Penny Ante Christmas, Bden/Ryan
Title: Penny Ante Christmas
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Written for colorofsmoke. Many thanks to foxxcub for letting me cry on her shoulder about this. Thanks also to megolas and calathea for beta duty. Based on the pictures of Panic! in the pornbasement.
It's the piggy bank that catches his eye, as Ryan weaves his way through the slot machines on his way to lunch. It's a piggy bank, bright red, sitting next to the elbow of the only person using this row of slot machines. It’s the piggy bank and the fact it’s only one guy, in bright yellow next to his red piggy bank, playing the penny slots.
But there's this red piggy bank, and Ryan stops, stops long enough to look that there's something familiar about the guy sat there, methodically pushing in coin after coin, hitting the button to spin the fruit. Then a woman with a blue rinse shoves her walker into the backs of his knees and Ryan has to keep going. He doesn't get long for a break anyway. He doesn't need to waste any part of it looking at the folly of someone with a piggy bank.
Thing is, Ryan starts seeing him fairly often. Not every day-nothing quite so perfectly random as Ryan's shifts-but, often enough. He doesn’t ever get past noticing, though, not until the guy wins.
"No," Ryan hears. "No, it's fine. Seriously. Go ahead. Take it."
And then he comes round the corner and he's already realized that it's Brendon. Brendon, who he's seen every few days now for the past two months or so. Brendon who he would've said, up until five seconds ago, had disappeared from his life a year and a half ago, having thoroughly fucked it up. Brendon, who's arguing with the security guard while pennies cascade from the machine's tray out onto the carpet.
Brendon fucking Urie, who Ryan still wants to punch in the face. His hands curl up into fists without his permission. He won't punch Brendon. Probably.
"What the hell?" He's pretty proud of how calm he sounds.
Brendon turns around so fast Ryan reaches out a hand to keep him from falling over, even though he's still too far away to touch. Brendon doesn't fall, and Ryan's pissed off at his reflex, and freshly pissed off at Brendon.
Ryan's only half-listening to the security guard, who's saying something about Brendon and the payout and ‘just come with me sir, we’ll get some buckets’ and it'll all register in a second. He's actually waiting to hear Brendon say something, turn the shocked look on his face into words. Ryan's waiting for something to use against Brendon; words he can turn into a weapon.
But--nothing. Brendon doesn't even so much as say Ryan's name before the security guard’s hustling him away from the machines, and Ryan doesn’t even get to watch him go. They’re around the far side of row of slots before he can even turn. Ryan teeters, then falls sideways a couple inches, far enough he's leaning against the first in the row of slots like a cut-string puppet. After a few moments of stunned post-rage apathy, he looks at his watch. Barely two minutes into his break, and Brendon Urie's fucked up Ryan's life. Again.
*
Currently, Ryan's life looks like this. He lives with his dad, who's in and out of hospital on a weekly basis. The shitty casino job is his doing--he knows a guy who was his buddy's brother in law and somehow there are enough favours in play that Ryan? Can pick up whatever shifts he wants, make it work around the hospital. When he's not working or clearing up dead butts and empty beer cans, he's writing the great American novel and writing songs with Spencer. No one’s replaced Brendon or Brent. Ryan also spends a good hour of the day looking at his phone and the number listed under Pete W.
A year and a half ago? The picture was totally different.
A year and a half ago, Ryan was actually hanging out with Pete Wentz (and he
still can't even think about that without this overwhelming sense of awe) and he was in a band that was on tour and they had merch and people were really into them and their songs, and-and then they were watching porn in Ern’s basement and Ryan forgot they weren’t in his bedroom and Brendon kissed back and Brent-Brent was right there and then Brent and Brendon were gone.
Ryan looks up from his notebook, half-flinching at the cut-off snore from the couch, and waits to see if it's time to get to the kitchen, pretend he's getting dinner ready. The snoring picks up again, and he looks back down at the page, adrenaline spike making his fingers tremble a little as he presses them into the gutter between the pages.
--and Brendon fucking Urie fucked it all up, and doesn't even have the decency to leave Ryan alone to this fucked up limbo of a life. He bites down hard on the end of his pen and considers the page in front of him before carefully writing down 'limbo of a life.' It's a good alliteration. He can probably use it somewhere.
