hunting? Yeah, it sucks so much worse.
They call Pete for the realtor’s number, confident that if anyone knows someone who can keep their mouth shut about a celebrity scandal involving both gay and babies, it will be Pete.
He, in fact, does.
“She’s great, guys,” he assures them. “You’ll love her and she’ll totally stay quiet about your fucking like bunnies.”
“Not so much,” Brendon says bitterly, his head on Ryan’s shoulder to overhear the conversation.
Ryan gives him a what-can-you-do look. “Do you want the baby to be scarred before he’s born?”
“S’what therapy is for. Duh,” Brendon sniffs.
“Trouble in paradise?” Pete asks, laughing. Brendon wants to throttle him but knows Pete would kick his ass, sad as that is.
“No.” Ryan rubs Brendon’s arm. Brendon wishes he could resist touching Ryan long enough to push him away because, seriously, you can only jerk off so much when your boyfriend is in the same bed as you, god. “Realtor, Pete?
“Oh, yeah. Hold on.”
She’s everything Pete promises when they meet her. Nice, to the point, completely discrete and very competent.
But Brendon can’t help but want to kill her after she starts sending choices and flyers of houses they aren’t going to buy their way.
“Are you sure you don’t just want to throw darts? We can just live wherever the darts hit or something,” he whimpers pathetically, sifting through more flyers and newspaper clippings.
Ryan offers him some gummy bears, the ultimate peace offering in the World of Ryan Ross, and says, “No, Brendon.”
***
They keep looking and so does the realtor, and Brendon is about a week from slitting his wrists when Spencer calls.
“Hey, Brendon,” he greets. “Is Ryan around?”
“Spencer Smith, I am offended.” Brendon grins into the phone. “Am I not good enough to talk to? Also, why did you call my phone if you wanted Ryan?”
In the background he can hear something clatter and Jon cussing loudly. Spencer laughs. “Jon, don’t die. I don’t want to write ‘Death by Spaghetti Sauce’ on your grave, seriously. What? No, I’m doing it now, hold on. Brendon?”
“Still here,” Brendon chirps. He’s in an okay mood at the moment. Ryan let him off the house-hunting hook today and woke him up with a blow job, so. Pretty cool day so far. “Did Jon die?”
“No. I think he’s picking up chunks of tomato though. Anyway, I called your phone because Ryan’s is always busy anymore. Plus, you both should hear this.”
“Hold on.” Brendon switches to speaker phone. “Ryan! Ryan Ross, your best friend is on my phone and he wants to talk to you,” he calls through the house.
Ryan emerges from the kitchen with his Sidekick pressed to his ear. “What? Why’d he call you?”
Brendon rolls his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s my friend too? Or maybe he couldn’t make it through the endless stream of phone calls about all the houses and shit anymore?”
Ryan covers his unoccupied ear and says, “Yeah, I’ll call you back later, probably after we have dinner.” He hangs up and sighs. “What’s up, Smith?”
Spencer snorts. “Still looking for that house, Ross?”
Brendon laughs. “Are you kidding? That’s all he ever does anymore. I’m beginning to suspect he’s having an affair with the realtor at this point.”
“And run the risk of losing a brat like you?” He ruffles Brendon’s hair a little. “Never.”
“Ew, still here,” Spencer says. “Anyway, just wanted to tell you guys that there’s a house for sale down the street if you’re interested. It’s pretty big and it’s even got a piano room, according to the sign they posted.”
Brendon and Ryan look at each other, and Brendon’s face breaks into a grin.
***
The house is perfect, absolutely, completely perfect. Not too big, not too small, a pretty backyard for Hobo, a bookcase built into the wall for Ryan, a room for Brendon’s piano with a huge window facing the backyard.
And there’s a room right across from the master bedroom.
When Brendon walks into it, he can see a crib in the corner, a toybox beneath the window lying unused because the toys are scattered across the floor. He sees an overly loved blanket with an equally loved bear beneath it. The sun streams through the window; he can hear little bursts of giggles and.
They sign the papers on the spot.
***
Ryan’s Sidekick buzzes in his back pocket, and he hefts the box of silverware in his hands up on their new house’s kitchen counter to answer the text.
He arches an eyebrow when Brendon’s number shows up.
hi gues wut
Brendon is supposed to be resting upstairs while Ryan, Jon, and Spencer unpack all of their crap (which is a lot of stuff when you put everything together), not messing around with his phone. “Brendon, you okay?” he calls up.
His phone vibrates again.
jus guess
Ryan rolls his eyes and types.
i’m kind of busy. what?
“Slacker,” Jon mutters as he helps Spencer bring in a couch.
Spencer shoots a look right through his unworthy heart. “I swear to God I’ll kill you myself if you’re texting right now.”
The phone buzzes like an alarm clock and Ryan shrugs helplessly. “It’s Brendon.”
And Brendon texts, GUESS, to him.
idk, you better be sleep texting or something. spence is glaring at me.
Ryan slices his box open with a box cutter and starts putting away the stuff inside slowly to buy some time.
Sry ): ily (geuss!!1!)
“Ryan,” Spencer snaps as he lowers the couch down, his arms straining with the weight, “put the damn phone away.”
“Seriously, man,” Jon pants. “Isn’t he just upstairs anyway?”
Ryan quickly types, srsly, b, idk. “Yeah, he won’t quit though.”
“Tell him I’ll strangle him if he doesn’t stop distracting you.” Spencer rubs his sore arms. They’ve been moving stuff all morning, Ryan helping Brendon move small things while he and Jon move bigger ones. Like the love seat. And the television. And the table.
And the godforsaken couch.
Yeah, it’s starting to make him pissy.
“I will, I will,” Ryan barely puts up two glasses when the phone rings. Spencer throws up his hands and goes back to the moving van, Jon at his heels.
im n OUR bed lookn out OUR wndw @ UOR yard @ hobo <3
Ryan’s face softens into a smile.
yeah?
Ryan leans against the counter, hips cocked, the box of dishes and Spencer’s pending rage long forgotten as he waits for Brendon’s reply.
ya ily xoxoooo
get some rest, b, he types. As an afterthought, he adds, ily too xo, before pushing send.
***
October: Month Six
It’s amazing, really, but after they move everything into the new house, from Ryan’s notebooks to Brendon’s collection of movie posters, they still need stuff to take up space.
They hire a designer to fix up most of the house, but Brendon won’t let her touch their room or the baby’s nursery. He thinks they should be more personal than a spiffed up living room or kitchen, so they have to do that by themselves.
Ryan points out that Brendon’s stomach has grown even more and there’s no way a simple hoodie will hide it. Brendon shrugs and drags out a hoodie that’s so grossly oversized that it covers his hands and reaches his mid-thighs. It completely swallows Brendon whole and is a pretty good disguise.
Besides, how many people at Wal-Mart or Target or whatever are going to happen to be part of the paparazzi anyway?
They go shopping and while Ryan is deciding whether their room should be Tropical Breeze or Spearmint Stick (“They are the same color, Ryan. Just pick one.” “…Are you blind?”) Brendon goes off to explore. He browses through electronics for a while, admiring the gigantic flat screens and all the new music they’ve gotten in before he gets bored and walks around aimlessly.
He messes around with the Legos and stuffed animals in the toy section until Ryan finds him and says that it’s past dinner time. Ryan is very particular about not missing meals, particularly about Brendon missing meals. Brendon isn’t sure why. The baby is supposed to only be about a pound, and he’s gained, like, twenty. He could live off the body fat for a year or something.
But Ryan is still very particular, and he ushers Brendon out of the store with a few strips of color that they’re supposed to tape on the walls to see what they like and without actually buying anything.
Brendon sighs and allows himself to be led along until they walk outside and he spots the vending machines. He immediately detaches himself and bounces over to one with rings in it, yanking his wallet out of his back pocket and feeding it change. When he opens the plastic bubble that comes out, it’s a red band with silver flecks down the middle. He puts it on and holds it up to the Las Vegas sunset’s light.
Ryan makes an annoyed sound. “Come on, Brendon. I’m hungry.”
Brendon waves at him. “Hang on. Just a second.”
He feeds the machine more change and frowns when the next bubble produces a blue ring. And when the next is a yellow one. Then another blue. Then a red one with black flecks. Then a gold one with a fake emerald.
He finally runs out of change and, after patting his pockets down, he turns to Ryan with huge, hopeful eyes. “Do you have any change?”
Ryan’s hands are on his hips. “No. Now come on.”
Brendon huffs. “You didn’t even look.”
“Ugh.” Ryan rolls his eyes and fishes his wallet out, dumping the change part into Brendon’s hand. “Just hurry up.”
Brendon nods and puts the coins in their slots. Another yellow one comes out before he finally opens a bubble with a red and silver one. He grins and grabs Ryan’s hand, pushing the ring onto his finger before Ryan can really do anything about it.
