Grace Note: Part Four
Part Three
---
Pete’s office is far messier than Ryan’s. There are piles of magazines everywhere, pens scattered about, and every square inch of available wall space is covered with various cd booklets. When Ryan sits down, he has to move a stack of papers. He puts them on the floor, resisting the urge to straighten up the papers so that they’re all facing the same direction.
Progress.
“Hey,” Pete says happily. He’s typing something on his computer, but it only takes him a few seconds to finish, and he closes his laptop. “What’s up, Ryan?”
“Shane said you wanted to talk to me about how my story’s going so far,” Ryan reminds, fingers clenched around his rather blank notebook. He has a couple of things from Spencer and Jon. What they told him is definitely helpful, and the quotes that he recorded are solid too, but Ryan knows that the whole point of the article is to figure out why Brendon broke up the band, and it seems to Ryan that both Spencer and Jon are just as in the dark as the rest of the world.
“He just said that it was time to move on,” Spencer had said. “Said that it was time for him to do something bigger.”
Spencer’s words had echoed the little that Brendon had told Ryan directly, but it doesn’t really help him piece anything together. He can’t very well make something up. Well, he could, but he sort of wants to keep his job.
Living in New York is expensive.
“Oh, yeah, the story!” Pete exclaims, grin wide across his face. “We’ll get to that, promise, but first, I want you to tell me everything you know about Mikey Way.”
“Um, what?” Ryan asks, furrowing his brow, because did his boss actually call for a meeting to talk about their mutual therapist’s brother? He looks at Pete, sincere, elated expression ringing clear and mentally sighs. Of course Pete did.
“Gerard’s brother,” Pete explains, as if Ryan doesn’t have any idea who he is. As if Ryan hasn’t been going to that same office twice a week for longer than he can remember. It’s come to a point that Ryan can tell Mikey’s mood by the way his hair is flat ironed. “I want to know everything about him.”
Ryan blinks. “Can’t you just ask him?”
“What’s the fun in that?” Pete asks, grinning. “I need to be stealthy. Do some reporting first, you know?”
“Honestly, Pete, I think you should just talk to Mikey. I think he may even like you, too,” Ryan says, because yeah, Mikey did seem to have an interest in Pete, strange as it may seem.
Sometimes Ryan forgets that outside of the weird, slightly creepy vibe that Pete has, he’s attractive. And smart and funny, and yeah, maybe Ryan can see the appeal.
Pete’s grin, which was already wide, grows even larger, mirroring a near manic size. “You think so?” he asks, not even waiting for Ryan to respond, though he does quirk his head in a semi-nod. “Awesome!”
Seeing Pete so happy about Mikey makes Ryan think of Brendon.
He had stopped by Brendon’s apartment a couple of times in the past couple days. Okay, maybe he had stopped by every day, each time trudging up the staircase with arms weighed down with different ethnic food. Every time, Brendon had welcomed Ryan in with the same happily startled smile, as if he never really expected Ryan to come back but had still hoped for it. At least that’s what Ryan tells himself.
It’s become a routine these past several nights. Ryan’s good with routines.
Brendon’s smile greets him at the door, a new and sometimes strange instrument discarded in the middle of the room. He always closes the door behind Ryan, locking the deadbolt, and together they move to the kitchen to get plates and forks. Food is dished out, and Brendon pours Ryan a glass of water with no ice, just like he likes it.
There’s always easy conversation, but they never discuss the article or the band. Ryan never asks about the instruments in the apartment or the sheets of music scattered everywhere, and Brendon doesn’t offer up any answers.
They talk about other things. About movies and books and stupid, embarrassing stories from high school. Like the band, they don’t mention families. Brendon probably figures that Ryan knows why he doesn’t want to discuss his, but Ryan takes nervous comfort knowing that Brendon has no idea about his own situation.
But they talk. Every night they eat and they talk, sometimes at the same time, mouths full. And after they eat, Ryan loading the dishes into the dishwasher while Brendon boxes up the leftovers (both the refrigerator and the dishwasher are getting rather full) they move into the living room without even discussing it, settling down on the couch to watch a movie or a television show. One night they ended up watching a marathon of America’s Next Top Model.
The more time Ryan spends with Brendon, the more he forgets about the article, and he knows that’s a problem. He knows he’s getting too close, but each time that Brendon hugs him when he leaves, arms tight and warm and right around Ryan’s body, Ryan feels more and more of his walls breaking down. Every time Brendon opens his door and smiles, every time Brendon playfully nudges him with his hip to make Ryan laugh, Ryan cares less and less about the story.
