Love Is Spelt Like Your Fist ~ Chapter Twenty-six
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
C H A P T E R ` T W E N T Y - S I X
Spencer ends up staying for three days instead of one like originally planned, but Brendon isn’t complaining. That’s three whole days Brendon got, free of yellings and beatings, and instead got the other Ryan, the nice, calm, fun one. The one that he loves. If Brendon could, he’d make Spencer stay for the rest of his life.
Two days Spencer spends with his eyes on Brendon, trained like an eagle, waiting for a sign to pounce. Sadly for him, since Ryan’s been acting all sweet and loving, he never gets one.
However, on the third day, just when Brendon had thought Spencer had given up and moved on, he sat him down while Ryan was still at work, and said, “Brendon, we need to talk.”
Brendon sat down cautiously, facing him across the kitchen table. “Yes?”
He presses his lips together, looks over Brendon’s facial features and says, “I wasn’t going to say anything about it because I know it’s not really any of my business, but I just can’t not anymore.”
Brendon feels his face lose its color as he stares ahead at him, trying to keep his expression as straight as possible. “Mm-hmm?” he squeaks, gripping onto the chair underneath him until his knuckles turn white.
He pauses, looks him straight in the eye, then says, slowly and carefully as possible, “does Ryan hurt you?”
“No,” Brendon says instantly, eyes widening and throat closing. “No. God, why would you even ask something like that? Of course Ryan doesn’t hurt me. Why would you think that? That’s just - stupid. No. Ryan wouldn’t hurt me.” Brendon takes a deep breath, ready to deny some more, but then Spencer gives him a funny look and Brendon snaps his mouth shut, swallowing it down.
He sighs, running his hands through his shaggy hair. “Brendon, I - Ryan’s my best friend, and I hate to think that he’d be capable of doing something like that - but, I just, I can’t help but get the feeling. And I know if I were to leave without even trying to help you, then something happened, I just - I just wouldn’t know how to live with myself.” He runs his hand over the kitchen table, and Brendon stares down at it.
If Spencer and Ryan were together, Spencer would never let him hurt him like Brendon does. Then again, Ryan would never even want to hurt him. Spencer would never get him angry or provoke him. Spencer would be everything for Ryan that Brendon can’t be.
“Ryan had a really rough childhood.”
Spencer is understanding, and strong, and caring. Spencer is everything Ryan needs. Spencer is everything Brendon isn’t.
Brendon nods, tears welling in his eyes. He blinks them away, one, two, three and swallows. “I know.”
Ryan trusts Spencer enough to tell him about his childhood. All Brendon had gotten was a drunken rambling that would have meant nothing if Brendon hadn’t known already.
There’s another pause, one that drags on for minutes, five, ten, before Spencer’s clearing his throat and going, voice low and somber, “you know I can’t help you unless you tell me. I want to help you. You don’t deserve this.”
Brendon can feel his heart pounding, loud and heavy in every inch of his body, from his fingers to his toes, brain to feet. He feels a little faint as he looks up at Spencer, meets his gaze, and really, what does he except? That Brendon’s going to tell him that his best friend beats him? No. Spencer doesn’t need to hear that. He doesn’t need the burden on his shoulders. He doesn’t need to lose his best friend over something worthless like him. Spencer’s a good guy, he deserves nothing but to go back to California and live happily ever after, drinking beer and watching the blueblueblue of the ocean with Haley. He doesn’t need to know that his best friend uses some kid as a punching bag. He doesn’t need to know that he turned out just like his uncle.
What would Spencer even do, anyway? It’s not like he’d turn Ryan in. He’d probably just try talking to him, try doing some intervention and Ryan would know that Brendon had told him. Ryan would probably say sorry, maybe cry a little, and say he’d change until Spencer believed him. Then what? Spencer would leave, go back home to Haley, and Ryan would just be all the more pissed, probably beat the little that was left of him. No, he thinks. That’d just be useless.
Useless. That’s a word he’s gotten used to lately.
“Spencer, I’m telling you the truth. Ryan never laid a hand on me,” he lies, eyes shifting. “I was telling you the truth before, I’m just really clumsy.”
Brendon watches as Spencer’s shoulders weaken, and his eyes drop back down at the table. “Okay,” he breathes, shaking his head in defeat, “I can’t force you.”
Brendon pulls himself up from his chair, and sighs. “No,” he says, staring down at the top of Spencer’s head, “you can’t.”
