Grace Note: Part Three
Part Two
---
Up close, without the alteration of a camera, Brendon looks even more attractive than he did on Ryan’s computer screen. His hair is a little disheveled, but it frames his face, the dark strands falling in such a way that it seems almost poetic. It makes Ryan’s fingers itch. He wants to capture the picture.
Brendon stands up from the bench that he’s sitting on, sets his bassoon down carefully at an angle, resting it against the edge of the cushioned seat, and walks towards the kitchen. “It’s quite rude to just barge in here, you know,” he comments, reaching into the cupboard to grab a glass.
He’s only wearing jeans, and as Brendon moves, Ryan can see the hint of muscled abs that would make the fangirls swoon. Ryan can definitely understand the appeal.
Ryan is standing at the door, hand still clenched around the knob. “You didn’t answer the door.”
He looks around the apartment, taking it all in. There isn’t much furniture, just a little bit of seating towards the one corner with a television, a kitchen through some arched columns with a small round table, and a gleaming piano sitting in the middle of the hardwood floor. In the back, Ryan can see a hallway extend to other rooms, and he wonders if they’re as Spartan as the main area. There are, however, instruments everywhere. He easily recognizes some of them: oboe, French horn, cello, but some are foreign to him.
“That’s because I don’t want visitors,” Brendon says, opening the refrigerator, and he pulls out a water filter jug. He pauses. “I probably should call the police or something,” he says, and then, in the same breath, he asks, “Would you like a glass of water?”
Ryan doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, so he just shakes his head. “That’s okay.” He loosens his hold from the doorknob, wiping his now slightly sweaty hands on his jeans. “Thank you,” he adds.
Brendon takes a sip of his water. “‘Thank you’ for not calling the police or for offering you water?”
“Both, I guess.” Ryan says, slipping on hand into his pocket, but that seems off somehow, so he lets his hands fall by his side once more.
Laughing, Brendon tops off his glass and walks back into the living room. He has a nice laugh. “Well, close the door then. Come on in.”
“Aren’t you afraid that I’m some sort of stalker or something?” It seems strange to Ryan that a musician as well known as Brendon didn’t jump to that conclusion right away, but he closes the door behind him. “I’m not, just so you know.”
Brendon smiles at him. It’s not one of those huge, bright grins that Ryan’s seen in pictures from awards shows or concerts, but it’s a nice smile all the same. “I think I’d remember if I had a stalker as pretty as you.”
Ryan flusters for a moment, because he wasn’t really expecting that answer. “Um, thank you?”
“You’re welcome,” Brendon replies easily. “You can sit down.” He points over to where there’s a couch and a couple of comfortable looking chairs set up. On the coffee table there’s a mess of papers, papers similar to the ones scattered on the floor and the piano top.
“You’re writing something?” Ryan asks, picking up one of the papers, looking at the bar lines drawn there, looking at the eighth notes and quarter rests and strange markings.
“Trying to,” Brendon allows.
Ryan sits down on the couch, and moments later, Brendon sits down across from him, moving a viola out of the way as he stretches out his legs.
“So, what’s your name?” Brendon asks. He seems so perfectly unfazed by a stranger walking into his apartment. It’s almost surreal.
“Shit,” Ryan curses, realizing that he did this all wrong. “Sorry, I’m Ryan Ross. I’m here to interview you. I tried to call you, but your phone is disconnected. Jon Walker gave me your address.” He stands up and extends his hand to Brendon, but Brendon doesn’t take it.
The expression on Brendon’s face has changed from amused to closed off in an impressively short time. “You’re a journalist?”
“Not really,” Ryan says. “An aspiring journalist, I guess.”
Brendon sighs, arches his legs up, and then back down, propelling himself forward with the motion. He stands up and walks towards the kitchen again, grabbing the glass of water as he goes. “I guess you want to talk to me about the infamous break up,” Brendon scoffs.
