Asymmetrical (Part two)

[pinkichan]

Waking up is strange. There’s always a brief moment where Ryan is shrugging off sleep and actually forgets - he never thought he could forget that he’s missing a limb, but it happens. He pushes his hand through his hair and rubs over his face. All the urges are still there, the connections in his brain that say, “This is where your arm is going to move.” It just never comes full circle.

“You’ve got a gift, Ryan,” Carly says as she enters the room. Ryan is still a little blurry around the edges, and he blinks and mumbles something about it being way too early for any kind of gift. There’s a clock in his room, but Ryan rarely uses it. Time doesn’t matter when you’re stuck in the same tiny bed with the same sheets and blankets and the same salmon-colored walls. Ryan’s days blur, time marked only by the arrival of Spencer or the nurses, a meal, or somewhere Ryan needs to be.

Carly is carrying a bright pot of fresh sunflowers; the pot is wrapped with a fat, white bow. She sets them on the wide windowsill in Ryan’s room. “There’s a card attached. Would you like me to read it?” Ryan figures that the flowers are from a friend, maybe Will or Pete - he’s been up to the hospital a few times - or a fan who found out where Ryan’s staying.

“Sure,” Ryan grumbles thickly.

Carly smiles and pulls the little white card from the bouquet of flowers. “Dearest Ryan, I heard you’re doing better. I thought you deserved to have a little sunshine in your life. Love, Keltie. P.S. Never stop dreaming.”

Ryan smiles despite himself. This is not the first time Keltie has sent flowers. She sends them maybe once every two weeks or so with a new and equally hokey message attached. When she found out Ryan was in the hospital, she had left a series of sobbing voicemails on Ryan’s cell phone, willing him not to die, that Ryan couldn’t leave this life until their problems were worked out.

“That’s nice,” Carly says sincerely. She hides the card within the sunny petals of the flowers. There’s light streaming in through the average-sized window of Ryan’s room, bathing everything it touches in gold. It’s comforting. It’s summer now, and the air is warm and pleasant, trickling in from where Carly had cracked open the window.

Ryan isn’t so angry at the world today. There isn’t a hostile undercurrent running through Ryan’s body. He doesn’t blame Will for the accident. It’d be easy to do, he knows, but it was late and raining. Will was only doing his job. If it had been anyone else behind the wheel, Ryan believes none of them would have come out nearly as good as they had. He doesn’t blame Will; he doesn’t know who to blame. Maybe there is no one to blame? Maybe God is to blame. Ryan initially blamed himself because he was the one who unbuckled himself and went to reach for the cell phone. Ryan doesn’t like to think about it. He doesn’t blame anyone.

Jon comes to the hospital after breakfast, but he isn’t alone. To Ryan’s surprise, Brendon is tagging along behind him. “Who sent flowers?” Jon asks as he sets down the paper cup of coffee he’s carrying on one of the small, square tables that decorate Ryan’s room.

“Keltie,” Ryan says. He watches Brendon shift around awkwardly. Brendon seems to notice Ryan is looking at him and he grins wide and a little nervous. It reminds Ryan a lot of the first time he met Brendon. It feels like an eternity ago.

“Hi, Ryan. How are you feeling?” Brendon asks. Brendon’s gaze settles on Ryan’s face and doesn’t drift, like he’s afraid to even look at another part of Ryan’s body, in fear of locking down on the stub of Ryan’s arm. Brendon never had a solid grasp on dealing with Ryan before, but now he’s just walking on eggshells. Ryan hates that the most.

“Not so bad today.”

“Good! That’s good.”

Jon sits in the uncomfortable chair and lets Brendon take the partner beside it. Brendon’s legs start moving the second he sits down, but Jon ignores it, choosing to focus on Ryan instead.

“We let Spencer have the day off,” Jon says, answering a question that Ryan never asked. Spencer deserves some time to himself. The conversation is unusually stilted. Ryan is used to Brendon filling up the silence with whatever babble he can, he’s bore witness to it more times than he can count, but Brendon is silent, head bowed and sneakers bouncing against the tiled floor. Jon does the best he can in leading the conversation. There are a lot of things they just can’t discuss when it’s the three of them.

Brendon doesn’t know Will or The Nicks, for one thing, and music is a topic no one will touch - the wounds from that topic have never gotten the chance to fully heal, were just glossed over for the more urgent issue of Ryan losing his arm. Jon winds up talking about how Brendon has wanted to teach him how to surf, how good Spencer and Brendon have gotten at it. “I don’t want to be eaten by a shark,” Jon points out.

Jon has a way of calming Brendon that Ryan never really understands but has always been grateful for. As Jon talks, Brendon visibly relaxes. He stops moving his legs; instead, he smiles and meets Ryan’s gaze. Brendon laughs, which is a surprise to Ryan. It’s been so long since anyone has laughed in the tiny space of the room. Brendon looks frightened for a moment, like he did something wrong, but Ryan smiles and Brendon loosens just a little more. “You won’t be eaten, Jon. I mean look at me. I’m delicious, but not one shark has sniffed around me.”

Jon chuckles and opens his mouth to reply, but the jarring noise of his cell phone ringing stops him. Jon looks at his phone. Ryan watches and notices Jon's eyes dim as he reads the I.D. of the caller. He looks up, his face so oddly serious that Ryan is afraid that someone has died, that some terrible tragedy has befallen someone else.

“I, uh … I need to take this. I’ll just be -” Jon trails off, pointing out the door instead of answering. Ryan nods. Brendon looks a little alarmed as he watches Jon go, like the worst thing for him is to be left alone with Ryan. Ryan catches the beginning of Jon's conversation, his “Yeah, I can talk. Sorry. I was visiting Ryan -” before the door to Ryan’s room closes and the sound dies with it.

Silence rushes to fill up every square inch of the room. Brendon coughs awkwardly and scratches at the back of his neck. “Hey, Ryan?” Brendon asks.

“Yeah, Brendon?”

Brendon bites at his lip and ducks his head. “I’m sorry for not visiting more. I know I need to.”

“Hey, it’s fine. I know it’s hard for you.” Ryan shrugs. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t want anyone to feel like they have to come see him. The very last thing he wants to be in life is a burden, an obligation to his friends.

Brendon makes a face. “Are you serious? No matter how hard it is for me, I know that it’s so much harder for you. I’m being selfish. You’re my friend and I should -”

“Has Spencer been lecturing you?” Ryan interrupts. God, he hopes not. He doesn’t want Spencer forcing people to visit. Brendon’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline and he shakes his head, his hands waving around a bit.

“No, no! He just talks about you a lot. He talks about your group meetings and stuff like that. He said you need us, that it’s important.” Ryan doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say. He just shrugs again.

“So they say.”

Brendon scrubs his hands over his face, pushing nimble fingers into his hair. His head is tipped back against the wood of the chair, exposing the long column of his throat. Ryan watches his Adam’s apple bob when Brendon swallows. “I don’t know how you’re doing this, Ryan. I know you. I know what music means to you. If it were me, I just don’t know how I’d do it.”

