Asymmetrical (Part three)

[pinkichan]

Ryan wakes up to music surrounding him. He rolls over in bed and lies there, letting his body wake up. He can hear the too-loud, slightly old, crackling, popping croak of The Kinks on vinyl being played in the living room. Ryan closes his eyes and lets the music fill his room. He lets it wash over him. Music has been missing in his home since he left the hospital, and the song is filling up an empty space that Ryan didn’t know still existed within him.

He longs to copy the guitars, fingers plucking strings, and his hands curled around smooth wood. Ryan hums along, voice deep with the clinging remains of sleep. He can hear Jon in the distance, singing, loud and a little off-key, haphazardly, the way a person does when they’re alone and half-distracted by another task. Ryan rolls again, kicking his legs against the sheets. He sort of wants to doze lazily on and off all day, listening to records and Jon singing, and not having to worry about a thing.

Ryan can’t sleep, though. His mind is already filled with the same thoughts, too heavy for his spine to carry with him. Ryan glances at the bedside table. His pills are waiting for him like a cloth to shirk off the thoughts he can’t carry, and leave them messy against the sheets. Ryan, still groggy, scrabbles for his pills. He rolls over on his back to drop them into his mouth, swallowing hastily and ignoring the fresh glass of water Jon had set out the glass dripping water on to the table because Jon forgot to set down a coaster.

Ryan hears the music from the living room cut off abruptly. It reminds him of his own life, and how the music just stopped. He hears footsteps, and then Jon is peeking into Ryan’s room. He smiles when he sees that Ryan is already awake. “Hey, you’re up!” Jon says.

“Yeah, you let me sleep pretty late. That was nice of you.”

“Yeah, well … hey, I came to tell you that Z’s here to see you. She’s waiting out in the living room.”

“Z?” Ryan asks. That’s not too strange. The Like’s tour ended just the other night and Ryan had honestly expected to see her last night. Jon nods, looking a little worried.

“She said she’s been texting you all morning and she got a little worried when you didn’t answer.”

“Oh,” Ryan says. He reaches for the cell phone that’s sitting next to the cup of water. He fumbles with the lock on it, hitting a few buttons until his messages come up. It’s true: there are five or so messages from Z, starting with asking how he is and growing steadily concerned until the point where she felt like she had to come over and check on him. “I didn’t even hear my phone,” Ryan says thoughtfully, setting his phone back down. Ryan looks at Jon. “Tell her to come see me.”

Jon nods before leaving the room. Ryan listens to him walk back to the living room; without the music playing he can hear Jon telling Z what Ryan said and Z’s murmured response. There are footsteps again, softer than Jon’s, and Ryan messes with his hair. He fixes the collar of his t-shirt. He wants to look good for her despite his cracked mirror of self-esteem.

Z knocks on the door to Ryan’s room as a polite gesture before she steps inside. She’s always breathtaking, but it’s been so long since Ryan’s seen her that she looks even better than he remembers. She’s wearing a baby doll dress with stockings and flats. She looks so young and carefree that Ryan feels ancient in comparison. Z looks tired, but she’s smiling, her face clean and void of heavy make-up.

“Ryan,” she sighs happily. “Ryan, I missed you.”

Ryan smiles at her and reaches over his lap to pat the spot on the bed next to him. Z joins him on the bed, letting their thighs press together. “I’m kind of a wreck,” Ryan says. He means appearance-wise, but he won’t correct Z if she thinks otherwise. Z reaches out and smoothes Ryan’s hair away from his face.

“You look wonderful.” She moves her hand down to cup his cheek. Her thumb brushes his jaw, and the stubble that’s beginning to form in small patches, and then she leans in to kiss him. It’s not as if Ryan imagined that she’d never kiss him or touch him again, but the intimacy is a shock to his system. It’s disruptive to the ugly view that he holds of himself in his head. Ryan barely kisses back, letting Z take the lead. He doesn’t know how to be intimate anymore because he feels so far away from life and what’s normal.

Z pulls back from him and curls her fingers into the hair at the nape of Ryan’s neck, scratching lightly. Ryan hums. She knows he likes that, a secret spot she always goes for when Ryan needs to relax.

“You didn’t text me when you got out,” she says. She’s being quiet, and if there’s one thing Ryan isn’t used to, it’s a quiet Z.

“I’m sorry.” Ryan’s hand is on his own knee. He looks at Z’s knee and thinks about how he should touch her, but he’s afraid, like his touch will burn the skin clean off her bones. “Spencer was keeping me pretty busy. I don’t really - ” Ryan shakes his head, his chest prickling. “I don’t really know how to be me at the moment.”

Z’s eyes widen. She pulls Ryan in close to her. “It’s okay. I’m not mad at you. I’m just glad to have you out of that dreadful place. I can take care of you here.” Z kisses his cheek. Ryan moves his hand to her knee, her skin warm under his palm. He’s touched her a million times in a million different ways and it strikes him so suddenly that the memories of her skin and body are erased from his right palm.

Ryan pulls away suddenly. It’s hard for him to breathe, which Z notices. “Ryan, what’s - ”

“I’m okay,” Ryan lies. “I’m okay. I just need a second. I know it sounds crazy, but - ” Ryan drops his head down between his shoulders, hunching low. “Sometimes, I forget. I never thought I would forget, but I do, and then I see and I remember and I can’t deal with it.”

Z rubs her hand down his back, polished fingers running over the knobs of his spine. “Come lay with me?” Z asks him. Even though Ryan’s been sleeping for hours, he nods and lets Z position him back on the bed. She joins him a moment later. Her shoes are still on and her body is curled in towards him. Ryan is relived that Z can still love him like this, that she can still see a beauty within him that Ryan isn’t able to find himself.

Z must be tired from touring and her body is still playing catch-up to the rest of her because she falls asleep fast. Her lashes fan against her cheeks and her body is warm and solid next to Ryan. He thinks about what Z said, how she wants to take care of him. He’s reminded of Spencer. It’s not exactly the same, but he can’t imagine Z wanting to spend the rest of her life playing handmaid to Ryan. No one should have to fall into that role.