Ryan frowns. “Well, that is what the magazine is interested in,” he admits. Brendon doesn’t look too thrilled by his statement, so he tries to back peddle. “But it won’t be the entire focus.”
Nodding, Brendon drinks some more water. “Okay, well, I’m going to have to pass.”
“Pass?” Ryan repeats, the word sounding all too final in his mind. No, Brendon can’t shut down the article. He can’t, Ryan won’t let him.
“I don’t want to focus on the past,” Brendon says. “That part of my life is done. I’ve moved on. I’m doing something more worthwhile now.”
“Which is?”
“Which is none of your business,” Brendon responds easily. He leaves his glass in the kitchen and crosses his apartment. When he reaches the door, he opens it wide and gestures. “Thank you for stopping by.”
Ryan blinks. “I’m sorry, but with all due respect, I really need to interview you for my magazine,” he says a little bit desperately.
“Yeah, you and half of New York,” Brendon says, door still held wide open. “Ryan, you seem like a nice guy. And fuck, I think you and I would get along really well.” The way Brendon emphasizes those words makes Ryan flush red, and it’s strange, because no one has had that affect on him in a while. “I’m just not talking to any reporters about the band. It’s over.”
The open door seems so intimidating that Ryan doesn’t really think before he blurts out, “Jon doesn’t think it’s over. I talked to him, Brendon, and he wanted me to tell you that he’s waiting for you to come to your senses.”
“Then he’ll be waiting for a long time,” Brendon says unsympathetically. He seems unaffected that Ryan even mentions his ex-bandmates, his friends, in such an informal way, in a way that as soon as Ryan hears what he said he realizes it sounds almost as if he actually knows these guys, Jon at least. Almost as if they were friends. “I made myself perfectly clear to Jon and Spencer that I wanted to move on.” He shoots Ryan a pointed look. “And now I want you to move on. Out of my apartment, please. I have a lot of work to do.”
The whole scenario is off in Ryan’s head. Brendon doesn’t make any sense to him. What kind of guy welcomes in a perfect stranger only to kick him out seconds after finding out that there was an actual purpose to the meeting?
“We can talk about something else,” Ryan implores. He’s willing to take any story Brendon will give him. He doesn’t want to go back to Pete empty-handed. He doesn’t want to disappoint him.
“That’s alright,” Brendon answers. “Now please leave.” He stares pointedly out into the hallway, and Ryan sighs, getting up from the couch.
“It was nice to meet you,” he says, dejectedly. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
There’s something that falters in Brendon’s expression at Ryan’s words, but Brendon doesn’t say anything, just opens the door wider for Ryan to pass through, and closes it tightly behind him.
---
Ryan tries to wait until the last minute to leave for his appointment at Gerard’s, but once the clock starts getting too close to his meeting time, he freaks out a little bit and has to start making his way there.
He hates being late.
He will also probably hate running into his boss more, but really, the thought of being late outweighs the awkwardness of running into Pete in the waiting room. Especially because he wants to have time to talk to Mikey and see just how creepy Pete was towards him.
When he opens the door to waiting room, Mikey is surfing on the internet, cell phone going off next to him every so often, the light blinking.
“Hey, Ryan,” he says, looking up, abandoning both his cell phone and the computer, so Ryan comes up to the desk. Obviously Mikey wants to talk.
“Hey, Mikey, what’s up?”
Mikey smoothes down a piece of his hair. The main phone line rings, but he ignores it. He does that sometimes. Ryan hopes it’s not a patient having a meltdown. “So, uh, your friend Pete is…” He trails off, something caught between a smile and a look of exasperation fleeting across his face.
“Offensive?” Ryan suggests. “Forward? Overtly sexual and uncomfortable?”
“Interesting,” Mikey finishes.
Ryan takes a second to look at Mikey and sighs. “Oh god, you think he’s hot, don’t you?”
Mikey shrugs, trying and pretty much succeeding in appearing to be nonchalant. “He’s not unattractive.”
“He’s also not sane,” Ryan cuts in.