Some bitter part of Ryan grumbles that Brendon doesn’t have to know how he’d do it. It’s not him and hopefully never will be. It is Ryan, though, and nothing will ever change that. He had a normal life. He was a normal person, all things considered, but after that day, he changed. He’s not Ryan Ross anymore. He’s Ryan, who doesn’t have an arm; he’s that musician that got in an accident, that poor thing. He’s not Ryan … never just Ryan.

“You’d just do it. You’d do it because you have to. You have to keep living because you’ll keep waking up every day and you’ll be alive and by the end of the night, when you’re so tired, you’ll think of how you made it through one more day and you won’t even know how really, but you did it, and you’ll do it again. That’s what you’d do, Brendon.”

In that moment, Ryan has said things he hasn’t voiced to anyone. He’s been more honest with Brendon in a handful of minutes than he has in the two months with Spencer. Maybe it’s just easier with Brendon. Spencer would want to discuss it at length and Jon … well, Jon would be good to tell, too, but Ryan never feels like he can. Despite Jon sharing the experience of the accident with Ryan, it’s still hard. Ryan still can’t bring himself to tell Jon about the times he’s not sure of himself, about when he’s scared. Jon was in the accident, too, but he’s not scared.

Brendon is like a sponge. He’ll absorb what Ryan said and he’ll keep it inside of him. He won’t make Ryan say more than he knows Ryan wants to.

“Can I ask you a question?” Brendon says a few moments later, once he’s sure Ryan is finished talking. Ryan nods and Brendon’s eyes flicker with what looks like nerves before he swallows and speaks. “What about a prosthetic?”

“What about it?” Ryan asks. He knows where this is going, but he’d like to avoid it if he could.

Brendon rolls his shoulders. “You could have one, couldn’t you? Did the doctors tell you? Spencer never said -”

“It’s not for me,” Ryan interrupts. “They’ve offered it and gave me some information, but … it’s not - not yet.” Dr. Harken had already offered Ryan a prosthetic. It’s not that Ryan hates the idea. The problem is that he can’t accept that his arm is gone. How is he supposed to live with another arm when he can’t even acknowledge that his first one is gone?

Brendon lets it go. He looks like he has more to say, but he lets the topic drop. Brendon stands up. Ryan thinks he’s going to make some excuse to leave the room, but Brendon moves cautiously towards Ryan, like Ryan is a dangerous animal that Brendon stumbled upon.

“Brendon, what are you -” Ryan starts. He’s silenced by Brendon suddenly leaning over him and hugging him carefully. It’s a one-armed hug, but it’s a hug all the same.

“I’ve missed you, Ryan. I really mean it.”

Ryan pats Brendon’s side. “Thanks, man.”

Brendon slips away and goes back to his seat. They’re quiet again, but it’s not like before. It’s easier. Ryan feels like he can breathe.

Jon comes back a few moments later. He looks tired and slips his phone into the pocket of his jeans before reclaiming his seat. He looks crestfallen, but he doesn’t make a mention of who was on the phone or if something bad has happened.

“Is everything okay, Jon?” Brendon asks. Jon looks up, startled, like he had forgotten that Brendon and Ryan were even in the room with him.

“Hm? Yeah, it’s fine. What were you two talking about?” Jon asks. His voice is flat, almost sad. Ryan frowns.

“Oh, well, I was just telling Ryan how I want him to come over to my place once he gets out of here so that the four of us can have dinner or something.”

Jon nods to show he’s listening, but he looks like he’s a million miles away. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

***

It turns out Brendon doesn’t have to wait very long for that dinner. Within the next week, Doctor Harken deems Ryan healthy and adjusted enough that he can be discharged. He’s not let go without strings attaching him back to the hospital, though. Ryan will have to come in for his physical therapy twice a month. The Life Is Not a Limb group meetings are optional and held three times a month, but Ryan still wants to go.

Spencer is the one who comes to the hospital to take him home. Spencer has a duffle bag of Ryan’s clothes with him, and he sets it on Ryan’s tiny hospital bed. Today is the last time he’ll see this particular bed, this particular room, and Ryan is practically giddy from the thought. There’s an edge of fear, though. He’s spent two months here and now it feels like he’s stretched between two places.

"I brought a lot of clothes. I didn’t know what you’d want," Spencer says. He stands next to Ryan as he unzips the bag. Ryan digs around with his hand, unearthing the clothes Spencer had probably washed and folded and packed away with care.

"I want what’s easy," Ryan says. Its unfortunate how many of his shirts are button-downs. Spencer thankfully had packed an old t-shirt of Ryan’s, and he fishes it out to show Ryan, waiting for approval. "That will work." Ryan fumbles with the top of the gown, fingers working the snaps along the left shoulder open. Spencer has to move around behind him and untie the strings holding the gown on Ryan’s frail body. Spencer lowers the gown off of Ryan, which would feel too intimate if it were anyone else but Spencer.

Spencer pulls the t-shirt down over Ryan’s head. The sleeve stops just at the spot where Ryan’s stub ends. Ryan already feels too exposed and they haven’t even stepped foot out of the room yet. "Here," Spencer says. He digs through the bag and pulls out one of Ryan’s dark blazers. "I thought you might want it?"

"Yeah, yeah, I want it." Spencer holds the blazer open behind Ryan and Ryan works his left arm into the sleeve of the blazer. The right is harder. It’s been so long since Ryan’s had to wear anything resembling real clothes that he feels unsettled once he’s fully dressed. He already hates that, with each move of his body, the right sleeve of his shirt flutters emptily, void of weight.

Ryan goes to sign some release forms that Carly sets on the counter for him. “I left those sunflowers for you,” Ryan tells her as he struggles to sign his name. Carly smiles at him. “A memento of me,” he adds, smiling a bit. Spencer laughs. Life begins to feel normal.

It’s warm and bright outside. The soft California breeze pushes at Ryan like it’s leading him along a path, delivering him home. It’s the first time Ryan’s been outside in two months. Everything is as it was the last time Ryan saw it. It wasn’t like he expected the world to change in two months, but he changed, and he almost expects the world to have done it with him.

Spencer’s car is parked out in the patient pick-up lot. Ryan glances back at the hospital: the hustle of doctors and nurses and patients, days that go on forever. Spencer looks like he wants to help Ryan get in the car, but Ryan stops him before he even starts. “I got it,” he says. He does … he’s capable. Ryan thought he’d be scared being back in a car, but he’s not, really. Spencer keeps the speed low and drives carefully down the crowded streets. Ryan flinches sometimes, when a car’s horn honks too loud or someone behind them decides Spencer is driving too slow and passes them.

“I was thinking,” Spencer says. He watches the road as he talks.

“About what?”

“I was thinking I should stay with you.”

“What?” Ryan says distractedly. He’s staring out the window, watching the streets become more and more familiar. “Are you and Brendon having problems?”