Later, when he calls Spencer to him complain about how he’s got to study for finals, he doesn't mention seeing Brendon. He doesn't wonder about it until later, when he's lying in bed, reading the shadowed shapes on his ceiling like tea leaves, decidedly not reminiscing about fucking Brendon. He can't figure out why he doesn't tell Spencer, though, so instead of thinking about it any more, he rolls over and goes to sleep.
Ryan's at work the next day for a grand total of thirty five minutes before his supervisor pulls him in for a 'private chat.' What happens is that Ryan's dragged into an office with a desk with a red piggy bank on it and two chairs on either side. And Brendon fucking Urie sitting in one of the chairs, looking so abjectly hopeful and miserable Ryan wants to throw something at him. There's nothing within reach, though so he crosses his arms and waits for an explanation.
Five minutes later, he’s identified Brendon as the piggy bank’s rightful owner and he's got Brendon's eternal gratitude--which is worth about as much to him as Brendon's fucking piggy bank--and a shadow who refuses to go away.
"Seriously, Ryan--I know--look, I’m sorry I just took off yesterday. I know things are--can I please buy you--uh. A drink? Coffee? Something?"
There's a line a mile long at the booth when Ryan gets back, and Laura gives him a dirty glare, trying to hand over change and chips at the same time. Ryan waves one hand at Brendon--go away--and takes his place next to her. Brendon immediately steps in front of Ryan, and puts the piggy bank on the counter between them. He reaches underneath and pulls out the plug in its belly. Pennies dump out all over the counter, some of them rolling off to fall soundlessly to the carpet below. Behind Brendon, the other people in line grumble, loudly. Ryan can feel himself going pink with rage.
Why is this his life?
"Fuck off," he hisses, as quiet as he can.
Brendon flinches but doesn't move. "I want to buy some chips."
He's still standing there, stupidly staring at the mound of pennies in between him and Brendon when his supervisor drops one hand on his shoulder. "Take a break, Ross."
"But--"
"Break. Ross. Now."
Which is how Ryan finds himself--bizarrely, incongruously--sitting in the casino restaurant, holding a mug of awful coffee. Sitting in the restaurant across from Brendon fucking Urie. He suppresses the urge to laugh at the thought that 'fucking' has replaced Brendon's middle name. It's what got them here in the first place.
It's not funny.
"Thank you," Brendon starts with, looking at the pig that's sitting next to the napkin dispenser. "My grandma gave it to me and--"
"I don't give a shit."
"--and I would've been in so much trouble if I lost it, you have no idea. So, thank you. And I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get you in trouble, okay? I can totally talk to your boss and tell him you didn't know me or that I'm your freaky cousin from--from Utah or something, okay. And you won't get in trouble, right--"
"Jesus Christ, Brendon, shut up." Ryan's skin feels hot and too tight and he takes a sip of coffee like that's going to help, to avoid flinching to match Brendon's flinch.
The sick feeling in Ryan's stomach is a fucked up cross between rage and sadness. "You fucked us over for GOD, Brendon?" He can't help the twist of a sneer on that word, that one word that he can blame for the fact he's sitting drinking shitty coffee in the shitty restaurant of a shitty casino at 12.45 am on a Thursday morning with Brendon fucking Urie.
He gets about five steps away from the table before he turns around again and comes right back. Brendon looks like Ryan just killed a puppy in front of him, and dimly Ryan feels a lurch of guilt, but not enough to keep him from speaking.
"You get up in my face for saying 'Jesus Christ' but you spend how many days a week in here, playing the slots? What the fuck. What the hell are you doing?"
Brendon just looks back at him, eyes big and mouth sad, and Ryan can feel himself deflate like an old balloon. He sags into the seat opposite Brendon, folds himself up and forces himself to return the look.
"I don't know," Brendon finally answers, his voice maybe a quarter of the size of his eyes.
If Ryan Ross was at all a nice guy, he'd totally forgive Brendon everything with that one look. Except Ryan Ross is an asshole, so the best he can manage is to not roll his eyes, to take his coffee cup with both hands and not get up. Even that's hard work.