“Ryan, I’m the receptionist at my brother’s psychiatrist office. Which you frequent twice a week.” He raises his eyebrow.
“Point.”
The door to Gerard’s office opens and Pete comes out, big smile on his face. “See you next week, Gee,” he calls over his shoulder. When he spots Ryan, his grin grows even bigger. “Ryan, our therapist is amazing. Isn’t he amazing?”
Ryan casts a look at Mikey, but nods and agrees with Pete. “He is amazing.”
Pete comes up to the desk and leans against it, knocking Ryan with his hip. “Well go in, don’t let me stop you from finding your true self and enlightenment.”
“I think you’re confusing a psychiatrist with the Dalai Lama,” Ryan says, and Pete shrugs.
“Whatever. See you later at work, Ross.” He throws Ryan one last smile before directing his attention towards Mikey, and just before Ryan closes the door to Gerard’s office behind him, he can hear Pete say, “So, Gerard told me you like unicorns. Bad ass.”
Pete’s voice fades out as the door closes, and Gerard looks up.
Gerard wastes little time and starts as soon as Ryan sits down, curling his legs up underneath himself as he gets situated on the floor. “So, Pete told me about the story he assigned to you. That’s pretty huge, Ryan.”
Ryan wonders what else Pete said about him, if Pete said anything at all, but he knows it’s not his place to ask Gerard. It’s not like Gerard could tell him.
“Yeah, I’m supposed to do a story about the break up of Industry of Being,” he confirms, shifting a little bit to get comfortable. He contemplates taking his shoes off. Gerard seems happy barefoot.
“Good music,” Gerard says. “You want to talk about how it’s going?” He reaches to his side to pick up his notebook. “Have you had any anxiety problems with approaching the band members? It’s typical for people to be intimidated by famous people. Nothing to be ashamed of, you know.”
“I wasn’t intimidated,” Ryan says, pausing for a moment, thinking exactly how to express what he felt. “I have a meeting with Spencer later on in the week, but first I met with Jon.”
“The bassist,” Gerard adds.
Ryan throws a wry grin Gerard’s way. “Want me to get you an autograph?”
“Funny,” Gerard answers, and waves his hand at Ryan. “Continue. So you met with Jon the bassist.”
“Yeah, we met at Starbucks.”
“And how did it go?” Gerard prods.
The thing is, Ryan’s been thinking about Jon a lot lately. He’s been thinking about Brendon too, but for a completely different reason, but Jon was just so… “He seemed so lost.” Gerard bunches his eyebrows together, his signature ‘Interesting’ pose, so Ryan continues. “I could identify with him, in a way. He seems so beaten up about the break up, and I can understand feeling so helpless about your life.”
“It reminded you of your father?”
Ryan frowns. This was quickly approaching something he didn’t want to talk about. “No, it just reminded me of life.” He coughs. “But anyway, I talked with Jon.” He plays with his shoelaces and thinks avoidance but says, “It’s sad, it’s almost like he’s - like he’s waiting for Brendon to come back to him. Like some sort of jaded lover.”
Gerard hums and asks, “What did you and Jon talk about specifically?”
“A little bit about the band. He helped me get in touch with Brendon.” He looks up at Gerard. “That’s the lead singer.” He grins a little again. “But then again, I’m sure you already knew that.”
“And did you talk to Brendon?” Gerard asks, not commenting on Ryan’s little joke, but he smiles at it, and Ryan knows it’s Gerard’s way of saying that it’s okay to poke fun at people sometimes.
“I went to his apartment,” Ryan admits. “I walked in without him inviting me.” He knows that it’s not really socially accepted according to norms, but Gerard doesn’t chastise him. “He was… He was interesting.”
“Interesting?”
Ryan thinks back to his and Brendon’s brief encounter. “I think he’s going through some sort of manic spell,” he relays. “There was composition paper everywhere, and when I came in he was playing the bassoon. Who the fuck plays the bassoon?”
“Bernard Garfield,” Gerard answers right away.