“No,” Spencer sighs, almost amused. “No, dude, I meant I should stay with you until you’re comfortable being on your own.”

“Oh,” Ryan says, “Oh, yeah. That’d be alright. I don’t know what sort of state the guest bedroom is in, but you’re welcome to it.”

“I cleaned up your place,” Spencer says, throwing a glance at Ryan. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“I never mind free labor, Spence.”

Spencer laughs. “Hey, Brendon wants you over for dinner tonight. Do you feel up to it or are you tired?”

Ryan nods. “We can go. I want to. I’m excited to eat some real food. I’m a little scared the shit at the hospital has affected my sense of taste.”

Spencer smiles. “He makes really good spaghetti.”

***

Brendon’s place is warm and inviting. Bogart hops around Ryan’s ankles, begging to be petted. Spencer deflects the small dog, shooing him away. Jon meets them at the door, smiling wider than Ryan’s seen in a long time. He doesn’t wait for them to cross the small expanse of the front yard. Instead, he rushes down to them with bare feet, his sunglasses perched on the top of his head.

“Welcome back, stranger,” Jon says as he pulls Ryan into a hug. He’s careful, but he uses both of his arms to hug Ryan, circling them around his thin body and holding him in close. Ryan rests his palm against the back of Jon's shoulder blade, his skin hot through the thin material of his t-shirt, like he’d been hanging around outside for too long. Ryan can imagine it: Jon outside waiting for them, throwing fuzzy green tennis balls for Bogart to catch.

Jon releases Ryan and then claps Spencer on the shoulder, nodding towards the house. “Brendon’s been slaving away at a hot stove all day.”

“That’s a lie! He didn’t even wake up until noon,” Spencer says. Jon hums and rubs at his bearded chin before he turns to face the front door and shouts, “Brendon! Your overworked housewife routine isn’t going to work!”

“Will an apron help? Because I have one!” Brendon shouts back. Spencer rolls his eyes, but he’s laughing fondly and Ryan joins in. The nerves that have been occupying Ryan’s chest seem to dissolve. The four of them are okay - they’re talking and they’re okay and this is good. This is like Pretty Odd good.

Jon leads them into Brendon’s house. Nothing’s changed from the last time Ryan was here, except the place is decorated a little better (Spencer’s touch, no doubt). Brendon is cooking in the kitchen, but he leans out the archway to wave to Ryan.

“Does it feel good to be out of there?” Brendon asks.

“First day of the rest of my life.” Ryan had been thinking about it ever since he learned he’d be released from the hospital’s care. What would he do now? Before, the answer would’ve been simple: pick back up where he left off, touring or playing small gigs, giving interviews. Now, though, the thought of music makes him feel sick to his stomach, makes his heart feel like it’s being clawed to shreds. Ryan doesn’t know what to do with himself now.

Jon hooks his arm around Ryan’s and leads him towards the couch. “You wanna smoke up before dinner?” he asks. Ryan can feel Spencer stiffen behind him and see when Jon notices the hard gaze that Spencer must be giving him behind Ryan’s back.

“Is that exactly safe?” Spencer asks.

Jon nods as he sits, Ryan joining him a half second later. “I’ve been Googling. Seems to check out.”

Spencer doesn’t seem convinced, but Ryan really doesn’t care. Nowhere did it say he couldn’t smoke weed or even cigarettes - not that he does, but the point is that he could if he wanted to - and, frankly, his life prior to the accident did involve a copious amount of weed. He’s not exactly eager to go rushing back to all his vices, but weed is something he’ll do.

“It’ll help the pain if anything,” Ryan says more to the room at large than directly to Spencer. Ryan peeks up at Spencer’s face. After all this time, he’s still a little on edge about disappointing Spencer. Spencer, though, seems to have given up any argument he may have had and instead carefully sits himself next to Ryan on the right side of the couch, Ryan sandwiched between Jon and Spencer.

“Brendon!” Jon calls, “Take a smoke break with us!”

There’s a clattering sound from the kitchen, but Ryan isn’t really paying attention. His arm - his stump is more accurate, but Ryan hesitates to even classify that as a part of his body - aches dully, working its way up Ryan’s shoulder and back down the length of what’s left of his arm. Most of the time, Ryan tries to ignore it and move his shoulder a little in small circles like Albert taught him. Ryan watches Jon pack the bowl. It’s nothing new or exciting, having watched it happen a thousand times, but now Ryan is more focused on Jon’s hands, the simple way his fingers move, the way his muscles flex under skin. Ryan feels suddenly alone, bitter at everyone in the room. He’s angry that he can no longer even do something as simple as pack a bowl of weed for them to smoke.

Brendon makes his way out to his living room. Before, he would just squeeze himself onto the couch, nudging and shuffling until he found himself a spot between two of them. Now, Brendon sits on his coffee table in front of Jon, body tight. Ryan looks at him for the first time since the hospital visit. Brendon smiles small and kind, but he looks like he has things he wants to say and ask but won’t.

“Dinner should be ready soon,” Brendon says in place of all the things Ryan knows he wishes he could say.

“Great,” Spencer says. “It smells good.”

“Better than that hospital shit for sure. I don’t think I can eat chocolate pudding ever again after that,” Ryan says, which earns him a few hesitant, nervous laughs. Ryan frowns at his lap, his only arm curled along the side of his leg, his remaining, solitary hand resting on his knee. Maybe it was the accident or the split, or just a combination of the two, but Ryan can feel the tension pressing in on all sides, hanging thick like fog in the room.

Jon saves the situation by lighting the bowl. The three of them watch him take his own deep drag; as customary weed-smoking etiquette goes, the bowl will go to Ryan next. Ryan isn’t sure how he’s going to smoke, though, seeing as he doesn’t have two hands to hold the pipe and flick the lighter. Jon seems to know this, too, and he carefully passes the pipe, helping Ryan adjust his grip on it and bringing the lighter to life. Ryan holds the pipe to his mouth. Jon blazes the weed. Ryan can smoke like this - he can take his hit and then let Spencer lift the pipe from his fingers for his own hit.

It’s not ideal, but nothing is ideal anymore. Every task is an effort which requires teamwork. Ryan can’t imagine the thought of living the rest of his life this way. His chest feels tight and he coughs in a desperate attempt to catch some air, clear his head. Jon reaches behind him and gently thumps his back, letting his palm rest against Ryan’s back even after Ryan has caught his breath.

The four of them smoke up for a while, passing the pipe, and one of them - usually Jon because it’s easiest that way - will help Ryan out. Eventually, Brendon returns to the kitchen. The bowl empties. Ryan maybe falls asleep with his head on Spencer’s shoulder, because the next time his eyes open, it’s to Jon looking over him and telling him that dinner’s ready.

Ryan lifts his head from Spencer’s shoulder and blinks sheepishly at them. Jon offers Ryan his hand and Ryan laces his fingers with Jon’s, Spencer’s hand present on Ryan’s back to help him get up. Ryan yawns. He’s still tired, has been tired for weeks, and he’s excited to eat dinner and then go home to his own bed.

