battles | ryan ross/brendon urie | 3,564 words
battles
ryan ross/brendon urie | 14a | 3,564 words
they don't look back.
i wrote this probably about two years ago, where it then continued to collect dust on my computer. i only finally posted this cause panic_smile forced me to. this would explain the song choices and why it's so old school slash that it's not even funny. if you want to travel back to '06, read on.
title taken the spill canvas.
warning: major angst.
i. the broken clock is a comfort, it helps me sleep tonight.
It’s late, and Ryan lays awake, staring at the wall in front of him, peeling and off-white, blocking out the screams and crashes coming from outside his bedroom door.
This is a normal night for Ryan Ross.
He thinks about the people on the other side of his apartment wall; he imagines their life. He wonders what they’re thinking right at this very moment. He wonders about their goals, their dreams. He wonders if they’re close to their parents, if they’re in love. Most of all, he wonders if they’re happy.
When he stares ahead at the white wall in front of him, late at night, it helps him to not feel so alone.
ii. i don’t mind where you come from, as long as you come to me.
Ryan’s sitting on the couch, the one he helped his mother take from the curb of someone’s house before it got sent off to the dump. He’s staring at the small, ten inch television, screen black, when Brendon comes in.
He doesn’t knock, he doesn’t even say hello, and he doesn’t have to. He sits down next to Ryan, takes his hand in his and squeezes. Ryan doesn’t say anything either, can't find the words, but he can feel it, and he thinks that it must count for something.
iii. you’ve been waiting to break since you woke up this morning.
Ryan wishes a lot of things.
He wishes his dad never walked out on him and his mom when he was seven for a woman nearly half his age who worked at the bar he regularly frequented.
He wishes he could dance. Dance like those ballerinas he sees on TV.
He wishes he didn’t live in an apartment with thin, dirty walls, ratty carpets and strangers’ garbage for furniture.
He wishes he could sing. Strong and beautiful, like Brendon.
He wishes his mom never met that creep, Rob. He wishes his mom never married him.
He wishes he still knew how to feel. He wishes he wasn’t numb.
He wishes Eric never became his stepbrother. He wishes he never met him. That he was never born. He wishes Eric would leave, just like Ryan’s father, just like Rob.
He wishes needles and baggies didn’t litter his apartment floors. He wishes the small amount of money his mom does make, wasn’t spent on drugs.
But, most of all, he wishes he was happy.
iv. and i said, “i’ve gotta be honest, i’ve been waiting for you all my life.”
Ryan met Brendon in the school library in ninth grade.
Brendon was a scrawny, nerdy and slightly awkward freshman with a mouthful of braces and thick, red glasses that framed his chocolate eyes.
Ryan was a tall, quiet, friendless and slightly emo sophomore with long caramel hair that swooped over, covering his own empty eyes.
Brendon sat down at the wooden library table, the one with words like, Jesse + Miranda = 4ever and Teresa’s a ho, scratched deep into the surface. He looked across the table at Ryan, eyes skimming across the pages of a book. “Hey,” he said. “Whatcha reading?”
Ryan looked up through his hair, startled that someone was actually taking the time to talk to him, let alone notice him. Ryan was good with slipping in between the cracks. Sometimes, he wondered if people even saw him, if he was even there. “Chuck Palahnuik.”
Brendon made an ‘O’ with his mouth and asked, “Is it any good?”
The librarian shot them a look from her computer, placing her index finger to her chapped lips.
Ryan smiled, the action itself feeling funny against his lips, and nodded. Brendon smirked as he tore a piece of paper from his tattered, green notebook, scribbled something on it, and passed it across the table to Ryan.
I’m Brendon.
Ryan picked up his black pen, something fluttering deep within his chest, and wrote, I’m Ryan, before sliding it back across the table to where the younger boy sat.
Brendon took a moment, staring down at the piece of torn paper in front of him, lip in between his teeth, eyes full of thought. Finally, he scribbled something down and slid it back.
I’m a loser freshman with absolutely no friends. Be my friend?
Ryan laughed softly, looking up from the note and over to Brendon, who’s face was a light shade of pink as he shrugged sheepishly. Ryan nodded, a silly grin across his lips.
Brendon returned the grin, white teeth and pink gums. Ryan ran his fingertip over ‘faggot’ carved into the wood.
Ryan still has that note to this day, along with many others, tucked away in his bottom drawer, safe.
v. hey unloving, i will love you.
Ryan’s not quite sure how it happens, not even exactly sure what’s happening, but Brendon’s on top of him, on his bed he bought for twenty bucks at the Salvation Army and they’re -
They’re kissing, and it just. It fits.