Ryan blinks. “But Brendon was nice. He, uh, I think he sort of hit on me?” Ryan can feel himself turning red. “I mean, I’m probably wrong, but, I don’t know, maybe he was.”
“What makes you think that you’re probably wrong, Ryan?”
“He’s Brendon Urie.”
Gerard nods. “Yes, he is, but Ryan, you’re a desirable young man. Other men are going to find you attractive.”
Ryan watches as Gerard writes down something in his notebook. It’s probably something about how he should work on self esteem issues and possibly pick up his dry cleaning later.
“Fine, I’m attractive,” Ryan relents.
Gerard smiles. “Doesn’t it feel good to say that?” He sets the pen down. “Now tell me more about Brendon. How did the interview go?”
“It didn’t,” Ryan admits. “He refused to talk to me.”
“So what now, Ryan?” Gerard asks. “Do you have a plan to get Brendon to talk to you?” Gerard leans a little forward across the carpet. “You know, Ryan, it’s okay if this doesn’t work out. I’m sure Pete’ll give you another assignment. I don’t know if it’ll be beneficial to you to have so much stress.”
“I can handle it, Gerard,” Ryan insists.
Gerard’s mouth forms a straight line, but he nods. “Okay, so what are you planning to do?”
---
Ryan’s not quite sure how he gets all the way to Brendon’s floor with the massive amount of food he bought in his arms, but he somehow manages not to fall on the staircase as his arms are weighed down with the heavy pressure of hot Chinese food. The elevator still seems too precarious to try.
He didn’t bother buzzing in this time, nearly positive that Brendon wouldn’t let him in, but thankfully he only had to wait a couple of minutes until a scarily skinny girl with straggly hair exited the building with her dog, who sniffed hopefully at Ryan’s pant leg. The girl, however, had pulled her dog away before Ryan could even contemplate throwing the poor animal some food.
When he reaches Brendon’s door, he doesn’t put the food down. Instead, he kicks at the door with the side of his shoe. Before Brendon can start playing his instrument louder to block out Ryan’s knocking (and this time Ryan’s fairly sure that it’s a clarinet) Ryan calls out, “I brought food, Brendon!”
The simple melody halts, and a second later, Brendon swings the door open. Unlike last time, he’s fully dressed, but if Ryan looks hard enough, he can still make out the faint indication of the curve of Brendon’s body. Brendon’s isn’t wearing shoes, however, and when he sees Ryan, a smile flits across his face.
Brendon leans against the partially open door and shakes his head amusedly. “Bribery, Ryan Ross?”
Ryan grins back, partially because Brendon’s right and partially because he remembered his name. “No one can say no to hot Chinese food,” Ryan says, not waiting for Brendon to invite him in, and he enters the apartment.
“I’m a vegetarian,” Brendon says, closing the door behind Ryan, pulling a deadbolt across the top, and Ryan wonders why Brendon didn’t have it locked the day before. Maybe it was fate that allowed the knob to turn that day.
“I know,” Ryan responds. “I did do my research,” he reminds. “I’m a professional journalist after all.”
Ryan struggles with all the food for a second before Brendon takes a couple of the bags from him, leading them through the apartment into the small kitchen, where they both lay their food down on the table, spreading it out.
“I thought you were an aspiring journalist,” Brendon muses. He opens one of the containers and his eyes light up. “Oh! Eggrolls!”
“Soon-to-be professional,” Ryan corrects. He takes a couple of the containers out of the bags. “Do you have a plate or something? And utensils?”
Brendon nods, cheeks puffed out, mouth full of eggroll goodness, and he rummages through the cupboards, producing two plates and two forks. “You know, I had a feeling I would be seeing you again,” Brendon says as he scoops some Buddha’s Delight onto his plate. “A premonition, almost.” He grins over at Ryan. “I knew I hadn’t seen the last of you, Ryan Ross.”
Ryan doesn’t know what to say (and he’s had that problem before, often even, sometimes he can never find the words) so he ducks his head and fills his plate.