Their dinner is spaghetti. Brendon beams at them like a proud mother, the apron he had been wearing while he cooked long since abandoned. Spaghetti is easy because Ryan can eat it on his own, carefully twirling his fork around the noodles. The only difference is that it’s a lot messier now. If he wants to wipe his face, he’s got to set down his fork and start all over again. He can feel three sets of eyes trained on him. It’s annoying, but Ryan knows he needs to get used to it. People will always stare and wonder if they should be helping him, if Ryan is too proud to ask for that help.

In this case, he is too proud. He doesn’t want to be helped to eat. He doesn’t want to be helped with anything.

There’s conversation during dinner, but it’s between Jon, Brendon, and Spencer, about the things that have been happening outside of the hospital and Ryan’s experiences. Ryan tries to follow along, but mostly he listens distractedly, more concerned with making sure his hand gets the food to his mouth.

“Have you still been writing for the album?” Jon asks Brendon. Ryan can feel the sharp gasp of air from Jon, the stunted, awkward way the room falls silent. Ryan knows Jon hadn’t meant to mention music or the Panic album around Ryan, that it was a slip, an echo of a conversation that was had while Ryan was away. Jon glances at Ryan, looking sheepish, embarrassed. Brendon stares at his plate of food and Spencer watches Ryan with worried eyes, like a parent would a child who just heard that Santa doesn’t exist.

Ryan waits, but the longer the silences stretches on, the more he realizes that the three of them don’t have anything else to say, aren’t willing to pick up and carry on. They’re waiting for him. Ryan sets down his fork and clears his throat. Really, he’s never been good at shit like this; they can’t possibly expect him to be now.

“It’s … its okay,” Ryan says. It’s true for the most part. It’s not like he didn’t know upon leaving the band that Brendon and Spencer would continue making music - maybe not as Panic, but that’s an issue he’s long since put to rest. “I…” Ryan starts, but he doesn’t know how to continue. Music was something he hadn’t thought about since the accident. He hadn’t allowed himself the time to think about where music fits into his life now. “I’m fine.”

It’s a lie. He’s not fine.

That tight sort of feeling, where his skin is restless and his chest is strapped and broke, settles into Ryan’s body, cracking his ribs and damaging his organs, and he chokes on nothing but air. Spencer is watching him, his gaze growing more and more alarmed, but Ryan manages to reel himself back in, settle his mind with a not now, not now, just wait. Don’t give them more reason to pity you.

“You can answer him, Brendon,” Ryan says, his voice edging on desperate. Brendon looks up with guilty eyes and a heavy frown at Spencer and Jon on either side for a sign of whether or not he should listen to Ryan. “I said its fine,” Ryan stresses. He’s not a child. He can handle a conversation.

“Um,” Brendon begins, “I have a bit. Just … just testing, you know? Spencer hasn’t, but he’s been busy and it’s not - I’m not nearly as good as Ryan was. I’m just -”

“Brendon,” Spencer says. Brendon looks at Spencer, all big-eyed and obviously nervous. “This dinner is great,” Spencer finishes and Brendon smiles a little before the two of them launch into what it takes to make a good spaghetti sauce. Ryan goes back to eating, but he feels their eyes on him, especially Jon’s heavy gaze. Ryan can feel the weight of Jon’s eyes locked on his downturned face.

Things are still a little awkward post-dinner. Ryan drops his fork as he hands off his plate to Spencer and you’d think he’d dropped gold or something equally as valuable with the way Spencer and Brendon both rush to retrieve it. Ryan lets that go, but his insides feel hot and his bad arm hurts. He probably needs to take his medication and go to sleep.

Ryan goes to the bathroom - something that he can still manage on his own - and, when he returns to the dining room, Jon is nowhere to be found. Ryan stops and listens. He can hear Spencer and Brendon talking in hushed voices in the kitchen, but not Jon.

Brendon has a pair of sliding glass doors that lead from the dining room and open up into the backyard. Through the crystal-clear, almost invisible glass, Ryan can see Jon sitting by Brendon’s pool. Ryan doesn’t mention to Spencer or Brendon that he’s leaving before he slides outside through the doors. The air is warm with a slightly cool edge swept in from the beach. Jon looks back when he hears the doors and smiles when he sees Ryan standing there.

“Hey,” Jon says companionably. Ryan hears the soft rush of the water and, judging by the abandon pair of flip-flops resting next to Jon’s thigh, Jon’s kicking around the water.

“Hey,” Ryan says back. He moves across the dark lawn, letting the air lick at his skin. He’s still not quite used to being outside again regularly. He hasn’t become a hermit or sheltered. If anything, it’s made him crave the air more. Ryan goes to stand next to Jon. Brendon’s got these lights built into the bottom of his pool. They’re on, glowing up through the water, not thick enough to break the barrier but enough that Ryan can see both of Jon’s submerged legs, his jeans rolled up to his knees.

Jon looks up at Ryan and doesn’t ask if Ryan needs help as Ryan moves to sit himself down. It’s not hard. He braces his one hand against the ground and lowers himself. Ryan’s wearing shoes and socks; before, he might have just taken them off, rolled up his corduroys to join Jon, but now it just feels like too much of an effort, too hard to do alone, especially since he feels too proud to ask for help. Ryan just curls his legs under him and rests his hand on his knee.

Jon watches him out of the corner of his eye. They’re silent, but it’s not as tense as it had been in the kitchen. “So dinner was kinda -” Jon trails off, loosening his hand from where it’s wrapped around a beer bottle and waving it vaguely through the air. “A flop,” he finishes. Ryan laughs and Jon smiles. “I needed a little breather. I guess you did, too?”

“Being treated like a three-year-old is kind of exhausting,” Ryan says with a sigh.

Jon hums but nods. “Spence means well. Brendon … well, he’s trying.”

“I know that, but if Spencer saw me sitting out here, he’d probably tell me to back away from the ledge, like he thinks I’d fall in.”

Ryan knows he doesn’t have the best track record of self-preservation, but he’s also not going to die from the tasks he’s had to take on today. Jon looks at Ryan, suddenly very serious, his forehead crinkled.

“If you fell in -”

“I’d swim,” Ryan answers for Jon. He doesn’t need two arms to save himself from an above ground pool in Brendon’s backyard.

“I’d jump in after you,” Jon finishes. He smiles and Ryan blinks at him before he returns it.

“Always gotta be the hero,” Ryan says, his voice holding a teasing edge. It feels easier with Jon, easier to breathe. Maybe it’s because, before the accident, Ryan was with Jon anyway, whereas he hadn’t seen Spencer or Brendon in months, only now thrown together by tragedy.

Jon laughs. “Or maybe I just want to make up for not saving you before.” His voice has slipped into an oddly serious tone. Ryan doesn’t want that. He wants things to be easy, free, just like before the accident. Ryan ignores what Jon said, the implication that he should’ve been able to save Ryan.