Ryan doesn’t sleep when Z does. He closes his eyes and listens to the simultaneous sounds of Z’s even breathing and Jon shuffling around out in the living room. Ryan lies in his bed with Z, and he’s lost in his own thoughts. He rolls them over in his mind again and again until he thinks he has a semblance of an idea of what he wants to do. Z wakes up, which pulls Ryan from his thoughts. She shifts against him, her warm stocking covered legs tangled with his. Z stretches, her body arching up from the bed in an all-too-familiar way. She turns towards Ryan and blinks her huge eyes at him when she sees him looking back at her.

“You’re awake,” she says softly, her voice thick.

“I never slept.”

“But,” Z says before she yawns despite herself, covering her mouth with her hand. She rolls over to check the clock on Ryan’s bedside. “But it’s been an hour.”

Ryan shrugs. “I wanted you to rest. I’m pretty used to lying in bed doing nothing.” Ryan never thought he would be. The silence and the stillness creeping in on him, but after all those nights spent in the hospital confined to a room and a bed it doesn’t feel so scary anymore.

Z smiles and rests her head on his chest. Ryan brings his hand up to pet at her hair. It’s awkward and his hand twitches a little painfully, like it isn’t used to bearing the weight of every task on its own. Ryan sort of wishes they could stay like this, together in solitary, in his bedroom, tangled, but Z has obligations and expectations that Ryan no longer has.

“Elizabeth,” Ryan says. He can feel when Z scrunches her face. Only her parents ever bother to call her Elizabeth. “You remember what you said? How you want to take care of me?”

Z sits herself up and looks down at him. “Of course.”

“What about The Like?” Ryan asks her.

“Well, we’d take a break. It’s not a big deal. I mean, the girls would understand. They do understand. I can take a break to take care of you. I could still write, you know, and then when the time is right, I could tour again.”

It sounds easy when Z says it. Ryan closes his eyes and imagines that sort of life for the two of them.

“When will the time be right?” Ryan questions.

Z looks at him, studying his face and his words. He can catch the first flicker of something in her eyes. “When you’re better.”

“What if I’m never better?”

“Ryan,” Z frowns. “You could have a little hope.” Ryan closes his eyes and feels Z’s hand touch his face and then sweeps to his jaw. Her delicate fingers trail up to his cheekbones, dancing across his forehead. “If you need time, I’ll wait. There are more important things to life than playing music, Ryan.”

Z sounds so sure, but Ryan isn’t. To him, there never really was much more to his life. Music was the end-all-be-all, and if he didn’t do it with Panic, then he would do it with the Young Veins. He never worried because even if he ended up all alone there was always music. Music was the only form of consistency in his life.

Ryan opens his eyes and looks up at Z. He feels so removed and disconnected that he can’t grasp the idea that he was ever with her at all. He always thought Z settled for him, but now she feels legions out of his league.

“Music is what you do and you’re too talented to waste your time here with me, writing when you catch a minute between taking care of me,” Ryan says. “I don’t want you to sacrifice that for me.”

A frown takes over Z’s soft features. “So you don’t want me to take care of you?” she asks, sounding a little put out.

“I want you to be happy. I want you to be able to do what you want without anyone holding you back.”

“You mean without you holding me back? Ryan, I don’t think like that! I - ”

Ryan sits up. It’s awkward and hard to do, and Z’s hand twitches like she wants to help him.

“Z, listen to me. I don’t want you to stay here and then wake up and find that five years have passed and we’re still stuck like this, and you don’t make music and you don’t go places … I don’t want you to wake up one day and resent me for a life you never got to live. You’ve got to get out while you can.” Ryan’s voice breaks while he talks. Despite spending an hour mulling over this decision, it’s not any easier for Ryan to put into action.

Z sucks in a sharp breath. “Are you … are you really trying to breaking up with me right now?” she asks, her voice breaking, too. Maybe it’s because she’s upset or still needs to rest her vocal chords from touring so much. She closes her eyes and gets on her knees, putting her dainty hands on Ryan’s shoulders. “Listen to me, Ryan. Don’t tell me what I can’t handle. Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”

“You don’t get it,” Ryan says, but he’s smiling despite himself at how stubborn Z is.

“Get what?” She sounds angry. This is deteriorating fast, but it’s something Ryan can’t hide from to avoid confrontation.

“Z, I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know how to be myself, so how do you expect me to know how to be someone’s boyfriend?” Z’s fingers dig into Ryan’s shoulders painfully, but Ryan doesn’t push her away or tell her to stop. “I’m not a smart guy, Z. I make shitty decisions. This shit, though, has given me a clearer idea of what living really means and that, if I can’t do it, then I sure as fuck don’t want to drag other people to a stop with me. You deserve better than that.”

“What about the people who want to stay with you regardless of what happens?”

Ryan tips his head up. He and Z look at each other, and Ryan doesn’t think about what she’s asking him because he already has. He’s spent nights lying awake in the hospital, thinking up the endings to a thousand different scenarios.

“Then you end up hating me.”

“And what if I hate you now?”

“Do you?” Ryan asks. His chest hurts and it has nothing to do with his arm or his meds and everything to do with letting go of someone he really does love. He doesn’t want Z to hate him, but he had an idea that, from the beginning, she would end up hating him anyway. That’s usually his default for relationships.

Z tears up even though he really didn’t want to make her cry. He slides his hand up her arm and touches her face, wiping away the tears as best as he can. Z curls around him and presses her mouth to his ear.

“No, I really don’t. That’s the problem.”

Ryan closes his arm around her. It’s hard to balance this way, to keep himself up with no arms and Z bearing her weight on him. He spreads his hand out on her dress-covered back and holds her for as long as she wants, even when it hurts.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan whispers to her. “I’m doing what I think is right. I really do love you, but I can’t - ”

Z cries and nods and kisses his cheek. “I’m still going to check on you. You’re not getting rid of me permanently.”

Ryan smiles against her neck. “I’m glad. I don’t want that.”

Z pulls back and touches Ryan’s face before she kisses him deeply and pulls away from him. She climbs off his bed and wipes at her eyes. She leaves with a sad smile and a “Be well, Ryan.” She slips from his room, from his fingers, and from his home. Ryan lies back down on the bed and listens to Z say something to Jon before his front door opens and closes again. Ryan knows he’ll see her again - some of her things are still at his place and she’ll surely be back to get them.

