Love Is Spelt Like Your Fist ~ Chapter Twenty-One
Title: Love Is Spelt Like Your Fist
Author: repulsive_x
Rating: I'm just gonna keep it at R for general sexual content, swearing, alcohol and maybe some drug use, abuse.
Pairing: Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross, Brendon Urie/Jon Walker
POV: Third
Summary: Brendon Urie is what some would call 'privileged'. He was born into money, and was graced with good looks. He has good friends, and an amazing boyfriend that most people only dream of. Then Ryan Ross came along, and made that all change.
Disclaimer: fake like bdens denial of being a flaming homosexual (and for once in a fic, i would also like it to stay this way)
Beta: Bec, bilvy_lover
Author's Notes: This is a fic about an abusive relationship, so if you're sensitive to that kind of thing, DO NOT READ!
Previous Chapters
a/n: i'm just going to give you a quick warning so i dont get rotten vegetables thrown at me (which , i may still even with this warning), but this chapter is probably the worse yet. as in content, not my writing. so. there you go. sorry guys, try not to hate me too hard.
C H A P T E R ` T W E N T Y - O N E
After the choking incident, Ryan goes into one of his good spells. For a good week, he almost always has a smile on his face, brings Brendon out to dinners, movies and overall just treats him like a prince. Brendon’s learning to expect Ryan’s ever-changing moods, and can’t help but wonder if maybe the guys bi-polar. He really wouldn’t doubt it.
Brendon missed two days of school this week; he just didn’t feel like going. He mostly sat around, slept, ate, cleaned, played with Mr. Kitty while Ryan was at work, and Brendon can’t say he complains. It was a whole lot better doing that then going to school and having to deal with a bunch of morons, plus seeing Jon being all happy and sexy on top of it.
Brendon usually makes dinner, since Ryan’s working later and later, and it’s not that he really minds because as previously stated, he’s always loved cooking. Plus, it’s the least he can do, considering he doesn’t pay rent and just sits around watching Ryan’s TV, using his internet and eating his food.
On Monday night, Ryan comes home at eight, later than usual, and Brendon can’t tell if he’s in a particularly bad mood or not, but he knows better than to ask questions just in case. Brendon’s stomach is already growling, had been since six that night, because Brendon always waits until Ryan gets home, it’s their thing.
At the dinner table, Brendon doesn’t say much besides, ‘Hi, how are you? How was your day?’ and Ryan doesn’t do much more than answer back in grunts as he scarf’s back his spaghetti.
About three quarters into their meal, Ryan says, all casual, “So, I was thinking about buying a strip joint.”
Obviously, Brendon didn’t think before he spoke, not at all, because he laughs and asks, “A strip joint? Isn’t that a little sleazy?” He’s kidding, kind of, but he can’t say that he wasn’t expecting what came next.
Ryan’s hand reaches out, grabs onto his arm, and nails digging into his skin as he demands, “What’d you say?”
“I was just kidding,” Brendon says quickly, panicking.
“The fuck you weren’t,” Ryan sneers, standing up in his chair a little, hand still blocking off Brendon’s circulation.
“Ryan, please…” Brendon pleads, pulse racing in fright. “I was just kidding. I swear. Please, just let go. You said you weren’t going to do this anymore.”
“I will when you deserve it,” Ryan snaps, “like when you’re being a little bitch like now.”
Brendon closes his eyes, counts to five, attempting to block out the throbbing in his arm. He can just imagine the bruise he’ll wake up with tomorrow. “Ryan, please,” he tries again, voice high and desperate. “Please, just let go. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
Ryan slowly releases his grip while looking over Brendon carefully, just to make sure he’s being genuine, before he sits back down and goes back to shoveling the now lukewarm spaghetti down his throat.
Brendon looks back down at his own, and suddenly doesn’t feel so hungry anymore.
- x -
Brendon’s sleeping, right in the middle of a dream where he’s at the beach with Jon, smiling, and laughing, and kissing, just like before and Brendon can’t tell if it’s a memory from before or if it’s all wishful thinking, when he wakes up to Ryan screaming.