Ryan kind of likes the feeling of Brendon’s full lips on his, the feeling of his skin against his, burning at the touch.
He kind of likes how Brendon’s hands are roaming all over his naked body, grabbing and caressing, so needy.
He also kind of likes the feeling of Brendon inside of him, filling him, his moans muffled into the skin of his neck.
Brendon grabs onto his hand, once it’s over, and whispers, “I’ve always loved you.”
Ryan kind of likes that too.
vi. and for a minute there, i lost myself.
They’re lying in an abandoned field, their backs pressed against the cool summer grass, gazing up at the clouds tumbling by in the sky.
Brendon’s fingers are brushing against Ryan’s knuckles, and he wants to freeze the moment and stay here forever. Just how they are.
“Ryan, do you believe in God?” Brendon asks, voice raspy, scared, and the moments ruined.
Ryan closes his eyes, wishing he knew the answer.
vii. we're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl.
Ryan sees the look in Brendon’s eyes, the bruises decorating his body, and says nothing.
Just like how Brendon sees the look in Ryan’s eyes, the scars on his wrists and thighs, and says nothing.
Ryan runs his fingers across the purple and yellow bruise on Brendon’s hip as Brendon presses butterfly kisses to the scars on Ryan’s wrists, and for awhile, it’s okay.
viii. let the rain fill my mouth, and in a couple of hours i’ll be dead.
Ryan loves the rain.
He stands, and runs, cries, screams, the rain pouring down on him, soaking him to the bones.
It’s the only time he truly feels alive.
This time, Brendon comes along, and they stand, run, cry, scream together.
ix. diamonds do appear to be just like broken glass to me.
Ryan hated Rob the second he laid eyes on him.
Unfortunately, his mother didn’t feel the same way. She was never the best when it came to a little thing called judgment.
Little did he know, that his son was even worse.
Sometimes, Ryan wishes his father never left. Sure, all he did when he was there was fight with his mother, drink too much and on occasion, smack around the both them when he was feeling especially bitter. But, at least, it’s better than what they have to go through now.
At least, there would be no Eric.
x. because there’s beauty in the breakdown.
Brendon’s always smiling. Even through his black eyes and fat lips, the scars that line his otherwise beautiful body. Ryan wishes he could be that strong.
Or, at least pretend to be.
xi. your face arrives again, all hope i had becomes surreal.
The days Eric comes to visit are the worst, but maybe that goes without saying.
Ryan sits in his room, counting down the hours, minutes, seconds in agony. The clock hanging on his wall terrorizes him, the time ticking away, so slow but so fast at the same time. In the back of Ryan’s mind, he can't help but pray that Eric had gotten into a terrible car crash on the way over. He pictures him lying lifeless in a ditch, blood pouring from his head and mouth.
For a minute there, Ryan feels… well, he feels the best he has in awhile. He feels calm; he feels peace.
But, then he hears a knock at the front door, and he knows no such thing happened.
He hates how Rob’s gone, but there’s Eric, still there, never leaving. And his mother, his own mother, knowing about this since he was eleven, and not doing a damn thing to stop it. It’s like she encourages it; she wants Ryan to go through all the pain she’s went through. She wants Ryan to be more miserable than she is. Or maybe, maybe she’s just too high to notice.
Eric’s twenty-one. He’s smart, has a full scholarship to college for computer animation. He’s the typical nerd. Ryan has kept quiet after all these years before he knows no one would believe him. Hell, his own mother doesn’t even care, why should anyone else?
Ryan’s mother sends Eric up to his room, just like any other day, and she knows, she always knows.
Eric moves some of Ryan’s caramel hair out of his eyes, presses his mouth next to his ear, and whispers, sour breath making his skin burn and bleed, “Did you miss me, little bro?”
Ryan sucks in his breath as he bites down hard onto his tongue, lets his eyes fall shut, and disappears.
xii. out on the street are so many possibilities to not be alone.
Ryan met Lou when he was eight.
He was wandering the streets, the kind of street that’s walked by gangsters, hookers, and drug addicts, not nine year old, scrawny boys who looked as if they hadn’t ingested a single proper meal since they were born. But Ryan figured he’d rather be there, taking a chance of getting killed, then having to lie awake in his bed, listening to another one of his parents’ fights.
Lou came outside when Ryan was passing by his small, little convenience store on the corner of the road, and brought him inside, giving him steaming hot chocolate and a bag full of candy.
Then, he patted his head and walked him home. The lights were off in his apartment, his parents were sound asleep, and Ryan wasn’t surprised that they hadn’t noticed at all that he had left.