Spencer looks up at Brendon, just long enough to meet his eye before Brendon turns and leaves the room without another word. He keeps his head up and his eyes clear, until he turns the lock to his bedroom door and instantly bursts out into tears.
- x -
Spencer leaves the next day.
They’re standing in the apartment lobby, Ryan at his side and Spencer across from them, loaded duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
A taxi pulls up on the street, just outside the glass, front doors, and Spencer leans forward, throwing his arms loosely around Ryan’s shoulders. Brendon watches, trying to find clues in Ryan’s eyes, the proof that he really does want him instead.
When Spencer pulls away, he locks eyes with Brendon briefly, before stepping forward and throwing his arms around him, pulling him closer than he did with Ryan. He moves his mouth close to his ear, and says, just loud enough for him to hear, “it can’t change if you don’t let it.”
He pulls away, and doesn’t say another word as he disappears out the door and into the taxi.
- x -
It’s been a month and twenty-one days since he last talked to his mother when she decides to finally call. She says, “Hello Brendon,” and before Brendon can get out anything back she says, “Can I ask why you haven’t been to school in nearly two weeks?”
Fifty-one freaking days and that’s what Brendon gets.
“And why do you care, mother?” he shoots back, bitterly as he runs his fingers through Mr. Kitty’s long, white fur.
“Because,” she replies, voice rushed and annoyed like she just doesn’t have the time to have a goddamn conversation with her own son, “I’m your mother.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters.
“Brendon!”
“What? You haven’t called me for nearly two months, and now all of a sudden you’re pretending you care just because I haven’t shown up for school?” he snaps.
She sighs, exasperated, and then takes a moment before replying with, “Brendon Boyd, that’s not fair. You’re perfectly capable of dialing a phone too, aren’t you? As far as I know, I don’t believe you’ve ever tried.”
Brendon accidently presses a little too hard on Mr. Kitty’s back as he pets her, and she lets out a loud howling sound, before jumping off the couch and running into the hall, out of sight. He stares ahead at the blank TV and says softly, “Yeah, I guess so.”
There’s a long pause on the other end, and Brendon listens to the faint sound of his mothers breathing. He can picture her standing in the kitchen, or maybe in the foyer, all dressed up in Chanel or Valentino, tapping her foot as she stares at her silver Tiffany’s watch, already late for some function or another. “Brendon,” she finally says, “is everything okay?”
He wonders how she can tell just from his voice. Does he really sound that pathetic? That dead? Can she see the bags under his eyes or the bones sticking out from under his translucent skin? Does she even care?
“Yeah, mom,” he replies, weak, “I’m just perfect.”
- x -
Brendon likes watching The Wizard of Oz. He’s likes to imagine he’s there in Oz with Dorothy and Toto and the whole gang. That he’s in a world with munchkins, and witches and vibrant colors.
That he can just follow a yellow brick road, meet strange friends along the way and all his problems will be fixed. That he can just click his heels, close his eyes and say, “there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home,” and just disappear from it all, from this nightmare.
Brendon, he wonders where his fucking red ruby slippers are.
- x -
Jon,
Ryan has this gun, tucked away at the very back of his sock drawer. It’s loaded.
Sometimes, when he’s gone, I’ll run my hands over the cool metal, the barrel, the trigger. I think of how easy it’d be, his chest, my brain. Last night, when he was asleep, I pressed it against his temple, his cheek, his lips, his neck, his chest. He didn’t even stir. How easy it would have been, right there, right then, it would have all ended. He never would have known.
I should have, after all he’s done to me. He’s ruined me. It’d be a relief.
The funny thing is - or really not so funny - is that I hate him, I hate him so much sometimes, every time he insults me, or beats me, or fucking rapes me - but at the same time, I love him. That as much as I think of pulling the trigger, running to the police, or telling someone, anyone, at the end of the day, all I want to do is hold him, fix him, put him back together. He’s just broken, just like me. I know that he loves me.
Oh, listen to me; I don’t even make sense anymore. I’m losing my mind.
Love Brendon.
- x -
Brendon seals the letter in the envelope, and tucks it in with the rest.
Sometimes, he thinks that when he dies - whether it’s from Ryan, himself, or maybe from a freaking bus - Jon will read these hundreds of letters locked in a little black box, and knows that he still loved him.
a/n: soo, i know this was extra short, but the good news is, is that the next chapters pretty much done so that should be up fairly soon. bad news is, it's not the happiest chapter ever, and that's all i'll tell you. oh, and it looks as if there will only be two more chapters left + the epilogue but there is a chance their might be three more. IDK though, it's leaning towards two still. anyways, ily. goodnight.