“What the fuck is this?!” he demands, and Brendon’s barely even gotten his eyes open when something big and hard hits him square in the head.
Brendon groans, grabs onto his head, while Ryan continues to scream and yell things at him that he can’t quite understand. When he opens his eyes, his visions blurred and it takes him a second or two to get it back to normal.
“I asked you, what the fuck is that, Brendon?!”
Brendon looks over to beside him where the object fell, hand still clutching at his head, and sees a big, black book with Jon’s writing scribbled on it. Fuck.
“I found that in your back-pack!” Ryan screams, and then he’s grabbing at Brendon’s collar, pulling him up to his feet. Brendon would ask what the fuck he was doing looking through his backpack, but he’s half-asleep, his heads pounding and thinks he’s already dead enough as it is. “You’re still fucking around with him, aren’t you?!” He shakes him, hard, hands still gripping his collar. “You stupid fucking slut!”
Brendon doesn’t even get the chance to deny it, to get any words out of his mouth, before Ryan aims a hard punch right at his jaw, and then he’s down on the ground, knocking his head on the side of the bed in the process.
He blacks out for a second, maybe two, and when he comes back, Ryan’s foot is slamming into his side. Brendon can’t make out his words again, it’s just a bunch of garbling, screeching noises, but he’s sure he has an idea.
“Get up!” Ryan screams, and Brendon gets that much. “Stop being such a fucking pussy! Didn’t your fucking pansy of a father ever teach you how to be a man?”
Ryan yanks him back up, by the collar, and Brendon can’t breathe, never mind see. A second punch comes, a slap, another kick, Brendon’s not really sure, because after awhile Brendon’s mind just shuts off and it all just meshes into one.
At some point, Ryan yells at him for getting blood on the floor, and Brendon can’t help but think, yeah, because that’s really my fucking fault. He tries to tell Ryan to stop, that he’s going to fucking kill him, but the words never come out, and then eventually, everything just goes black.
- x -
Brendon wakes up in the morning in Ryan’s bed, to the smell of cinnamon and eggs, head throbbing and eye swelled shut. He lays there for a moment, catching his breath, and taking in the memories from last night, and soon realizes his head and eye aren’t the only thing that’s aching. He is not, in any way, planning on looking in the mirror anytime soon.
Ryan appears, ten minutes later, with that stupid tray of stupid food, and the smell almost makes Brendon want to hurl. “Morning, sunshine,” Ryan coos, placing the tray onto Brendon’s lap before pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head.
Brendon flinches, noticeably, and he doesn’t really give a fuck if Ryan notices.
Ryan steps back, doesn’t say anything for a second, and Brendon shrinks into himself, not sparing a glance over, scared Ryan might start wailing on him again. However, as minutes pass with him staring down at the French toast and eggs that are slowly making him more and more nauseous, Ryan says, “I hope you like it. It’s my mom’s old famous recipe.”
“I’m not hungry,” Brendon manages to mumble, tongue heavy in his mouth.
“Oh…” Ryan says slowly, bites onto his bottom lip. “Are you feeling alright?”
A part of Brendon wants to laugh, really hard, right in Ryan’s face, but his whole body hurts a little bit too much for that. Instead he settles for muttering, “You could say that.”
Ryan looks down at him, a concerned look on his face, and for a second, Brendon’s wondering if he imagined the whole thing. If he’s imagining his whole body aching.
Brendon shifts a little, sits up, pain shooting throughout his whole body, and nope, definitely not. He catches a glance of himself in the Armoire’s mirror across from the bed, just briefly, and with his one eye he can see he looks just as terrible as he feels.
His eye is swollen, a mix of purple, red and a ghastly yellow. He’s got a gash on his forehead, probably from where he hit the bed and another large bruise across his cheek. He doesn’t really feel like looking at the rest of his body, although he can imagine it’s just as bad.