Now, eight years later, Ryan’s father is gone, but Lou still remains. After all these years of Ryan escaping the yelling of his mother, or the needles littering the ratty apartment floor, or Eric, he’s always wound up at Lou’s small, little corner store, where Lou awaits with his hot chocolate, candy, graying beard and warm smile.
After all these years, that little corner store, standing on the corner of a particularly rough street, with particularly rough people, has become more of home to Ryan than his actual one.
After all these years, Ryan’s become sort of a little brother to the gangsters, hookers, and drug addicts that hang out on the street in front of Lou’s store.
And, after all these years, Lou has become some kind of a father to him, one that he could only wish for.
xiii. you’re an angel disguised.
Once or twice a week, Ryan helps out at Lou’s store. Whether it’s cleaning, stocking, or just being the cashier, and Lou usually pays quite generously even though Ryan knows he barely gets by himself.
Ryan refuses every single time Lou presses a wad of bills into his hand, but Lou shakes his head back, and presses the bills even firmer into the palm of his hand. “You deserve it, Ryan,” he says, and that’s that. Ryan knows he can't do anything more to change his mind.
Lou doesn’t mind when Brendon stops by, or hangs around the store all day with Ryan. Ryan even thinks Lou might even be just as fond of him as he is of Ryan.
On some nights, when neither of them want to go home, whether it be from Brendon’s parents being in a particularly nasty mood or Ryan’s mother throwing own of her tantrums because she didn’t have enough money to buy that drugs that day. Even if it’s just because neither of them feel like going back to the hell that’s also been known as their home for the past sixteen years, Lou lets them stay and sleep on the ratty twin mattress lying in the backroom of the store. Because, he knows, he always has, even if they wont say it.
xiv. as our eyes start to close, i turn to you and i let you know that i love you.
They’re lying on the twin bed in the back of Lou’s store, in the dark, with the small, moth-eaten blanket tossed overtop of them. Brendon’s arm is slung over Ryan’s thin waist, fingertip tracing hearts into his bare arm, his breath soaking through the blanket and his shirt, deep into his skin.
They’re alone except for Lou on the floor above them, asleep in his own bed. Everything’s quiet except for the yelling of the prostitutes, and the sounds of cars speeding away just outside the wall in front of them.
“When I was twelve,” Brendon begins into Ryan’s ear, “there was this boy a few years older that lived down the street. He’d… force me to do things sometimes. And, this one day, my parents walked into my room, and he was sitting on my bed, and I was, you know, down on my knees in front of him, and I was crying, but they wouldn’t believe me,” his voice is soft as he speaks, his voice trembling and shaking with every word.
Ryan presses his face into the top of Brendon’s head, and places a kiss to his soft hair, inhaling his sweet scent. It’s a scent he swears he will never in his life get sick of.
“It’s been like this ever since,” he chokes, and the bruise on his cheek glistens in the moonlight.
xv. silence reveals where we really are.
When the idea of running away together is first mentioned, it’s just a thought, a fantasy, a dream that will never come true.
But then Brendon gets a job at a popular smoothie shop by the strip, and the money that Ryan’s been collecting over the years from the bills Lou has pressed into his palm or the birthday money his father has sent him every year to make up for his absence, is stashed away and growing, deep within his closet so his mother wont find it and spend it on her drugs.
And, the dream doesn’t seem so impossible anymore.
xvi. take the pain out of love, and then love won't exist.
Ryan’s sitting outside on Lou’s front step with Skye, the newest, and youngest member of the regular group of hookers that stand outside the store.
Ryan’s not sure how old she is exactly, but he knows she’s young, maybe even younger than him. She’s got long, flowing blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes the color of the ocean, that seem to go on forever and ever, and Ryan knows they hold so much, they’ve seen so much.
It’s hot and sticky outside, and they’re licking at their popsicles, the colorful liquid dripping down onto the cement and their hands, staining their mouths and lips.
“You really love Brendon, don’t you?” she asks, swirling her tongue around the cold, rainbow popsicle.
Ryan blushes, looks down at the cement under them and nods.
She smiles, soft, eyes sad, and says, “I used to be in love.”
Ryan looks up, staring into her eyes questioningly.
“Yeah, his name was Adam,” she says, staring up at the clear sky.
“What happened to him?”
She bites her lip, lets what’s left of her popsicle drop to the ground. “He died.”
It’s so simple, and so heartbreaking at the same time, and it’s all she needs to say, before Ryan is pulling her against him, arm slung around her tiny shoulder, and he wonders if life will ever be fair.
xvii. i’ve got nothing to hide except for what’s inside.
It’s midnight, and they’re just closing up the store, when Brendon comes flying through the door, the sound of the bell chiming fills the store.