His face absolutely glows when he says, “Now we match.”
Ryan feels like something monumental has just happened but isn’t totally sure of what it is, just that it’s important and it’s probably been coming for a long, long time. Brendon laces their fingers together and smiles and this feels so right and normal that he can’t help but smile back.
***
They return to the store eventually to pick some more paint colors because Ryan apparently doesn’t like any of them for more than a couple of days.
Brendon still can’t bring himself to be interested in the difference between Tropical Breeze and Spearmint Stick so he sets off to explore again.
Brendon eventually lights upon the baby section and is immediately drawn in by a bib that says, “Who says I can’t keep a beat?” with a set of pots and pans beneath the words. He snatches it despite the fact that they were going to go baby shopping after they’d gotten the room painted.
It is a musically oriented baby object. He can not be held accountable for his actions.
He’s trying desperately not to grab a bunch of pacifiers with little animals on them when he sees it out of the corner of his eye.
It’s got a silver front and little black musical notes are scattered across it and there’s a picture of a teddy bear holding a guitar and Brendon needs that baby album like he needs to breathe.
***
Dear Baby-Who-Has-Yet-To-Be-Named,
Hey, Baby. I really hope you don’t mind me calling you Baby for right now. Your dad and I haven’t figured out what exactly we should call you. Also, we don’t know if you’re a little boy or a little girl (I didn’t want to know; I love surprises) so we aren’t even sure what gender of a name we should be looking for.
Yeah, I know this is your baby album I’m writing in and it should go unused until you’re here, but I wanted to write you a letter before you come, which should only be in a couple of months. We’re expecting you in January so you’re going to be a New Year’s baby! How awesome is that? I’m an April baby. Nothing special about that other than April Fool’s Day and that’s honestly not the nicest holiday ever. And then there’s that April showers bring May flowers stuff, but seriously. I want no part in rain. Don’t worry about your birthday being so close to Christmas. We promise to give you just as many presents as we would if you were born in August. None of that combined Christmas and birthday gift stuff.
I’m severely off topic now. But I still promise all of that!
I also promise that you’ll always feel loved and like you belong no matter what. You’ve got a lot of people that want you already and you’re not even here yet. There’s Uncle Jon and Uncle Spencer and Pete (we haven’t decided if you should call him uncle yet, he’s a questionable influence) and Uncle Patrick and a lot more uncles that aren’t really related to us but qualify anyway.
Dad and I love you too, Baby. I can’t wait until you get here so I can kiss your little hands and feet and tickle you until you squeal. I want to teach you everything I can, most of which is going to be music because that’s what I know best. If you don’t like music, that’s fine, but I have this feeling that you will. Dad’s excited about teaching you too. He thinks I didn’t see him looking at those little guitars the other day at the store, but I did. I think I’ll go get one just so he doesn’t have to admit to hoping that you’ll love playing like he does.
We painted your room the other day and put all of your stuff in it. It’s yellow and white and has these pretty gauzy curtains that let all this sunshine through your window. We bought your basinet and a crib for when you’re a little bigger and we got a toybox that isn’t exactly big enough for all the toys we got you. You’ve got a million teddy bears and interactive learning stuff and alphabet books and number books and all kinds of things that I doubt you’ll look at more than a couple of times before we buy you more stuff.
You’re going to be one spoiled kid, I already know that. I have no self-control whatsoever when it comes to you and buying you anything I think you might want or need ever in your entire life. It drives your dad crazy. Quietly crazy, but crazy is crazy no matter the volume.
I wish on every star I see anymore that I can somehow make you happy. I want to give you a perfect life and all the smiles and encouragement and hope and anything else that you’ll need from me.
I love you so much, Baby. I wish you were here so I could whisper that to you and sing to you. I do already and even if all the books say that you can hear me, it’s just not the same. I want to sing you lullabies and cradle you and kiss you until you fuss for me to leave you alone (and I know you will, your dad is too good at it for you not to).
I love you love you love you love you. And I always will. I want you to know that no matter what.
-Daddy
***
After his letter, Brendon fills out all the information the baby book asks. His due date (more like his due month, they never could figure out when exactly the baby was conceived; Ryan thinks it was that time against the amps, but Brendon is positive it was when they were on top of his piano), his and Ryan’s parents’ names, all of the uncles and aunts both legitimate and illegitimate, how far along he is as he begins the book, and so forth. He fills Ryan’s name in next to the bold DAD heading and scratches out the MOM one, re-labeling it DADDY and putting his own name there.
When he gets to the part that says MY NAME IS he stops and bites his lip.
Baby needs a name.
***
“Ryan,” Brendon whispers one night when, once again, his mind is moving too fast to let him sleep. “Ryan, are you awake?”
Ryan doesn’t answer, his breath doesn’t even falter, maintaining its warm, steady in and out puffing against the back of Brendon’s neck. He’s dead to the world, probably from having to do so much painting over the past two weeks. Because Brendon can’t be around the supposedly toxic fumes according to Ryan (despite the fact that the paint was labeled non-toxic), Ryan has to paint both their room and the nursery alone.
Brendon almost feels bad for asking Ryan not to let the designer and painters do the two rooms, but thinks Ryan is being too silly over the deadly paint issue for much pity.
Their room is painted though, striped in broad lengths of White Linen and Mirage White which is actually a green, believe it or not. Brendon thought it would look like a circus tent or something when Ryan started, but of course, Ryan was always the more artistic of the two of them, and it’s beautiful.
Brendon’s hands glide over Ryan’s arms, down to where they’re splayed over Brendon’s stomach, and he squeezes them gently. “Ryan.”
Ryan’s breath comes out a little harder, a half-sigh, and he mumbles, “Mn, yeah?”
Brendon wiggles a little until he’s pressed tighter into Ryan, completely spooned by him. “I can’t sleep.”
There’s a pause in which Brendon thinks that maybe Ryan fell asleep again, but Ryan eventually squeezes his hands. “Just close your eyes, Brendon.”
“I already tried.”
Ryan half-sighs again and presses down on Brendon’s hip, turning him over so they can face each other. He rubs his eyes and blinks a couple times before saying, “Okay, what’s wrong?”
Brendon can’t press flush against Ryan anymore, not with the baby, but he certainly makes an effort. He manages to get their shoulders and most of their chests touching, and he shifts to tangle their legs together. “We need a name for Baby.”
“At,” Ryan lifts his head a little and reaches over Brendon to retrieve his Sidekick from the bedside table and look at the screen, “3:46 in the morning?”
Okay, maybe right now isn’t the perfect time to bring up naming Baby. Still, if not now, when? “It’s almost January and we haven’t named him. He’s not even here yet and I suck as a parent.”
Yeah, pity party, everyone feel bad for Brendon being a shitty parent. He knows he’s being a little dramatic, just a little, but he really does feel bad.
Ryan sounds like he’s half-asleep again when he says. “Brendon, stop worrying so much. Some people don’t even have names days after the baby is born.”
Brendon nuzzles beneath Ryan’s ear, a small attempt to keep him awake. “We should still think about it.”
Ryan’s fingers sweep over his back, making large, comforting circles. “Brendon, I’ll buy you the entire baby-naming section of Barnes & Noble tomorrow if you be quiet and go to sleep.”
Brendon smiles and places a kiss over Ryan’s pulse point. “Promise?”
Ryan nods, his hand slowing its movements as he drifts off. “Promise.”
***
November: Month Seven
The hard part of baby naming, they discover, is not finding a good name. The hard part is picking just two, just a first name and a middle name.
They’ve made a list in Ryan’s notebook, right under some lyric-poem thing about cotton candy and lips to match / sticky, flitting fingers but / we were too young to understand what it all meant anyway. So far it looks like a scribbled mess of stars and highlighter and crossing things out and writing them back in and fitting first names with middle ones and question marks and “look up meaning” written beside a good chunk of what might or might not be actual names.
So far, they like (in no particular order, not even by gender because they aren’t sure of the intended gender for half of them) (also, this is only the names that they can still read, not everything they’ve thought of):
Connor, Jillian, Jaden, Kaden, Trevor, Jace, Caleb, Cisqua, Jackson, Landon, Aralyn, Alexa, Myles, Peyton, Isabella (or Izzy or Bella but not Belle, Brendon), Shilah, Piper, Savannah, Michael, Max, Collen, Michelle, Matthew, Blair, Regan, Samara, Chaise, Emily, Jacey, Christopher, Jordan, Tara, Madison, Kallen, Cameron, Emily, Preston
And there are so many variations of each of those names that Brendon’s head is starting to spin, seriously. At one point, he tried to ask the baby his thoughts on the matter, requesting that he kick if he heard any name he liked in particular.
