Love's Not A Competition (But I'm Winning) [2/6]
The main thing to remember, Ryan tells himself, is not to panic. It wasn’t his fault. They know he is incapable of doing the laundry without everything ending up looking like it should be on a Cabbage Patch Kid. So, it isn’t like they weren’t warned about his horrible skills when it comes to washing machines and tumble dryers. Except the breath rushing in and out of his chest kind of feels like hyperventilating, and his hands are shaking around the shrunken fabric in his hands. Of all the clothing he could have destroyed why did it have to be Jon’s favourite jumper?
Jon’s going to kill him. Worse, he is going to think that Ryan did it on purpose just to aggravate him, and then they will have another pointless argument about how they totally ruined each other’s lives and how they shouldn’t even be living together because they are so far from being friends it’s unbelievable. He can already see the look on Jon’s face when he discovers that his stupid jumper is now only suitable for children aged five to six, and the mental image has his heart plummeting into his stomach.
He tries stretching the fabric between his willowy fingers, hoping the threads will comply but they don’t. He fights with the stubborn material tenaciously, his arms shaking with the amount of force he is using, but the jumper only ends up looking more deformed. Nothing seems to be going right anymore- not even the stupid jumper. Disgruntled, he throws it angrily onto the top of the washer and glares at it hoping to God it will somehow grow in size.
The sound of someone breathing quietly makes him look up, and he goes stiff at the sight of Jon leaning in the doorway staring at the jumper like it’s a close relative that has just died. Ryan surreptitiously steps to the right to block Jon’s view in a feeble attempt to hide his crime, but Jon moves around him and picks up the jumper in his hands. When he glances darkly at Ryan, he suddenly has the urge to crawl into the washer and never come out.
“I can explain...,” Ryan starts, trailing off at the look of warning on Jon’s face. All the air gets caught in his throat, stifling the apologies he wants to spill out. Clamping his mouth shut, he drops his head to look down at the tiled floor and his mismatched socks.
Jon shuffles next to him, presses the jumper accusingly into Ryan’s chest and says, “Don’t bother, Ryan”.
He watches Jon storm out of the room, biting back the comment he wants to shout after him because he knows that it will just send them into another argument. Acid burns on his tongue as he turns back to the laundry and kicks the basket across the floor. It wasn’t his fault.
*
“Get up,” Brendon orders, hand on his cocked hip as he stares down at Ryan who has every intention of ignoring him and going back to sleep. It’s only about seven o’clock if the fiery colour of the sky is anything to go by, but Ryan hasn’t slept properly in days and he rarely keeps to normal sleeping routines. Brendon prods him in the stomach impatiently and indicates towards the door. “Get up, Ry. We’re watching a movie”.
Ryan shakes his head and curls further in on himself. He misses the way that Hobo used to sleep against his chest, her fur making him overheat in the night, and how she made him feel a little less alone. These days his visits have been far and few between, and he feels guilty for that. The cold gushes onto his exposed skin when Brendon tugs the sheets away from him, settling onto his bare arms. Even though he’s still fully clothed he still reflexively twists himself into a tighter ball, muttering profanities and swiping the air blindly to try and hit Brendon.
He hears a laugh somewhere above him, and the sound of Brendon’s feet dancing towards the door.
“If you want your sheets back you better come and watch the movie,” Brendon sings in an obnoxiously happy tone before he leaves the room completely.
For one blissful moment Ryan stretches himself out across the mattress, savouring the pull of his muscles and the way his limbs feel endless. He inhales and exhales slowly, a small smile teetering on the edge of his mouth before he sighs and pulls himself up to sit at the edge of his bed. He looks at the books still strung out haphazardly across his floor and wonders if he will ever find the energy to put them back in their places and re-categorise them in order of preference. Probably not- if he doesn’t get to recover from his fights with Jon why should his room?
Reluctantly, he leaves his room. He finds Brendon and Spencer snuggled up under his bed sheets on the couch, whispering like teenage girls while Jon is bent over the TV, setting up the DVD player. The lights are off so that only the glare for the television set bathes the room in a silvery glow. He watches the scene for a minute, happy to be an observer than a participant, before joining it and taking a seat next to Spencer.