He’s sobbing and bleeding, a complete wreck. Ryan lets the wooden broom in his hand drop onto the floor with a crash.
This isn’t the first time, and certainly not the last.
He runs over to Brendon, wrapping his lanky arms around him. He shoulders sag as Brendon grabs onto him, hands clutching onto the cloth of his ratty hoody, sobbing into his shoulder.
“I can't take this anymore, Ry,” he chokes, blood dripping down onto the material of his clothes. “I can't do this,” he repeats, shaking his head.
Ryan rubs his back, kisses his ear, temple, then cheek, and he can taste blood on his chapped lips. “Just hold on, Bren,” he whispers, face centimeters from his. “We’ll be gone soon. We’ll never have to see them again. I promise.”
Brendon nods, a choked noise passing through his lips as he wipes away the blood, mixed with salty tears on his cheeks.
xviii. sleepers can't just wake the dead, when needles and lovers collapse on guilty beds.
Ryan’s green backpack, with lyrics and drawings, random things that have been scribbled into the dark material with black sharpie pen over the years, is slung over his shoulder. Heavy, and stuffed to the limit.
Ryan wouldn’t doubt if it weighed more than him.
He steps over a body, draped over his living room floor. Ryan’s not sure if it’s out cold from all the drugs and alcohol it most likely consumed, or if its dead.
To be honest, Ryan doesn’t really care.
He spots his mother, sprawled on the couch, just as motionless as the rest of the bodies covering his dark apartment.
He walks over to her, staring down at her sleeping face, eyes closed and oblivious to her sons presence. He runs a finger across her forehead, then her cheek, and she looks so peaceful, lying there. Right now, she looks like she did when Ryan was little, before her and his father started fighting, before the drugs and alcohol, before he left, before Rob and Eric.
“I’ll see you around, mom,” he whispers, even though he knows he wont.
She doesn’t wake up. She doesn’t even move.
He kisses her warm forehead, and walks back across the room, over the bodies and out his front door.
He wont be coming back.
xix. from the sidewalks, running away from the streets we knew.
They’re in the back alley outside of Lou’s store. Brendon’s shoving their bags into the backseat when Lou comes up to Ryan, pressing something into the palm of his hand. Except this time, it isn’t money, it’s cool and hard, and when Ryan looks down into his palm, he sees it’s a pair of rusty car keys.
He gasps, and something inside of him stirs. “Lou, no.” He shakes his head and goes to shove them back into his rough, strong hands. “I can't. It’s your car.”
“You two have been through enough shit in your life,” he says, calm, his hands clenched and tight at his sides. “I’m not driving you to the end of town just to hitchhike. You of all people should know, Ryan, what some people out there are like.”
Ryan stares down at the keys, and doesn’t know what to say.
“Plus, what does an old man like me need it for?” he asks, laughing softly. “I live right above where I work. I don’t have any friends besides the people that come into my store. You need it more than I do," he says, and Ryan knows there’s nothing left to say. He just wraps his thin arms around Lou's neck.
"Thank you," he whispers, and they both know it's not just the car Ryan's talking about, it's everything he has ever done for him since he was a nine year old boy.
xx. it's all just a numbing charade until the day you finally wake up, and you're not afraid.
Brendon's already getting into the passenger seat when Skye comes strolling down the back alley, hands shoved in her tight, black hoody pocket. She's wearing knee-high boots, a short, torn-up skirt and makeup that makes her look so much more older than they all know she is.
"So, this is the night, huh?" she asks as she approaches the old, rusty car. "You're actually leaving."
Ryan looks at her, eyes sad, and nods.
She runs her hand along the cool metal of the hood, a far-off look in her eyes. "You get to start all over again," she says softly. "Have a normal life for once. Forget all about here. This. Us. Me."
Ryan looks at Brendon, Brendon looks back and that's that. Ten minutes later, Skye's sitting in the backseat, Ryan and Brendon in the front as they drive off down the road, Lou’s silhouette waving them off.
They don’t look back.
playlist
1. broken - lifehouse
2. all the same - sick puppies
3. mr. blue - catherine feeney
4. as lovers go - dashboard confessional
5. some will seek forgiveness - underoath
6. karma police - radiohead
7. wish you were here - pink floyd
8. sunsets and car crashes - the spill canvas
9. northern downpour - panic at the disco
10. beauty in the breakdown - dido
11. my heroine - silverstein
12. your heart is an empty room - death cab for cutie
13. awake - secondhand serenade
14 . on your porch - the format
15. runaways - anberlin
16. everything we had - the academy is...