“So are you going to bug me about interviewing again?” Brendon asks as he spears a piece of broccoli. “Chinese food is great and all, but I’m not going to change my mind.”
“No, that’s not why I’m here,” Ryan says, and even though he had planned those words out in his head on his way over, thought them up as part of his actual formulated plan to get a story, Ryan suddenly realizes how true his statement is. “You just seemed sort of lonely.” The words just come out.
“I’m not,” Brendon says quickly, but Ryan smiles at him, a small smile that disappears quickly with his words.
“Well, sometimes I am,” Ryan admits. “And I though that maybe you’d like to talk to me even if it wasn’t for a magazine interview. Just hang out.”
Brendon seems to be contemplating Ryan’s words, slowly chewing his broccoli. “Have you ever seen Almost Famous?” he asks.
“No,” Ryan responds. He vaguely recalls wanting to see it, but he can’t remember why he never did. If he remembers correctly, his father had promised to take him.
“You should watch it,” Brendon says. He looks at Ryan over his raised fork. “I think you’d like it.”
Ryan doesn’t point out that Brendon doesn’t know anything about him. He doesn’t say anything, mostly because Brendon might accuse him of the same thing, but Ryan knows a fact list about Brendon: everything from where he went to elementary school to the girlfriend that supposedly took his virginity. He knows so much about Brendon that at times, like now, sitting across a packed kitchen table with Brendon, who has a little bit of brown sauce smeared above his upper lip, Ryan forgets that he doesn’t actually know Brendon at all.
“It’s about this music journalist,” Brendon continues, and it takes Ryan a minute to realize that Brendon’s talking about the movie. “He’s just a kid, really. And he’s really innocent and sweet and tries so hard to pretend like he’s this big shot.” Brendon casts an amused eye at Ryan. “And all the bad ass rock stars call him The Enemy, but they don’t really mean it.”
“Does he ever get his story?” Ryan asks, because he’s sure there’s a reason Brendon’s telling him this, but he’s not quite sure what it is.
Brendon grins. “In the end.” He leans across the table and picks up one of the small, wrapped fortune cookies. “Tell me something about yourself,” he says, the crinkling of the plastic making his words a little difficult to discern.
Ryan furrows his brow. “What?”
“That’s what you want from me, isn’t it?” Brendon reminds. “So tell me something about yourself and I’ll tell you something about me. Strictly off the record, of course.” He reads the tiny slip of paper and frowns before shrugging his shoulders and crumbles the fortune up.
Ryan doesn’t read his own fortune cookie. He doesn’t bother with stuff like that. He knows that his future doesn’t lie there. If it even lies anywhere.
“Why would you want to know about me?” Ryan questions. He watches as Brendon throws the fortune towards the trashcan in the corner, but it misses, hits the rim, and bounces off, landing on the floor. He follows the path.
“It’s rude just talking about me all the time,” Brendon says. “Besides, maybe I want to get to know you.”
It’s strange, but the way that Brendon says it makes Ryan think that he actually means it. It makes Ryan want to believe that Brendon actually means it, and he thinks quickly of something that could possibly be interesting enough to share with Brendon. Something that isn’t too personal.
“I never learned how to drive a car,” he finally settles on, pleased when he sees Brendon’s eyes widen a little.
“Are you serious?!” Brendon exclaims, a laugh playing around each word. “Dude, everyone knows how to drive.”
Ryan shakes his head. “My dad never taught me.” The memory comes back, and it suddenly doesn’t seem like the best thing that he could have shared with Brendon. “He promised but never found the time.” Ryan coughs. “Your turn.”
Brendon is staring carefully at Ryan, looking at him with an expression that Ryan’s seen before, seen on Gerard before, but Brendon doesn’t press the subject further, and Ryan’s grateful.
“I hate peanut butter,” Brendon says.
“Something I couldn’t find on a fan site,” Ryan complains.