Jon steps away from the TV, his eyes briefly catching Ryan’s as he turns. He hands over the remote to Brendon before squishing into the seat next to him, pointedly looking at the screen.
The Walt Disney castle comes onto the screen and Ryan inwardly groans. How could he have been stupid enough to think they would watch anything with a rating higher that PG? In the months gone by he has almost forgotten about Brendon’s unhealthy affinity for animated musicals. He could seriously kick himself right now. He should have just stayed in bed.
Two seats over Brendon squeals with delight as Aladdin spreads across the television set, and dear God are they actually going to watch this? Don’t they all know the words off by heart by now? Ryan could probably recite them in his sleep which is a disturbing thought because he thinks that could seriously damage his mental well being. He doesn’t even like Aladdin.
Spencer pokes him softly in the hip and smiles warmly, and Ryan manages to smile back. The darkness covers the way his mouth drops back down into a scowl as Spencer turns his head away. He shuts his eyes and snuggles into Spencer’s side, aware of the painful jab in his chest when he realises how familiar it feels.
*
“No,” Jon says, jaw set and teeth clenched. His tone has a note of finality to it that warns Ryan not to argue but there is no way he is just letting this slide. He should at least get some say in things; he does live in the house too.
He follows Jon through to the living room, ignoring Brendon and Spencer who are playing video games on the couch. The familiar heat of frustration starts to bubble in his stomach and his hands tremor slightly. Tension is slowly seeping into the air and Ryan doesn’t care if Brendon or Spencer senses it. He’s too wrapped up in the rush of his own emotions to think about anything else.
“Why not?” he demands angrily, standing in the middle of the television set. His hands are stretched out, welcoming an explanation that will be sufficient enough to stop pushing this. He hears Brendon starts to protest that he is blocking the view, but Spencer whispers something urgently into Brendon’s ear, and he clamps his mouth shut.
Jon turns back to look at him. The calm exterior he once had and his friendly disposition have started to crumble away. He can’t keep up his cool indifference anymore. His eyes are black with irritation and something more that neither of them wants to name. “Because I don’t want this house smelling of wet dog, that’s why! Can’t you just keep on taking the stupid thing out for walks like you usually do? I don’t want it in the house!”
Ryan scoffs and the sound hurts his throat a little. He can’t believe how hypocritical Jon’s being. “Oh so it’s fine if the place stinks of your fucking cats? You are such a fucking asshole, Jon!”
“Yeah? Well so are you!”
Silence falls, and suddenly Ryan can hear the stilted rush of his own breathing; it staccatos unevenly out of his open mouth, as he watches Jon head out the front door. He wants to say something that will stop all this from happening but his mouth is dry, and his tongue feels too thick. The door slams shut with a thud and Ryan’s pulse thuds erratically behind his ears as he listens to the sound of Jon’s angry footsteps charging down the driveway. He stares at the door for a few moments, as if Jon will walk back through the door and apologise if he glares at it hard enough.
Sighing, he turns towards the couch, his hand clawing through his hair. Both Brendon and Spencer are sitting there watching him, game paused and consoles abandoned in their hands. Spencer opens his mouth to say something, lips parted but Ryan doesn’t want to hear him make excuses. He doesn’t want to hear that Jon is tired or just frustrated because he knows that isn’t true. So he just shakes his head, and says, “Save it, Spence”.
Then turns around and shuts himself in his room for the rest of the day.
*
The next morning isn’t much better. Ryan wakes up to find the house is filled with tension. He and Jon pretty much ignore each other, or at least pretend that the other isn’t in the same room. It’s emotionally draining but Ryan doesn’t let it show, he just goes around the house cleaning the mess that really should have been cleaned before Spencer and Brendon even came.
Spencer seems to sense that Ryan needs space, so he keeps his distance and keeps Brendon occupied which is a full time occupation anyway. But he watches Ryan carefully, and frowns whenever he sees an expression that he doesn’t like on Ryan’s face, which seems to be alarmingly often.