17. crashing down - sugarcult
18. godspeed - anberlin
19. sidewalks - story of the year
20. battles - the spill canvas
ryan ross/brendon urie | 14a | 3,564 words
they don't look back.
i wrote this probably about two years ago, where it then continued to collect dust on my computer. i only finally posted this cause panic_smile forced me to. this would explain the song choices and why it's so old school slash that it's not even funny. if you want to travel back to '06, read on.
title taken the spill canvas.
warning: major angst.
i. the broken clock is a comfort, it helps me sleep tonight.
It’s late, and Ryan lays awake, staring at the wall in front of him, peeling and off-white, blocking out the screams and crashes coming from outside his bedroom door.
This is a normal night for Ryan Ross.
He thinks about the people on the other side of his apartment wall; he imagines their life. He wonders what they’re thinking right at this very moment. He wonders about their goals, their dreams. He wonders if they’re close to their parents, if they’re in love. Most of all, he wonders if they’re happy.
When he stares ahead at the white wall in front of him, late at night, it helps him to not feel so alone.
ii. i don’t mind where you come from, as long as you come to me.
Ryan’s sitting on the couch, the one he helped his mother take from the curb of someone’s house before it got sent off to the dump. He’s staring at the small, ten inch television, screen black, when Brendon comes in.
He doesn’t knock, he doesn’t even say hello, and he doesn’t have to. He sits down next to Ryan, takes his hand in his and squeezes. Ryan doesn’t say anything either, can't find the words, but he can feel it, and he thinks that it must count for something.
iii. you’ve been waiting to break since you woke up this morning.
Ryan wishes a lot of things.
He wishes his dad never walked out on him and his mom when he was seven for a woman nearly half his age who worked at the bar he regularly frequented.
He wishes he could dance. Dance like those ballerinas he sees on TV.
He wishes he didn’t live in an apartment with thin, dirty walls, ratty carpets and strangers’ garbage for furniture.
He wishes he could sing. Strong and beautiful, like Brendon.
He wishes his mom never met that creep, Rob. He wishes his mom never married him.
He wishes he still knew how to feel. He wishes he wasn’t numb.
He wishes Eric never became his stepbrother. He wishes he never met him. That he was never born. He wishes Eric would leave, just like Ryan’s father, just like Rob.
He wishes needles and baggies didn’t litter his apartment floors. He wishes the small amount of money his mom does make, wasn’t spent on drugs.
But, most of all, he wishes he was happy.
iv. and i said, “i’ve gotta be honest, i’ve been waiting for you all my life.”
Ryan met Brendon in the school library in ninth grade.
Brendon was a scrawny, nerdy and slightly awkward freshman with a mouthful of braces and thick, red glasses that framed his chocolate eyes.
Ryan was a tall, quiet, friendless and slightly emo sophomore with long caramel hair that swooped over, covering his own empty eyes.
Brendon sat down at the wooden library table, the one with words like, Jesse + Miranda = 4ever and Teresa’s a ho, scratched deep into the surface. He looked across the table at Ryan, eyes skimming across the pages of a book. “Hey,” he said. “Whatcha reading?”
Ryan looked up through his hair, startled that someone was actually taking the time to talk to him, let alone notice him. Ryan was good with slipping in between the cracks. Sometimes, he wondered if people even saw him, if he was even there. “Chuck Palahnuik.”
Brendon made an ‘O’ with his mouth and asked, “Is it any good?”
The librarian shot them a look from her computer, placing her index finger to her chapped lips.
Ryan smiled, the action itself feeling funny against his lips, and nodded. Brendon smirked as he tore a piece of paper from his tattered, green notebook, scribbled something on it, and passed it across the table to Ryan.
I’m Brendon.
Ryan picked up his black pen, something fluttering deep within his chest, and wrote, I’m Ryan, before sliding it back across the table to where the younger boy sat.
Brendon took a moment, staring down at the piece of torn paper in front of him, lip in between his teeth, eyes full of thought. Finally, he scribbled something down and slid it back.
I’m a loser freshman with absolutely no friends. Be my friend?
Ryan laughed softly, looking up from the note and over to Brendon, who’s face was a light shade of pink as he shrugged sheepishly. Ryan nodded, a silly grin across his lips.
Brendon returned the grin, white teeth and pink gums. Ryan ran his fingertip over ‘faggot’ carved into the wood.
Ryan still has that note to this day, along with many others, tucked away in his bottom drawer, safe.
v. hey unloving, i will love you.
Ryan’s not quite sure how it happens, not even exactly sure what’s happening, but Brendon’s on top of him, on his bed he bought for twenty bucks at the Salvation Army and they’re -
They’re kissing, and it just. It fits.