Baby stayed as silent as he possibly could the entire time Brendon and Ryan were reading out names, the little jerk.
This could be a problem.
***
What Brendon wants, what he honestly wants more than anything else in the entire world (other than Ryan and Baby and their band and stuff) is to name Baby George R. Ross IV if he happens to be a boy.
“No.”
Brendon’s not really surprised by the firm, nearly harsh rejection of the idea. He’s never verbalized it, but Brendon’s pretty sure that Ryan swore to himself forever ago that he would not give his son his name.
Still, he pouts. “But I love your name.”
“No.” Ryan looks up from his notebook, gnawing lightly at the end of his pen. A smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “We could name him after you, though. Start a whole line. Brendon Boyd Urie the Second.”
Brendon shudders. “No. Besides, he’s going to be a Ross, not a Urie.”
Ryan’s blinks. “Seriously?”
Brendon ducks his head and smiles. “Shut the fuck up; I’m a traditionalist. Plus, being last in line for everything in elementary school sucked like you wouldn’t believe.”
Ryan snorts a laugh.
***
December: Month Eight
Brendon’s stomach has been hurting all morning. He didn’t even think about it at first, some piece of his brain dismissing it to Baby settling oddly or indigestion or something. His back hurts too, which is weird but not unheard of. He’s got twenty extra baby pounds, almost all of which is on his stomach. A back ache is totally not weird.
Besides, these days he’s used to discomfort. He gets a little nauseated sometimes, his ankles hurt constantly, his head is trapped in a migraine most mornings.
So, yeah, he chalks it up to nothing. He sends Ryan to the store to get sandwiches for lunch and milk and eggs and whatever else they put on the list Ryan keeps on the fridge.
Ryan returns with a frillion bags and refuses to let Brendon even pick up the one with the loaves of bread in it. So Brendon stays inside and unloads everything while Ryan brings stuff in two at a time.
On December 2nd at 12:37 PM, Brendon is carrying a carton of eggs to the fridge when a sudden, crippling pain shoots down the middle of his body, and he collapses to his knees, dropping the eggs.
Ryan comes into the kitchen with his arms full of grocery bags to find Brendon dry-heaving against the open fridge door, jagged eggshells contrasted against their exposed yolks surrounding him. Hobo is next to Brendon, whining, worriedly licking his hand.
Ryan drops everything and falls to his knees next to Brendon, shells crunching beneath his weight and yolks smearing against his pants. “Bren, fuck. What. Are you-?”
“Ryan,” Brendon gasps, his body shaking with effort. He painfully shifts, moving against Ryan. His face fades to ghostly white, his dark eyes huge against such a pale background. On a half-sob he manages, “Baby.”
For a moment, Ryan can’t think, can’t even breathe. Not with Brendon looking like he might be dying in his arms, not when he looks so sick and terrified.
But having a panic attack right now will not help Brendon or their baby.
“Brendon,” Ryan says, soft, soothing, “I know it hurts, but you have to listen to me. Try to breathe. You know, like your breathing exercises before shows.”
Brendon makes a heartbreaking noise, but his breath puffs a vaguely familiar rhythm against Ryan’s cheek.
“Good, Brendon.” Ryan smoothes his hair back. “I’m going to go get the baby bag, okay? Then I’m going to call Dr. Shelley and we’ll get to the hospital. Can you walk?”
“No,” Brendon breathes, his body growing lax as the first shocks of pain subside.
Ryan mentally curses. “Okay. That’s fine. Stay here, then.” He helps Brendon learn against the refrigerator. “I’ll be right back.” He presses a kiss to Brendon’s forehead. “Right back.”
He half-runs to get the duffel bag he insisted on packing as soon as Brendon hit six months. Brendon had laughed and said he was paranoid. Ryan is beyond thankful for his paranoia now.
When he gets back to the kitchen, the bag slung over his shoulder, Brendon is trying to pull himself up with a chair, his socked feet slipping in egg. Ryan catches him before he falls. “Shit, Brendon. Do you think you can get to the car if I help?”
Brendon nods, breathless, “Yes, yeah,” and leans gratefully against Ryan’s shoulder.
“Come on, then.” Ryan wraps his arm around Brendon’s waist. “Or are you too pansy, Urie?”
Brendon’s face is mostly contorted in pain, but there’s a dark glare beneath that. “Fuck you, Ross. See if he gets your last name now.”
Ryan doesn’t laugh because he isn’t sure if Brendon’s kidding or not. Instead, he helps Brendon lie down in the back seat of the car.
***
Ryan calls Spencer after Dr. Shelley, then Pete as they pull into the front of the hospital and the doctors get Brendon out of the car.
“Seriously?” Pete asks. “I thought it was next month?”
“Yeah, well. You know Brendon.” Ryan reshoulders the baby bag. “He always rushes everything.”
“Okay. We’re going to catch a plane. We’re in LA so it’ll only be a couple hours. I’ll call everyone.”
Ryan holds in a groan. A hospital room full of the FBR/DD team is totally inconspicuous. Totally. “Okay. See you then.”
People help Brendon up on a stretcher and roll him away. Ryan moves to follow, but Dr. Shelley blocks his way. “Mr. Ross, I can’t let you back with him right now.”
Ryan purses his lips. “Is he having the baby?”
She nods. “More than likely. First children rarely come to term, but he’s too early; two months is way too early.”
Fear grips at Ryan’s chest, but he swallows it down, bitter and harsh. “Now what?”
“I’m going to try and stop the contractions with medication. Brendon’s body is not equipped to go into the actual birthing process and that’s why he’s in so much pain.” Her explanation is calm, slow. Ryan doesn’t trust it.
“If you can’t stop it,” Ryan’s having to count his breaths, in, out, in, as he speaks, “what’s going to happen?”
“The contractions will grow progressively worse. The baby could drown if this takes too long. Worst case scenario, an infection will set in, and Brendon will become septic.”
He feels cold suddenly. Freezing. Ryan wraps his arms around himself. “And he could die.”
Dr. Shelley sighs. “Mr. Ross, I don’t know. I’m an ER surgeon by practice. I’m only here at Brendon’s request. I can do a c-section for him. But this is way out of even an obstetrician’s league.”
Ryan knows, has known from day one.
His fingers card through his hair. “Don’t let Brendon die.”
Dr. Shelley nods, her lips set in a firm line. “I will do everything I can. If the medication doesn’t have an effect within the next half hour, I’ll immediately go into the surgery.”
Ryan wishes he didn’t feel so cold.
***
Spencer and Jon burst into the front lobby like fire’s at their heels. Ryan is immediately engulfed in a hug and Spencer’s voice hovers over his ear. “How’s Brendon?”
Ryan doesn’t answer, just clings to Spencer because he doesn’t know what else to do without the familiarity of Brendon’s hyperactive counterbalance.
Jon pats his shoulder. “What’s happening?”
“Brendon,” Ryan mumbled into Spencer’s shirt. “they’re going to try and stop it, but the medication might not work and then they’re going to do the surgery.”
Spencer moves away a little, grasping Ryan’s shoulders. “Are they okay?”
Ryan doesn’t know. Damn it, Ryan just doesn’t know.
***
Thirty minutes comes and goes like nothing. A nurse comes out to inform them that Dr. Shelley has begun working on Brendon.
Spencer thanks her because Ryan is staring too hard at the dull pattern of the hospital wall to actually be seeing it.
***
Just like when the news about getting pregnant got out, calls and texts flood Ryan’s phone. At first, Ryan didn’t answer it, couldn’t think of what to say. Eventually, though, the receptionists wouldn’t stop glaring, so he starts picking up.
Pete and Patrick are on their way, and Patrick wants to know if Ryan needs anything. Pete says he’s bringing Hemmy and, “fuck the hospital if they don’t like it.”
Gabe’s crew is coming, and Gabe insists on babysitting ASAP. Vicky-T hits him for being insensitive to the whole situation. “His boyfriend is going under the knife, you ass. Could you think about something other than recruiting people for more than, like, ten minutes?”
The Cab are coming. “How could we not?” Marshall laughs. “You’re like our founding fathers, dude. This is almost our kid sibling’s birth.”
The Hush Sound is touring, but Greta sends her love. “Seriously, Ryan, I need pictures as soon as you get them. Keep me updated.”
William and The Academy are on the way as they speak. William calls dibs for godfather. “I know Gabe’s going to try for it if he hasn’t already, and you can’t let him get his hands on the baby. Basement, Ryan. Basement.”
Ryan laughs quietly. “I’ll talk to Brendon when he gets out of surgery.” If he gets out, he thinks suddenly and can barely manage a goodbye before he hangs up.
***
Two hours have come and gone. No one on the hospital staff has said a word about how Brendon is, despite Spencer asking every nurse in sight every ten to twenty minutes.