Ryan waits. Finally, there are footsteps, and Jon comes into the room. He doesn’t sit down, leaning instead against the slice of wall next to the door. Jon doesn’t ask about what happened with Z, but Ryan thinks he can feel it in the air, and he can see it in the way Ryan peers up at him, telling him what happened without speaking.

“Are you hungry?” Jon asks.

“More tacos?” Ryan asks as he sits himself up. His body is sore from the combination of sleeping too long and lying with Z, and it feels good when he stands and stretches.

“I was thinking sandwiches, but tacos can be arranged.”

“Sandwiches,” Ryan decides, and Jon nods and turns to lead the way out of the room.

***

The next day, Ryan goes to group therapy. Jon takes him in Ryan’s own car and they listen to a mix of Ryan’s favorite songs. Jon drives slow and careful down the streets of Echo Park. It’s the first time Ryan’s been in the car with just he and Jon. He wonders if Jon ever feels it too, that mad rush of fear so powerful that it’s like he’s been forced back in time, back to the night of the accident, made to live through it again and again.

Someone behind Jon is displeased with how slow he’s driving, so they honk harshly holding down the horn for too long before they pass Jon with a raised middle finger and a burst of swears. The noise startles Ryan and he has to ask Jon to roll down the passenger side window so that he can catch his breath. Jon switches between watching Ryan and driving. Ryan would really like to tell him to keep his eyes on the road before he causes an accident and Ryan loses his other fucking arm.

“Jon, watch the road,” Ryan snaps, his head practically out the window looking like a dog who loves car rides.

“Sorry,” Jon says. “I know how you feel. I just - I feel like it could happen all over again.”

Ryan hums something noncommittal as he gulps down air. He’d do anything to feel like he’s not pinned down on the side of the road.

“Do you remember that night?” Jon asks. Ryan can almost feel him balk after his own question. “Stupid question! Of course you remember it. It’s just that we never talked about it? I guess I wanted to know what happened.”

“You were there,” Ryan says as he settles back down in his seat, his fingers playing with the thick strap of the seatbelt. He remembers the feeling of cloth digging into his chest and neck.

“Yeah,” Jon nods, his heavy curls bouncing with the movement and falling into his eyes before he blows them away. “But I don’t remember much of anything, just bits and pieces. I remember waking up when the van hit the car, but beyond that, I - ”

Ryan shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he interrupts. He feels on edge and doesn’t want to feel like that before he goes to therapy. Something about it makes him feel like he really does need the place. Jon gives Ryan a sidelong glance and nods.

“Okay,” he says quick but calm letting the subject drop. They drive the rest of the way in silence. Only when they park in the parking lot does Jon bother to talk again. “Do you want me to go inside with you?”

“Maybe,” Ryan starts. “Maybe just help me find the place.”

Jon nods again and gets out of the car, not asking if Ryan needs help opening his door or getting out. Ryan is grateful for that, and manages to achieve the act on his own. Jon leads him inside, and while Ryan stands behind him Jon asks the woman at the front desk of the waiting room they’re standing in where they can find the support group. Once she points them in the correct direction, they head towards the elevators.

“What time should I come back to get you?” Jon asks. He hits the elevator button for the second floor and Ryan thinks. He doesn’t know what time that the meeting ends and feels bad that Jon’s going to have to wait around for him. For this to work, though, and for Ryan to open up he needs to do it with strangers. Like with his music, no one who knows him, but he has all his feelings and emotions and thoughts spread out in readable three-minute interludes.

“The meeting lasts an hour, I think,” Ryan says. “You can come back then.”

Jon nods. “I will.” He sounds a little quiet, like he’s surprised he’s being banned from the therapy meeting, and Ryan recalls Spencer telling him that it was all about having a support system to help you through your recovery. Asking Jon not to come feels a lot like defying the point of the group, but Ryan’s never been very good at sticking with what he should be doing.

They emerge from the elevators and Jon leads Ryan down the hallway to the room where his group is meeting. It’s the same as last time. Ryan sees Sam sitting in the same seat he had been during Ryan’s first meeting. Sam looks over his shoulder and spots Ryan, smiling and waving, ushering Ryan to sit next to him. Ryan glances back at Jon before he heads into the room and sits next to the little boy.

“You came back!” Sam says brightly. Ryan nods as he sits down.

“I did come back.” Ryan says. Sam smiles at him and Ryan smiles back.

The meeting begins. Ryan tries to listen and drink in the stories of inspiration: the girl who just learned to drive again, the guy who’s getting married next month. Ryan knows he should strive to be like them, but he feels a disconnect between himself and them, like he’ll never be grouped in with two-armed people or one-armed people, and that he’ll forever be stuck in a nasty medium.

The circle of the group rounds to Ryan. Their leader, Mark, is looking at Ryan and asking him if he wants to talk about what’s been happening.

“Well,” Ryan says. “I just broke up with my long-term girlfriend yesterday.”

“How did that happen?” Mark asks, his head tilting slightly. He flips a page in his notebook before he pulls a pen from behind his ear and jots something down.

“She came to see me and I broke up with her.”

“So it wasn’t mutual?”

“No, she didn’t want to break up. I told her I couldn’t be in a relationship anymore because I didn’t know how to be in one … I don’t know who I am.” Ryan hears a few mutters surface around the room. Some sound like agreement and others sound like they think Ryan is an idiot for throwing a relationship away.

Mark nods and writes and then looks at Ryan, his eyes seeming to go past him. “You don’t think that was a little impulsive?” He asks. “You just got out of the hospital didn’t you? And you’re already making drastic decisions.”

Ryan scowls. “I don’t think it was impulsive. I put a lot of thought into it.”

Mark hums and scans the notebook resting on his knee. “Didn’t you have a friend that came to group with you last time? The note from your doctor said you were released to the custody of … ” Mark trails off as tucks the pen back behind his ear and then flips a page in his notebook. Ryan is envious of the ease with which Mark operates with one hand. “Spencer Smith? How’s that going?”