Ryan kind of likes the feeling of Brendon’s full lips on his, the feeling of his skin against his, burning at the touch.
He kind of likes how Brendon’s hands are roaming all over his naked body, grabbing and caressing, so needy.
He also kind of likes the feeling of Brendon inside of him, filling him, his moans muffled into the skin of his neck.
Brendon grabs onto his hand, once it’s over, and whispers, “I’ve always loved you.”
Ryan kind of likes that too.
vi. and for a minute there, i lost myself.
They’re lying in an abandoned field, their backs pressed against the cool summer grass, gazing up at the clouds tumbling by in the sky.
Brendon’s fingers are brushing against Ryan’s knuckles, and he wants to freeze the moment and stay here forever. Just how they are.
“Ryan, do you believe in God?” Brendon asks, voice raspy, scared, and the moments ruined.
Ryan closes his eyes, wishing he knew the answer.
vii. we're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl.
Ryan sees the look in Brendon’s eyes, the bruises decorating his body, and says nothing.
Just like how Brendon sees the look in Ryan’s eyes, the scars on his wrists and thighs, and says nothing.
Ryan runs his fingers across the purple and yellow bruise on Brendon’s hip as Brendon presses butterfly kisses to the scars on Ryan’s wrists, and for awhile, it’s okay.
viii. let the rain fill my mouth, and in a couple of hours i’ll be dead.
Ryan loves the rain.
He stands, and runs, cries, screams, the rain pouring down on him, soaking him to the bones.
It’s the only time he truly feels alive.
This time, Brendon comes along, and they stand, run, cry, scream together.
ix. diamonds do appear to be just like broken glass to me.
Ryan hated Rob the second he laid eyes on him.
Unfortunately, his mother didn’t feel the same way. She was never the best when it came to a little thing called judgment.
Little did he know, that his son was even worse.
Sometimes, Ryan wishes his father never left. Sure, all he did when he was there was fight with his mother, drink too much and on occasion, smack around the both them when he was feeling especially bitter. But, at least, it’s better than what they have to go through now.
At least, there would be no Eric.
x. because there’s beauty in the breakdown.
Brendon’s always smiling. Even through his black eyes and fat lips, the scars that line his otherwise beautiful body. Ryan wishes he could be that strong.
Or, at least pretend to be.
xi. your face arrives again, all hope i had becomes surreal.
The days Eric comes to visit are the worst, but maybe that goes without saying.
Ryan sits in his room, counting down the hours, minutes, seconds in agony. The clock hanging on his wall terrorizes him, the time ticking away, so slow but so fast at the same time. In the back of Ryan’s mind, he can't help but pray that Eric had gotten into a terrible car crash on the way over. He pictures him lying lifeless in a ditch, blood pouring from his head and mouth.
For a minute there, Ryan feels… well, he feels the best he has in awhile. He feels calm; he feels peace.
But, then he hears a knock at the front door, and he knows no such thing happened.
He hates how Rob’s gone, but there’s Eric, still there, never leaving. And his mother, his own mother, knowing about this since he was eleven, and not doing a damn thing to stop it. It’s like she encourages it; she wants Ryan to go through all the pain she’s went through. She wants Ryan to be more miserable than she is. Or maybe, maybe she’s just too high to notice.
Eric’s twenty-one. He’s smart, has a full scholarship to college for computer animation. He’s the typical nerd. Ryan has kept quiet after all these years before he knows no one would believe him. Hell, his own mother doesn’t even care, why should anyone else?
Ryan’s mother sends Eric up to his room, just like any other day, and she knows, she always knows.
Eric moves some of Ryan’s caramel hair out of his eyes, presses his mouth next to his ear, and whispers, sour breath making his skin burn and bleed, “Did you miss me, little bro?”
Ryan sucks in his breath as he bites down hard onto his tongue, lets his eyes fall shut, and disappears.
xii. out on the street are so many possibilities to not be alone.
Ryan met Lou when he was eight.
He was wandering the streets, the kind of street that’s walked by gangsters, hookers, and drug addicts, not nine year old, scrawny boys who looked as if they hadn’t ingested a single proper meal since they were born. But Ryan figured he’d rather be there, taking a chance of getting killed, then having to lie awake in his bed, listening to another one of his parents’ fights.
Lou came outside when Ryan was passing by his small, little convenience store on the corner of the road, and brought him inside, giving him steaming hot chocolate and a bag full of candy.
Then, he patted his head and walked him home. The lights were off in his apartment, his parents were sound asleep, and Ryan wasn’t surprised that they hadn’t noticed at all that he had left.