***
When Brendon was sick the first time, Ryan had been scared of losing someone he loved for being absent-minded enough to overlook a serious illness. He would have done anything to get Brendon better, paid any price as long as he got to see that smile again.
Now, he’d still do anything, and that’s just it. He’d do anything, but there’s nothing to do.
He draws his knees up to his chest and tilts his head back against the wall.
Nothing.
Part 4
Type: Bandom, MPreg
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon, bonus side Jon/Spencer
Word Count: ~29000
Time: three months
Rating: NC-17
Author's Note: This. Is pretty much completely self-indulgent. I have no excuse for myself. Be warned that there is indeed mpreg so if you really can't handle that, then you must turn away. Oh, god, if you found this by googling yourself and don't know what mpreg even is. Please leave. Please. hopefulgenius is the person I worship for her mad beta skill. Adore her. She is forever my favorite.
ETA: It has come to my attention that Rock-a-Bye Baby has been plagiarized twice now. I'd just like to encourage everyone to please notify the author any time you believe their work has been plagiarized. I also want to say thank you to the people who have notified me about these instances. It means a lot to us. Stay awesome, guys :)
Summary: "It’s a normal day in the House of Urie-Ross-Smith-Walker, more commonly known as The Bus."
Brendon has no clue how he makes it to Ryan’s condo alive. He remembers something like swerving to miss a semi and a lot of honking, but that’s pretty much it.
He doesn’t really care. He just pounds on the door as hard as he can. “Ryan! Ryan, answer the god damn door!”
He can hear Hobo barking her crazy little head off. Through the thick wood of the door, he can hear Ryan say, “Hobo, move, I can’t get it if you’re in the way. It's not like you’re terrifying anyway.”
Hobo whines, but apparently moves because Ryan swings the door open.
Brendon throws his arms around Ryan, his fingers twisting into the back of Ryan’s t-shirt.
“Brendon? Are you okay?”
Brendon sniffles. “No.”
Ryan’s hand curls around Brendon’s back and pulls him inside, shutting the door softly behind him. Hobo sniffs at Brendon’s feet and yips her cheerful greeting. When Brendon doesn’t respond by immediately picking her up and cuddling her, she scratches at his ankle and yowls.
Brendon smiles a little at her. “Hi, Hobo-girl.”
Hobo whimpers and bites at his shoe in response.
“Hush, Hobo,” Ryan says, but he doesn’t mean it. He can never tell Hobo what to do; it just isn’t in him. That, and Hobo’s a pushy bitch when she wants her way. “Brendon’ll play with you later, hush.”
Brendon’s breathing falters. “You were right.”
Ryan’s fingers trace softly beneath the hem of Brendon’s shirt, gliding across the dip of Brendon’s back. “Yeah.”
Brendon nods against Ryan’s shirt and sniffles again. “Mostly, anyway.”
“Come on.” Ryan guides him over to the couch, helping him sit down. He starts to move away and Brendon grabs his wrist. He doesn’t want Ryan to leave him again, ever. Ryan places his hand over Brendon’s and squeezes. “I’ll be right back.”
Brendon tentatively lets go and anxiously watches Ryan disappear into the kitchen, returning seconds later with a glass of water. “Here, drink.”
Brendon obeys, taking the cup and sipping on it slowly. “Thanks.”
Ryan settles on the couch next to him. “So, what happened?”
Brendon takes another sip and wedges himself underneath Ryan’s arm, flush against his side. It’s a bold move to make right after their fight, but Brendon needs to touch. He feels like his hands have forgotten what Ryan feels like beneath them and Brendon despises that. “I had a revelation.”
“Revelation?” Ryan quirks an eyebrow.
“Yeah. I was with Jon and Spencer.” He’s not going to say to get over you because that would be so pathetic right now and his rep is already going to take a serious blow if he ends up crying at some point. He’s almost positive he will. “I was upset so Jon beat me bad at Guitar Hero and he said that I was a loser. It called for retaliation so I tackled him.”
“Like that?” Ryan is staring at his belly and Brendon blushes. Come on, he’s not that big yet. There’s no way everyone can be so obsessed with the baby when he’s only a little larger than before. He can still fit into his jeans, for heaven’s sake.
“Yeah. Anyway, he wouldn’t fight with me and Spencer came in with coffee. And I couldn’t have coffee. And I was already upset because you were pissed, and everything was the baby’s fault. And I.” He stops, his words catching in his throat. Water gathers in the corners of his eyes and he scratches at them. “I hated our baby.”
Ryan squeezes his arm reassuringly.
Brendon doesn’t sob, but he wants to. “It was so stupid, Ryan. I hated our baby over a cup of coffee and a wrestling match that would have ended in me busting my head on the couch again. I hated him for making me have to hide from the press when I do anyway. I hated him for making me get fat. I hated him for all the morning sickness.” He buries his head in Ryan’s shoulder and purses his lips. “I’m such a shitty person.”
Ryan half gathers Brendon up and Brendon half crawls on top of him. They adjust so that Brendon fits in Ryan’s lap, knees bent at both sides of Ryan’s waist. Ryan rubs his back again. “Not really. Having a baby has to be screwing your body’s chemistry all to hell. You didn’t mean it.”
“But I did.” Brendon lowers his head. “I should love him. More than anything. He’s a person. He should feel loved and nurtured no matter what kind of weird my body is.”
“Okay.” Ryan’s lips press against his temple. “And?”
Brendon closes his eyes tight and prepares to be dumped out on the floor. He’s scared; he doesn’t want to do this. But it has to be said, in fairness to all parties. “I’m keeping him.”
“Why?”
“It’s not enough, I know, but I love him. I want to buy his baby clothes and fix his scrapes and I don’t want to deal with the unpleasantries that come with them, you’re right.” He keeps his eyes closed and the words tumble out one after another. “But I’m willing to go through all that to get to the good parts. I want to raise this baby. I want to be someone he can look up to, who he can cry to, who he’ll scream at when he doesn’t get his way. I know I need a lot of work, but I’m willing to do it.”
He swallows hard and repeats, “So I’m really sorry, but I’m keeping the baby.”
Not having an abortion has the potential to steamroll everything he’s ever cared about. It might steal everything he’s worked for. It might make Ryan hate him. But Brendon will not kill this baby.
His baby.
Their baby.
Ryan nods. “All right.” Hobo jumps up between them into Brendon’s lap and climbs over his tummy. Ryan hastily shoos her away. “Stop, Hobo, you’ll hurt him.”
Brendon’s stomach flips and he can’t believe what he thinks might be happening. A slow smile settles across his face. “So… you don’t mind?”
Ryan busily pushes Hobo away when she continues her onslaught of hyper puppy attack-love. “No, why would I?”
Brendon lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and slumps forward, pressing against Ryan tiredly. “Because you’re a douche, and I thought I was going to have to raise Baby by myself?”
Ryan snorts. “Yeah, because I’m the one who didn’t answer my Sidekick when you called. I’m the one that didn’t even try to make conversation after our fight. I’m definitely the one that blatantly ignored you when you were trying to make peace offerings out of cans of Pringles and pickles. Yeah, I’m the douche.”
Brendon pulls back and adjusts on Ryan’s lap so that they can face each other. “You called?”
“I haven’t stopped since I got home, you asshole.”
“Oh.” Brendon blinks. “I hid my phone so I wouldn’t call you. It’s probably out of batteries by now, I guess. Why didn’t you use my house phone?”
Ryan’s lips twist into a smile. “You have a house phone?”
Brendon tosses his head back and laughs. Ryan shakes his head and leans forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of Brendon’s mouth.
***
August: Month Four
Things change quickly over the next couple of weeks. For one, Brendon doesn’t go back to his house more than twice, and that was only to get jeans because his hips have never been able to fit into Ryan’s pants. No, no, scratch that, he’d made one more trip the day after he’d made up with Ryan to make sure he hadn’t left the stove on. So he’s been to his condo all of three times since he left to play Guitar Hero with Jon and Spencer.
Another thing that changes is that he and Ryan are moving. Yeah, huge change. It totally catches Brendon off guard.
One morning, he wakes up and is surrounded by cream colored bedding, but no Ryan. He closes his eyes again and huffs, tossing his arm behind him to search. But Ryan isn’t next to him.
Brendon quickly sits up. Hobo is in her proper place across Brendon’s feet, keeping them warm, but Ryan really isn’t there. Ryan never leaves the bed unless Brendon is awake too. Brendon likes to imagine that it’s because Ryan likes watching him sleep as much as Brendon likes watching Ryan, but it’s probably more like Ryan doesn’t want to wake him up.
So, yeah, he’s a little worried when Ryan isn’t curled up next to him.