In the afternoon Ryan holes himself up in his room, strumming random chords on his guitar that sound so discordant it’s almost painful. The melodies don’t want to come together for him and he doesn’t even have enough energy to get stressed or angry about it. He keeps playing though, not quite willing to admit defeat.
He watches the sun drop from the sky, spiralling low beneath the rooftops and the sky turns from baby blue to a fiery blend of oranges and blazing reds. Sometimes it feels like his heart is dropping with the sun. He rests his guitar beside him on the bed and gazes out the window, idly wondering when everything will fall back into place. It doesn’t seem like a very promising thought right now.
The door to his room bursts open, and Brendon dances in. His smile is wide and enthusiastic as he looks down at Ryan on the bed. He picks up the guitar and strokes it nostalgically, his face full of the passionate interest it usually has when he talks about anything related to music. He sets it back down, and beams so hard that Ryan is afraid his face might break.
“Get dressed Ross, we are going out,” he announces, pulling at Ryan’s thin wrist in an attempt to get him off the bed.
“Where?” Ryan asks vaguely interested. He allows himself to be dragged towards his closet, only barely suppressing the desire to roll his eyes.
He lets Brendon rummage around his closet, making disgruntled noises and even let’s Brendon’s comments on his fashion sense slide (“Do you own an item of clothing that doesn’t look like The Beatles threw up on it?” and “Seriously Ryan, more paisley?”). It gets to a point where Ryan thinks that Brendon is going to proclaim all his clothes unfit to wear and force him to go out in his underwear, when Brendon finally emerges from the depths of his closet he’s holding a pair of black skinny jeans that Ryan forgot he owned and a dark blue long sleeved button-down shirt.
“I haven’t worn those in ages, Brendon,” he says in a voice that is slightly critical. He folds his arms over his chest and shakes his head slightly in dismissal.
Brendon frowns. His lower lip juts out and quivers. His eyes widen and fill with moisture. Its been a while since Ryan was subjected to Brendon’s puppy eyes and he finds that he is no longer immune to the pleading stare. “Please Ry? You’ll look really awesome in them. Please?”
Ryan huffs, but takes the clothes from Brendon’s outstretched arms. “Fine, but if the blood circulation to my legs gets cut off, and I have to have my legs amputated I will never forgive you”.
The sound of Brendon’s laughter rings out in the room as he turns to leave, reminding Ryan again just how much he has missed it, how easy it was to just sit together on the tour bus in the middle of the night and fool around together, just telling stupid jokes.
He puts the clothes on blindly, surprised when the jeans land snug on his hips instead of excruciatingly tight. The shirt slides on easily over his bare arms, and he buttons it as quickly as he can eager to start the evening so that it can finish sooner. His hair curls around his chin, and tickles the nape of his neck under the collar of his shirt. It’s started to grow into his eyes, and he knows he needs to cut it but part of him is curious to see how long he can grow it before he hacks it off with a kitchen knife.
Brendon knocks impatiently on Ryan’s door while he struggles to find a pair of shoes. He curses, hopping on one leg as he rushes to put a shoe on his right foot. When he’s finished he straightens the crinkles out of his shirt and slips his phone into the back pocket of his jeans.
Both Brendon and Spencer are waiting out in the hall when he opens the door to his room. Spencer smiles warmly at him, ignoring the way that Brendon is bouncing around on the balls of his feet next to him.
Jon comes out of his room, freshly shaven. His eyes are turned downwards as he checks the time on his phone. “Hey guys I don’t think-“. Ryan looks over at him, confusion spread across his face. He doesn’t know why Jon stopped talking, but Jon’s eyes are scorching, travelling up and down Ryan’s body. Self consciously, Ryan tugs on the edge of his shirt and gulps, and Jon follows the movement of his Adam’s apple with an intense gaze.
“So let’s go then,” Spencer says, breaking the silence. He indicates towards the door with his hand vaguely and makes a walking motion with his fingers. Brendon skips out the door in front of him, and Ryan almost throws himself out after him in an attempt to hide from Jon’s peculiar gaze.