“So I guess you’ll be going home now?” Ryan asks. As far as he knows, Jon hasn’t been back to Chicago in a month or so. It’s strange. Jon loves his home and jumps at any chance to stay in the city. Ryan isn’t conceited enough to assume that Jon was staying here just for him. He had asked for it once upon a time and Jon had turned him down. Now that Ryan’s out of the hospital and assured that he’ll live a somewhat normal life, Jon can and most likely will go home.

Jon takes a deep pull from his beer, beads of condensation dribbling down his knuckles. Brendon’s backyard lights reflect off the water shimmering back at Jon, drowning him in flickering lights that dance against Jon's skin, moving like living shadows around him. Jon sets the bottle of beer down and shakes his head once, hard, his hair brushing into his eyes.

“I’m not, actually.”

That’s a huge surprise. Ryan feels like he should ask for a reason, but the hard set of Jon's jaw is telling Ryan that he shouldn’t, that it’s better to let this drop. “Oh, so you’re going to keep staying with Brendon and Spencer?” Ryan asks. He aims for casual and thinks he lands somewhere around mystified.

Jon laughs a little darkly. “Kinda a full house.”

“Oh,” Ryan says again. He watches the water move with the back and forth motion of Jon's legs.

“Actually,” Jon begins, taking another long draw from his beer bottle, finishing it off. “Actually, I wanted to ask if I could stay with you.”

“You want to stay with me?” Ryan asks. Jon shrugs. He leans over the edge of the pool, his hand brushing the water. He gently sets his beer bottle into the pool, letting it catch and float like a tiny glass ship. Ryan watches it bob over the clean, clear water, making its way to the middle of the pool, until the water that’s been steadily seeping in through the mouth of the bottle overtakes it and the glass bottle sinks to the bottom of Brendon’s pool, disappearing from Ryan’s sight. Ryan fixes his gaze back to Jon. “You know I don’t need a nurse, right?” Ryan asks. “If you’re thinking of staying here because you think I need someone to take care of me, well -”

“Whoa, Ryan! No, that’s not it,” Jon says. He raises his hands in surrender. “You’re my friend. I want to stay with you.”

“Spencer is supposed to,” Ryan mumbles.

“Oh.” Jon sounds crestfallen, resigned to keep staying in Brendon’s guest bedroom as opposed to Ryan’s.

“But -”Ryan meets Jon's eyes. “I’d rather it be you, if I’m being honest.” Their gazes meet and Jon smiles. He looks tired, more tired than Ryan’s noticed these last few days. There are rings around Jon's eyes and his beard is starting to grow out, patchy and untamed. He looks like he could use a good night’s sleep as much as Ryan could. “Come home with me,” Ryan says suddenly. The more he considers the idea, the more he’s sure he isn’t able to handle Spencer babying him. Jon can act as a buffer, a mediator … he can help.

Jon tilts his head to the side. His hair is getting long, curling up at the back of his neck. Ryan’s is too long; he thinks that maybe his first order of business tomorrow should be letting Brendon cut it. “Yeah?” Jon asks. Ryan nods. “I have enough room for both of you.”

Jon scoots back from the edge of the pool, his legs lifting from the water, droplets running in rivets down his calves. “I don’t think I should go with you tonight. I think it should just be the two of you settling in, you know?” Jon says.

Ryan rests his forehead against the upturned palm of his hand, his elbow resting on his knee. “You should come. Now. Tonight. I want you to.” Ryan doesn’t look at Jon. He watches the pool, scanning the darkened depths to try and pick out the bottle that Jon had sunk. He doesn’t know when his mind switched, when he stopped wanting to be alone with Spencer. Maybe it’s not even that - maybe he’s just sick to his stomach at the thought of being coddled every minute for the rest of his life. Before, he would’ve just told Spencer straight out that he was being annoying, but how can he possibly do that now? How can he tell Spencer to stop caring when Spencer is one of the few people left in his life that does care? He can’t. That’s why he needs Jon. “Just come?” Ryan asks, turning his face in his hand so he can look at Jon.

Jon's eyes are serious, but he nods after a moment. “Sure thing, but I’m not spending the night. I’ll drive over and stick around, but I’m coming back here tonight.”

Ryan nods in agreement and Jon stands up with an ease that Ryan is envious of. He looks down at Ryan with an unsure smile. Ryan doesn’t make Jon ask and he doesn’t ask for help, either. He offers his hand, stretching his good arm out, and Jon takes it, locking their fingers together so that Ryan can get off of the ground.

Back inside, Brendon and Spencer have finished cleaning up. The two of them are sitting on the couch, Bogart lying across Brendon’s lap and Spencer sitting close by, their thighs touching as they watch a movie rather distractedly on the TV. Spencer looks expectantly at Ryan and Ryan yawns despite himself.

“I’m pretty tired, Spence.”

Spencer nods and glances at Brendon before he pushes himself up off the couch and stands in front of Ryan and Jon. “Well, we can go if you want to.”

Ryan does want to leave. He longs for his own home, his own bed. Before the accident, he hadn’t been home in two months; it’s been even longer now and he can’t remember how he left it, how his bed felt, if he made it before he left the morning of tour, what food he had in the house, how much of it has gone bad by now. He forgets that time went on without him, his home and possessions decaying around him.

“I’m going to, uh … I’m going to ride over with you guys, Spence,” Jon tells Spencer.

Spencer arches an eyebrow and looks from Jon to Ryan. “Yeah?” he asks. Ryan nods, answering for Jon. “Yeah.”

Spencer doesn’t fight or argue or say no. He’s not a dick and he’s not Ryan’s mother and he can’t actually tell Ryan what to do. Besides, it’s not like Spencer doesn’t trust Jon or that he thinks Jon is a hindrance more than a help - at least, Ryan doesn’t think so.

They say goodbye to Brendon. Ryan thanks him for dinner and Brendon beams at him. Ryan’s suitcase is still tucked into the trunk of Spencer’s car. Ryan’s stomach still twists when he sees the vehicle, but he just breathes and reminds himself that it’s sunny here, warm, no rain, no danger.

Ryan settles himself in the backseat. Spencer opens and closes the back door for him; Ryan doesn’t fight it. He’s tired, too tired to call Spencer out for wanting to help him. Jon and Spencer get in the car. The windows are down and the warm California breeze rolls in, tickling against Ryan’s skin, feeling like fingers that delicately brush the curls out of his face, tucking down into the collar of his dress shirt. Ryan sighs, sucking in the night air, and he feels momentarily good, the safest he has in or around a car since the accident.

The radio is on in the front, turned down low. Jon and Spencer are talking, their voices reduced to low, intelligible mumbles. Ryan rests his head back against the seat and closes his eyes. He feels heavy, his body thick like liquid. He can feel himself slipping into sleep, but before he falls away completely, he hears Jon laugh. Ryan feels his face pull up into a smile.