He yawns and rubs the sleep out of his eyes before climbing out of bed, wrapping the blankets over his head and shoulders. Hobo whines at him for being disturbed, but stretches and jumps down on the floor, looking up at him expectantly. Brendon smiles at her, leaning down to scratch behind her ear before getting up and opening the bedroom door to let her out. She trots out ahead of him and immediately into the kitchen, toward Ryan, Brendon assumes, so he follows her.
She’s sitting at Ryan’s heels, wagging her little beagle tail as she eats what has to be the remains of his breakfast. He’s holding a highlighter in one hand and a spoon buried inside a jar of peanut butter in the other. This morning’s paper is spread out in front of him and he only looks away from it for a second when he scratches Hobo.
Warmth spreads inside Brendon’s chest.
Ryan’s always made Brendon a little weird, a little softer around the edges, but lately he’s just been a ball of mush every time he sees Ryan’s face or hears his name. Brendon blames it on the hormones. “You’re up early.”
“Morning to you too. And, yeah, I wanted to get an early start,” Ryan tells him, returning to his paper and highlighting a passage.
“Kay.” Brendon grabs one of the table’s chairs and drags it next to Ryan’s. He plops down in it and nuzzles his face in Ryan’s arm. He sticks his finger in Ryan’s peanut butter jar and licks it clean. “What are you starting on?”
He looks at the newspaper articles. Everything highlighted says something like ‘2 bedroom, 1 1/2 bath, walk-in closet,’ ‘3 bedroom, 2 bath, for sale by owner,’ or ‘lease-purchase, 2 bedroom, 1 extra room’.
Ryan highlights one that says ‘3 bedroom, huge living room, lease to own’. “House hunting.”
Brendon stops with his finger half in his mouth. “What?”
“House hunting,” Ryan repeats easily. “We need to get a new house before the baby comes.”
Brendon pushes up off of Ryan’s shoulder and stares at him. “But. I love your house. I don’t want to move. I just got here.” Well, not really. He’s been there for a couple of weeks and he’s stayed over for long periods of time before. It’s just that now it’s starting to feel like his house too and he doesn’t want to give it up so soon.
Ryan looks back at him. “Brendon, this place isn’t big enough for me, you, Hobo, and a baby who will eventually get bigger than a… lime?”
“Dr. Shelley says Baby is more like an avocado now,” Brendon corrects him, gesturing with his hands the size difference between a little lime and a big avocado. Though he has a new obstetrician now and Dr. Shelley is in Chicago, he still talks to her every week. He likes her a lot and stubbornly refused to leave her out of the pregnancy despite the distance.
“Okay, whatever. Baby is going to get bigger than that.” He softly pokes Brendon’s stomach, pleasantly round and stretching his shirt after four months. “We need the room. Besides, this place isn’t exactly baby-proof. We’ve got more points here than a porcupine.”
Brendon has to admit that Ryan’s right. From the kitchen table to the bookshelf in the living room to the ultra sharp edges of every corner that can be turned, Ryan’s house is not baby-proof.
Brendon groans. He hated house shopping the first time around and he’s going to despise it the second, he’s sure. He can never find everything he wants in anything. It’s not that he’s particularly picky. On the contrary, he was actually okay with almost everything the realtor showed him. It’s more that he doesn’t really have a preference over where he lives as long as it has electricity and windows that can open for the sunshine.
The only reason he’d been able to decide on the house he currently owns is because Spencer threatened to strangle him if he didn’t pick one that week (“For fuck’s sake, Brendon, just shuffle the addresses, close your eyes, and draw one; it doesn’t even matter this much!”).
“We could always just put cotton over everything,” Brendon suggests hopelessly, swirling his finger in the peanut butter jar.
Ryan ignores his idea, but rubs his knee. “Don’t worry. We won’t have Spencer breathing down our necks since we already are living somewhere. We can take our time. Is there absolutely anything you want the house to have?”
Brendon tries to think, he honestly does, but his brain just doesn’t worry about breakfast bars and stairwell nooks often enough to care. Those things don’t particularly matter to him. “Other than a place for us to sleep, a nursery, and, like, somewhere to put my piano? No, not really.”
“Shit, forgot.” Ryan scribbles ‘piano’ on the side of the newspaper. He hums and sucks the back of the highlighter into his mouth thoughtfully. “So at least three bedrooms, probably more like four because Spencer will bitch if we make him sleep on the couch whenever he and Jon stay over. Hobo needs a yard to play in.” He replaces his highlighter with a red pen and crosses out several of the houses that don’t fit the criteria.
“Maybe we should be careful about a lot of extra things?” Brendon suggests. “I don’t want Baby to get hurt or bust his head or something.” He shudders at the thought. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Baby actually made it through all of this, through this weird pregnancy, through being a medical anomaly, through feeling unloved his first few months of existing (and Brendon knows that he knows; it’s one of those things that he can just tell) only to die from hitting his delicate little head on the breakfast nook.
“Mm. Anything else?”
Brendon sighs. “You shouldn’t have to give up your house, Ryan.” Honestly, it’s making him feel like a crappy person. He doesn’t get angry at Baby for the changes anymore, but he blames himself a lot.
Of course, Ryan is completely chill and lets it go without a problem. “It’s not that big a deal. I needed to redecorate anyway.”
Brendon knows the last part is for his benefit. Ryan redecorated right before they left for the tour. But if Ryan can not care about this, then Brendon can too. “Got another highlighter?”
Ryan offers him a blue pen instead and Brendon circles everything he likes the sound of, meaning that he mostly circles everything Ryan has already highlighted. After his third choice, he looks up at Ryan and kisses him. He tastes like peanut butter and this morning’s coffee (decaf, since Brendon would go crazy if there was caffeine in the house that he wasn’t allowed to have). “I love you.”
***
The first time Brendon feels the baby kick for real and not just in his head, he isn’t even sure what it is. The best and only way he can think to describe it is that it felt like a popcorn kernel popping in his stomach.
He thinks it’s weird but doesn’t give it a second thought. Then it happens again, harder, like the baby is saying, “I’m right here, you idiot.”
When he realizes what he’s feeling, he runs to the bathroom and locks himself in. Everything seems so real so suddenly and it’s utterly terrifying. He calls Dr. Shelley, thankful that he has his Sidekick stuffed in his back pocket. She laughs and assures him that everything's fine and that, yes, she's arranging everything so she can be at the hospital in Vegas when he goes into labor, "So stop having a heart attack, Brendon."
But he can't. Even after Dr. Shelley's encouragement, when they hang up, he still thinks he's going to lose it.
Brendon looks at his reflection in the bathroom mirror with a hand pressed firmly below his bellybutton, where he’d felt the movement and thinks, 'Oh, god, it's not just me anymore'.
Of course, Ryan starts to freak out when Brendon won’t open the bathroom door after about ten minutes or so. He threatens and begs and bribes, but it isn’t until he threatens to call Spencer that Brendon lets him in.
“What the hell, Brendon? What happened?”
“I felt him.” Brendon shakes his head. “I felt him kick.” Brendon is about to freak out, just completely unravel, and it won’t be pretty when he does.
Ryan must sense the oncoming breakdown, because he wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. His free hand rests on Brendon’s stomach.
Brendon curls into Ryan pathetically and whispers, “He’s seriously there,” into Ryan’s neck, muffled and half-broken.
Beneath the alarm though, there’s something else that Brendon hasn’t particularly felt yet. There’s this new awareness of the baby now, this brand new connection outside of a heartbeat and simple knowing.
After Ryan calms him down, the complete wonder of having someone inside him, just kind of chilling out until they’re ready to make their debut appearance as the perfect little person, takes over every feeling of anxiety in Brendon, and.
Brendon never thought he could love somebody like he loves this baby.
***
Ryan’s first time feeling the baby kick is a little funny. He’s got his head in Brendon’s lap, half-asleep from the pure laziness of not having to do shows or a million interviews for the past couple months.
Brendon has his fingers in Ryan’s hair, humming a song that may or may not have been from The Little Mermaid as he watches a Planet’s Ugliest Dog Competition on Animal Planet. He coos over several of them and laughs over more. Ryan just presses his cheek to Brendon’s stomach and closes his eyes.
A soft pressure runs along the side of his face and he and Brendon both jump, resulting in Ryan being dumped on the floor.
Brendon laughs until he can’t breathe.
Yeah, Ryan knows where this kid gets his sense of humor.
***
September: Month Five
Being pregnant in September, the hottest month of the entire fucking year in Vegas, completely sucks. Brendon is tired and he’s burning up and his body generally aches a lot.
Being pregnant in September while house-hunting? Yeah, it sucks so much worse.
They call Pete for the realtor’s number, confident that if anyone knows someone who can keep their mouth shut about a celebrity scandal involving both gay and babies, it will be Pete.
He, in fact, does.
“She’s great, guys,” he assures them. “You’ll love her and she’ll totally stay quiet about your fucking like bunnies.”