A/n: No jumpers were harmed :) I made a mistake when I posted the first chapter and wrote the pairing as 'Ryden' when it's actually a 'Rywalk' fic. Sorry, I understand if that discourages you from reading if that's no the pairing you want to read. Thanks for the lovely comments on my previous chapter also :)
Jon’s going to kill him. Worse, he is going to think that Ryan did it on purpose just to aggravate him, and then they will have another pointless argument about how they totally ruined each other’s lives and how they shouldn’t even be living together because they are so far from being friends it’s unbelievable. He can already see the look on Jon’s face when he discovers that his stupid jumper is now only suitable for children aged five to six, and the mental image has his heart plummeting into his stomach.
He tries stretching the fabric between his willowy fingers, hoping the threads will comply but they don’t. He fights with the stubborn material tenaciously, his arms shaking with the amount of force he is using, but the jumper only ends up looking more deformed. Nothing seems to be going right anymore- not even the stupid jumper. Disgruntled, he throws it angrily onto the top of the washer and glares at it hoping to God it will somehow grow in size.
The sound of someone breathing quietly makes him look up, and he goes stiff at the sight of Jon leaning in the doorway staring at the jumper like it’s a close relative that has just died. Ryan surreptitiously steps to the right to block Jon’s view in a feeble attempt to hide his crime, but Jon moves around him and picks up the jumper in his hands. When he glances darkly at Ryan, he suddenly has the urge to crawl into the washer and never come out.
“I can explain...,” Ryan starts, trailing off at the look of warning on Jon’s face. All the air gets caught in his throat, stifling the apologies he wants to spill out. Clamping his mouth shut, he drops his head to look down at the tiled floor and his mismatched socks.
Jon shuffles next to him, presses the jumper accusingly into Ryan’s chest and says, “Don’t bother, Ryan”.
He watches Jon storm out of the room, biting back the comment he wants to shout after him because he knows that it will just send them into another argument. Acid burns on his tongue as he turns back to the laundry and kicks the basket across the floor. It wasn’t his fault.
*
“Get up,” Brendon orders, hand on his cocked hip as he stares down at Ryan who has every intention of ignoring him and going back to sleep. It’s only about seven o’clock if the fiery colour of the sky is anything to go by, but Ryan hasn’t slept properly in days and he rarely keeps to normal sleeping routines. Brendon prods him in the stomach impatiently and indicates towards the door. “Get up, Ry. We’re watching a movie”.
Ryan shakes his head and curls further in on himself. He misses the way that Hobo used to sleep against his chest, her fur making him overheat in the night, and how she made him feel a little less alone. These days his visits have been far and few between, and he feels guilty for that. The cold gushes onto his exposed skin when Brendon tugs the sheets away from him, settling onto his bare arms. Even though he’s still fully clothed he still reflexively twists himself into a tighter ball, muttering profanities and swiping the air blindly to try and hit Brendon.
He hears a laugh somewhere above him, and the sound of Brendon’s feet dancing towards the door.
“If you want your sheets back you better come and watch the movie,” Brendon sings in an obnoxiously happy tone before he leaves the room completely.
For one blissful moment Ryan stretches himself out across the mattress, savouring the pull of his muscles and the way his limbs feel endless. He inhales and exhales slowly, a small smile teetering on the edge of his mouth before he sighs and pulls himself up to sit at the edge of his bed. He looks at the books still strung out haphazardly across his floor and wonders if he will ever find the energy to put them back in their places and re-categorise them in order of preference. Probably not- if he doesn’t get to recover from his fights with Jon why should his room?
Reluctantly, he leaves his room. He finds Brendon and Spencer snuggled up under his bed sheets on the couch, whispering like teenage girls while Jon is bent over the TV, setting up the DVD player. The lights are off so that only the glare for the television set bathes the room in a silvery glow. He watches the scene for a minute, happy to be an observer than a participant, before joining it and taking a seat next to Spencer.
Jon steps away from the TV, his eyes briefly catching Ryan’s as he turns. He hands over the remote to Brendon before squishing into the seat next to him, pointedly looking at the screen.