They don't sit there long, and they don't talk about anything important. Brendon seems too grateful for the reprieve to bring up anything, and Ryan just doesn't want to go there if he doesn't have to. He's too busy trying to work out why he's suddenly actually talking to Brendon again.
Nostalgia, he decides to himself, walking to his car as the sun comes up hours later. Nostalgia and--maybe the chance of revenge? He cracks his jaw, yawning, and half an hour later gets caught up in yet another phone call from the police, another trip
to the hospital in the back of a police car because they don't trust him to drive himself--and he doesn't see Brendon again for more than a week. To be honest, Brendon’s not even the fourth thought.
He’s almost forgotten about it, even, when Brendon steps up to the booth, comes right up to Ryan, and folds his arms between them. Ryan blinks at him but Brendon doesn’t disappear. His smile is tentative but real enough and Ryan has to remind himself not to smile back instinctively. It gives him a headache and he presses two fingers surreptitiously to one temple. Brendon’s smile fades immediately and he drops his arms off the counter.
“Look, I don’t know-“
“I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry for-and-I’m sorry. That’s all.”
Ryan’s too dumbfounded to stop Brendon when he walks away. He didn’t expect that.
*
Brendon doesn’t come and play the slots after that. Or, at least, Ryan doesn’t ever see him. He could call. He knows that Brendon still lives at home. He doesn’t call, though. What the fuck would he say. And still he doesn’t talk to Spencer about it. It doesn’t matter, really, because there’s plenty of other things to talk about-like how Ryan’s going to spend Christmas with the Smiths, and when he’s going to visit his dad, and what shifts he’s going to take at the casino. It’s enough to worry about. He doesn’t need to think about Brendon too. So he makes an effort not to.
He’s composing the third verse of a song about the embarrassing tragedy of a casino on Christmas Eve-writing it out, ironically enough, on the back of a casino napkin-when Laura comes back off her break, smirking.
“What,” he asks automatically, though he doesn’t actually care about the answer.
“Your friend’s in the bar.”
“What friend.” He’s even less interested now; it’s probably one of their creepy regulars. A lot of the older guys like the way Ryan looks.
“The one with the piggy bank?” She laughs when Ryan looks up, sharply. “Yeah, that one. He’s crying all over the new bartender-whatever his name is. Nick? Dave?”
Not hitting her is a physical struggle, but Ryan manages to restrict his destructive impulse to the napkin in front of him. He should’ve hit her instead. “What?” he says again.
She shrugs at him and comes up to the mirrored wall next to the booth, checking her eyeliner. “Yeah, crying in the bar. God, I thought that could at least get you to crack a smile, Ross.” She looks at him. “Are you going to stand there watching me or are you going to take your break?”
He has no intention of going to the bar to see Brendon crying on anyone, but somehow he ends up there anyway. He manages to be not all that surprised at himself as he scans the bar, starting to weave his way around the booths already. Brendon’s alone when Ryan finds him, three booths in, leaning against the wall, running his finger up and down through the condensation of the champagne bottle in front of him. There are two others in front of him, one open, the other not. That bitch, Ryan thinks, and stands there until Brendon looks up. It feels like it takes days.
“Ryan.”
He sits down across from Brendon, and pulls the bottle away from him. When he speaks it’s softer and kinder than he intends or expects. “What are you doing?”
Brendon makes a clumsy grab for the bottle Ryan’s moved away, making only the barest contact with the cold glass before giving up, slumping on the table, resting his cheek against his elbow. “I won, Ryan. Look, I won-“ He sits up clumsily and pushes a bucket of pennies across the table. “I won.”
“It’s Christmas Eve.”
“I’ll be home for Christmas…” Brendon sings, starting solidly but fading away by the first S of the last word.
“Bren-“ His voice only breaks a tiny bit, but he cuts off the second syllable anyway.
“I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m sorry I messed up. I know I did.” He reaches across the table, hand clumsy on Ryan’s arm, fingers digging in earnestly. Ryan looks at Brendon’s hand, then at his face. His eyelashes are stuck together and his eyes huge before he blinks his gaze away. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” He doesn’t move his arm away even though Brendon’s grip has loosened more than enough.