“So, how are you doing with your article?” Pete asks, pulling Ryan out from his internalized reminiscence. He’s pretty sure there’s a smile on his face from thinking about the warmth of Brendon’s breath on his neck when he squeezes a tight goodbye, and he shakes it off.
“Oh, uh, good,” he says. He doesn’t really lie, because he is getting to know Brendon. But that’s the problem, he’s getting to know Brendon and not Brendon Urie. Not the musician. Ryan hasn’t even heard Brendon play anything except through a closed door.
Pete nods, a little lingering smile from his talk about Mikey still on his face. “That’s great. Do you need any help organizing your story?” he asks. “I could go over your notes with you, if you want.”
Ryan shakes his head. “That’s okay, I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll want to focus mostly on the actual aspect of the break up,” Pete starts, ignoring Ryan’s refusal of help. “The reasons, how it’s affecting the rest of the band, but I obviously want Brendon to be the focus. Talk about what the fuck he’s doing.” He grins. “Readers are already calling in bugging us about this. And it’d be great if we could get a story before Perez Hilton for once. Stupid internet,” he says good-naturedly, because Ryan knows that Pete loves the internet. Possibly more than he loves his dog, and Pete loves Hemmingway an almost disturbing amount.
“Yeah, I know,” Ryan says. He doesn’t really want to hear Pete talk about the article. It just makes him realize how much he has to do, how much he’s not sure he actually wants to do.
Pete gives Ryan a soft look, one that seems understanding and sympathetic. “I’m sorry if I’m freaking you out,” he says, “but this article is big, Ryan. I’m not going to lie, it’s going to be important. The centerpiece of the issue.”
Suddenly, it seems a lot harder to breath, but Ryan manages a shaky nod and says, “I know, Pete.”
“Don’t worry, I have complete confidence in you,” Pete says.
Ryan wonders if the strain shows.
---
Ryan doesn’t bothering knocking on the door since Brendon told him via the intercom that he would leave it unlocked. He adjusts the pizza box in his arms and twists the knob, pushing the door open with his hip.
“Hey,” he calls out as he walks into the room, sidestepping a tambourine and what he thinks are castanets. “Pizza tonight.”
“Hang on,” Ryan can hear Brendon yell from the kitchen. “I’ll be out in a second.” Ryan sets the pizza down on the small coffee table in front of the couch and plops down, waiting for Brendon. He tries not to think about how his meeting with Pete made him realize just how much he doesn’t have done. It’s a strange thing to have Brendon only a couple of feet away from him, a constant reminder of what he’s supposed to be doing, but for some reason he can’t make himself try and ask Brendon for another interview. He doesn’t want to ruin anything.
He sighs and turns on the television, and he immediately goes to see what’s in the Tivo, wondering if Brendon remembered to program Paranormal State in. He did.
Just as Ryan clicks on the show, reading the small informational blurb, he hears Brendon’s voice break through again. “Hey, Ryan, come here.”
Abandoning the Tivo remote and the cooling pizza, Ryan makes his way towards the kitchen, a smell hitting him as he draws closer, something that’s spicier than the muted smell of marinara sauce from the pizza. When he gets into the kitchen, he sees Brendon leaning over the stove, and Ryan can hear the sizzle of something cooking.
Brendon turns around and grins almost bashfully. “You always bring me dinner,” he says, holding up a wooden spoon, twirling it with his words, and Ryan watches as a small piece of pepper flies across the room. “I thought that I should try cooking.” He turns back to the stove, and in that moment, Ryan suddenly understands that Brendon’s embarrassed, but he doesn’t understand why. It’s there, though. It’s there in the slope of his body, in the way he takes quick peeks at Ryan before busying himself again.
It’s a little strange.
“I’m actually pretty good,” Brendon says as he stirs the vegetables in the skillet. “Lots of practice,” he explains. He laughs sharply, a laugh that Ryan knows he could read into, and he does. “Think Harry Potter and the Dursleys.”
Ryan doesn’t really know what to do with that, but he takes a step forward, peering into the pan. “What are you making?” he asks. He’s right up behind Brendon, so close that he can feel the heat from his body.
When Brendon turns to look at Ryan, their faces are so close together, but Ryan steps back, just the tiniest step, and something flickers in Brendon’s eyes. “Fajitas,” Brendon says. “I hope you don’t mind, I like them a little spicy.”