When his eyes open next, Jon is in front of him. Ryan peers over Jon’s shoulder at the familiar house behind him. Ryan recognizes it as his neighbor’s house, and he smiles. He’s home. “Come on,” Jon says, his voice soft and hazy enough that Ryan almost feels like he’s still dreaming. “Let me help you out.” Ryan lets Jon close his hand around Ryan’s wrist and his other hand goes to Ryan’s left shoulder, helping Ryan turn himself. Ryan’s body feels old and stiff, worn, like he’s held together by tape and string.

Ryan’s stump aches and he realizes his meds must’ve worn off by now. Spencer is behind the car, hefting out Ryan’s luggage from his trunk. “Has anyone even really been here?” Ryan asks as he emerges from the car.

“Jon and I came here and cleaned a little,” Spencer says. He slams his trunk shut and picks up Ryan’s luggage, nodding towards Ryan’s front door. “Jon, could you …?” Jon nods and slips away from Ryan. Ryan’s skin is still hot where Jon had been touching him.

Ryan imagines Spencer and Jon cleaning, examining, and picking up the pieces of Ryan’s life. He wonders what they talked about during that time. Did they discuss what happened to Ryan, how much has changed, and how can they possibly go on from here?

“The moat really feels like a poor decision now,” Ryan mutters as he comes back to himself and follows Spencer up the drive and across the drawbridge. Jon’s waiting at the front door, holding it open enough for Spencer and Ryan to pass through.

“Maybe go in through the backdoor from now on,” Spencer says, laughing a little. “Really, only you would have a moat.”

It had been a cool idea, a huge draw for Ryan when he bought the place. He’s barely lived in his home since he purchased it. He moved in before tour, spent a few weeks there, and then took off for tour. The remainder of his time was spent living out of a hospital. He can’t remember the way he left the house; he can’t remember what he had in the cupboards or his bedroom or what’s still packed away in the boxes that he and Jon shoved into the guest bedroom.

Ryan’s house is familiar, but not enough that it feels like home. Ryan’s been jostled around so much these last few months that nowhere feels like home. Everything is just an echo of the person he used to be. The front door opens up to the entryway, which spreads out to the living room.

The house is barren for the most part. All the important furniture is set up, but the walls are naked and the decorations are minimal. The décor that’s done was done in part because of Z telling Ryan that his house looked like shit and subsequently buying him rugs and picture frames and towels for his bathroom.

Spencer is at Ryan’s side. He hears Jon close the front door. Ryan scans his house, which is cleaner than he left it … no stray clothes littered around, no beer bottles. What Spencer and Jon apparently forgot to clean or move were Ryan’s guitars. They’re all there, resting in their metal holders along the left side of the room, cradled in their stands, hanging on the still bare walls. Really, the only decorating Ryan did himself was putting up his instruments and setting up his home studio. It seems to mock him now, showing him how blatant it is that the one thing Ryan felt accomplished in, the one thing he felt he could actually do well, the only thing about him that ever felt right, is something that he can no longer do.

Ryan feels sick, a dizzy spell coming over him. He can’t breathe. He never allowed himself to think about music during his stay in the hospital, but now that he’s face to face with it, Ryan feels like he’s dying, his body twisting into failure, his ribcage imploding, collapsing in on itself.

Spencer and Jon are staring at him, gaze locked in on his favorite guitar: his epiphone, the re-mastered fretboard, fresh strings that he will never feel properly ever again, tuned perfectly by Ryan himself. He looks down at the floor after a moment, but he knows that they realized what happened.

Music is essentially a part of them all, so it makes sense to Ryan that neither Jon nor Spencer thought to take down the instruments. “Oh, Ryan, we can - we can take them down,” Spencer says. Ryan nods, remaining quiet, unable to trust his voice. Ryan keeps his eyes trained on his shoes, on the beat-up leather and the dusty soles of a life once lived.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryan says. He clears his throat and glances up the hallway. “I’m - I’m tired, though. I’m going to lie down,” he tells them, his voice quiet. Ryan’s lie is obvious, but Jon and Spencer let it slide.

“Should I bring you your medication?” Spencer asks. Ryan nods, his body barely able to contain the anguish burning bright, flames licking at his bones, eating like acid at his organs until he’s hollow inside. Ryan hurries away to his bedroom. He’s spent so little time in his new home that he hadn’t even had time to set up his bed, the mattress resting on the floor. It’s made, at least - likely Jon’s doing because he’s always on Ryan’s case to keep tidy. His life used to feel so busy, so full, but now what does he have? Time. Time and one arm.

Ryan sits on the edge of his bed - well, “sit” is the wrong word. His bed is too low and he falls more than he sits, losing his balance. Ryan rests his face in his hand, blocking out the world around him, letting out all of the pain and frustration that he’s been carrying around inside him like a lead ball in the pit of his stomach. He breaks even more than he was already broken. Ryan sobs embarrassingly in a way he hasn’t cried since the day after his father’s funeral.

By the time Jon enters Ryan’s room with a glass of water, his hand closed in a fist, Ryan’s eyes are sore and damp, the palm of his hand is wet, tired. Jon comes over to the bed and sits down next to Ryan, the bed dipping under Jon’s weight, pulling Ryan into the center. Jon offers his hand out, opening it up to reveal Ryan’s pain pills resting in his palm. Ryan doesn’t hate his medication, far from it. He welcomes something to ease him of his pain. He even faces the fact that this medication could become a habit. It happens: he’s habitual and seeks comfort.

Ryan plucks the pills from Jon’s hand and swallows them down dry. Jon raises an eyebrow and offers the water to Ryan almost as an afterthought. He drinks and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, hiccupping like a child. Jon doesn’t ask if he was crying; in fact, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he curls his hand around Ryan’s side, pressing his thick fingertips against Ryan’s ribs, like he’s feeling to make sure Ryan is fully intact.

Ryan is tired, his eyes heavy. He wants to sleep forever, or at least until someone comes to him and says, “We’ve found a way to re-attach your arm, Mr. Ross.”

***

It’s far too early when Ryan wakes up. His body aches like he’s been hit by a truck, reminding him too much of the first day he woke up from his coma, the way his body couldn’t move an inch without sparking fire through him. He doesn’t like to think of that day, how he’d woken up in a hospital bed disoriented and missing his right arm.

Ryan smells food and shifts. He’s still dressed in his clothes from yesterday, the outfit Spencer had put on him. Ryan contemplates wearing it again, but he’s hot and uncomfortable. He sits at the edge of his bed and carefully unbuttons his shirt with clumsy, graceless fingers. Ryan tries to shed himself of his shirt, shaking his shoulders. He succeeds, but it feels like too much. His future is spread out in front of him and he can’t imagine doing this day after day for years on end.

Not every aspect of Ryan’s new life is bad. It’s just hard. The difficulty is amped up so high that it feels far too easy to give up, to stop struggling and be pulled down into the depths of hopelessness, to drown. The thought of always going through so much trouble for such previously simple activities makes Ryan feel like giving up. He remembers seeing people stronger than himself at the group meeting: Sam and all his resolve, survivors who are at peace with themselves and their bodies. That’s not Ryan.