The Walt Disney castle comes onto the screen and Ryan inwardly groans. How could he have been stupid enough to think they would watch anything with a rating higher that PG? In the months gone by he has almost forgotten about Brendon’s unhealthy affinity for animated musicals. He could seriously kick himself right now. He should have just stayed in bed.
Two seats over Brendon squeals with delight as Aladdin spreads across the television set, and dear God are they actually going to watch this? Don’t they all know the words off by heart by now? Ryan could probably recite them in his sleep which is a disturbing thought because he thinks that could seriously damage his mental well being. He doesn’t even like Aladdin.
Spencer pokes him softly in the hip and smiles warmly, and Ryan manages to smile back. The darkness covers the way his mouth drops back down into a scowl as Spencer turns his head away. He shuts his eyes and snuggles into Spencer’s side, aware of the painful jab in his chest when he realises how familiar it feels.
*
“No,” Jon says, jaw set and teeth clenched. His tone has a note of finality to it that warns Ryan not to argue but there is no way he is just letting this slide. He should at least get some say in things; he does live in the house too.
He follows Jon through to the living room, ignoring Brendon and Spencer who are playing video games on the couch. The familiar heat of frustration starts to bubble in his stomach and his hands tremor slightly. Tension is slowly seeping into the air and Ryan doesn’t care if Brendon or Spencer senses it. He’s too wrapped up in the rush of his own emotions to think about anything else.
“Why not?” he demands angrily, standing in the middle of the television set. His hands are stretched out, welcoming an explanation that will be sufficient enough to stop pushing this. He hears Brendon starts to protest that he is blocking the view, but Spencer whispers something urgently into Brendon’s ear, and he clamps his mouth shut.
Jon turns back to look at him. The calm exterior he once had and his friendly disposition have started to crumble away. He can’t keep up his cool indifference anymore. His eyes are black with irritation and something more that neither of them wants to name. “Because I don’t want this house smelling of wet dog, that’s why! Can’t you just keep on taking the stupid thing out for walks like you usually do? I don’t want it in the house!”
Ryan scoffs and the sound hurts his throat a little. He can’t believe how hypocritical Jon’s being. “Oh so it’s fine if the place stinks of your fucking cats? You are such a fucking asshole, Jon!”
“Yeah? Well so are you!”
Silence falls, and suddenly Ryan can hear the stilted rush of his own breathing; it staccatos unevenly out of his open mouth, as he watches Jon head out the front door. He wants to say something that will stop all this from happening but his mouth is dry, and his tongue feels too thick. The door slams shut with a thud and Ryan’s pulse thuds erratically behind his ears as he listens to the sound of Jon’s angry footsteps charging down the driveway. He stares at the door for a few moments, as if Jon will walk back through the door and apologise if he glares at it hard enough.
Sighing, he turns towards the couch, his hand clawing through his hair. Both Brendon and Spencer are sitting there watching him, game paused and consoles abandoned in their hands. Spencer opens his mouth to say something, lips parted but Ryan doesn’t want to hear him make excuses. He doesn’t want to hear that Jon is tired or just frustrated because he knows that isn’t true. So he just shakes his head, and says, “Save it, Spence”.
Then turns around and shuts himself in his room for the rest of the day.
*
The next morning isn’t much better. Ryan wakes up to find the house is filled with tension. He and Jon pretty much ignore each other, or at least pretend that the other isn’t in the same room. It’s emotionally draining but Ryan doesn’t let it show, he just goes around the house cleaning the mess that really should have been cleaned before Spencer and Brendon even came.
Spencer seems to sense that Ryan needs space, so he keeps his distance and keeps Brendon occupied which is a full time occupation anyway. But he watches Ryan carefully, and frowns whenever he sees an expression that he doesn’t like on Ryan’s face, which seems to be alarmingly often.
In the afternoon Ryan holes himself up in his room, strumming random chords on his guitar that sound so discordant it’s almost painful. The melodies don’t want to come together for him and he doesn’t even have enough energy to get stressed or angry about it. He keeps playing though, not quite willing to admit defeat.