“Not so much,” Brendon says bitterly, his head on Ryan’s shoulder to overhear the conversation.
Ryan gives him a what-can-you-do look. “Do you want the baby to be scarred before he’s born?”
“S’what therapy is for. Duh,” Brendon sniffs.
“Trouble in paradise?” Pete asks, laughing. Brendon wants to throttle him but knows Pete would kick his ass, sad as that is.
“No.” Ryan rubs Brendon’s arm. Brendon wishes he could resist touching Ryan long enough to push him away because, seriously, you can only jerk off so much when your boyfriend is in the same bed as you, god. “Realtor, Pete?
“Oh, yeah. Hold on.”
She’s everything Pete promises when they meet her. Nice, to the point, completely discrete and very competent.
But Brendon can’t help but want to kill her after she starts sending choices and flyers of houses they aren’t going to buy their way.
“Are you sure you don’t just want to throw darts? We can just live wherever the darts hit or something,” he whimpers pathetically, sifting through more flyers and newspaper clippings.
Ryan offers him some gummy bears, the ultimate peace offering in the World of Ryan Ross, and says, “No, Brendon.”
***
They keep looking and so does the realtor, and Brendon is about a week from slitting his wrists when Spencer calls.
“Hey, Brendon,” he greets. “Is Ryan around?”
“Spencer Smith, I am offended.” Brendon grins into the phone. “Am I not good enough to talk to? Also, why did you call my phone if you wanted Ryan?”
In the background he can hear something clatter and Jon cussing loudly. Spencer laughs. “Jon, don’t die. I don’t want to write ‘Death by Spaghetti Sauce’ on your grave, seriously. What? No, I’m doing it now, hold on. Brendon?”
“Still here,” Brendon chirps. He’s in an okay mood at the moment. Ryan let him off the house-hunting hook today and woke him up with a blow job, so. Pretty cool day so far. “Did Jon die?”
“No. I think he’s picking up chunks of tomato though. Anyway, I called your phone because Ryan’s is always busy anymore. Plus, you both should hear this.”
“Hold on.” Brendon switches to speaker phone. “Ryan! Ryan Ross, your best friend is on my phone and he wants to talk to you,” he calls through the house.
Ryan emerges from the kitchen with his Sidekick pressed to his ear. “What? Why’d he call you?”
Brendon rolls his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s my friend too? Or maybe he couldn’t make it through the endless stream of phone calls about all the houses and shit anymore?”
Ryan covers his unoccupied ear and says, “Yeah, I’ll call you back later, probably after we have dinner.” He hangs up and sighs. “What’s up, Smith?”
Spencer snorts. “Still looking for that house, Ross?”
Brendon laughs. “Are you kidding? That’s all he ever does anymore. I’m beginning to suspect he’s having an affair with the realtor at this point.”
“And run the risk of losing a brat like you?” He ruffles Brendon’s hair a little. “Never.”
“Ew, still here,” Spencer says. “Anyway, just wanted to tell you guys that there’s a house for sale down the street if you’re interested. It’s pretty big and it’s even got a piano room, according to the sign they posted.”
Brendon and Ryan look at each other, and Brendon’s face breaks into a grin.
***
The house is perfect, absolutely, completely perfect. Not too big, not too small, a pretty backyard for Hobo, a bookcase built into the wall for Ryan, a room for Brendon’s piano with a huge window facing the backyard.
And there’s a room right across from the master bedroom.
When Brendon walks into it, he can see a crib in the corner, a toybox beneath the window lying unused because the toys are scattered across the floor. He sees an overly loved blanket with an equally loved bear beneath it. The sun streams through the window; he can hear little bursts of giggles and.
They sign the papers on the spot.
***
Ryan’s Sidekick buzzes in his back pocket, and he hefts the box of silverware in his hands up on their new house’s kitchen counter to answer the text.
He arches an eyebrow when Brendon’s number shows up.
hi gues wut
Brendon is supposed to be resting upstairs while Ryan, Jon, and Spencer unpack all of their crap (which is a lot of stuff when you put everything together), not messing around with his phone. “Brendon, you okay?” he calls up.
His phone vibrates again.
jus guess
Ryan rolls his eyes and types.
i’m kind of busy. what?
“Slacker,” Jon mutters as he helps Spencer bring in a couch.
Spencer shoots a look right through his unworthy heart. “I swear to God I’ll kill you myself if you’re texting right now.”
The phone buzzes like an alarm clock and Ryan shrugs helplessly. “It’s Brendon.”
And Brendon texts, GUESS, to him.
idk, you better be sleep texting or something. spence is glaring at me.
Ryan slices his box open with a box cutter and starts putting away the stuff inside slowly to buy some time.
Sry ): ily (geuss!!1!)
“Ryan,” Spencer snaps as he lowers the couch down, his arms straining with the weight, “put the damn phone away.”
“Seriously, man,” Jon pants. “Isn’t he just upstairs anyway?”
Ryan quickly types, srsly, b, idk. “Yeah, he won’t quit though.”
“Tell him I’ll strangle him if he doesn’t stop distracting you.” Spencer rubs his sore arms. They’ve been moving stuff all morning, Ryan helping Brendon move small things while he and Jon move bigger ones. Like the love seat. And the television. And the table.
And the godforsaken couch.
Yeah, it’s starting to make him pissy.
“I will, I will,” Ryan barely puts up two glasses when the phone rings. Spencer throws up his hands and goes back to the moving van, Jon at his heels.
im n OUR bed lookn out OUR wndw @ UOR yard @ hobo <3
Ryan’s face softens into a smile.
yeah?
Ryan leans against the counter, hips cocked, the box of dishes and Spencer’s pending rage long forgotten as he waits for Brendon’s reply.
ya ily xoxoooo
get some rest, b, he types. As an afterthought, he adds, ily too xo, before pushing send.
***
October: Month Six
It’s amazing, really, but after they move everything into the new house, from Ryan’s notebooks to Brendon’s collection of movie posters, they still need stuff to take up space.
They hire a designer to fix up most of the house, but Brendon won’t let her touch their room or the baby’s nursery. He thinks they should be more personal than a spiffed up living room or kitchen, so they have to do that by themselves.
Ryan points out that Brendon’s stomach has grown even more and there’s no way a simple hoodie will hide it. Brendon shrugs and drags out a hoodie that’s so grossly oversized that it covers his hands and reaches his mid-thighs. It completely swallows Brendon whole and is a pretty good disguise.
Besides, how many people at Wal-Mart or Target or whatever are going to happen to be part of the paparazzi anyway?
They go shopping and while Ryan is deciding whether their room should be Tropical Breeze or Spearmint Stick (“They are the same color, Ryan. Just pick one.” “…Are you blind?”) Brendon goes off to explore. He browses through electronics for a while, admiring the gigantic flat screens and all the new music they’ve gotten in before he gets bored and walks around aimlessly.
He messes around with the Legos and stuffed animals in the toy section until Ryan finds him and says that it’s past dinner time. Ryan is very particular about not missing meals, particularly about Brendon missing meals. Brendon isn’t sure why. The baby is supposed to only be about a pound, and he’s gained, like, twenty. He could live off the body fat for a year or something.
But Ryan is still very particular, and he ushers Brendon out of the store with a few strips of color that they’re supposed to tape on the walls to see what they like and without actually buying anything.
Brendon sighs and allows himself to be led along until they walk outside and he spots the vending machines. He immediately detaches himself and bounces over to one with rings in it, yanking his wallet out of his back pocket and feeding it change. When he opens the plastic bubble that comes out, it’s a red band with silver flecks down the middle. He puts it on and holds it up to the Las Vegas sunset’s light.
Ryan makes an annoyed sound. “Come on, Brendon. I’m hungry.”
Brendon waves at him. “Hang on. Just a second.”
He feeds the machine more change and frowns when the next bubble produces a blue ring. And when the next is a yellow one. Then another blue. Then a red one with black flecks. Then a gold one with a fake emerald.
He finally runs out of change and, after patting his pockets down, he turns to Ryan with huge, hopeful eyes. “Do you have any change?”
Ryan’s hands are on his hips. “No. Now come on.”
Brendon huffs. “You didn’t even look.”
“Ugh.” Ryan rolls his eyes and fishes his wallet out, dumping the change part into Brendon’s hand. “Just hurry up.”
Brendon nods and puts the coins in their slots. Another yellow one comes out before he finally opens a bubble with a red and silver one. He grins and grabs Ryan’s hand, pushing the ring onto his finger before Ryan can really do anything about it.
His face absolutely glows when he says, “Now we match.”
Ryan feels like something monumental has just happened but isn’t totally sure of what it is, just that it’s important and it’s probably been coming for a long, long time. Brendon laces their fingers together and smiles and this feels so right and normal that he can’t help but smile back.