“That’s fine,” Ryan says. “I brought pizza,” he mentions, even though he already told Brendon that. He says it because there’s something in the air that Ryan can’t quite pinpoint. There’s some sort of meaning flying around, elusive.
“We can eat it later,” Brendon says. He turns back to the food, and Ryan feels a little silly just standing there, so he starts to set the table. He puts down the plates and the utensils, fills up two glasses with water, and when he turns back around from putting the water back in the refrigerator to see Brendon placing the food on the table, right in between the two place settings, it hits Ryan at how it looks.
He hesitates for a minute, watching as Brendon sits down at the one side of the table, but he joins him a second later, accepting the serving spoon as Brendon hands it to him, smiling.
“This looks great,” Ryan says. “Thank you.”
Brendon nods, looking down at his plate, spearing an onion. “It’s no problem.” When he looks up and smiles, smiles something so genuine, Ryan’s breath literally catches. “I wanted to do this for you.”
---
Ryan has to go to Keltie’s dance thing tonight. He had promised Audrey and Greta, but he still goes over to Brendon’s beforehand. It would feel strange skipping considering that he’s seen Brendon every day for five days.
So he knocks on Brendon’s door that night, halting the sound of a tuba. An honest to God fucking tuba, and Ryan doesn’t think of lung capacity and breath control as he and Brendon munch on the Thai take out food.
He times it carefully, knowing that he only has an hour with Brendon before he promised to meet Greta and Audrey in front of the Civic Center so that they can go in together. He intends to leave at 7:30, giving him fifteen minutes to get to the Civic Center, but when he finally looks at his watch, looks away from Brendon’s smile and bright eyes, from where Brendon’s hand rests on the couch, so close to his leg, he’s ten minutes late.
“Shit,” he says. “I have to go.”
Brendon’s face falls a little, a look of disappointment evident, and he asks, “Where are you going?” He was probably assuming that Ryan was going to stay for a while like he normally did. He had probably thought that they would sprawl out on the couch, scooting closer and closer to each other as the night wore on but never quite touching.
“Sorry,” Ryan says, and it hits him just how much he doesn’t want to leave. He can barely even manage to pull himself up off of the couch. “I promised my friends that I would go to a dance recital.”
“Oh,” Brendon responds. He looks back at the screen, and Ryan frowns.
“I’d invite you, but I thought that you wouldn’t want to go. Do you want to?” He thinks of Audrey and what she would do if Brendon showed up, and he desperately hopes that Brendon says no, even though another part of him desperately wants him to say yes.
Brendon’s eyes glaze over as he shifts his attention from the television to Ryan, and then he looks off over towards the piano. “No, I should probably get to work. You’ve been interrupting my masterpiece, Ryan.” He smiles, but Ryan notices how it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Brendon still hasn’t told Ryan what he’s working on. Obviously some sort of music, that much is evident, but he hasn’t said anything specific or let Ryan hear anything.
“I’ll come by tomorrow,” Ryan says, watching as Brendon’s eyes flicker to his for a second before sliding back towards the piano. “I’ll even throw some dessert in when I come.”
“You don’t have to,” Brendon says.
Something very much like panic hits Ryan and he tries not to waver as he stands above Brendon, looking down at him. “You don’t want me to come tomorrow?”
He knew that he had pushed things too far, wonders if Brendon is finally sick of him, sick of being too nice to throw him out on his ass, and he thinks that Gerard was wrong: people do always leave, but then Brendon shakes his head.
“No, I was talking about the dessert. Well, the food in general. You don’t have to bribe me to get me to open the door,” Brendon explains.
Ryan’s nerves settle, but his heart hasn’t seemed to slow down. “Not anymore, you mean,” Ryan jokes, trying to make light of the moment, because it feels like it means something, something that reminds him of when Brendon made him dinner and he took a step back, a step that he didn’t really want to take, but Ryan’s never been really good dealing with stuff like that.
Brendon smiles and runs a hand through his hair, closing his eyes as he leans back against the couch. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ryan. Go have fun with your friends.”
Ryan lingers there for a moment, watching as Brendon takes deep breaths, his eyes fluttering a little behind his closed eyelids, and before he can stop himself, Ryan let’s his one hand run through Brendon’s hair as he passes by to leave. Brendon makes a pleased humming noise, but Ryan’s heart is thumping too fast for him to turn around and see if Brendon’s smiling.