Now, eight years later, Ryan’s father is gone, but Lou still remains. After all these years of Ryan escaping the yelling of his mother, or the needles littering the ratty apartment floor, or Eric, he’s always wound up at Lou’s small, little corner store, where Lou awaits with his hot chocolate, candy, graying beard and warm smile.
After all these years, that little corner store, standing on the corner of a particularly rough street, with particularly rough people, has become more of home to Ryan than his actual one.
After all these years, Ryan’s become sort of a little brother to the gangsters, hookers, and drug addicts that hang out on the street in front of Lou’s store.
And, after all these years, Lou has become some kind of a father to him, one that he could only wish for.
xiii. you’re an angel disguised.
Once or twice a week, Ryan helps out at Lou’s store. Whether it’s cleaning, stocking, or just being the cashier, and Lou usually pays quite generously even though Ryan knows he barely gets by himself.
Ryan refuses every single time Lou presses a wad of bills into his hand, but Lou shakes his head back, and presses the bills even firmer into the palm of his hand. “You deserve it, Ryan,” he says, and that’s that. Ryan knows he can't do anything more to change his mind.
Lou doesn’t mind when Brendon stops by, or hangs around the store all day with Ryan. Ryan even thinks Lou might even be just as fond of him as he is of Ryan.
On some nights, when neither of them want to go home, whether it be from Brendon’s parents being in a particularly nasty mood or Ryan’s mother throwing own of her tantrums because she didn’t have enough money to buy that drugs that day. Even if it’s just because neither of them feel like going back to the hell that’s also been known as their home for the past sixteen years, Lou lets them stay and sleep on the ratty twin mattress lying in the backroom of the store. Because, he knows, he always has, even if they wont say it.
xiv. as our eyes start to close, i turn to you and i let you know that i love you.
They’re lying on the twin bed in the back of Lou’s store, in the dark, with the small, moth-eaten blanket tossed overtop of them. Brendon’s arm is slung over Ryan’s thin waist, fingertip tracing hearts into his bare arm, his breath soaking through the blanket and his shirt, deep into his skin.
They’re alone except for Lou on the floor above them, asleep in his own bed. Everything’s quiet except for the yelling of the prostitutes, and the sounds of cars speeding away just outside the wall in front of them.
“When I was twelve,” Brendon begins into Ryan’s ear, “there was this boy a few years older that lived down the street. He’d… force me to do things sometimes. And, this one day, my parents walked into my room, and he was sitting on my bed, and I was, you know, down on my knees in front of him, and I was crying, but they wouldn’t believe me,” his voice is soft as he speaks, his voice trembling and shaking with every word.
Ryan presses his face into the top of Brendon’s head, and places a kiss to his soft hair, inhaling his sweet scent. It’s a scent he swears he will never in his life get sick of.
“It’s been like this ever since,” he chokes, and the bruise on his cheek glistens in the moonlight.
xv. silence reveals where we really are.
When the idea of running away together is first mentioned, it’s just a thought, a fantasy, a dream that will never come true.
But then Brendon gets a job at a popular smoothie shop by the strip, and the money that Ryan’s been collecting over the years from the bills Lou has pressed into his palm or the birthday money his father has sent him every year to make up for his absence, is stashed away and growing, deep within his closet so his mother wont find it and spend it on her drugs.
And, the dream doesn’t seem so impossible anymore.
xvi. take the pain out of love, and then love won't exist.
Ryan’s sitting outside on Lou’s front step with Skye, the newest, and youngest member of the regular group of hookers that stand outside the store.
Ryan’s not sure how old she is exactly, but he knows she’s young, maybe even younger than him. She’s got long, flowing blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes the color of the ocean, that seem to go on forever and ever, and Ryan knows they hold so much, they’ve seen so much.
It’s hot and sticky outside, and they’re licking at their popsicles, the colorful liquid dripping down onto the cement and their hands, staining their mouths and lips.
“You really love Brendon, don’t you?” she asks, swirling her tongue around the cold, rainbow popsicle.
Ryan blushes, looks down at the cement under them and nods.
She smiles, soft, eyes sad, and says, “I used to be in love.”
Ryan looks up, staring into her eyes questioningly.
“Yeah, his name was Adam,” she says, staring up at the clear sky.
“What happened to him?”
She bites her lip, lets what’s left of her popsicle drop to the ground. “He died.”
It’s so simple, and so heartbreaking at the same time, and it’s all she needs to say, before Ryan is pulling her against him, arm slung around her tiny shoulder, and he wonders if life will ever be fair.
xvii. i’ve got nothing to hide except for what’s inside.
It’s midnight, and they’re just closing up the store, when Brendon comes flying through the door, the sound of the bell chiming fills the store.