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
C H A P T E R ` T W E N T Y - S I X
Spencer ends up staying for three days instead of one like originally planned, but Brendon isn’t complaining. That’s three whole days Brendon got, free of yellings and beatings, and instead got the other Ryan, the nice, calm, fun one. The one that he loves. If Brendon could, he’d make Spencer stay for the rest of his life.
Two days Spencer spends with his eyes on Brendon, trained like an eagle, waiting for a sign to pounce. Sadly for him, since Ryan’s been acting all sweet and loving, he never gets one.
However, on the third day, just when Brendon had thought Spencer had given up and moved on, he sat him down while Ryan was still at work, and said, “Brendon, we need to talk.”
Brendon sat down cautiously, facing him across the kitchen table. “Yes?”
He presses his lips together, looks over Brendon’s facial features and says, “I wasn’t going to say anything about it because I know it’s not really any of my business, but I just can’t not anymore.”
Brendon feels his face lose its color as he stares ahead at him, trying to keep his expression as straight as possible. “Mm-hmm?” he squeaks, gripping onto the chair underneath him until his knuckles turn white.
He pauses, looks him straight in the eye, then says, slowly and carefully as possible, “does Ryan hurt you?”
“No,” Brendon says instantly, eyes widening and throat closing. “No. God, why would you even ask something like that? Of course Ryan doesn’t hurt me. Why would you think that? That’s just - stupid. No. Ryan wouldn’t hurt me.” Brendon takes a deep breath, ready to deny some more, but then Spencer gives him a funny look and Brendon snaps his mouth shut, swallowing it down.
He sighs, running his hands through his shaggy hair. “Brendon, I - Ryan’s my best friend, and I hate to think that he’d be capable of doing something like that - but, I just, I can’t help but get the feeling. And I know if I were to leave without even trying to help you, then something happened, I just - I just wouldn’t know how to live with myself.” He runs his hand over the kitchen table, and Brendon stares down at it.
If Spencer and Ryan were together, Spencer would never let him hurt him like Brendon does. Then again, Ryan would never even want to hurt him. Spencer would never get him angry or provoke him. Spencer would be everything for Ryan that Brendon can’t be.
“Ryan had a really rough childhood.”
Spencer is understanding, and strong, and caring. Spencer is everything Ryan needs. Spencer is everything Brendon isn’t.
Brendon nods, tears welling in his eyes. He blinks them away, one, two, three and swallows. “I know.”
Ryan trusts Spencer enough to tell him about his childhood. All Brendon had gotten was a drunken rambling that would have meant nothing if Brendon hadn’t known already.
There’s another pause, one that drags on for minutes, five, ten, before Spencer’s clearing his throat and going, voice low and somber, “you know I can’t help you unless you tell me. I want to help you. You don’t deserve this.”
Brendon can feel his heart pounding, loud and heavy in every inch of his body, from his fingers to his toes, brain to feet. He feels a little faint as he looks up at Spencer, meets his gaze, and really, what does he except? That Brendon’s going to tell him that his best friend beats him? No. Spencer doesn’t need to hear that. He doesn’t need the burden on his shoulders. He doesn’t need to lose his best friend over something worthless like him. Spencer’s a good guy, he deserves nothing but to go back to California and live happily ever after, drinking beer and watching the blueblueblue of the ocean with Haley. He doesn’t need to know that his best friend uses some kid as a punching bag. He doesn’t need to know that he turned out just like his uncle.
What would Spencer even do, anyway? It’s not like he’d turn Ryan in. He’d probably just try talking to him, try doing some intervention and Ryan would know that Brendon had told him. Ryan would probably say sorry, maybe cry a little, and say he’d change until Spencer believed him. Then what? Spencer would leave, go back home to Haley, and Ryan would just be all the more pissed, probably beat the little that was left of him. No, he thinks. That’d just be useless.
Useless. That’s a word he’s gotten used to lately.
“Spencer, I’m telling you the truth. Ryan never laid a hand on me,” he lies, eyes shifting. “I was telling you the truth before, I’m just really clumsy.”
Brendon watches as Spencer’s shoulders weaken, and his eyes drop back down at the table. “Okay,” he breathes, shaking his head in defeat, “I can’t force you.”
Brendon pulls himself up from his chair, and sighs. “No,” he says, staring down at the top of Spencer’s head, “you can’t.”
Spencer looks up at Brendon, just long enough to meet his eye before Brendon turns and leaves the room without another word. He keeps his head up and his eyes clear, until he turns the lock to his bedroom door and instantly bursts out into tears.