“I thought-Brent’s my friend. Was my friend. I guess. Don’t you do stuff for your family? For your dad?” Ryan would move now, but he can’t seem to, cast in yellow-warning amber. Brendon looks up at him, then away again. “I thought-I had to go on my mission. And you know what I learned, Ryan?”
Ryan’s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth it’s so dry. He shakes his head, though whether that’s an answer or to try to get Brendon to stop, stop this-stop being drunk and sad and all the things Ryan can’t deal with-he doesn’t know. He looks at Brendon when Brendon looks up, blinking as soon as Brendon does. Neither of them look away.
And then, Brendon does, ducking his head and pulling his hand back, only enough to push the unopened bottle of champagne towards Ryan. “Merry Christmas,” he mumbles. “I’m gonna -“
And then he falls out of the booth.
*
Ryan spends the first half an hour of Christmas Day in the bathroom with Brendon, holding his breath when he can, breathing through his mouth when he can’t. He passes a glass of water over Brendon’s head every five minutes, refilling it every seven as Brendon brings it all back up again. It’s almost soothing, the ritual. He doesn’t want to think about why it’s so easy; he doesn’t have to think about it. He also doesn’t think about how his break was over a good twenty minutes before Brendon stops throwing up.
He sits down on the cold tile, across from Brendon, once the toilet’s been flushed for the last time, leaning back against one wall of the stall. Brendon takes the glass of water one last time, a careful sip coming right after the tired smile of gratitude.
“Thanks,” he says, hoarse, and Ryan ducks his head in response. One nod and half a shrug.
“No problem.”
They sit there, breathing, Brendon gradually matching Ryan’s breaths, knees almost but not quite touching.
“Merry Christmas,” Brendon says finally, glancing quickly over at Ryan, then looking away again.
“You think you’ve got enough pennies to buy me a coffee, dickhead?” Ryan catches himself smiling as he says it and he lets it stay there, lets Brendon see. He watches Brendon glance over to the penny bucket sitting next to the toilet.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll buy a new guitar for Christmas next year.” He reaches out his right hand to Ryan, who puts his palm in it immediately. They pull each other up.
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Written for colorofsmoke. Many thanks to foxxcub for letting me cry on her shoulder about this. Thanks also to megolas and calathea for beta duty. Based on the pictures of Panic! in the pornbasement.
It's the piggy bank that catches his eye, as Ryan weaves his way through the slot machines on his way to lunch. It's a piggy bank, bright red, sitting next to the elbow of the only person using this row of slot machines. It’s the piggy bank and the fact it’s only one guy, in bright yellow next to his red piggy bank, playing the penny slots.
But there's this red piggy bank, and Ryan stops, stops long enough to look that there's something familiar about the guy sat there, methodically pushing in coin after coin, hitting the button to spin the fruit. Then a woman with a blue rinse shoves her walker into the backs of his knees and Ryan has to keep going. He doesn't get long for a break anyway. He doesn't need to waste any part of it looking at the folly of someone with a piggy bank.
Thing is, Ryan starts seeing him fairly often. Not every day-nothing quite so perfectly random as Ryan's shifts-but, often enough. He doesn’t ever get past noticing, though, not until the guy wins.
"No," Ryan hears. "No, it's fine. Seriously. Go ahead. Take it."
And then he comes round the corner and he's already realized that it's Brendon. Brendon, who he's seen every few days now for the past two months or so. Brendon who he would've said, up until five seconds ago, had disappeared from his life a year and a half ago, having thoroughly fucked it up. Brendon, who's arguing with the security guard while pennies cascade from the machine's tray out onto the carpet.
Brendon fucking Urie, who Ryan still wants to punch in the face. His hands curl up into fists without his permission. He won't punch Brendon. Probably.
"What the hell?" He's pretty proud of how calm he sounds.
Brendon turns around so fast Ryan reaches out a hand to keep him from falling over, even though he's still too far away to touch. Brendon doesn't fall, and Ryan's pissed off at his reflex, and freshly pissed off at Brendon.