***
They return to the store eventually to pick some more paint colors because Ryan apparently doesn’t like any of them for more than a couple of days.
Brendon still can’t bring himself to be interested in the difference between Tropical Breeze and Spearmint Stick so he sets off to explore again.
Brendon eventually lights upon the baby section and is immediately drawn in by a bib that says, “Who says I can’t keep a beat?” with a set of pots and pans beneath the words. He snatches it despite the fact that they were going to go baby shopping after they’d gotten the room painted.
It is a musically oriented baby object. He can not be held accountable for his actions.
He’s trying desperately not to grab a bunch of pacifiers with little animals on them when he sees it out of the corner of his eye.
It’s got a silver front and little black musical notes are scattered across it and there’s a picture of a teddy bear holding a guitar and Brendon needs that baby album like he needs to breathe.
***
Dear Baby-Who-Has-Yet-To-Be-Named,
Hey, Baby. I really hope you don’t mind me calling you Baby for right now. Your dad and I haven’t figured out what exactly we should call you. Also, we don’t know if you’re a little boy or a little girl (I didn’t want to know; I love surprises) so we aren’t even sure what gender of a name we should be looking for.
Yeah, I know this is your baby album I’m writing in and it should go unused until you’re here, but I wanted to write you a letter before you come, which should only be in a couple of months. We’re expecting you in January so you’re going to be a New Year’s baby! How awesome is that? I’m an April baby. Nothing special about that other than April Fool’s Day and that’s honestly not the nicest holiday ever. And then there’s that April showers bring May flowers stuff, but seriously. I want no part in rain. Don’t worry about your birthday being so close to Christmas. We promise to give you just as many presents as we would if you were born in August. None of that combined Christmas and birthday gift stuff.
I’m severely off topic now. But I still promise all of that!
I also promise that you’ll always feel loved and like you belong no matter what. You’ve got a lot of people that want you already and you’re not even here yet. There’s Uncle Jon and Uncle Spencer and Pete (we haven’t decided if you should call him uncle yet, he’s a questionable influence) and Uncle Patrick and a lot more uncles that aren’t really related to us but qualify anyway.
Dad and I love you too, Baby. I can’t wait until you get here so I can kiss your little hands and feet and tickle you until you squeal. I want to teach you everything I can, most of which is going to be music because that’s what I know best. If you don’t like music, that’s fine, but I have this feeling that you will. Dad’s excited about teaching you too. He thinks I didn’t see him looking at those little guitars the other day at the store, but I did. I think I’ll go get one just so he doesn’t have to admit to hoping that you’ll love playing like he does.
We painted your room the other day and put all of your stuff in it. It’s yellow and white and has these pretty gauzy curtains that let all this sunshine through your window. We bought your basinet and a crib for when you’re a little bigger and we got a toybox that isn’t exactly big enough for all the toys we got you. You’ve got a million teddy bears and interactive learning stuff and alphabet books and number books and all kinds of things that I doubt you’ll look at more than a couple of times before we buy you more stuff.
You’re going to be one spoiled kid, I already know that. I have no self-control whatsoever when it comes to you and buying you anything I think you might want or need ever in your entire life. It drives your dad crazy. Quietly crazy, but crazy is crazy no matter the volume.
I wish on every star I see anymore that I can somehow make you happy. I want to give you a perfect life and all the smiles and encouragement and hope and anything else that you’ll need from me.
I love you so much, Baby. I wish you were here so I could whisper that to you and sing to you. I do already and even if all the books say that you can hear me, it’s just not the same. I want to sing you lullabies and cradle you and kiss you until you fuss for me to leave you alone (and I know you will, your dad is too good at it for you not to).
I love you love you love you love you. And I always will. I want you to know that no matter what.
-Daddy
***
After his letter, Brendon fills out all the information the baby book asks. His due date (more like his due month, they never could figure out when exactly the baby was conceived; Ryan thinks it was that time against the amps, but Brendon is positive it was when they were on top of his piano), his and Ryan’s parents’ names, all of the uncles and aunts both legitimate and illegitimate, how far along he is as he begins the book, and so forth. He fills Ryan’s name in next to the bold DAD heading and scratches out the MOM one, re-labeling it DADDY and putting his own name there.
When he gets to the part that says MY NAME IS he stops and bites his lip.
Baby needs a name.
***
“Ryan,” Brendon whispers one night when, once again, his mind is moving too fast to let him sleep. “Ryan, are you awake?”
Ryan doesn’t answer, his breath doesn’t even falter, maintaining its warm, steady in and out puffing against the back of Brendon’s neck. He’s dead to the world, probably from having to do so much painting over the past two weeks. Because Brendon can’t be around the supposedly toxic fumes according to Ryan (despite the fact that the paint was labeled non-toxic), Ryan has to paint both their room and the nursery alone.
Brendon almost feels bad for asking Ryan not to let the designer and painters do the two rooms, but thinks Ryan is being too silly over the deadly paint issue for much pity.
Their room is painted though, striped in broad lengths of White Linen and Mirage White which is actually a green, believe it or not. Brendon thought it would look like a circus tent or something when Ryan started, but of course, Ryan was always the more artistic of the two of them, and it’s beautiful.
Brendon’s hands glide over Ryan’s arms, down to where they’re splayed over Brendon’s stomach, and he squeezes them gently. “Ryan.”
Ryan’s breath comes out a little harder, a half-sigh, and he mumbles, “Mn, yeah?”
Brendon wiggles a little until he’s pressed tighter into Ryan, completely spooned by him. “I can’t sleep.”
There’s a pause in which Brendon thinks that maybe Ryan fell asleep again, but Ryan eventually squeezes his hands. “Just close your eyes, Brendon.”
“I already tried.”
Ryan half-sighs again and presses down on Brendon’s hip, turning him over so they can face each other. He rubs his eyes and blinks a couple times before saying, “Okay, what’s wrong?”
Brendon can’t press flush against Ryan anymore, not with the baby, but he certainly makes an effort. He manages to get their shoulders and most of their chests touching, and he shifts to tangle their legs together. “We need a name for Baby.”
“At,” Ryan lifts his head a little and reaches over Brendon to retrieve his Sidekick from the bedside table and look at the screen, “3:46 in the morning?”
Okay, maybe right now isn’t the perfect time to bring up naming Baby. Still, if not now, when? “It’s almost January and we haven’t named him. He’s not even here yet and I suck as a parent.”
Yeah, pity party, everyone feel bad for Brendon being a shitty parent. He knows he’s being a little dramatic, just a little, but he really does feel bad.
Ryan sounds like he’s half-asleep again when he says. “Brendon, stop worrying so much. Some people don’t even have names days after the baby is born.”
Brendon nuzzles beneath Ryan’s ear, a small attempt to keep him awake. “We should still think about it.”
Ryan’s fingers sweep over his back, making large, comforting circles. “Brendon, I’ll buy you the entire baby-naming section of Barnes & Noble tomorrow if you be quiet and go to sleep.”
Brendon smiles and places a kiss over Ryan’s pulse point. “Promise?”
Ryan nods, his hand slowing its movements as he drifts off. “Promise.”
***
November: Month Seven
The hard part of baby naming, they discover, is not finding a good name. The hard part is picking just two, just a first name and a middle name.
They’ve made a list in Ryan’s notebook, right under some lyric-poem thing about cotton candy and lips to match / sticky, flitting fingers but / we were too young to understand what it all meant anyway. So far it looks like a scribbled mess of stars and highlighter and crossing things out and writing them back in and fitting first names with middle ones and question marks and “look up meaning” written beside a good chunk of what might or might not be actual names.
So far, they like (in no particular order, not even by gender because they aren’t sure of the intended gender for half of them) (also, this is only the names that they can still read, not everything they’ve thought of):
Connor, Jillian, Jaden, Kaden, Trevor, Jace, Caleb, Cisqua, Jackson, Landon, Aralyn, Alexa, Myles, Peyton, Isabella (or Izzy or Bella but not Belle, Brendon), Shilah, Piper, Savannah, Michael, Max, Collen, Michelle, Matthew, Blair, Regan, Samara, Chaise, Emily, Jacey, Christopher, Jordan, Tara, Madison, Kallen, Cameron, Emily, Preston
And there are so many variations of each of those names that Brendon’s head is starting to spin, seriously. At one point, he tried to ask the baby his thoughts on the matter, requesting that he kick if he heard any name he liked in particular.
Baby stayed as silent as he possibly could the entire time Brendon and Ryan were reading out names, the little jerk.
This could be a problem.
***
What Brendon wants, what he honestly wants more than anything else in the entire world (other than Ryan and Baby and their band and stuff) is to name Baby George R. Ross IV if he happens to be a boy.
“No.”