Ryan digs around in one of his drawers, mussing up all the t-shirts and button-downs that Spencer and Jon had cleaned and folded. Ryan pulls on a t-shirt, fighting and bending to make it work on his own. He glances in the mirror that’s attached to the back of his bedroom door. The skin of his arm is angry, red, and Ryan presses his fingertips to his stump, the skin hot to the touch.

There are two more pills on Ryan’s nightstand, along with another fresh glass of water. Ryan doesn’t know if Jon did this or if it was Spencer, but he’s putting his money on Spencer. He takes the pills and swallows down the water. He decides not to change his pants. Ryan pads out into the kitchen where Spencer is setting the table for breakfast. He looks tired, stressed, his hair hanging dirty and just a little too long in his eyes. Spencer looks up through his hair at Ryan and smiles.

“Hey, did you see your pills?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Are you hungry?”

The meds are effectively killing Ryan’s appetite, but at the moment, he could eat. Ryan sits at the table and picks up his fork. He feels like he’ll never get used to relying on his left hand. He stabs at his food. Spencer made pancakes, soft and mushy, soggy with syrup and butter, and Ryan tries to use his fork to break down the pancake into little pieces.

Spencer sits across from Ryan at the table. “How do you feel?”

“Sore. My meds haven’t kicked in yet.” Ryan’s piece of pancake slips from his fork and falls into the pool of syrup on the plate. Spencer isn’t eating, but he watches Ryan attempt to eat. Spencer frowns and takes a bite of his own pancake. It looks like Spencer is struggling with whether or not he needs to give Ryan assistance.

“Ryan,” Spencer starts after Ryan drops the same piece of pancake three times. “Do you want me to cut up your food for you?” Ryan can tell Spencer is uncomfortable asking, but it’s nowhere near how uncomfortable it is for Ryan to be asked, and it doesn’t stop the anger from welling up inside of Ryan.

Ryan drops his fork and it clatters loud in the silence. “Like I’m a goddamn child?”

Spencer’s face falls and he sighs, like he expected this all along. “That’s not what I meant, Ryan. I - ”

“You’ve been coddling me like I’m four years old, Spencer. You act like I can’t take care of myself!”

Ryan is lashing out, but Spencer stays quiet, stays calm and Ryan hates that. Spencer is unwilling to fight with him and that’s annoying. He just wants to be treated the same by Spencer as he’d been before the accident. He wants Spencer to tell him when he thinks Ryan’s acting like an idiot, to give him shit about his hairstyle or the outfit he’s wearing, and to be able to laugh together like they used to.

Spencer’s eyes sparkle with something. “Can you?” Spencer asks. “Take care of yourself, I mean.” He’s not being cruel, just honest.

Ryan pushes back from the table, his chair scraping the wooden floor. “You never give me a choice, Spence!”

Spencer frowns darkly, the edges of his peaceful façade leaving him, giving way to a real anger. “I want to help you, Ryan. That’s all!”

Ryan stands up and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to fight with Spencer or push him away. He doesn’t want to lose Spencer like before. “I need my best friend, not a nurse,” Ryan says, the rage simmering, his voice faltering.

“Spencer, look at me,” Ryan says. Spencer’s face pulls into a confused state, but he looks from the tabletop to Ryan expectantly. “When you look at me, what do you see?” Ryan asks. Spencer raises an eyebrow, his demeanor slipping from pissed to perplexed.

“I see you, Ryan. What else would I see?”

Ryan bites his lip, unsure about how to phrase his question. “But do you see the Ryan you grew up with or …“

“Or what?” Spencer prompts. His voice is quiet as he waits for Ryan to finish.

“Or do you see the Ryan who’s missing an arm?”

Spencer looks shocked, his eyes widening. “Ryan … what kind of question is that?”

Ryan steps closer to Spencer, who stands so the two of them are on the same level. Ryan reaches out and rests his hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “I think you’re struggling with it,” Ryan says quietly. “I think you’re having problems seeing me as a person and not someone you need to protect from everything.”

“Ryan, that’s not - ”

“Spencer, look where your hand is at right now,” Ryan tells him. Ryan looks down and Spencer’s gaze follows. They can both see Spencer’s hand curled protectively around Ryan’s right hip, steadying Ryan’s balance out. Spencer balks and removes his hand after a moment of hesitation.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t even realize I was - ”

“Hey, it’s okay. I know. But see, Spence? Your default mode is to help me. I can’t even take a step without you worrying about me toppling over.”

“Helping you has always been my default mode,” Spencer says gruffly.

Ryan watches Spencer’s hands. He’d never taken much notice of people’s hands before, but now, he watches the way Spencer’s fingers nervously slip over the denim of his jeans. “Yeah, I know. That’s the problem. You’ve already spent too much of your life saving me.”

“You want me to leave? Is that it? Leave you on your own?” Spencer’s voice is rising, growing tight. Ryan squeezes at Spencer’s shoulder, digging his fingers into Spencer’s shirt and pushing all his focus into Spencer, willing him to understand.

“Well, yes, but no. I won’t be all alone. Jon is - ”

“Jon?” Spencer interrupts. “Jon is going to be staying here?”

“Yeah, for a little while … just until I get used to the house again.” Those are words Ryan never imagined himself saying. His home is supposed to be his sanctuary, but for Ryan, his home is a whole new set of challenges.

“Why Jon?” Spencer asks. The hurt in his voice is evident. Ryan didn’t want that. He didn’t want to hurt Spencer. He’s trying to help Spencer.

“Spence, you’ve been taking care of me since we were kids, but when the split happened, you finally started taking care of yourself over me. I want us to do that again. I want you to take care of yourself over me.”

When Ryan was in the hospital, he had the same thoughts circling in his head, like marbles rolling around and around in constant circles. He knew Spencer was ignoring his own life in favor of fixing Ryan’s, but he never wanted that. He was selfish and too caught up in how hard it is living for him to release Spencer. Now that he’s home, collecting his thoughts as best he can, he can let Spencer go and live the life he did before Ryan’s accident.

“You want us to go back to how we were before the accident?” Spencer asks incredulously. “We barely talked before the accident.”

“No, no, I still want us to talk, Spencer. You’re still my best friend - more than that! You’ll always be important to me, but if I let you take care of me like I’m an invalid … if you don’t let me stumble, Spencer, how will I learn? It’s not going to help anyone.”

Spencer dips his head, a curtain of hair slipping and covering his face. Ryan’s still touching him, holding on. “It’s hard for me,” Spencer says after a few long moments. “This happening to you and all, I mean. I just want to help because I wasn’t there when it all happened. If I had been, maybe - ”

“Hey, no, what we were doing was good. Don’t feel guilty, Spencer. I want you to go and live your life, okay? I lost my arm, you didn’t. Go to Brendon’s place, make music, surf, because that’s what you were doing before the accident.”

“This is oddly deep for you,” Spencer says, laughing a little.

Ryan shrugs. “When you spend a few months in the hospital, all the bullshit in your life seems to fall away. I’m sure this is temporary and I’ll go back to spewing shit in no time.”