When he gets out of Brendon’s apartment building, the warm night air of summer hitting him, Ryan can’t help but entertain the thought of turning around and going right back upstairs, skipping some girl’s recital that he doesn’t even know.
As he walks quickly down the streets, because Brendon’s apartment isn’t that far from the Civic Center and Ryan doesn’t have the money or environmental ignorance to take a taxi, he contemplates, he fantasies about just what he would do if he had the nerve.
Gerard often talks about mental projections during their sessions. He talks about thinking about the possibilities before they happen so that he can get used to the idea of them without being surprised. Surprises don’t really work out well for Ryan. They never have.
But Ryan doesn’t want to think about that. Instead, he thinks back up to Brendon’s apartment, to Brendon slumped against the couch with his eyes closed, and Ryan thinks about what would happen if he had had the nerve to lean in and brush his lips against Brendon’s.
He thinks about it as he nears the Civic Center. He’s still a running a little late, but his quick pace has made up some of the time. But he thinks about it, thinks about Brendon’s lips on his, Brendon’s warm hands on him, steadying him.
He thinks about the way that Brendon will sometimes look at him. Thinks about the things that Brendon says sometimes, things that could be taken two ways. He thinks about just what Brendon would say if he ever got the nerve up to tell him all the things that he thinks about him - that Ryan thinks he’s kind and quirky and interesting and perfect, and there’s something that seems so safe and so familiar and really, how is that, Brendon? Do you feel it, too?
When he makes it to the Civic Center, only five minutes before the show is set to start, Greta and Audrey are waiting for him outside.
Neither one of them seem upset that he’s late or say anything about it even. They just each grab one of his arms, tuck it under their own and pull him into the auditorium.
Sitting between the two girls, Ryan watches as the line of dancers perform, all of their moves done in unison, their bodies mimicking each other. He watches, noticing the one blond with a huge smile when Greta points her out as Keltie, and he remembers how Audrey and Greta had said that Keltie would be perfect for him.
He watches as she does the same moves as everyone else on stage. She’s good, there’s no doubt about that, but there’s nothing about her that stands out. She’s not doing anything that would draw Ryan’s eye to her if she hadn’t been pointed out.
After a while, he zones out and can’t stop his brain from thinking of Brendon. He wishes that he had Brendon’s cell phone number so he could text him, something stupid like I’m glad you’re not a chorus girl, but Brendon doesn’t have a cell phone anymore anyways, so it doesn’t matter.
When the show ends, he and the girls go backstage to congratulate Keltie. He smiles at her and shakes her hand when they’re introduced, and when she invites them all out for drinks to celebrate, he says yes, but only because he doesn’t know how to say no.
He doesn’t know how much he drinks. Audrey’s brash laugh is a constant soundtrack and Greta’s hands are a comforting weight on his shoulder. Keltie smiles at him and drinks with him, downing shot after shot along with Ryan, and somewhere in his fuzzy mind, Ryan wonders how this all started.
No matter how long Ryan tries to think about it, he doesn’t know how he decided to take that first shot. He doesn’t remember the exact beginning of the night, but he remembers the end of it, remembers knocking on Brendon’s door at four in the morning, falling into his arms as soon as the door opened.
---
Ryan wakes up and immediately prays for water. He’s been drunk before, but he hasn’t drank in a long while, so the intense dry mouth takes him by surprise. What’s even more surprising is when he lifts his head up, looks around, and realizes that he’s not in his own apartment.
He’s lying on a big bed with soft dark blue sheets. He’s still wearing his clothes from the night before, so that first wild thought dissipates. The room isn’t decorated too much, but there’s a side table with an old-fashioned red alarm clock on it. There’s a dresser across the way and a mirror, but the only thing that tells Ryan that this is Brendon’s bedroom is the faint memory of Brendon carrying him into the room.
For some reason, Ryan can remember how Brendon felt, warm and right under his tired body, better than he can remember anything else.
He pulls himself out of bed and makes up the sheets to be polite. It just feels like what he should do.
The blinds are pulled shut tightly in the bedroom, but when Ryan opens the door to the hallway, bright light from the window floods in, and he squints his eyes, hurrying to the kitchen to get a glass of water. He moves quickly through the apartment, bare feet on hardwood floors, eyes only partially open, but he can still see Brendon when he makes his way into the main room.
“You’re up,” Brendon says from where he’s sitting on the couch. In the background, the television is on low, some early morning cartoons playing, and Brendon looks up at Ryan and smiles. He reaches down to the table and lifts up a glass of water. “For you.”