“I told him I didn’t want him to live with me or take care of me.”

“And what happened?”

“He listened and left.”

“So you’re on your own? How did you get here today?”

“My friend Jon is staying with me. He was - he was in the accident, too, but he’s alright. I mean, he had a concussion, but nothing permanent.”

“So you’re fine with Jon staying with you, but not Spencer?” Mark asks. Ryan huffs. He didn’t know that group would be like this, questions turned on him and all eyes waiting for his response. He feels Sam shift next to him and Ryan sighs.

“That’s not it. I just don’t want to be a burden. Spencer would have forgone his own life to take care of me. Z would have resented me if I made her stay with me.”

“What about Jon? You don’t think he’ll resent you or put his own life to the wayside?”

“Jon has a life in Chicago. He’ll be going back there soon.” Jon never said that and Ryan doesn’t know when he’s going to leave, but it’s bound to be not too far off. Mark writes more notes on Ryan. Ryan feels like he exposed too much, like he opened something that he can no longer close, a Pandora’s box inside his chest.

“It sounds like you’re pushing everyone away,” Mark says casually.

Ryan shrugs. “I’m not. I’m letting people go and live their lives.”

“Sometimes Ryan,” Mark begins. He pulls the pen back from behind his ear and rolls it between his thumb and index finger, “in my experience I find that some patients once they leave the hospital decide to make what could be considered ‘rash decisions’ because they feel like they have no control over their lives, and expelling people from their personal circles gives them back some of that control.
“You think I’m doing that?” Ryan asks. He doesn’t deny it outright. He does feel out of control and powerless, but he still has his reasons for letting Spencer and Z go.

“Perhaps,” Mark says. “Do you feel like you are trying to push everyone away so that you can leave them before they leave you?”

“I’m not pushing. I’m saving them. I told you I don’t want to be a burden.”

“The healing process is about help, Ryan,” a woman, a five-year amputee, says. She smiles at Ryan a little sadly, like she sees the huge error they all think Ryan has made. “You don’t have to do it alone. No one expects you to.”

Ryan looks at his hand. He can’t even sit like he usually does, like his body is trained to do. He usually sits and pulls his knee up, hooking both his hands around it, but now he can’t. He never noticed it up to this point, but now that he has it won’t leave his mind. Even the simplest actions have been stripped from him.

“So now you’re waiting for this ‘Jon’ to leave you?” Mark asks. “What happens when he does?”

“I do what I always do,” Ryan says. “I do it alone.”

“This isn’t like before. How do you know you can do it on your own? What have you done on your own since the amputation? Have you cooked for yourself? Washed yourself? Dressed yourself? Before you push people out of your life, you must ask yourself, Ryan: ‘Can I do this on my own?’”

“Aren’t you supposed to be helping me? This is the worst group I’ve ever been in.”

“We’re all here for you, Ryan,” Mark says, ignoring Ryan’s dig. Some of the others don’t, and they throw dirty looks at Ryan. “Anger is natural.”

The calm in Mark’s voice sets a fire of anger burning bright in Ryan’s chest. Ryan can do what he wants. He can push everyone out and then die on his own if he wants to because it’s his life to throw away. Mark doesn’t know him - none of these people do. Ryan feels like a fool for ever thinking this would work for him. He frowns. He’s disappointed and embarrassed, and wounded. He stands up abruptly, knocking over his metal folding chair in the process. The group startles. Ryan leaves his chair lying down, unable or unwilling to try and pick it up on his own. He heads out the door despite it only being half-an-hour into group. Jon won’t be back for him yet, but he’ll wait.

Ryan slips out the door and no one stops him. It makes him wonder if his response is not that unusual. Ryan feels someone out in the hall with him and is surprised when he looks up to see Jon standing there leaning against the wall opposite the group’s door. He has a white foam cup of what is probably coffee in his hand, and he arches an eyebrow as he looks down the hall at the clock hanging there.

“What are you doing? Your meeting isn’t over yet.”

“You never left?” Ryan asks instead of answering Jon.

Jon shakes his head. “I’ve got nowhere else to be and I wanted to be here in case you needed me.”

For the first time, the anger ebbs away, leaving Ryan’s insides to quiver with a truth that he can only now face. He does need someone - and that someone is Jon.

“I want to leave,” Ryan says.

Jon’s eyes are calm. He sips at his coffee before he pushes away from the wall. “Okay,” he says simply. He doesn’t ask what happened - he had to have heard the commotion of Ryan’s chair falling over; maybe he even heard the entirety of Ryan and Mark’s conversation, seeing as how the door to the group wasn’t closed all the way. Jon rests his hand on Ryan’s shoulder and presses his fingers into Ryan’s skin, rubbing a little, like he knows there’s tension building up inside of him.

“Did you hear anything?” Ryan asks Jon once they reach the parking lot.

“Hear what now?” Jon asks. He sounds confused, like he’d been thinking of something and didn’t really hear Ryan’s question. The sun is warm and bright and hot on Ryan’s back. He squints across the top of his own car at Jon before he opens the door.

“What we were talking about in the meeting - did you hear what I was talking about?”

“Oh,” Jon says, his face blank, neither guilty nor innocent. “Not really.”

“Not really?” Ryan ambles into the car and carefully shuts the door. Jon shrugs and starts the car.

“You were angry. I know that much.”

Ryan looks at the dash, at the world outside the windshield. “I am angry,” he admits.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Jon says. “Are you hungry? You want to grab some lunch?”

“I could eat, yeah.”

“Cool. We’ll go to that restaurant we went to when we were recording! They had those fries you liked, remember? We can get an outdoor table, one with some shade.”

“Oh, Jon, I - ” A panic begins to climb up the back of Ryan’s throat. He knows the restaurant, he loves that place, but the idea of being in public while visibly missing a piece of him, all eyes trained on him like in group only a million times worse … he can’t handle it. He can’t handle the murmurs and whispers and looks like he used to. It’s different to be whispered about because you look feminine or because you’re wearing make-up, but it’s completely different to be whispered about because your body is injured. “I don’t think I can.”