“Did you want me to get you anything else?” Ryan asks after a minute. “Did you want some Advil? Water? I made some coffee.”
“Advil,” Brendon croaks.
“Sure.” Ryan nods, and heads out of the room.
Brendon moves the tray of food off his lap and onto the bed beside him, stomach gurgling.
Ryan comes back a minute later with a two T3’s, two regular Advil’s and a glass of ice cold water. “Which one did you want?” he asks, showing Brendon the handful of pills.
“T3’s.”
Ryan nods, hands him the two white pills and the glass of water, carefully as if he might break him. Right, he’s scared of that now, after him beating him practically to a pulp last night.
“Can I get you anything else?” Ryan asks while Brendon swallows back the pills all at once.
Brendon shakes his head, eyes in the opposite direction to Ryan.
“Okay, well…” Ryan starts, shoving his hands into his Armani dress pants, “I got to go to work now, so… call me if you need anything.”
Brendon scoffs, just barely, but he’s sure Ryan heard it.
Regardless, Ryan presses a quick kiss to the top of his head while Brendon practically leans away from him, and then makes sure to add in, “you should eat,” like he’s actually concerned.
Brendon grunts.
Just before Ryan disappears completely, he takes a deep breath, and says, “I love you.”
Brendon would laugh at that too, if he could.
- x -
At some point, Brendon manages to pull himself out of his bed, the now cold food still lying beside him untouched. He doesn’t feel bad, not even a little.
The first thing he notices when he gets out of bed is that he’s in nothing but his boxers and a t-shirt, meaning Ryan must have dressed him when he was unconscious last night. The second thing he notices is the small splotch of blood, soaked into the white carpet is completely gone without even a trace of it ever being there. Unless, Ryan had gotten his cleaning lady to come in and clean it will he was still asleep, black and blue, then Ryan must be a secret handy-man.
It takes him a lot longer than it should to go into the washroom, and sit down on the toilet, and he groans and moans in pain the whole way through. He wouldn’t be surprised if his ribs were broken, or if he was internally bleeding or something messed up like that, with the way that Ryan was kicking him last night.
He’s a little bit surprised to see he didn’t pee out blood, to tell the truth.
Brendon’s never been in a fight before, not even close, so he doesn’t know the first thing about aiding cuts, and scrapes and bruises, but a nagging part of him tells him that maybe he should learn. He finds some peroxide in the cabinet and sticks to that.
He puts some on a cotton ball, dabs it onto the cut on his forehead, scraping away the dried blood. It stings and burns, but he thinks the rest of his body hurts a little bit more than that, so he deals.
Brendon’s eye looks bad, really bad, all puffy and swollen and oozing puss, but the thought of even touching it makes him want to puke all over the bathroom floor, so he decides to leave it for now.
Brendon limps down the hallway, to Ryan’s office, finds another piece of paper, another envelope, a pen, takes a seat at his mahogany desk and begins to write. When he’s finished, he seals it, addresses it, just like before and hides it in the back of the guest bedroom closet where no one ever goes in, with the other, locked inside a metal box, because this time, Brendon’s learned his lesson.
- x -
Dear Jon,
Ryan found the scrapbook you made me last night. I’ll spare you the graphic details and just say that he didn’t like it so much. I don’t know where it is now. He probably took it, hid it somewhere, burnt it, I don’t even know.
I know this doesn’t mean anything now, and this is too late, but I’d give anything to go back in time, back to before you left, to take it all back. I’d give anything to still be with you, to be in your arms, to kiss you, to make love to you, and thinking about it now, it feels like some distant memory, maybe something I just made up. Maybe I did, I wouldn’t doubt it.
It’s no excuse, but I just want you to know that when you were gone, on New Years, Ryan raped me. He made me believe that he didn’t, and I had just made it all up cause I didn’t want to admit to cheating on you. I believed it then, Jon, before I found out what he’s actually capable of. I wish so much that I never started hanging out with him, that I didn’t allow him to suck me in, but I did, and I am so sorry.