Ryan's only half-listening to the security guard, who's saying something about Brendon and the payout and ‘just come with me sir, we’ll get some buckets’ and it'll all register in a second. He's actually waiting to hear Brendon say something, turn the shocked look on his face into words. Ryan's waiting for something to use against Brendon; words he can turn into a weapon.
But--nothing. Brendon doesn't even so much as say Ryan's name before the security guard’s hustling him away from the machines, and Ryan doesn’t even get to watch him go. They’re around the far side of row of slots before he can even turn. Ryan teeters, then falls sideways a couple inches, far enough he's leaning against the first in the row of slots like a cut-string puppet. After a few moments of stunned post-rage apathy, he looks at his watch. Barely two minutes into his break, and Brendon Urie's fucked up Ryan's life. Again.
*
Currently, Ryan's life looks like this. He lives with his dad, who's in and out of hospital on a weekly basis. The shitty casino job is his doing--he knows a guy who was his buddy's brother in law and somehow there are enough favours in play that Ryan? Can pick up whatever shifts he wants, make it work around the hospital. When he's not working or clearing up dead butts and empty beer cans, he's writing the great American novel and writing songs with Spencer. No one’s replaced Brendon or Brent. Ryan also spends a good hour of the day looking at his phone and the number listed under Pete W.
A year and a half ago? The picture was totally different.
A year and a half ago, Ryan was actually hanging out with Pete Wentz (and he
still can't even think about that without this overwhelming sense of awe) and he was in a band that was on tour and they had merch and people were really into them and their songs, and-and then they were watching porn in Ern’s basement and Ryan forgot they weren’t in his bedroom and Brendon kissed back and Brent-Brent was right there and then Brent and Brendon were gone.
Ryan looks up from his notebook, half-flinching at the cut-off snore from the couch, and waits to see if it's time to get to the kitchen, pretend he's getting dinner ready. The snoring picks up again, and he looks back down at the page, adrenaline spike making his fingers tremble a little as he presses them into the gutter between the pages.
--and Brendon fucking Urie fucked it all up, and doesn't even have the decency to leave Ryan alone to this fucked up limbo of a life. He bites down hard on the end of his pen and considers the page in front of him before carefully writing down 'limbo of a life.' It's a good alliteration. He can probably use it somewhere.
Later, when he calls Spencer to him complain about how he’s got to study for finals, he doesn't mention seeing Brendon. He doesn't wonder about it until later, when he's lying in bed, reading the shadowed shapes on his ceiling like tea leaves, decidedly not reminiscing about fucking Brendon. He can't figure out why he doesn't tell Spencer, though, so instead of thinking about it any more, he rolls over and goes to sleep.
Ryan's at work the next day for a grand total of thirty five minutes before his supervisor pulls him in for a 'private chat.' What happens is that Ryan's dragged into an office with a desk with a red piggy bank on it and two chairs on either side. And Brendon fucking Urie sitting in one of the chairs, looking so abjectly hopeful and miserable Ryan wants to throw something at him. There's nothing within reach, though so he crosses his arms and waits for an explanation.
Five minutes later, he’s identified Brendon as the piggy bank’s rightful owner and he's got Brendon's eternal gratitude--which is worth about as much to him as Brendon's fucking piggy bank--and a shadow who refuses to go away.
"Seriously, Ryan--I know--look, I’m sorry I just took off yesterday. I know things are--can I please buy you--uh. A drink? Coffee? Something?"
There's a line a mile long at the booth when Ryan gets back, and Laura gives him a dirty glare, trying to hand over change and chips at the same time. Ryan waves one hand at Brendon--go away--and takes his place next to her. Brendon immediately steps in front of Ryan, and puts the piggy bank on the counter between them. He reaches underneath and pulls out the plug in its belly. Pennies dump out all over the counter, some of them rolling off to fall soundlessly to the carpet below. Behind Brendon, the other people in line grumble, loudly. Ryan can feel himself going pink with rage.
Why is this his life?
"Fuck off," he hisses, as quiet as he can.
Brendon flinches but doesn't move. "I want to buy some chips."
He's still standing there, stupidly staring at the mound of pennies in between him and Brendon when his supervisor drops one hand on his shoulder. "Take a break, Ross."
"But--"
"Break. Ross. Now."