He watches the sun drop from the sky, spiralling low beneath the rooftops and the sky turns from baby blue to a fiery blend of oranges and blazing reds. Sometimes it feels like his heart is dropping with the sun. He rests his guitar beside him on the bed and gazes out the window, idly wondering when everything will fall back into place. It doesn’t seem like a very promising thought right now.
The door to his room bursts open, and Brendon dances in. His smile is wide and enthusiastic as he looks down at Ryan on the bed. He picks up the guitar and strokes it nostalgically, his face full of the passionate interest it usually has when he talks about anything related to music. He sets it back down, and beams so hard that Ryan is afraid his face might break.
“Get dressed Ross, we are going out,” he announces, pulling at Ryan’s thin wrist in an attempt to get him off the bed.
“Where?” Ryan asks vaguely interested. He allows himself to be dragged towards his closet, only barely suppressing the desire to roll his eyes.
He lets Brendon rummage around his closet, making disgruntled noises and even let’s Brendon’s comments on his fashion sense slide (“Do you own an item of clothing that doesn’t look like The Beatles threw up on it?” and “Seriously Ryan, more paisley?”). It gets to a point where Ryan thinks that Brendon is going to proclaim all his clothes unfit to wear and force him to go out in his underwear, when Brendon finally emerges from the depths of his closet he’s holding a pair of black skinny jeans that Ryan forgot he owned and a dark blue long sleeved button-down shirt.
“I haven’t worn those in ages, Brendon,” he says in a voice that is slightly critical. He folds his arms over his chest and shakes his head slightly in dismissal.
Brendon frowns. His lower lip juts out and quivers. His eyes widen and fill with moisture. Its been a while since Ryan was subjected to Brendon’s puppy eyes and he finds that he is no longer immune to the pleading stare. “Please Ry? You’ll look really awesome in them. Please?”
Ryan huffs, but takes the clothes from Brendon’s outstretched arms. “Fine, but if the blood circulation to my legs gets cut off, and I have to have my legs amputated I will never forgive you”.
The sound of Brendon’s laughter rings out in the room as he turns to leave, reminding Ryan again just how much he has missed it, how easy it was to just sit together on the tour bus in the middle of the night and fool around together, just telling stupid jokes.
He puts the clothes on blindly, surprised when the jeans land snug on his hips instead of excruciatingly tight. The shirt slides on easily over his bare arms, and he buttons it as quickly as he can eager to start the evening so that it can finish sooner. His hair curls around his chin, and tickles the nape of his neck under the collar of his shirt. It’s started to grow into his eyes, and he knows he needs to cut it but part of him is curious to see how long he can grow it before he hacks it off with a kitchen knife.
Brendon knocks impatiently on Ryan’s door while he struggles to find a pair of shoes. He curses, hopping on one leg as he rushes to put a shoe on his right foot. When he’s finished he straightens the crinkles out of his shirt and slips his phone into the back pocket of his jeans.
Both Brendon and Spencer are waiting out in the hall when he opens the door to his room. Spencer smiles warmly at him, ignoring the way that Brendon is bouncing around on the balls of his feet next to him.
Jon comes out of his room, freshly shaven. His eyes are turned downwards as he checks the time on his phone. “Hey guys I don’t think-“. Ryan looks over at him, confusion spread across his face. He doesn’t know why Jon stopped talking, but Jon’s eyes are scorching, travelling up and down Ryan’s body. Self consciously, Ryan tugs on the edge of his shirt and gulps, and Jon follows the movement of his Adam’s apple with an intense gaze.
“So let’s go then,” Spencer says, breaking the silence. He indicates towards the door with his hand vaguely and makes a walking motion with his fingers. Brendon skips out the door in front of him, and Ryan almost throws himself out after him in an attempt to hide from Jon’s peculiar gaze.
A/n: No jumpers were harmed :) I made a mistake when I posted the first chapter and wrote the pairing as 'Ryden' when it's actually a 'Rywalk' fic. Sorry, I understand if that discourages you from reading if that's no the pairing you want to read. Thanks for the lovely comments on my previous chapter also :)