I love you.
- Brendon.
ily? * runs and hides*
Author: repulsive_x
Rating: I'm just gonna keep it at R for general sexual content, swearing, alcohol and maybe some drug use, abuse.
Pairing: Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross, Brendon Urie/Jon Walker
POV: Third
Summary: Brendon Urie is what some would call 'privileged'. He was born into money, and was graced with good looks. He has good friends, and an amazing boyfriend that most people only dream of. Then Ryan Ross came along, and made that all change.
Disclaimer: fake like bdens denial of being a flaming homosexual (and for once in a fic, i would also like it to stay this way)
Beta: Bec, bilvy_lover
Author's Notes: This is a fic about an abusive relationship, so if you're sensitive to that kind of thing, DO NOT READ!
Previous Chapters
a/n: i'm just going to give you a quick warning so i dont get rotten vegetables thrown at me (which , i may still even with this warning), but this chapter is probably the worse yet. as in content, not my writing. so. there you go. sorry guys, try not to hate me too hard.
C H A P T E R ` T W E N T Y - O N E
After the choking incident, Ryan goes into one of his good spells. For a good week, he almost always has a smile on his face, brings Brendon out to dinners, movies and overall just treats him like a prince. Brendon’s learning to expect Ryan’s ever-changing moods, and can’t help but wonder if maybe the guys bi-polar. He really wouldn’t doubt it.
Brendon missed two days of school this week; he just didn’t feel like going. He mostly sat around, slept, ate, cleaned, played with Mr. Kitty while Ryan was at work, and Brendon can’t say he complains. It was a whole lot better doing that then going to school and having to deal with a bunch of morons, plus seeing Jon being all happy and sexy on top of it.
Brendon usually makes dinner, since Ryan’s working later and later, and it’s not that he really minds because as previously stated, he’s always loved cooking. Plus, it’s the least he can do, considering he doesn’t pay rent and just sits around watching Ryan’s TV, using his internet and eating his food.
On Monday night, Ryan comes home at eight, later than usual, and Brendon can’t tell if he’s in a particularly bad mood or not, but he knows better than to ask questions just in case. Brendon’s stomach is already growling, had been since six that night, because Brendon always waits until Ryan gets home, it’s their thing.
At the dinner table, Brendon doesn’t say much besides, ‘Hi, how are you? How was your day?’ and Ryan doesn’t do much more than answer back in grunts as he scarf’s back his spaghetti.
About three quarters into their meal, Ryan says, all casual, “So, I was thinking about buying a strip joint.”
Obviously, Brendon didn’t think before he spoke, not at all, because he laughs and asks, “A strip joint? Isn’t that a little sleazy?” He’s kidding, kind of, but he can’t say that he wasn’t expecting what came next.
Ryan’s hand reaches out, grabs onto his arm, and nails digging into his skin as he demands, “What’d you say?”
“I was just kidding,” Brendon says quickly, panicking.
“The fuck you weren’t,” Ryan sneers, standing up in his chair a little, hand still blocking off Brendon’s circulation.
“Ryan, please…” Brendon pleads, pulse racing in fright. “I was just kidding. I swear. Please, just let go. You said you weren’t going to do this anymore.”
“I will when you deserve it,” Ryan snaps, “like when you’re being a little bitch like now.”
Brendon closes his eyes, counts to five, attempting to block out the throbbing in his arm. He can just imagine the bruise he’ll wake up with tomorrow. “Ryan, please,” he tries again, voice high and desperate. “Please, just let go. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
Ryan slowly releases his grip while looking over Brendon carefully, just to make sure he’s being genuine, before he sits back down and goes back to shoveling the now lukewarm spaghetti down his throat.
Brendon looks back down at his own, and suddenly doesn’t feel so hungry anymore.
- x -
Brendon’s sleeping, right in the middle of a dream where he’s at the beach with Jon, smiling, and laughing, and kissing, just like before and Brendon can’t tell if it’s a memory from before or if it’s all wishful thinking, when he wakes up to Ryan screaming.