Which is how Ryan finds himself--bizarrely, incongruously--sitting in the casino restaurant, holding a mug of awful coffee. Sitting in the restaurant across from Brendon fucking Urie. He suppresses the urge to laugh at the thought that 'fucking' has replaced Brendon's middle name. It's what got them here in the first place.
It's not funny.
"Thank you," Brendon starts with, looking at the pig that's sitting next to the napkin dispenser. "My grandma gave it to me and--"
"I don't give a shit."
"--and I would've been in so much trouble if I lost it, you have no idea. So, thank you. And I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get you in trouble, okay? I can totally talk to your boss and tell him you didn't know me or that I'm your freaky cousin from--from Utah or something, okay. And you won't get in trouble, right--"
"Jesus Christ, Brendon, shut up." Ryan's skin feels hot and too tight and he takes a sip of coffee like that's going to help, to avoid flinching to match Brendon's flinch.
The sick feeling in Ryan's stomach is a fucked up cross between rage and sadness. "You fucked us over for GOD, Brendon?" He can't help the twist of a sneer on that word, that one word that he can blame for the fact he's sitting drinking shitty coffee in the shitty restaurant of a shitty casino at 12.45 am on a Thursday morning with Brendon fucking Urie.
He gets about five steps away from the table before he turns around again and comes right back. Brendon looks like Ryan just killed a puppy in front of him, and dimly Ryan feels a lurch of guilt, but not enough to keep him from speaking.
"You get up in my face for saying 'Jesus Christ' but you spend how many days a week in here, playing the slots? What the fuck. What the hell are you doing?"
Brendon just looks back at him, eyes big and mouth sad, and Ryan can feel himself deflate like an old balloon. He sags into the seat opposite Brendon, folds himself up and forces himself to return the look.
"I don't know," Brendon finally answers, his voice maybe a quarter of the size of his eyes.
If Ryan Ross was at all a nice guy, he'd totally forgive Brendon everything with that one look. Except Ryan Ross is an asshole, so the best he can manage is to not roll his eyes, to take his coffee cup with both hands and not get up. Even that's hard work.
They don't sit there long, and they don't talk about anything important. Brendon seems too grateful for the reprieve to bring up anything, and Ryan just doesn't want to go there if he doesn't have to. He's too busy trying to work out why he's suddenly actually talking to Brendon again.
Nostalgia, he decides to himself, walking to his car as the sun comes up hours later. Nostalgia and--maybe the chance of revenge? He cracks his jaw, yawning, and half an hour later gets caught up in yet another phone call from the police, another trip
to the hospital in the back of a police car because they don't trust him to drive himself--and he doesn't see Brendon again for more than a week. To be honest, Brendon’s not even the fourth thought.
He’s almost forgotten about it, even, when Brendon steps up to the booth, comes right up to Ryan, and folds his arms between them. Ryan blinks at him but Brendon doesn’t disappear. His smile is tentative but real enough and Ryan has to remind himself not to smile back instinctively. It gives him a headache and he presses two fingers surreptitiously to one temple. Brendon’s smile fades immediately and he drops his arms off the counter.
“Look, I don’t know-“
“I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry for-and-I’m sorry. That’s all.”
Ryan’s too dumbfounded to stop Brendon when he walks away. He didn’t expect that.
*
Brendon doesn’t come and play the slots after that. Or, at least, Ryan doesn’t ever see him. He could call. He knows that Brendon still lives at home. He doesn’t call, though. What the fuck would he say. And still he doesn’t talk to Spencer about it. It doesn’t matter, really, because there’s plenty of other things to talk about-like how Ryan’s going to spend Christmas with the Smiths, and when he’s going to visit his dad, and what shifts he’s going to take at the casino. It’s enough to worry about. He doesn’t need to think about Brendon too. So he makes an effort not to.
He’s composing the third verse of a song about the embarrassing tragedy of a casino on Christmas Eve-writing it out, ironically enough, on the back of a casino napkin-when Laura comes back off her break, smirking.
“What,” he asks automatically, though he doesn’t actually care about the answer.
“Your friend’s in the bar.”
“What friend.” He’s even less interested now; it’s probably one of their creepy regulars. A lot of the older guys like the way Ryan looks.