Brendon frowns, thinking. “Um, okay, here, I have a good one. When I was in second grade, when all the other little boys wanted to be firemen and cowboys and policemen, I wanted to be hairstylist.”
“I read that in the Rolling Stone article,” Ryan says, but he can’t stop his grin, because the thought of Brendon wanting to be a hairstylist as a child (and he must have been an adorable child) is too precious. He can almost envision the tiny fake scissors and disasters with hair gel.
“No way!” Brendon objects.
“Jon brought it up, if I remember correctly.”
Brendon laughs and shakes his head. “It’s just like him to bring up embarrassing shit like that,” he says.
“You brought it up now,” Ryan points out.
“I was sharing, Ryan,” Brendon says. He nibbles on part of the remaining fortune cookie. “I guess there’s nothing about me you haven’t read in some interview though.”
“I’m sure there is,” Ryan insists.
Brendon raises an eyebrow.
“Like why Industry of Being broke up,” Ryan tries. He’s only a little hesitant bringing it up, but he knows that if he wants to get a story he can’t bullshit around the issue all day. Even though just sitting and talking with Brendon is fun. Is strangely comforting, easy, almost familiar.
Brendon sighs. “There is that,” he relents. He presses his lips together for a second, lips that Ryan’s definitely noticed before, of course he has, and even though Brendon is scrunching his face up a little right now, he’s still gorgeous.
Ryan wonders if Brendon’s going to answer the question. It’s not on the record, but if Ryan can just find out, he knows that he’ll be able to get Brendon to say it for real later. Instead, however, Brendon says something completely unexpected.
“I’ve never been in love,” he announces, and suddenly the apartment seems so vast, so silent. “I’m twenty-four years old, and I’ve never been in love.” Brendon sighs. “I sing about it all the time. I write about it, and my greatest fear is that I’ll never find it, and I’ll forever have all these stupid love songs with my words and my voice haunting me.”
Brendon is looking right at Ryan when he talks, dark brown eyes opened so wide, and Ryan doesn’t know what to say.
They don’t talk seriously again for the rest of the night, but Ryan stays for a couple hours more.
Brendon puts on a movie and snuggles up against the arm of the couch, Ryan a good few feet away from him as the images play across the screen. They make easy banter as the storyline comes apart, and to Ryan, the whole night feels like something different than work, than just him trying to get a story.
When he gets tired, Brendon tells him to take some of the Chinese food with him, and when Brendon walks him to the door, Ryan has a bag full of Chinese food clasped in one hand while the other is circled around the crumbled fortune that Brendon threw on the ground.
His hand clenches as Brendon hugs him goodnight.
For the first time in a while, Ryan doesn’t back away from the contact. In fact, he leans in for a moment and simply breathes.
---
Jon is late to the meeting, but Spencer is right on time.
This time, Ryan opted to meet in his office. Starbucks was too loud, there were too many people, and some part of Ryan thinks that maybe if he talks to Spencer and Jon in his office, his place of work, then he might actually be able to remain somewhat professional.
It’s quite daunting how very little usable information he has.
Spencer knocks on the door before he comes in. He’s wearing well-fitted jeans and a clean t-shirt. His hair looks brushed and his beard seems to be under control. Unlike Jon, he doesn’t seem to be carrying some sort of depression on his back. He actually looks fine. He looks relatively happy even.
“Ryan Ross, I assume,” Spencer says, crossing the room to hold his hand out to Ryan, who takes it. “At least, that’s what it says on the door.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Ryan says. “Please, sit down. I appreciate you coming to talk to me.”
Spencer nods. “Sure. I figure that if we talk about it once, get it all out there, you know, then everything will be over and it won’t be such a big deal anymore.” His voice is smooth and untroubled, and it all sounds so terribly sensible to Ryan that he can’t help but see just how broken Jon must be feeling by comparison.
“That’s the idea,” Ryan says easily. He wonders when he suddenly slipped into this persona of a person who can talk to famous ex-drummers and say whatever it is they want to hear without giving any thought to it. Pete will certainly be proud. Gerard might be too, but only because it’s been a long time since Ryan’s had any anxiety problems brought on by social situations. Ryan knows Gerard would be less pleased with the actual behavior.