“What the fuck is this?!” he demands, and Brendon’s barely even gotten his eyes open when something big and hard hits him square in the head.
Brendon groans, grabs onto his head, while Ryan continues to scream and yell things at him that he can’t quite understand. When he opens his eyes, his visions blurred and it takes him a second or two to get it back to normal.
“I asked you, what the fuck is that, Brendon?!”
Brendon looks over to beside him where the object fell, hand still clutching at his head, and sees a big, black book with Jon’s writing scribbled on it. Fuck.
“I found that in your back-pack!” Ryan screams, and then he’s grabbing at Brendon’s collar, pulling him up to his feet. Brendon would ask what the fuck he was doing looking through his backpack, but he’s half-asleep, his heads pounding and thinks he’s already dead enough as it is. “You’re still fucking around with him, aren’t you?!” He shakes him, hard, hands still gripping his collar. “You stupid fucking slut!”
Brendon doesn’t even get the chance to deny it, to get any words out of his mouth, before Ryan aims a hard punch right at his jaw, and then he’s down on the ground, knocking his head on the side of the bed in the process.
He blacks out for a second, maybe two, and when he comes back, Ryan’s foot is slamming into his side. Brendon can’t make out his words again, it’s just a bunch of garbling, screeching noises, but he’s sure he has an idea.
“Get up!” Ryan screams, and Brendon gets that much. “Stop being such a fucking pussy! Didn’t your fucking pansy of a father ever teach you how to be a man?”
Ryan yanks him back up, by the collar, and Brendon can’t breathe, never mind see. A second punch comes, a slap, another kick, Brendon’s not really sure, because after awhile Brendon’s mind just shuts off and it all just meshes into one.
At some point, Ryan yells at him for getting blood on the floor, and Brendon can’t help but think, yeah, because that’s really my fucking fault. He tries to tell Ryan to stop, that he’s going to fucking kill him, but the words never come out, and then eventually, everything just goes black.
- x -
Brendon wakes up in the morning in Ryan’s bed, to the smell of cinnamon and eggs, head throbbing and eye swelled shut. He lays there for a moment, catching his breath, and taking in the memories from last night, and soon realizes his head and eye aren’t the only thing that’s aching. He is not, in any way, planning on looking in the mirror anytime soon.
Ryan appears, ten minutes later, with that stupid tray of stupid food, and the smell almost makes Brendon want to hurl. “Morning, sunshine,” Ryan coos, placing the tray onto Brendon’s lap before pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head.
Brendon flinches, noticeably, and he doesn’t really give a fuck if Ryan notices.
Ryan steps back, doesn’t say anything for a second, and Brendon shrinks into himself, not sparing a glance over, scared Ryan might start wailing on him again. However, as minutes pass with him staring down at the French toast and eggs that are slowly making him more and more nauseous, Ryan says, “I hope you like it. It’s my mom’s old famous recipe.”
“I’m not hungry,” Brendon manages to mumble, tongue heavy in his mouth.
“Oh…” Ryan says slowly, bites onto his bottom lip. “Are you feeling alright?”
A part of Brendon wants to laugh, really hard, right in Ryan’s face, but his whole body hurts a little bit too much for that. Instead he settles for muttering, “You could say that.”
Ryan looks down at him, a concerned look on his face, and for a second, Brendon’s wondering if he imagined the whole thing. If he’s imagining his whole body aching.
Brendon shifts a little, sits up, pain shooting throughout his whole body, and nope, definitely not. He catches a glance of himself in the Armoire’s mirror across from the bed, just briefly, and with his one eye he can see he looks just as terrible as he feels.
His eye is swollen, a mix of purple, red and a ghastly yellow. He’s got a gash on his forehead, probably from where he hit the bed and another large bruise across his cheek. He doesn’t really feel like looking at the rest of his body, although he can imagine it’s just as bad.
“Did you want me to get you anything else?” Ryan asks after a minute. “Did you want some Advil? Water? I made some coffee.”