“The one with the piggy bank?” She laughs when Ryan looks up, sharply. “Yeah, that one. He’s crying all over the new bartender-whatever his name is. Nick? Dave?”
Not hitting her is a physical struggle, but Ryan manages to restrict his destructive impulse to the napkin in front of him. He should’ve hit her instead. “What?” he says again.
She shrugs at him and comes up to the mirrored wall next to the booth, checking her eyeliner. “Yeah, crying in the bar. God, I thought that could at least get you to crack a smile, Ross.” She looks at him. “Are you going to stand there watching me or are you going to take your break?”
He has no intention of going to the bar to see Brendon crying on anyone, but somehow he ends up there anyway. He manages to be not all that surprised at himself as he scans the bar, starting to weave his way around the booths already. Brendon’s alone when Ryan finds him, three booths in, leaning against the wall, running his finger up and down through the condensation of the champagne bottle in front of him. There are two others in front of him, one open, the other not. That bitch, Ryan thinks, and stands there until Brendon looks up. It feels like it takes days.
“Ryan.”
He sits down across from Brendon, and pulls the bottle away from him. When he speaks it’s softer and kinder than he intends or expects. “What are you doing?”
Brendon makes a clumsy grab for the bottle Ryan’s moved away, making only the barest contact with the cold glass before giving up, slumping on the table, resting his cheek against his elbow. “I won, Ryan. Look, I won-“ He sits up clumsily and pushes a bucket of pennies across the table. “I won.”
“It’s Christmas Eve.”
“I’ll be home for Christmas…” Brendon sings, starting solidly but fading away by the first S of the last word.
“Bren-“ His voice only breaks a tiny bit, but he cuts off the second syllable anyway.
“I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m sorry I messed up. I know I did.” He reaches across the table, hand clumsy on Ryan’s arm, fingers digging in earnestly. Ryan looks at Brendon’s hand, then at his face. His eyelashes are stuck together and his eyes huge before he blinks his gaze away. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” He doesn’t move his arm away even though Brendon’s grip has loosened more than enough.
“I thought-Brent’s my friend. Was my friend. I guess. Don’t you do stuff for your family? For your dad?” Ryan would move now, but he can’t seem to, cast in yellow-warning amber. Brendon looks up at him, then away again. “I thought-I had to go on my mission. And you know what I learned, Ryan?”
Ryan’s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth it’s so dry. He shakes his head, though whether that’s an answer or to try to get Brendon to stop, stop this-stop being drunk and sad and all the things Ryan can’t deal with-he doesn’t know. He looks at Brendon when Brendon looks up, blinking as soon as Brendon does. Neither of them look away.
And then, Brendon does, ducking his head and pulling his hand back, only enough to push the unopened bottle of champagne towards Ryan. “Merry Christmas,” he mumbles. “I’m gonna -“
And then he falls out of the booth.
*
Ryan spends the first half an hour of Christmas Day in the bathroom with Brendon, holding his breath when he can, breathing through his mouth when he can’t. He passes a glass of water over Brendon’s head every five minutes, refilling it every seven as Brendon brings it all back up again. It’s almost soothing, the ritual. He doesn’t want to think about why it’s so easy; he doesn’t have to think about it. He also doesn’t think about how his break was over a good twenty minutes before Brendon stops throwing up.
He sits down on the cold tile, across from Brendon, once the toilet’s been flushed for the last time, leaning back against one wall of the stall. Brendon takes the glass of water one last time, a careful sip coming right after the tired smile of gratitude.
“Thanks,” he says, hoarse, and Ryan ducks his head in response. One nod and half a shrug.
“No problem.”
They sit there, breathing, Brendon gradually matching Ryan’s breaths, knees almost but not quite touching.
“Merry Christmas,” Brendon says finally, glancing quickly over at Ryan, then looking away again.
“You think you’ve got enough pennies to buy me a coffee, dickhead?” Ryan catches himself smiling as he says it and he lets it stay there, lets Brendon see. He watches Brendon glance over to the penny bucket sitting next to the toilet.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll buy a new guitar for Christmas next year.” He reaches out his right hand to Ryan, who puts his palm in it immediately. They pull each other up.