Brendon’s not really surprised by the firm, nearly harsh rejection of the idea. He’s never verbalized it, but Brendon’s pretty sure that Ryan swore to himself forever ago that he would not give his son his name.
Still, he pouts. “But I love your name.”
“No.” Ryan looks up from his notebook, gnawing lightly at the end of his pen. A smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “We could name him after you, though. Start a whole line. Brendon Boyd Urie the Second.”
Brendon shudders. “No. Besides, he’s going to be a Ross, not a Urie.”
Ryan’s blinks. “Seriously?”
Brendon ducks his head and smiles. “Shut the fuck up; I’m a traditionalist. Plus, being last in line for everything in elementary school sucked like you wouldn’t believe.”
Ryan snorts a laugh.
***
December: Month Eight
Brendon’s stomach has been hurting all morning. He didn’t even think about it at first, some piece of his brain dismissing it to Baby settling oddly or indigestion or something. His back hurts too, which is weird but not unheard of. He’s got twenty extra baby pounds, almost all of which is on his stomach. A back ache is totally not weird.
Besides, these days he’s used to discomfort. He gets a little nauseated sometimes, his ankles hurt constantly, his head is trapped in a migraine most mornings.
So, yeah, he chalks it up to nothing. He sends Ryan to the store to get sandwiches for lunch and milk and eggs and whatever else they put on the list Ryan keeps on the fridge.
Ryan returns with a frillion bags and refuses to let Brendon even pick up the one with the loaves of bread in it. So Brendon stays inside and unloads everything while Ryan brings stuff in two at a time.
On December 2nd at 12:37 PM, Brendon is carrying a carton of eggs to the fridge when a sudden, crippling pain shoots down the middle of his body, and he collapses to his knees, dropping the eggs.
Ryan comes into the kitchen with his arms full of grocery bags to find Brendon dry-heaving against the open fridge door, jagged eggshells contrasted against their exposed yolks surrounding him. Hobo is next to Brendon, whining, worriedly licking his hand.
Ryan drops everything and falls to his knees next to Brendon, shells crunching beneath his weight and yolks smearing against his pants. “Bren, fuck. What. Are you-?”
“Ryan,” Brendon gasps, his body shaking with effort. He painfully shifts, moving against Ryan. His face fades to ghostly white, his dark eyes huge against such a pale background. On a half-sob he manages, “Baby.”
For a moment, Ryan can’t think, can’t even breathe. Not with Brendon looking like he might be dying in his arms, not when he looks so sick and terrified.
But having a panic attack right now will not help Brendon or their baby.
“Brendon,” Ryan says, soft, soothing, “I know it hurts, but you have to listen to me. Try to breathe. You know, like your breathing exercises before shows.”
Brendon makes a heartbreaking noise, but his breath puffs a vaguely familiar rhythm against Ryan’s cheek.
“Good, Brendon.” Ryan smoothes his hair back. “I’m going to go get the baby bag, okay? Then I’m going to call Dr. Shelley and we’ll get to the hospital. Can you walk?”
“No,” Brendon breathes, his body growing lax as the first shocks of pain subside.
Ryan mentally curses. “Okay. That’s fine. Stay here, then.” He helps Brendon learn against the refrigerator. “I’ll be right back.” He presses a kiss to Brendon’s forehead. “Right back.”
He half-runs to get the duffel bag he insisted on packing as soon as Brendon hit six months. Brendon had laughed and said he was paranoid. Ryan is beyond thankful for his paranoia now.
When he gets back to the kitchen, the bag slung over his shoulder, Brendon is trying to pull himself up with a chair, his socked feet slipping in egg. Ryan catches him before he falls. “Shit, Brendon. Do you think you can get to the car if I help?”
Brendon nods, breathless, “Yes, yeah,” and leans gratefully against Ryan’s shoulder.
“Come on, then.” Ryan wraps his arm around Brendon’s waist. “Or are you too pansy, Urie?”
Brendon’s face is mostly contorted in pain, but there’s a dark glare beneath that. “Fuck you, Ross. See if he gets your last name now.”
Ryan doesn’t laugh because he isn’t sure if Brendon’s kidding or not. Instead, he helps Brendon lie down in the back seat of the car.
***
Ryan calls Spencer after Dr. Shelley, then Pete as they pull into the front of the hospital and the doctors get Brendon out of the car.
“Seriously?” Pete asks. “I thought it was next month?”
“Yeah, well. You know Brendon.” Ryan reshoulders the baby bag. “He always rushes everything.”
“Okay. We’re going to catch a plane. We’re in LA so it’ll only be a couple hours. I’ll call everyone.”
Ryan holds in a groan. A hospital room full of the FBR/DD team is totally inconspicuous. Totally. “Okay. See you then.”
People help Brendon up on a stretcher and roll him away. Ryan moves to follow, but Dr. Shelley blocks his way. “Mr. Ross, I can’t let you back with him right now.”
Ryan purses his lips. “Is he having the baby?”
She nods. “More than likely. First children rarely come to term, but he’s too early; two months is way too early.”
Fear grips at Ryan’s chest, but he swallows it down, bitter and harsh. “Now what?”
“I’m going to try and stop the contractions with medication. Brendon’s body is not equipped to go into the actual birthing process and that’s why he’s in so much pain.” Her explanation is calm, slow. Ryan doesn’t trust it.
“If you can’t stop it,” Ryan’s having to count his breaths, in, out, in, as he speaks, “what’s going to happen?”
“The contractions will grow progressively worse. The baby could drown if this takes too long. Worst case scenario, an infection will set in, and Brendon will become septic.”
He feels cold suddenly. Freezing. Ryan wraps his arms around himself. “And he could die.”
Dr. Shelley sighs. “Mr. Ross, I don’t know. I’m an ER surgeon by practice. I’m only here at Brendon’s request. I can do a c-section for him. But this is way out of even an obstetrician’s league.”
Ryan knows, has known from day one.
His fingers card through his hair. “Don’t let Brendon die.”
Dr. Shelley nods, her lips set in a firm line. “I will do everything I can. If the medication doesn’t have an effect within the next half hour, I’ll immediately go into the surgery.”
Ryan wishes he didn’t feel so cold.
***
Spencer and Jon burst into the front lobby like fire’s at their heels. Ryan is immediately engulfed in a hug and Spencer’s voice hovers over his ear. “How’s Brendon?”
Ryan doesn’t answer, just clings to Spencer because he doesn’t know what else to do without the familiarity of Brendon’s hyperactive counterbalance.
Jon pats his shoulder. “What’s happening?”
“Brendon,” Ryan mumbled into Spencer’s shirt. “they’re going to try and stop it, but the medication might not work and then they’re going to do the surgery.”
Spencer moves away a little, grasping Ryan’s shoulders. “Are they okay?”
Ryan doesn’t know. Damn it, Ryan just doesn’t know.
***
Thirty minutes comes and goes like nothing. A nurse comes out to inform them that Dr. Shelley has begun working on Brendon.
Spencer thanks her because Ryan is staring too hard at the dull pattern of the hospital wall to actually be seeing it.
***
Just like when the news about getting pregnant got out, calls and texts flood Ryan’s phone. At first, Ryan didn’t answer it, couldn’t think of what to say. Eventually, though, the receptionists wouldn’t stop glaring, so he starts picking up.
Pete and Patrick are on their way, and Patrick wants to know if Ryan needs anything. Pete says he’s bringing Hemmy and, “fuck the hospital if they don’t like it.”
Gabe’s crew is coming, and Gabe insists on babysitting ASAP. Vicky-T hits him for being insensitive to the whole situation. “His boyfriend is going under the knife, you ass. Could you think about something other than recruiting people for more than, like, ten minutes?”
The Cab are coming. “How could we not?” Marshall laughs. “You’re like our founding fathers, dude. This is almost our kid sibling’s birth.”
The Hush Sound is touring, but Greta sends her love. “Seriously, Ryan, I need pictures as soon as you get them. Keep me updated.”
William and The Academy are on the way as they speak. William calls dibs for godfather. “I know Gabe’s going to try for it if he hasn’t already, and you can’t let him get his hands on the baby. Basement, Ryan. Basement.”
Ryan laughs quietly. “I’ll talk to Brendon when he gets out of surgery.” If he gets out, he thinks suddenly and can barely manage a goodbye before he hangs up.
***
Two hours have come and gone. No one on the hospital staff has said a word about how Brendon is, despite Spencer asking every nurse in sight every ten to twenty minutes.
***
When Brendon was sick the first time, Ryan had been scared of losing someone he loved for being absent-minded enough to overlook a serious illness. He would have done anything to get Brendon better, paid any price as long as he got to see that smile again.
Now, he’d still do anything, and that’s just it. He’d do anything, but there’s nothing to do.
He draws his knees up to his chest and tilts his head back against the wall.
Nothing.
Part 4