“Advil,” Brendon croaks.
“Sure.” Ryan nods, and heads out of the room.
Brendon moves the tray of food off his lap and onto the bed beside him, stomach gurgling.
Ryan comes back a minute later with a two T3’s, two regular Advil’s and a glass of ice cold water. “Which one did you want?” he asks, showing Brendon the handful of pills.
“T3’s.”
Ryan nods, hands him the two white pills and the glass of water, carefully as if he might break him. Right, he’s scared of that now, after him beating him practically to a pulp last night.
“Can I get you anything else?” Ryan asks while Brendon swallows back the pills all at once.
Brendon shakes his head, eyes in the opposite direction to Ryan.
“Okay, well…” Ryan starts, shoving his hands into his Armani dress pants, “I got to go to work now, so… call me if you need anything.”
Brendon scoffs, just barely, but he’s sure Ryan heard it.
Regardless, Ryan presses a quick kiss to the top of his head while Brendon practically leans away from him, and then makes sure to add in, “you should eat,” like he’s actually concerned.
Brendon grunts.
Just before Ryan disappears completely, he takes a deep breath, and says, “I love you.”
Brendon would laugh at that too, if he could.
- x -
At some point, Brendon manages to pull himself out of his bed, the now cold food still lying beside him untouched. He doesn’t feel bad, not even a little.
The first thing he notices when he gets out of bed is that he’s in nothing but his boxers and a t-shirt, meaning Ryan must have dressed him when he was unconscious last night. The second thing he notices is the small splotch of blood, soaked into the white carpet is completely gone without even a trace of it ever being there. Unless, Ryan had gotten his cleaning lady to come in and clean it will he was still asleep, black and blue, then Ryan must be a secret handy-man.
It takes him a lot longer than it should to go into the washroom, and sit down on the toilet, and he groans and moans in pain the whole way through. He wouldn’t be surprised if his ribs were broken, or if he was internally bleeding or something messed up like that, with the way that Ryan was kicking him last night.
He’s a little bit surprised to see he didn’t pee out blood, to tell the truth.
Brendon’s never been in a fight before, not even close, so he doesn’t know the first thing about aiding cuts, and scrapes and bruises, but a nagging part of him tells him that maybe he should learn. He finds some peroxide in the cabinet and sticks to that.
He puts some on a cotton ball, dabs it onto the cut on his forehead, scraping away the dried blood. It stings and burns, but he thinks the rest of his body hurts a little bit more than that, so he deals.
Brendon’s eye looks bad, really bad, all puffy and swollen and oozing puss, but the thought of even touching it makes him want to puke all over the bathroom floor, so he decides to leave it for now.
Brendon limps down the hallway, to Ryan’s office, finds another piece of paper, another envelope, a pen, takes a seat at his mahogany desk and begins to write. When he’s finished, he seals it, addresses it, just like before and hides it in the back of the guest bedroom closet where no one ever goes in, with the other, locked inside a metal box, because this time, Brendon’s learned his lesson.
- x -
Dear Jon,
Ryan found the scrapbook you made me last night. I’ll spare you the graphic details and just say that he didn’t like it so much. I don’t know where it is now. He probably took it, hid it somewhere, burnt it, I don’t even know.
I know this doesn’t mean anything now, and this is too late, but I’d give anything to go back in time, back to before you left, to take it all back. I’d give anything to still be with you, to be in your arms, to kiss you, to make love to you, and thinking about it now, it feels like some distant memory, maybe something I just made up. Maybe I did, I wouldn’t doubt it.
It’s no excuse, but I just want you to know that when you were gone, on New Years, Ryan raped me. He made me believe that he didn’t, and I had just made it all up cause I didn’t want to admit to cheating on you. I believed it then, Jon, before I found out what he’s actually capable of. I wish so much that I never started hanging out with him, that I didn’t allow him to suck me in, but I did, and I am so sorry.
I love you.
- Brendon.
ily? * runs and hides*