Ryan quickly makes his way to Brendon and grabs the water, chugging it down in seconds flat, and when he’s done, he says “Thank you.” He’s still thirsty, so he goes to the kitchen and refills his glass, but when he’s done, he joins Brendon on the couch.
“Just how drunk was I last night?” he asks, trying not to get paranoid or embarrassed, but he really has no idea what he did or said. Has no idea if there’s a reason to be embarrassed or not.
Brendon laughs, a low rumble. “Pretty drunk,” he admits. “You were a cute drunk, though. Really cuddly.”
Ryan blushes. “Oh God. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t mind,” Brendon says. He looks over at Ryan, looks up under his messy hair, hair that indicates that he slept on the couch, and the look in Brendon’s eyes appears to be something startlingly close to a confession.
A noise beeps on the table, and when Ryan looks down, he sees his cell phone.
“I took it from you,” Brendon explains. “I didn’t know if you were the type to drunk dial or not, and I thought I’d save you the embarrassment.”
Ryan smiles a little at that. “I usually am,” he admits, “but you don’t have a phone. That’s probably why I ended up here.” He knows he should be embarrassed by his words, by how bold he’s being, but for some reason, he doesn’t worry about seeming stupid with Brendon.
“You have a couple of messages though,” Brendon says, picking up the phone and handing it to Ryan. “It went off a couple times this morning. Could be your girlfriend or something.”
“You know I don’t have a girlfriend,” Ryan says.
“Boyfriend,” Brendon tries.
Ryan shakes his head. He looks at the phone and sees messages from Pete. He groans. “Just my boss.”
Brendon’s expression is difficult to read. “He’s probably pissed about your lack of story.” He creases his brow. “You’re not going to get in trouble, are you?”
Sighing, Ryan shrugs. “Spencer and Jon talked to me, so I have something.” He’s avoiding Brendon’s eyes, because it’s a little strange to be talking to him about this when Brendon’s the reason that Pete is getting anxious. Both messages were asking for a list of Brendon’s quotes so he can have someone verify them. Quotes Ryan doesn’t have.
Ryan types back to Pete, telling him he just needs a little more time, but Ryan knows that Pete’s not going to wait forever.
When he looks up from his phone, Brendon is frowning, but when he catches Ryan’s eye, his expression softens. “I want to help,” he says.
“What?”
“I don’t want you to get fired because of me. I want to help.”
Brendon’s eyes are so genuine, so open, and Ryan feels terrible for a minute, because he feels like he’s taking advantage of Brendon’s kindness. He’s pretty sure that Pete wouldn’t fire him over this, but he doesn’t mention it to Brendon, because yeah, he does want the story.
“Are you sure?” he asks, because story or no, Ryan doesn’t want Brendon to do something he doesn’t want to do. He doesn’t want to be that type of person.
Nodding, Brendon looks up. “I have a tape recorder,” he says. Before Ryan can answer, Brendon gets up and moves over towards a big chest pushed up against the one wall. He rummages through the contents for a minute before he comes back with an old-school tape recorder. “It has a tape in it and everything,” Brendon assures.
Ryan takes the recorder from Brendon’s hands, their fingers brushing in the process, and something very much like guilt settles in Ryan’s stomach, but he doesn’t know why.
“Okay,” Ryan breathes. He settles himself on the couch, turning his body to face Brendon. His finger presses down on the record button. “Tell me about your childhood.”
He listens as Brendon talks, as Brendon spills his secrets. He hears about the foster homes, about how Brendon was treated, about just how long it takes for a belt mark to fade from a seven-year-old’s skin. He listens as Brendon talks about finding Jon, finding Spencer - finding music.
“It’s the only thing my whole life that’s ever made complete sense,” Brendon says. “It’s the only thing that’s never let me down.”
Brendon answers the questions that Ryan poses. He answers the easy ones, like his favorite song off their albums and his favorite instrument to play, but he answers the hard ones, too. He talks to Ryan with such openness, that Ryan almost forgets about the recorder in his hand, and all he wants to do is reach over and comfort Brendon in some way.
“Why did the band break up?” Ryan asks.
At this question, Brendon pauses for a long minute. He bites his lower lip, and when he looks up at Ryan, Ryan has to physically stop himself from turning off the recorder, because he knows that whatever Brendon is about to say is something that he wants to keep for himself. He wants to protect Brendon.