Jon glances at him and gives up easily, but Ryan sees a hint of annoyance. It’s not something Jon means to be there, but it’s something that exists all the same. “Take-out is good, too. You up for Chinese?”

Eating is frustrating. It’s easy, but there are times when the food slops down Ryan’s chin. His instinct is to bring his right hand up and wipe away the excess food, but the remainder of his right arm just twitches instead. It’s frustrating breaking your body out of a routine it’s known for twenty-four years.

“I’m a mess,” Ryan says. He and Jon are eating on the floor again, sitting across from each other at the coffee table. Ryan’s TV is on, but neither of them are paying much attention. His fingers are sticky with sauce and the front of his shirt is covered in loose rice and noodles. “I think a shower is in order.”

Ryan closes the top of his take-out box and manages to get himself up without making more of a mess around the living room. Jon swallows a bite of his rice and looks like he thinks he should help.

“If I need you, I’ll call?” Ryan suggests. Jon nods and continues eating.

In the hospital, Ryan was washed up with sponges and cloths. This time is his first real time in the shower since his accident. Ryan peels off his clothes - he’s stopped wearing his button-downs and resorted back to cycling through the t-shirts he owns - and leaves them in a pile on the floor. He avoids the mirror, avoids looking at his rail-thin body, ugly, scarred, and broken, and he turns on the water.

Ryan stands under the warm jet of water. The stream is a little too powerful, and it stings at the skin of his stump. He runs his good hand along the damp wall of the shower, reminding himself that he can keep his balance, that he’s weighted to the world.

Ryan wets his hair under the water, the air taken from him like he’s drowning. The shampoo bottle is thick and slips from Ryan’s hand when he tries to grab it, clattering heavy and loud to the bottom of the tub. Ryan ducks down and tries again, but he can’t maneuver the bottle to get the shampoo out and on to his head. He swears when the bottle slips and hits him in the head before it falls to the tub and lands on his foot. “Fuck me,” Ryan growls, blinking through the pain and water. He feels pathetic and contemplates just washing his hair with a bar of soap. Finally, Ryan’s need to feel clean outweighs his pride and he calls for Jon.

Jon comes quickly into the bathroom. “Ryan?” Jon asks. He sounds worried, like he heard the clamor in the bathroom and thought Ryan fell. “Are you okay? I heard - ” Ryan can see Jon reaching for the shower curtain and panics.

“I’m fine! I just … I need you to wash my hair. Is that … is that cool?” Ryan asks, balking at his own words. Nothing about this is cool.

“Sure, man. It’s not a big deal.”

Ryan picks up the shampoo bottle and sets it on the rim of the tub before he grabs the shower curtain and wraps it around himself successfully hiding his body from Jon. Ryan bends himself forward so Jon can get at his head. Jon squirts shampoo into his hand with ease and then, with careful hands, spreads the shampoo into Ryan’s hair. Ryan relaxes despite hanging halfway out the tub. Jon’s fingers feel nice against his scalp, calluses from playing guitar catching on Ryan’s tangled curls. Ryan’s hand tightens in the shower curtain. His body is hot with shame that he has to have his friend do this for him, that he’s losing another piece of independence that he doesn’t know how to reclaim, but he relents and lets Jon take care of him.

Jon pushes Ryan’s hair back and keeps the soap from getting in his eyes. Ryan is so relaxed by the end of it that he misses the touch the second Jon’s hands leave his scalp. “Rinse,” Jon says. Ryan nods and sinks back into the stream of water, the curtain falling back into place, turning Jon into a silhouette. The shampoo washes away. Ryan can hear Jon ask, “Do you need me to wash your body?”

“I … no, I think I got it,” Ryan says.

“Okay. I’m going to wash my hands off, alright?” Jon says. Ryan pulls the curtain around himself as Jon sticks his hands inside the shower, washing away the foam. “Will you need help getting out?” Jon asks. Ryan shakes his head before he rolls his eyes - Jon can’t see him.

“No, I can manage it. If I fall, I’m sure you’ll hear me,” Ryan says. He tries for joking, but Jon doesn’t laugh. Ryan sighs wetly. “I’ll be fine.” Jon leaves and Ryan manages just fine to rub the bar of soap across his body, desperately hoping he keeps a handle on it. Afterward, Ryan feels almost new - he feels refreshed, at least, sparkling for a moment. He turns off the shower on his own and steps out carefully, one hand wrapped around the shower rod running across the top so he doesn’t lose his balance.

Ryan’s towel is hanging over the rack. He drips on the floor towel that Jon must’ve put down before he left the bathroom. Ryan slips the towel from off the rack and carefully attempts to wrap it around his waist. It’s difficult. Ryan’s fingers strain as he twists the towel in a desperate effort for it to stay around his narrow hips. He knows he could call for Jon, but he won’t. It’s too much to ask.

The towel manages to stay on. Ryan pads through the hallway and into his room, his feet leaving damp, waterlogged footsteps behind him. Ryan’s room is cold and makes his skin prickle, gooseflesh erupting on his skin. He sits on his bed and balks at the idea of getting dressed. Ryan’s loose-limbed from the shower and crawls to the head of his bed, lying curled in on his side, droplets of water running from his wet hair, down his shoulders and back. Ryan closes his eyes, his hand pushed between his knees. Sometime later - it might be a few seconds or a handful of minutes - Ryan hears footsteps. He can feel Jon standing at the foot of his bed.

“You alright?” Jon asks. A shiver runs through Ryan’s body. He nods against the pillow. Jon doesn’t leave like Ryan thinks he might. He moves. Ryan feels him sit near his feet. “You should get dressed. You look cold.” Ryan is tense. He’s exposed and naked save for a towel; he doesn’t want Jon to see him naked. It’s not that Jon hasn’t seen him naked before, but that was just glimpses in changing rooms or between showers, not now when Ryan is so vulnerable and ugly, not when his body is a wreck.

Ryan rolls over on his back and sits up, his hand smoothing down his leg. “Don’t look at me,” Ryan says quietly.

Jon raises his eyebrow. “I’ve seen you before, but don’t worry. I won’t watch you.”

“Not because I’m embarrassed,” Ryan says. “It’s because I don’t want you to see.”