He’s sobbing and bleeding, a complete wreck. Ryan lets the wooden broom in his hand drop onto the floor with a crash.
This isn’t the first time, and certainly not the last.
He runs over to Brendon, wrapping his lanky arms around him. He shoulders sag as Brendon grabs onto him, hands clutching onto the cloth of his ratty hoody, sobbing into his shoulder.
“I can't take this anymore, Ry,” he chokes, blood dripping down onto the material of his clothes. “I can't do this,” he repeats, shaking his head.
Ryan rubs his back, kisses his ear, temple, then cheek, and he can taste blood on his chapped lips. “Just hold on, Bren,” he whispers, face centimeters from his. “We’ll be gone soon. We’ll never have to see them again. I promise.”
Brendon nods, a choked noise passing through his lips as he wipes away the blood, mixed with salty tears on his cheeks.
xviii. sleepers can't just wake the dead, when needles and lovers collapse on guilty beds.
Ryan’s green backpack, with lyrics and drawings, random things that have been scribbled into the dark material with black sharpie pen over the years, is slung over his shoulder. Heavy, and stuffed to the limit.
Ryan wouldn’t doubt if it weighed more than him.
He steps over a body, draped over his living room floor. Ryan’s not sure if it’s out cold from all the drugs and alcohol it most likely consumed, or if its dead.
To be honest, Ryan doesn’t really care.
He spots his mother, sprawled on the couch, just as motionless as the rest of the bodies covering his dark apartment.
He walks over to her, staring down at her sleeping face, eyes closed and oblivious to her sons presence. He runs a finger across her forehead, then her cheek, and she looks so peaceful, lying there. Right now, she looks like she did when Ryan was little, before her and his father started fighting, before the drugs and alcohol, before he left, before Rob and Eric.
“I’ll see you around, mom,” he whispers, even though he knows he wont.
She doesn’t wake up. She doesn’t even move.
He kisses her warm forehead, and walks back across the room, over the bodies and out his front door.
He wont be coming back.
xix. from the sidewalks, running away from the streets we knew.
They’re in the back alley outside of Lou’s store. Brendon’s shoving their bags into the backseat when Lou comes up to Ryan, pressing something into the palm of his hand. Except this time, it isn’t money, it’s cool and hard, and when Ryan looks down into his palm, he sees it’s a pair of rusty car keys.
He gasps, and something inside of him stirs. “Lou, no.” He shakes his head and goes to shove them back into his rough, strong hands. “I can't. It’s your car.”
“You two have been through enough shit in your life,” he says, calm, his hands clenched and tight at his sides. “I’m not driving you to the end of town just to hitchhike. You of all people should know, Ryan, what some people out there are like.”
Ryan stares down at the keys, and doesn’t know what to say.
“Plus, what does an old man like me need it for?” he asks, laughing softly. “I live right above where I work. I don’t have any friends besides the people that come into my store. You need it more than I do," he says, and Ryan knows there’s nothing left to say. He just wraps his thin arms around Lou's neck.
"Thank you," he whispers, and they both know it's not just the car Ryan's talking about, it's everything he has ever done for him since he was a nine year old boy.
xx. it's all just a numbing charade until the day you finally wake up, and you're not afraid.
Brendon's already getting into the passenger seat when Skye comes strolling down the back alley, hands shoved in her tight, black hoody pocket. She's wearing knee-high boots, a short, torn-up skirt and makeup that makes her look so much more older than they all know she is.
"So, this is the night, huh?" she asks as she approaches the old, rusty car. "You're actually leaving."
Ryan looks at her, eyes sad, and nods.
She runs her hand along the cool metal of the hood, a far-off look in her eyes. "You get to start all over again," she says softly. "Have a normal life for once. Forget all about here. This. Us. Me."
Ryan looks at Brendon, Brendon looks back and that's that. Ten minutes later, Skye's sitting in the backseat, Ryan and Brendon in the front as they drive off down the road, Lou’s silhouette waving them off.
They don’t look back.
playlist
1. broken - lifehouse
2. all the same - sick puppies
3. mr. blue - catherine feeney
4. as lovers go - dashboard confessional
5. some will seek forgiveness - underoath
6. karma police - radiohead
7. wish you were here - pink floyd
8. sunsets and car crashes - the spill canvas
9. northern downpour - panic at the disco
10. beauty in the breakdown - dido
11. my heroine - silverstein
12. your heart is an empty room - death cab for cutie
13. awake - secondhand serenade
14 . on your porch - the format
15. runaways - anberlin
16. everything we had - the academy is...
17. crashing down - sugarcult
18. godspeed - anberlin
19. sidewalks - story of the year
20. battles - the spill canvas