“I got sick of it,” Brendon starts out, voice hesitant and quiet. “I got sick of giving so much of myself to people who don’t really get it. When people hear my songs on the radio they might know the words, but no one ever really stops to think about what it means. It’s not just music, it’s part of me.”
Brendon blinks heavily, his eyes closing shut for a second before he opens them again.
“Take ‘Grace Note’ for example. When reporters ask me about it they ask ‘Who is this girl you’re singing about?’ and they don’t get it at all. There is no girl. There never was one, and if there was, she left, and that’s the point.”
Brendon stops himself, takes another second, and when he talks again, his voice is a little stronger.
“I don’t want to play pop music anymore. I don’t want to sell myself for that profit. I’m not going to abandon music. I could never do that, but for once I want to write something that means everything I want to say. I want to do this right.”
“What are you working on now?” Ryan asks. He thinks of all the instruments, all the sheets of music behind him.
“A symphonic poem,” Brendon responds. He grins almost sheepishly as if he knows he’s being the crazy musician people are saying he is. “An orchestral piece that tells a story. Tells what I always wanted to say.”
Suddenly all the instruments make sense in Ryan’s head. He wants to ask ‘What have you always wanted to say?’, but Brendon beats him to it.
“It’s about being lost. It’s about being lonely and looking for someone who knows what it’s like. Someone who can help.”
The way that Brendon is looking at him makes Ryan feel exposed, makes him feel so many things, and he turns off the recorder. He leans forward on the couch, and before he knows it, he’s wrapping his arms around Brendon, holding him close.
Ryan buries his head against the curve of Brendon’s neck and breathes. “When I was eighteen, I got a letter,” he says. “It was from this girl. She was fifteen or so.” Ryan swallows. “When I was eighteen, I learned that my father had another family, one that he loved, one that he visited whenever he was away on a ‘business trip’. I found out, and I haven’t spoken to him since. I can barely even talk to my mother. For some reason, I feel guilty.”
Brendon leans back so he can look Ryan in the eye. “Why are you telling me this?”
“You shared with me,” Ryan says, but that’s not really why he said anything, and they both know it, so he tells the truth. “I don’t want to be lost and lonely anymore. I know how it feels, Brendon. I know how you feel.”
He lets his body curve back into Brendon’s, and they just sit there for awhile, Ryan’s hand running soothing circles down Brendon’s back, Brendon’s breath hot against Ryan’s cool skin.
---
Ryan’s half expecting to see Pete leaning up against Mikey’s desk when he walks into Gerard’s office, but then he realizes that it’s not Thursday. It’s a little strange, but having Pete at Gerard’s was strangely comforting - almost as if the therapist’s office wasn’t as out of the norm as some people make it out to be.
But Pete isn’t there when Ryan comes in.
When he walks in the office, Mikey looks up, and there’s a strange expression on his face, an expression that Ryan has seen on his own face recently. He wonders which one of them looks stranger, more unlike themselves. He also wonders why Mikey’s looking like that. Wonders if it’s because of Pete, and while there was once a time when Ryan wouldn’t want to interfere with other people’s business, he’s curious.
“You look happy,” Ryan says.
Mikey raises an eyebrow. “You’re passive-aggressively looking for information,” he shoots back. He smiles, a quirking up of his lips. “And I could say the same thing about you.”
Ryan doesn’t color, the color doesn’t rise to his cheeks like it once would, but he does think about Brendon. Of course he does, it seems to be all that occupies his thoughts now. “Is it Pete?” Ryan questions. He looks carefully over Mikey’s face to read any sort of reaction, but Mikey’s pretty good at rocking the stoic look.
There’s a moment of silence where Mikey is staring at Ryan, apparently deciding whether or not he should tell Ryan, and then the tiniest smile cracks through. “It’s a possibility,” he says, and then coughs, smile slipping from his face. “Now go on ahead in, Gerard is waiting for you.”
“Sure thing, lover boy,” Ryan says, laughing as Mikey rolls his eyes, and he opens the door to Gerard’s office.
Gerard is standing in front of a counter set up along the one side wall, bent over a little bit, looking into a glass cage. When Ryan closes the door, a small click sounding in the room, Gerard looks up. He has a strangely ecstatic look on his face.
“Frank got me a hamster,” he explains. “Thought it might help with some of my more nervous clients.”
Ryan crosses the room and looks down at the hamster. The tiny little ball of fluff blinks up at him. “He’s cute,” Ryan allows.
“He’s precious,” Gerard coos. He pets the hamster’s tiny forehead with his pinky. “I named him Liza. With a z.”