“You know, I’m still going to come and check on you. We’re still going to hang out,” Spencer says. It almost mirrors the conversation the two of them had the day they officially split into two parts.

“I want you to.” Ryan smiles and Spencer carefully pulls Ryan into a hug. Ryan sighs against Spencer’s shoulder. It feels good to be held again, to be touched without a fear of injuring Ryan any further than he’s already been. Ryan wraps his own arm around Spencer’s back, fingers clinging and digging into Spencer’s shirt.

“Jon will do a good job. I trust him,” Spencer says, his breath tickling the side of Ryan’s face. Ryan nods, his chin brushing Spencer’s shoulder.

“Me, too.”

It’s not awkward when Spencer leaves. They finish eating and Spencer doesn’t ask if Ryan needs help. Ryan feels like he can breathe, the weight lifted from the room. Spencer finishes before Ryan and uses that time to call Jon and tell him to come over to Ryan’s. They’re okay; there are no hard feelings.

Ryan is sitting on the couch when he realizes that his guitars are gone, hidden away from the main room. Spencer wanders into the living room from somewhere - probably the guest bedroom, considering the luggage in his hand - and Ryan smiles.

“Where did you put them?” Ryan asks. Spencer glances back at Ryan before he answers.

“In the studio. They should be fine.” Spencer sets his luggage down near the front door before he comes to Ryan, sitting on the hard wood of the coffee table in front of the couch so that he and Ryan are across from one another. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“You said you wanted me to go on living the life that I was before your accident. Does that mean … you’re cool with Brendon and me writing the new Panic album?”

While Spencer waits expectantly for an answer, Ryan runs his fingers over the smooth fabric of the couch. He won’t lie and say he doesn’t completely not give a shit about how Panic will carry on without him when he was the driving force behind the band, but he can’t play music and Brendon and Spencer can, and if they can, then they should.

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “You should.” He doesn’t add how he’d be willing to give up just about anything for a chance to play again - not with Panic, but music in general.

***

It’s lunchtime by the time Jon shows up. He comes into Ryan’s house with a bright smile, a suitcase in one hand and a bag of takeout food in the other. “Good afternoon, Ryan. I come bearing gifts,” Jon says, setting the bag of food on the coffee table. Ryan hasn’t moved since Spencer left. He’s been sitting on the couch, sluggish from his medication, watching bad TV. The meds almost make him feel drunk, which is good. Alcohol fucks with his meds and he’s banned from drinking, his favorite of vices as of late.

“I brought tacos,” Jon says. He leaves his suitcase by the door, coming around to sit next to Ryan on the couch. Jon digs in the bag and pulls out their foil-wrapped food. “The meal of champions,” Jon says. Ryan smirks lazily. He’s not desperately hungry and he feels like he couldn’t move right now even if he wanted to, but he watches as Jon practically melts onto the floor, moving to the other side of the coffee table so that he’s facing Ryan again. Jon unwraps the foil around a taco and takes a bite.

Ryan watches Jon eat. By the time he’s grabbing for a second, Ryan slips off the couch and joins Jon on the floor, his legs spread long under the table, his socked feet brushing along the inside of Jon’s legs, each of Jon’s legs shielding Ryan’s.

They eat together in silence. Already, Ryan can feel the difference between Jon’s supervision and Spencer’s. Jon doesn’t watch Ryan like he might need help. He lets Ryan make a mess of their meal, eating sloppily, the crinkled foil catching what Ryan can’t.

“Spencer said that you okayed Panic’s new album,” Jon says. He crinkles up the foil into little balls and sets them in a row on the table. Ryan rubs his fingers over a napkin.

“I did.”

“Must’ve been hard,” Jon says carefully.

Ryan shrugs. It was, but it wasn’t. He made his choice to do something else, to make music different from his past, and Spencer and Brendon never really needed his permission to be a band. He understands that they want to be polite, that they don’t want to shove Ryan’s past in his face.

“He should … they should. I would want - ” Ryan stops, that constricting feeling closing like a hand around his throat, fingers digging into his chest, scraping his lungs. Ryan clears his throat, pushing down the demons. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Your instruments,” Jon begins. Ryan can feel the question and he beats Jon to the answer.

“They’re in the studio.” Ryan crumples up his napkin in his hand, squeezing and releasing. Sometimes, when he does too much at once, it strains his hand like when he used to write in his notebook on the tour bus during the first tour for Fever. His hand would ache from practicing the guitar in the back lounge for hours on end, but he’d think only of how the pain was temporary, how it’d all be worth it someday.

Jon sighs, not annoyed but tired. He lies down on his back on the floor, spreading himself out, looking like a starfish stuck on the side of an aquarium tank. Jon rucks up his t-shirt and exposes his stomach, patting his hand against it. Ryan decides he should stop watching people’s hands. He thinks he might go crazy if he continues on, losing his mind over all the things he isn’t able to do.

“What’s the plan now?” Jon asks. He doesn’t bother to look up at Ryan, lying on his back on the floor and staring up at Ryan’s vaulted ceilings.

Ryan tosses the crumpled napkin at the bag and it falls inside limply. “The plan?”

“Yeah,” Jon says. “What do we do now?”

Jon might be talking about music. He might be talking about the Young Veins and the indefinite hiatus they’ve been on since the accident. He might be asking about music or Ryan’s life, or their new living situation. Ryan still thinks it’s strange that Jon’s not back in Chicago. Why he wouldn’t be spending his time there. His skin prickles at the thought that Jon might not think that Ryan is capable of living on his own.

“I don’t know,” Ryan admits. “I’ve never had much of a life plan beyond music. I used to think I’d fall back on writing.” He recalls the messy, illegible scrawl of his name over and over again. “I guess that won’t be happening now.”

Jon pushes himself up on his elbows. “What about therapy? Are you going to keep going?”

“It feels a little like too many people want me to just accept it and move on,” Ryan says. He keeps his gaze level with the table, too afraid that if he looks at Jon, then Jon will see just how weak he is. His chest seizes up uncomfortably. “But what am I moving on to? What’s my next step?”

Jon sits up, both his elbows digging into the shag carpeting. “That never comes easy. I don’t even know what my next step is.”

Ryan feels like he’s allowed to be angry, and he’s allowed to become this jaded cynical person who can never see the rhyme or reason within the world again. Ryan knows Jon is trying, but he doesn’t think that he and Jon are on the same page, that their situations are comparable. Jon is intact, a whole person, the way he was at birth, while Ryan is missing a vital piece of himself. No one knows how that feels except the people in his support group.

“Maybe I will go back,” Ryan says. “There’s a kid there who’s got his shit together.”

Something flickers across Jon’s face, like he’s trying to see beneath the surface of Ryan’s words, like he wants to dig inside Ryan’s head and capture the thoughts that scramble around inside of it. Jon relents and smiles at Ryan, scratching at the stubble at his jaw. “Okay, okay, good.”

Part three