“What? Your arm? Ryan, you know I don’t care about that. I - ”

“You don’t you know what it feels like, Jon,” Ryan says. He looks up to meet Jon’s eyes. “You don’t what I feel like. I’m so young, but my body has failed me. I’m limited and it’s ugly -this wreck of an arm of mine.”

Jon reaches out with a shaking hand. Ryan can tell he’s reaching towards Ryan’s bad arm. Ryan jerks backwards. His left hand shoots out, catching Jon’s wrist, stopping him from touching. It’s awkward. Ryan leans forward to keep a hold on Jon.

“You can’t just … don’t do that,” Ryan says, low and quiet.

Jon shakes Ryan loose and draws his hand back. “I’m sorry. I just wanted you to know that I’d never think you were ugly. Your body has changed, but you’re still you. You’re still Ryan - in my eyes, you are.”

Ryan shivers again. He’s cold now and feels less than human sitting here in his bed with damp hair, hunched and naked and shivering in front of Jon. Ryan looks down at his hand and feels Jon stand up. Ryan watches through his lashes as Jon pulls off the t-shirt he’s wearing.

“We need to get you a better wardrobe,” Jon says as he hands the shirt to Ryan. “You know that you don’t have many t-shirts, right?”

That’s true. Ryan’s more comfortable clothes have been lost to time. He’s sure he’s given them to Brendon or even Spencer from time to time. Jon holds his shirt open and Ryan lets Jon help him put the shirt on. The shirt is still warm from when Jon had been wearing it. It’s soft, worn with time, one of Jon’s favorites, and it smells like him. Jon’s shirt pools around Ryan, but Ryan feels better already.

Jon stands there shirtless. Ryan takes a moment to appraise his body: his wide shoulders, his strong and fully-functioning arms, his fingers curled at his sides. Ryan feels like he can appreciate the human body, really see it now, and he sees Jon. Ryan is envious of the strength in Jon’s body, but a part of him also sees a beauty there that he’s never fully noticed before.

Jon gets Ryan a pair of boxers and sets them on the bed before he turns around so Ryan can put them on himself. Ryan drops the towel and slides his legs through the fabric.

“Sometimes … ” Ryan begins. He watches Jon’s head rise. “I can feel it.”

“Your arm?” Jon asks, still facing away from Ryan.

“Yeah. You can turn around now.” Jon turns around and Ryan is lying in his bed again, his back against the wall. He feels a little like a child, like he used to when he was sick and would wear pajamas that were too big for him and his dad would pay extra attention to him. “I can feel my arm even though it’s gone. When I’m lying there, I feel the weight of my right arm, like if I just tried hard enough, I could lift it up and it’d be back again.”

“Phantom limb syndrome,” Jon says. Ryan tilts his head and Jon shrugs. “I’ve been Googling.”

“Sometimes, it hurts, too. It aches so bad that I feel like it will never stop.”

“This is the first time you’ve ever talked to me about your arm,” Jon says. He actually sounds happy about it. Ryan lies down fully, feeling drained from the shower and the day. He feels the bed dip on the opposite side and the warmth radiating from Jon’s naked torso.

“I don’t talk about it because I already feel weak. I don’t want to sound weak, too.” Ryan closes his eyes.

Ryan feels Jon turn, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He can feel the soft exhale of Jon’s breath hitting his cheek. “It’s okay to open up to your friends. We won’t judge you, Ryan.”

“Hard to even know who my friends are these days.”

“How about we go see Brendon and Spencer tomorrow? Spencer will want to know you’re still alive.”

“Okay,” Ryan says. They lapse into silence. Ryan can feel Jon breathing steadily next to him and can smell Jon’s shirt. He falls asleep easier and with more peace than he has since he’s gotten home from the hospital. Ryan wakes up sometime late into the night, around three or four in the morning, and Jon is still in his bed. Ryan turns his head and watches Jon sleep, his mouth slightly parted and his lashes long against his cheeks. He sometimes forgets how much energy staying with him must take from Jon.

Ryan sighs. He wishes he could help himself more, lessen the load so he can stop feeling like a burden to the people around him. Ryan settles into the bed and watches Jon sleep until he finally drifts off again.

***

Two and a half weeks pass by and Jon is still staying with Ryan. It’s not as if Ryan expected Jon to leave after a week, but he expected Jon to make some mention about Chicago or call Cassie, and none of it is happening. Ryan thought that, even when Jon said he wanted to stay with him, he’d fly back and forth between Chicago and L.A., switching off those weeks with Spencer. As it were, Jon doesn’t make phone calls or book tickets. He’s been in L.A. since Ryan was flown here and placed in the hospital. Usually, the only time Ryan can get Jon to spend so much time out of Chicago is when they’re touring or recording. It should be nice, but it only solidifies the thought that Jon is only staying with him out of pity, that no one wants to leave Ryan on his own, that Ryan rebuffed Spencer’s offer of help so now Jon is stuck here.

Ryan has managed to settle himself into his new life somewhat, carving out the routines that will become a foundation for the rest of his life, but even those routines revolve around Jon. He hasn’t cooked for himself since the accident - he was never one for cooking, anyway, so it’s not a huge change, but he could at least make sandwiches and now he can’t even do that. Jon bought him t-shirts and clothing with looser fabrics that make it easier for Ryan to get dressed on his own, though Ryan often sleeps in the t-shirt Jon had given him after his first post-accident shower. Something about it is comforting, drawing memories of the warm, peaceful sleep Ryan had that night.

Jon also bought Ryan a pump for his shampoo bottle so he can wash his hair on his own. It feels very much like Jon is giving Ryan the tools to keep living on his own. There are still gaps and empty places that Ryan needs to fill whether it’s on his own or not. Ryan is attending his group meetings again. After being convinced by Jon that Ryan’s storming out was neither the first for the group or the last they would have, Ryan returned sheepishly and spent most of the time of his first meeting back with his head bowed, trying to drink in the information the group was giving him.

Today, though, the two of them are going to Brendon’s place for dinner, a tradition they’ve struck up since Ryan’s release from the hospital: dinner at Brendon’s on Sundays. When they arrive at Brendon’s home, there’s an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway behind Brendon and Spencer’s. Ryan raises his eyebrow at Jon as they get out of Ryan’s car.