“But didn’t you say he’s a boy hamster?”
Gerard frowns. “Don’t be so hetero-normative, Ryan.” He places the screen back on the top of the cage and directs Ryan back into the center of the room. “So, how have you been since we last talked?”
Ryan hesitates for a second. It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell Gerard, but part of him wants to keep everything between him and Brendon to himself. Still, though, Ryan knows that he owes Gerard a lot.
“I’m feeling good,” he says. He smiles. “I’m feeling really good.”
He sinks down to the floor, crossing his legs, mirroring Gerard’s motions. Gerard is smiling too. “Really good?” he repeats. “It’s been a while since you’ve said that. In fact, I don’t know if you’ve ever told me that you were feeling really good.”
Ryan shrugs. “It’s probably because I’ve never really felt like this before.” The words just come out, and once they do, Ryan feels a little bit like a teenage girl, but he doesn’t really care, because he’s telling the truth.
“Do you want to tell me why you’re feeling so good?” Gerard asks. He doesn’t grab the notebook next to him. There’s nothing to distract them from talking face to face, nothing for Ryan to hide behind.
“It’s about Brendon,” Ryan admits. He thinks about that morning, only a little more than twenty-four hours ago. “He-” Ryan stops, wondering where to start, wondering how to best convey everything to Gerard, because he wants Gerard to understand. “I told Brendon about my father.”
Gerard blinks, clearly taken aback, and then he reaches for his notebook. “And what did he say?”
“He comforted me,” Ryan says. “We comforted each other. He told me about why the band broke up, about his past, about what he feels, and I felt like I should share too.” He remembers how Brendon whispered in his ear, breath hot against his neck. Remembers how Brendon assured him that everything would be okay. That everything was okay because they had each other. Because they found each other.
He doesn’t share that with Gerard. That’s personal.
“You felt like you should share?” Gerard repeats.
Ryan nods, not really understanding the tone in Gerard’s voice. “Yeah. So I did.”
Gerard stands up, grabs Ryan’s hand and pulls him up too. He hugs Ryan, the motion startling Ryan a little, but he doesn’t shy away from the contact. Gerard’s arms around him is different than Brendon’s. It doesn’t cause a shiver to run through him or his thoughts to wander. It doesn’t make him freeze up either. It’s just a hug. A normal interaction.
“Ryan, this is wonderful,” Gerard exclaims. “You’re opening up to someone!” He squeezes a little tighter and then backs up, grin wide on his face. “You’re making such incredible progress.”
“So you don’t think that this thing with Brendon is wrong?” Ryan asks. “I mean, I’m supposed to be interviewing him, but I-” he breaks off. “I stopped caring about that.” Something similar to the anxiety that used to plague his days settles in his stomach. “I don’t know if I can do the article, Gerard. I care more about protecting Brendon than getting the story.”
“I can’t tell you what to do,” Gerard says. “Your job is important, Ryan, you know that, but human interaction is important, too. You’ve made a connection with Brendon.”
Hearing Gerard say that, say the word connection, makes Ryan’s heart flip.
“I trust him,” Ryan says. “I can’t remember the last time I trusted someone other than you, but I trust him. I really do.”
Gerard starts talking about what this all means according to different theories, but Ryan starts to zone out. His mind wanders, and he thinks about Brendon’s eyes, so open and honest, only for him.
---
Ryan checks his cell phone messages on the way to the Civic Center. He couldn’t make it to class that day because he had promised Pete that he would go over back issues of the magazine with him, meaning that he had spent approximately three hours hearing Pete talk about Mikey and two and a half hours worrying that Pete would demand to read Ryan’s notes on Brendon.
The first message is from Audrey. Ryan doesn’t remember giving her his number, but considering how he gets when he’s drunk, he’s not too surprised that she has it.
“You skipped class today, asshole,” she says. “Don’t forget to pick up your pottery before some little snot-nosed girl scout knocks it over.”
Ryan deletes the message. He had called the Center earlier, when Pete had asked him to stay late, so he knew that he had to pick up his pottery, but it was nice that Audrey cared enough to call. He makes a note to possibly call her back later, or maybe send her a thank you text message, just to show that he appreciates it.
The next message is from his mother, her smooth, familiar voice coming through, and as soon as the voice hits Ryan’s ear, his steps falter. He deletes that message, too, but he does so before he can even hear what his mother is saying, though he can guess what’s she’s calling about. He knows his father’s birthday is next week. He knows, but he really doesn’t want to hear her talk about it like it’s something worth celebrating when it’s not.