The thing is, however, that Ryan needs a story. He needs facts and quotes that are on the record and people who will talk to him. And for some reason, Ryan would rather get all this through saying whatever he needs to to Spencer and Jon than to pull apart Brendon.
He tries not to think about what that says about him.
“Jon told me that he’ll probably be running late,” Spencer says, and Ryan detects a hint of annoyance in his voice. Ryan’s about to say something like That’s okay when Spencer very suddenly looks up, blue eyes piercing and asks, “Have you spoken with Brendon?”
“A little,” Ryan admits. “He’s not very forthcoming with telling me anything. Jon was actually a lot more willing to share.”
Spencer sighs. “He would be.” He’s looking at Ryan again, looking at him straight on, and Ryan’s always been a little uncomfortable with eye contact. He can feel his leg start to shake, unwilling to be the first one to look away. “Before we start this whole thing, I want to get a couple of things out in the open. Off the record.”
“Okay,” Ryan agrees, his heart sinking a little at the words ‘off the record’, but the stare that Spencer is fixing him with doesn’t leave Ryan a lot of room to disagree.
“This whole break up,” Spencer starts, but then stops, starting over. “Jon isn’t taking this well. He thinks that we’re going to get back together. He thinks that Brendon is going to change his mind and come running back to us.” He shakes his head. “I’m already thinking about my future, you know? I’m going to enroll in accounting classes, get a skill I can use, but I’m afraid that Jon’s never going to let go of the idea of Brendon coming back to us. To him.”
Ryan doesn’t really know any of them that well, and it feels a little strange that all of them seem to open up to him so much. He’s reminded of the quote from Almost Famous, because yes, he watched it after Brendon mentioned it.
I’m telling secrets to the one guy you don’t tell secrets to.
Spencer looks tired. Ryan can suddenly see it. He looks more worn down than Ryan first supposed. He looks like Jon.
“He’s always sort of been in love with him,” Spencer says. His eyes dart to the door, as if to make sure that Jon hasn’t come in and is listening, but the coast is clear. “Ever since I came around, really. He’s always loved Brendon. I don’t know if Brendon ever knew-” He breaks off in an almost harsh laugh. “I don’t know how he couldn’t know, but he never said anything. He never showed any interest.”
For some reason, a reason that Ryan isn’t sure he understands, it’s suddenly a little difficult to breathe. It could be because he’s remembering the way that Brendon had looked at him, looked at him in a way that was so vulnerable. Had made him feel that maybe, just maybe there could be something there, ridiculous as it sounds.
“Do you think Brendon loves him, too?” Ryan asks. He can’t help himself. He needs to know, but even as he asks, he remembers Brendon’s words. Remembers how he claimed he’s never loved.
“Brendon doesn’t love him,” Spencer says, echoing Ryan’s thoughts, his semi-ashamed hopes. “He doesn’t love anyone but himself. Doesn’t love anything but music.” There’s a bit of bitterness lining Spencer’s words, a bit of anger, too. “Brendon ended the band. Brendon ended everything.”
Spencer sighs and leans back further in his chair.
“I just wanted to get that out of the way before we begin the formal interview,” Spencer says. “Just so you know.”
Ryan blinks, suddenly aware of how dry his eyes seem. He processes all the information, and it’s then that he sees Jon through the window, coming towards the office.
“Be mindful, yeah?” Spencer asks. “Sensitive?”
“Of course,” Ryan responds, because it’s not like he’d go out of his way to be mean.
Jon opens the door, tired eyes and ruffled appearance. He looks like he’s had a tough night, and Ryan wonders for a second if the smell of alcohol is still lingering on his breath. By Spencer’s expression when Jon sits down, he’s pretty sure it is.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jon says.