“You think they’re busy?” Ryan asks.

Jon pockets his cell phone and shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” Jon says. “I’ve been texting Brendon all day and he never said anything.” They don’t knock because they’re aware that they’re coming. Jon holds the door open and lets Ryan pass through before he follows after.

Spencer and Brendon are seated at the kitchen table. Brendon smiles when he sees Jon and Ryan standing in the foyer. Spencer turns, too, and smiles. That’s when Ryan notices that there’s a third man seated at the table. He turns to look at Ryan and Jon, but the man is no one that Ryan recognizes. The man’s light eyes flicker over Jon and Ryan. He has wild, dark hair, and he’s handsome, but what Ryan notices the most is that the guy is holding one of Brendon’s guitars.

The room stalls into silence as glances pass between Ryan and Jon, Brendon and Spencer, and the mystery man. “Ryan,” Spencer says. “Jon, this is our friend, Dallon.”

Dallon sets Brendon’s guitar down against the leg of the table and stands, rubbing his palms against his jeans before approaching Ryan and Jon.

“Hi,” Dallon says. He uses his wrong hand to shake Ryan’s and flushes, embarrassed, before offering the correct hand. “Really nice to meet you.” He sounds genuine, sincere in his greeting. He’s smiling as he switches from Ryan to Jon. “I’m a big fan.”

Brendon looks on nervously from the table, but he’s smiling, too. Spencer watches, but his face is tense. Ryan realizes quite suddenly, given away by the expression on Spencer’s face and the guitar, that Dallon must be auditioning for the band, for Panic.

Hell, maybe he already got the part - maybe Dallon was awarded Ryan’s position right before he and Jon walked in the room. It stings to think about, but it doesn’t hurt. Ryan told them to carry on, to keep the band going, and that’s what they’re doing. What hurts is Dallon seeing him. Dallon is the only person outside of Ryan’s band - his ex-girlfriend, his doctors, and his group members have seen Ryan this way. Now Dallon comes in and gets to see Ryan exposed, more open than he’s ever wanted to share with a stranger. He feels whatever comfort he had been feeling in his body, in his bones, the confidence instilled in him by his group and Jon, all evaporate.

Jon’s hand slides to Ryan’s shoulder, cupping and squeezing like he knows how afraid Ryan feels right now, just how naked and open he is in this moment. “Yeah, nice to meet you, too,” Jon says casually.

Dallon stands awkwardly. The room is silent. “We’re thinking of ordering out for dinner,” Brendon offers from the table in an effort to break the sudden tension filling up the room like water in a small space. “We’ve been a little too busy today to cook.”

Definitely an audition, Ryan is sure now.

“Does pizza sound good?” Brendon asks. Ryan half-expects Dallon to answer for all of them. Ryan looks at the floor while Jon nods, his hand still an anchor on Ryan’s shoulder.

Dallon’s eyes flicker around the room. “I should be going,” he says. Brendon’s eyes slide to Dallon and he nods small, the light diminishing from his face. To Ryan’s surprise, Brendon stands and hugs Dallon when Dallon goes to shrug on his jacket and collect his keys from the wooden surface of the table. The hug is brief, and Brendon is a touchy person by nature so it’s not entirely surprising, but it’s shock to Ryan’s system all the same, seeing a stranger so intimate already with one of his friends.

“I’ll tweet you those Youtube links later,” Dallon says to Brendon before he waves at Spencer, who smiles a real Spencer Smith smile at Dallon before he leaves.

The silence lingers even after Dallon leaves. Brendon twitches in his seat before he goes to order some pizza, Jon joining him. Ryan sits at the table next to Spencer and clears his throat, drawing Spencer’s attention to him.

“He’s in the band?” Ryan asks.

Spencer shakes his head. “I’m sorry. He was - we were just … we lost track of time.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Dallon Weekes. He’s in the Brobecks.”

“Never heard of it,” Ryan says with more venom than he intended. “He plays guitar?”

“And bass.”

“Well, isn’t he talented?” Ryan says, rolling his eyes. “So he’s in the band?”

“No, Ryan,” Spencer says, his voice clear and serious. “He auditioned but we’re not - we haven’t - he’s not in Panic, Ryan. Brendon and I just - he was just playing with us a little.”

Ryan doesn’t know whether or not he has the right to be upset. He doesn’t want to talk about music in the first place, the subject still a sore and open wound to him. Even if he wanted to come back (which he doesn’t; he didn’t suddenly stop feeling the urge to make the kind of music he wants), he couldn’t. He can’t play anymore. It’s not like Ryan never stopped to think that Spencer and Brendon would fill in the spaces just as Ryan and Jon did when they brought in the Nicks and Andy, but the difference here is that Brendon and Spencer never had to see it happening.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ryan decides. He doesn’t. He can feel his chest hardening, a husk covering his heart. Music: past, present, and future - he’s not ready to talk about it.

“Okay,” Spencer nods. They sit together in silence. Ryan can hear Brendon ordering on the phone and Jon piping in to say what toppings they want.

Dinner is uncomfortable. Last time, it was uncomfortable because of Ryan’s limitations, because everyone was waiting to see if Ryan could do this on his own, but now it’s because the past versions of Panic have somehow caught up with the current versions. There’s a collision, an impossible level of space and time and the ghosts of happier memories and old hurts pooling together around them until the conversation is lacking in anything but the quiet noise of them eating and the occasional murmuring comment of something that has to do with nothing.

Ryan’s trying to catch Jon’s eyes, to see if he can tell if Jon’s feeling the same. He wants to gauge whether or not this feeling of hurt is an overreaction. Jon is talking to Brendon, though, and he doesn’t seem angry, not really, though Jon’s anger is never obvious, more quiet and sneaking in under the surface.

Ryan and Jon don’t stay long once the pizza is gone. Brendon and Spencer don’t protest, either, and it feels a lot like the end of Panic and the beginning of the split. It’s night out when Jon and Ryan go back to Ryan’s home, the silence and tension of the dinner clinging to them like fog or a layer of grime they can’t wash away.