He wonders if he’ll ever get over it, get over what his father did to him, to them. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to talk to his mother without feeling like it’s his fault that his father cheated. If only he had been a better son, if only he had tried harder… He knows these thoughts well, but he also knows that there’s no use in thinking like that.
Ryan’s been running from his problems ever since they came up, and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop. He doesn’t know if he has it in him to be the type of person who stays around and deals with the clean up. Sometimes it’s just easier to leave. Follow a path that isn’t as difficult and start anew.
It’s really not as hard as people think it is.
The Civic Center is mostly dark when Ryan gets there, though there are a few hall lights on, and he walks down the familiar corridors, making his way to his pottery room. Flicking the light on, Ryan looks around the empty room, and it’s so strange to be there without Greta and Audrey, without those two girls that he knows have helped him break out.
He walks over to the kiln, and next to it, he sees his vase, that first piece of pottery. It’s sitting next to the vase that they did last class period, and it’s only then that Ryan realizes that he never picked the first one up.
Side by side, the two vases look vastly different, not only in form - one rough and lopsided, the other smooth and clean - but in decoration. The first vase is almost sparse, and the newer one is vibrant, so vibrant that Ryan can almost see the colors on it that he knows he’s going to paint it.
In a strange way, he’s proud of himself. Proud of how he’s progressed, and he leaves the room smiling, shuffling the two vases under his arm so he can turn off the light and close the door.
Just as the lock clicks, Ryan’s ears pick up the hint of a noise, and when he concentrates, he realizes that it’s the piano music he had heard the first day.
The Civic Center is abandoned. He has no one waiting for him, no one calling his name loudly down the hallway, and Ryan finally lets his curiosity get the better of him. He walks toward the sound, each step making the music grow louder and louder, until he’s standing outside the room.
The door to the room is closed, and underneath the bottom, light is filtering out into the dim hallway. Ryan knows he should knock - it’s the polite thing to do, after all - but he wants to watch whomever it is actually play the music, so after setting down his vases quietly, he carefully opens the door, eyes squinting the tiniest bit in the bright light of the room.
When his eyes focus, it only takes Ryan a second to recognize him.
“Brendon?”
The hands on the piano stop and the music follows. Dark hair swishes as the man turns, and it’s Brendon’s wide brown eyes that look up at Ryan. Then a smile follows. “You are stalking me,” he teases.
Ryan doesn’t bothering responding to the joke. “That was beautiful,” he says instead. “What you’re playing, that was beautiful.”
Brendon blinks, smile changing into something smaller, something more hesitant. “Do you really think that?”
“Do you practice here often?” Ryan asks. He needs to know if it was always Brendon he heard. If it was him since the first day, even though he already knows. “I heard you. When I first came here a couple weeks ago, I heard you playing.”
“Sometimes I need a change of scenery,” Brendon explains. “Whenever I’m stuck on my music, I come down here. I have a friend who runs a class here.”
Ryan’s still staring at Brendon in amazement. He knows he is, but he can’t stop himself. “When I first heard the music,” he says, “it sounded so sad.”
Brendon looks back to the keys, his fingers splaying out against the white and black. He nods. “Yeah.”
“But I heard it again later, and it sounded happy.” Ryan takes a breath, because this all means something, he knows it does. How could it not when Ryan knows what music is to Brendon, when he knows that it’s Brendon’s way of expressing himself, of working out feelings. “And now, now it sounds-” he breaks off, looking for a word, but Brendon beats him to it.
“Hopeful,” Brendon says. “It’s about hope and finding something worth looking for.” His fingers press down, playing a simple melody, just the right hand ringing out the notes in the treble cleft. He laughs. “I feel pretty transparent now.”
Ryan’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“Can’t you hear it?” Brendon asks. He looks down again at his fingers, and Ryan doesn’t know why, but suddenly it’s important for him to move closer, so he does. “It’s about you,” he admits.
When Brendon looks up, his mouth still forming around that final word, Ryan doesn’t stop himself from doing what he wants. He doesn’t stop himself from leaning down and kissing Brendon, bringing their mouths together.
Brendon kisses back instantly, his arms reaching to pull Ryan down until Ryan’s straddling Brendon on the piano bench, his back resting against the keys, and every so often, like when Brendon slips his tongue in and Ryan moans, he presses down against the keys, causing music to ring out.
Part Five (final part)
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