“Don’t worry,” Spencer responds, and something in his expression softens when he talks to Jon. Friendship Ryan thinks. He thinks caring and love. “We were waiting for you.”
Jon just smiles. It’s slow to come, but after a couple of seconds, it’s there, spread across his face. “You could have started. You didn’t have to wait.”
Ryan thinks about how Jon’s waiting, will maybe always be waiting for Brendon, but he brushes that thought aside. “We don’t mind,” he says. “Honest.”
---
When Ryan walks into the Civic Center for his pottery class, he hears the piano music, that same music from the first night, and he seriously contemplates skipping class to search out the source.
It’s a different melody from the last time he heard the phantom musician, a little more upbeat, faster, something that sounds more cheerful, but Ryan’s sure that the same person is playing it. There’s something familiar about the notes, about the way the music carries and lingers.
He wants to walk toward the music, down the hall and away from the art room, but then he looks down at his watch and realizes that he’s already dangerously close to being late, so he hurries into the room, taking his normal seat next to Audrey and Greta at their table.
The entire class period, Ryan’s distracted. He answers questions that Greta and Audrey ask him, asks his own even once in a while, and he tries to keep simple conversation flowing, but his mind is so full of Spencer and Jon and Brendon. God, Brendon.
He thinks of the crumbled up fortune he had swiped from Brendon’s dirty kitchen floor. The one that Brendon had reacted to so strangely, tossing it over his shoulder as if distance would make all the difference. The one that Ryan has taped inside his notebook, the dark words still easily legible even with the folds.
Follow your heart, love will find you.
Brendon’s reaction to the words was unlike what Ryan supposes a normal person’s would be, but considering Brendon’s past, because he knew of the constantly changing foster homes, it makes sense. He can understand why Brendon wouldn’t want those words staring him in the face, but Ryan wonders if the words linger in his mind still, even with the fortune out of sight.
Ryan’s not a romantic in any sense. He has no reason to be - everything he had ever thought about love had turned out to be a lie, but that’s just another reason why Ryan feels a connection to Brendon. Another reason why his article is still at a measly word count with only clichéd beginnings.
He lets his mind wander as his hands work the clay, and his thoughts flit quickly between the past several days. Part of him is trying to work out the relationship of these three men, this ex-band. He wants to know the dynamics, wants to understand them, but he doubts he ever will. He doubts even they are aware of their own relationships. Judging by what Spencer had said about Jon, they didn’t always see eye-to-eye.
“You still with us, Ryan?” Greta asks, her voice breaking through Ryan’s internal screen. She tilts her head, a small, warm smile on her face. “We haven’t lost you have we?”
Ryan shakes his head. “No, sorry, I’m fine. Just thinking about work,” he says, not bothering to go into it any further. He hadn’t told either girl about meeting Industry of Being. It isn’t really because Audrey is such a self-proclaimed rabid fan, it is more that Ryan still doesn’t really trust them. He hasn’t known them that long, and Ryan knows first hand just how quickly people can turn on you.
That’s what people are best at: letting you down.
“You’re still planning on coming with us to Keltie’s recital with us later this week, yeah?” Audrey asks. She has a new streak in her hair, blue, and Ryan doesn’t understand how it’s taken him nearly half the class period to notice it.
“I’ll be there,” Ryan says. He contemplates for a brief hilarious moment about asking if he could possibly bring a friend, bring Brendon, but he doesn’t dare. He doesn’t even know if he could qualify him and Brendon as friends. They had only spent time together twice. That’s barely a basis for an acquaintanceship, much less a friendship, but then Ryan thinks about the way that Brendon hugged him, thinks about how easy it was to give in to the touch.
Greta and Audrey both seem happy by Ryan’s confirmation. Happy enough to let him drift back into his own thoughts where he thinks of Spencer’s fierce protectiveness of his friends, Jon’s steadfast loyalty, and Brendon.
He thinks of Brendon, and the piano music from outside, just audible from in the room if he really listens hard, twists around every flash of a smile in Ryan’s head.
Part Four
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