“Did you know?” Ryan asks. Jon glances at him, eyebrow raised.

“Did I know what?”

“About that guy? Dallon … or whatever?”

“Oh,” Jon says quietly. “Well, Brendon mentioned to me that they were looking for touring musicians.”

“So you did know.” Ryan sounds like he’s accusing Jon, but he doesn’t want to sound like that. Jon didn’t willingly expose him to Dallon on purpose - at least, Ryan hopes he didn’t.

“Did I know Dallon was going to be there tonight? No. Brendon told me they were doing auditions earlier in the day and that it dragged on too long. They didn’t mean for it to happen, either.”

“Aren’t you mad?” Ryan asks. “We’re allowed to be mad.”

Jon is quiet. Ryan is going mad waiting for an answer. He digs his fingers into the loose fabric of his sweatpants.

“It’s weird,” Jon finally says. “I’m not mad, but it’s weird. I don’t really like it.”

“I’m mad,” Ryan huffs.

“You’re allowed to be. I’m - I’m just thinking that I’m glad we’re alive. I don’t have a lot of time to be wishing I was doing something else or wanting Brendon and Spencer to be doing something else. I’m just really fucking happy to even be breathing right now.” Jon looks at Ryan and he smiles. “I’m glad you’re breathing with me.”

“It’s hard being grateful that you’re alive when music was your life and now it’s the one thing you can’t do.” Ryan raises his shoulder. He doesn’t expect Jon to understand. No one will understand.

There is a silence. Jon focuses on the road, changing lanes, and Ryan watches the bright glow of the headlights of other cars. He has to close his eyes because he remembers catching the shining, blinding light in the side mirror before his whole life was quite literally flipped upside down.

“Who said you can’t still play?” Jon asks.

“Don’t, Jon,” Ryan says. “Don’t give me that false hope bullshit.”

“I’m not. I just - I don’t think you should be so quick to call this an ending. We could play again … this doesn’t have to be it.” Jon sounds so hopeful that it almost makes Ryan want to believe, but it makes him angry more than that. How can Jon think they can go on?

“How am I supposed to play, Jon? I can’t,” Ryan bites out. His skin feels hot. He’s frustrated, his arm aching like it’s aware he’s thinking of it, like he’s being punished for hating it.

“You’ve still got your voice, don’t you? You can still sing. Remember that drummer from Def Leppard? He lost his arm and still played. You’re not giving yourself or your body enough credit,” Jon says.

Ryan looks out the window, his heart beating fast. He feels sick. It’s too hot in the car; he feels like he can’t breathe. Ryan can’t picture himself singing or playing any kind of instrument. He’s not a drummer. He plays guitar. He can’t think of a way to do that one-handed. He thinks of lyric books filled with messy, left-handed scrawl, standing on a stage in front of a crowd of gawking, jeering fans who only gathered to witness the mess he’d become.

Ryan fumbles for the button of the window and rolls it down halfway, letting the cool air of the night seep into the car. He wishes the breeze could collect him, could steal him away and lift him into the sky and he’d float along where no one else could ever hope to reach him.

“You’re not me, Jon,” Ryan begins. He starts out calm. “You don’t know what this feels like to be a prisoner in your own body. I know my limitations … I know what I can and can’t do. You don’t fucking know, so why don’t you take your inspirational speech and shove it up your ass! I don’t want to talk about fucking music!” Ryan shouts, slamming his good hand down against the dash of his car. Jon looks surprised and clears his throat before he nods.

“Okay. We won’t talk about it.” Jon’s voice is dead of any emotion, any sign of what he’s feeling, but that’s a signal in itself. Jon is hurt or pissed or both; Ryan probably fucked up right there. Jon has no obligation to stay with Ryan, and if Ryan lashes out at him, what’s to say he won’t get fed up and go? Nothing is keeping him here now, especially if he knows the chances of reforming the Young Veins is slim to none.

Ryan keeps his head angled towards the window, air rushing at him. He doesn’t talk and Jon doesn’t talk and the silence that had been swirling around like a toxic fog since back at Brendon’s has followed them, sunk into their clothes and skin. It fills up all the empty space until Ryan feels like he can’t breathe, even though he’s sucking down fresh California air.

Back at home, Ryan stalks to his room and collapses in bed. He falls wrong, onto his arm, and the mattress isn’t soft enough to ease the pain that the impact causes him. Jon had been in the living room. Ryan doesn’t know what they’ll do now. He won’t apologize. He won’t go and talk to Jon first.

Eventually, there are footsteps. Ryan feels Jon standing in his room.

“Your medicine,” Jon says.

Ryan sighs. “Leave it on the nightstand.”

Jon does. Ryan listens to the clink of the water glass being set down alongside the pills. “Look, maybe I shouldn’t have said that shit in the car. I shouldn’t have pressed the issue, but I’m not going to apologize to you,” Jon says. Ryan sits himself up as best he can and looks at Jon.

“What?” He’s surprised. He was expecting an apology.

“You’re counting yourself out before you tried to fight. How many people in your group just gave up on the things they loved to do and wouldn’t try because they were scared? You’re a musician, but you’re not acting like one - ”

“Shut up, Jon,” Ryan seethes. He pushes himself up so he and Jon are standing, so Ryan is taller. He feels less like a child being given a stern talking-to. “Why don’t we cut your fucking arm off and see how eager you are to pick up a guitar?”

Jon frowns, his body tense and his eyes flickering with hurt and anger. Ryan stands firm. This is the first fight he’s gotten into in a long time; it’s been even longer since he’s had a fight with Jon. “I just want to help,” Jon says.

“By forcing me into something I don’t want to do? Why? Because you want to play again? Why don’t you just go, Jon? Why don’t you just get the fuck out and go join up with Brendon and Spencer and that asshole Dallon?” Ryan snaps, shaking. He feels sick. Jon’s mouth is a firm line, but he exhales sharply and turns quickly to leave Ryan’s room. Ryan watches him go down the hall and disappear from sight. He listens, shaking and filled with adrenaline, listening for the sound of the front door opening and then slamming shut again.

He drove Jon away.

Part four