- x -
Spencer leaves the next day.
They’re standing in the apartment lobby, Ryan at his side and Spencer across from them, loaded duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
A taxi pulls up on the street, just outside the glass, front doors, and Spencer leans forward, throwing his arms loosely around Ryan’s shoulders. Brendon watches, trying to find clues in Ryan’s eyes, the proof that he really does want him instead.
When Spencer pulls away, he locks eyes with Brendon briefly, before stepping forward and throwing his arms around him, pulling him closer than he did with Ryan. He moves his mouth close to his ear, and says, just loud enough for him to hear, “it can’t change if you don’t let it.”
He pulls away, and doesn’t say another word as he disappears out the door and into the taxi.
- x -
It’s been a month and twenty-one days since he last talked to his mother when she decides to finally call. She says, “Hello Brendon,” and before Brendon can get out anything back she says, “Can I ask why you haven’t been to school in nearly two weeks?”
Fifty-one freaking days and that’s what Brendon gets.
“And why do you care, mother?” he shoots back, bitterly as he runs his fingers through Mr. Kitty’s long, white fur.
“Because,” she replies, voice rushed and annoyed like she just doesn’t have the time to have a goddamn conversation with her own son, “I’m your mother.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters.
“Brendon!”
“What? You haven’t called me for nearly two months, and now all of a sudden you’re pretending you care just because I haven’t shown up for school?” he snaps.
She sighs, exasperated, and then takes a moment before replying with, “Brendon Boyd, that’s not fair. You’re perfectly capable of dialing a phone too, aren’t you? As far as I know, I don’t believe you’ve ever tried.”
Brendon accidently presses a little too hard on Mr. Kitty’s back as he pets her, and she lets out a loud howling sound, before jumping off the couch and running into the hall, out of sight. He stares ahead at the blank TV and says softly, “Yeah, I guess so.”
There’s a long pause on the other end, and Brendon listens to the faint sound of his mothers breathing. He can picture her standing in the kitchen, or maybe in the foyer, all dressed up in Chanel or Valentino, tapping her foot as she stares at her silver Tiffany’s watch, already late for some function or another. “Brendon,” she finally says, “is everything okay?”
He wonders how she can tell just from his voice. Does he really sound that pathetic? That dead? Can she see the bags under his eyes or the bones sticking out from under his translucent skin? Does she even care?
“Yeah, mom,” he replies, weak, “I’m just perfect.”
- x -
Brendon likes watching The Wizard of Oz. He’s likes to imagine he’s there in Oz with Dorothy and Toto and the whole gang. That he’s in a world with munchkins, and witches and vibrant colors.
That he can just follow a yellow brick road, meet strange friends along the way and all his problems will be fixed. That he can just click his heels, close his eyes and say, “there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home,” and just disappear from it all, from this nightmare.
Brendon, he wonders where his fucking red ruby slippers are.
- x -
Jon,
Ryan has this gun, tucked away at the very back of his sock drawer. It’s loaded.
Sometimes, when he’s gone, I’ll run my hands over the cool metal, the barrel, the trigger. I think of how easy it’d be, his chest, my brain. Last night, when he was asleep, I pressed it against his temple, his cheek, his lips, his neck, his chest. He didn’t even stir. How easy it would have been, right there, right then, it would have all ended. He never would have known.
I should have, after all he’s done to me. He’s ruined me. It’d be a relief.
The funny thing is - or really not so funny - is that I hate him, I hate him so much sometimes, every time he insults me, or beats me, or fucking rapes me - but at the same time, I love him. That as much as I think of pulling the trigger, running to the police, or telling someone, anyone, at the end of the day, all I want to do is hold him, fix him, put him back together. He’s just broken, just like me. I know that he loves me.
Oh, listen to me; I don’t even make sense anymore. I’m losing my mind.
Love Brendon.
- x -
Brendon seals the letter in the envelope, and tucks it in with the rest.
Sometimes, he thinks that when he dies - whether it’s from Ryan, himself, or maybe from a freaking bus - Jon will read these hundreds of letters locked in a little black box, and knows that he still loved him.
a/n: soo, i know this was extra short, but the good news is, is that the next chapters pretty much done so that should be up fairly soon. bad news is, it's not the happiest chapter ever, and that's all i'll tell you. oh, and it looks as if there will only be two more chapters left + the epilogue but there is a chance their might be three more. IDK though, it's leaning towards two still. anyways, ily. goodnight.