Euphemisms for Insanity (1/3)
Euphemisms for Insanity (Threw Your Arms In The Air and Said ‘You’re Crazy’)
Band(s): PATD, TAI, THS, FOB, MCR
Pairing(s): gen (Brendon/Spencer)
Word Count: 21,469
Rating/Warnings: pg. Warnings for language, vague religious discussion, unexplained phenomena, people who might be slightly crazy, Ryan Ross. A small town au.
Author Notes: Big ups to hatoyona for the great beta, dreamofthem for telling me it didn’t suck, belle_bing for jumping in last minute and putting up with my crazy, sunqist for the awesome mix, and for anyone I might have rambled at excitedly along the way. And our lovely big bang mods! You are all so cool.
Bonus Rambling:This started out as an au of au wherein Brendon is a repressed preacher and the other three are into vigilante justice. Someday that au might be finished although probably not posted because it’s not written in any kind of digestible format. Oops. Anyway, I was writing it basically over emails to hatoyona and I was all “yaaaay Brendon! Wouldn’t it be hilarious if he was a sleazy preacher!” and she was all “maybe but you should finish this first!” And then I didn’t, obviously, I wrote this instead. Sorry bb! ily! This story contains almost no resemblance to the first au. Anyway, enjoy. I was trying for inoffensive crazy on Ryan’s part and instead ended up with like, River Tam levels of crazy. Sorry for that as well. Parenthetical title (I am such a shit, I know) from Bare Naked Ladies "One Week".
Spencer lives in the middle of nowhere. He has come to accept this.
One night, Ryan says, “Spencer, you’re so fucking salty, sometimes, you know?” and it’s all over because the next night he comes over and says, “Spencer, I can’t sleep.”
;;
Spencer and Ryan are friends, have been since they were five. They were five years old when Billy the Bully, Billy-from-down-the-street made them hold hands and eat worm spaghetti with mud sauce. Spencer remembers the day well. The mud sauce was cold and rough and Ryan threw up when Billy wandered away. Spencer patted his back and asked him if he wanted a candy. Spencer had a candy under his bed and he was saving it for a special occasion but he thought Ryan might need it more than he did.
They were best friends from that day out. When they grew up, they lived a street away from each other, in tiny houses that their parents bought them while they struggled to find footing in jobs they only sort of enjoyed. They ate lunch together, sometimes.
Spencer thinks he’s been a good friend over the years. He’s put up with a lot of things from Ryan; his rose phase, his bow-tie phase, the time he ran away and told Spencer where he was going, which wasn’t really running away at all, but was a big headache from Ryan’s parents, and Spencer’s too, when Spencer got bored and ran away to Ryan. They had been ten then.
He’s reaching his limit though. He thinks he might go insane. He feels close to it. It’s breathing down on him while his back is turned.
He opens his eyes and Ryan is breathing down on him, face blank.
“I got the blues,” says Ryan, “I got the blues, Spencer.”
“You need a shower,” says Spencer, rolling over and edging away. Ryan sits back.
“Baby blues,” he says. “Around here,” he gestures with his right hand at his left shoulder. “Baby blues all around here, Spencer.”
“You know what’s blue?” says Spencer. He covers a yawn. “Water is blue. Water is totally blue and you should totally go wash because you’re starting to smell.”
Ryan frowns, he says, “I didn’t sleep last night. It didn’t taste right.”
“Huh,” says Spencer. He’s been doing research at the library, even though the librarian scares him, all smiles and graciousness. But he’s braved the librarian for Ryan. Ryan hasn’t slept for the past two weeks, just like he hasn’t showered for the past two weeks. Spencer thinks Ryan might be crazy.
“Ryan,” says Spencer, sitting up, “we need to talk.”
“Can’t today,” says Ryan sternly. “I got the blues right around here.”
He looks so stern, patting his left shoulder, that Spencer gives up. He gets out of bed and goes to work. He makes a sandwich for Ryan before he leaves though, placing it on a blue plate on the counter, with a note that says “EAT ME.” Ryan probably won’t though, because Ryan won’t eat anything these days. But it’s not gonna be through Spencer’s lack of trying that Ryan won’t eat. Oh, no, it’s because Ryan is crazy.
Spencer thinks that, all things considered, he’s a good friend.
;;
When he comes home from work - late, because Stump’n’Bryar are fucking slave drivers - the plate is upside down, sandwich squished sadly underneath. The note has had a bite taken out of it. Spencer sighs, and cleans up the mess.
;;
Ryan sits on Spencer’s bed, legs crossed, without socks or shoes on. He’s wearing the same floral shirt and the same green trousers that he showed up in two weeks ago.
“Ryan,” says Spencer, sitting in a chair next to his bed. “We need to talk.”
“You’re wooden! Fresh cut,” says Ryan, delighted, and Spencer decides to take this as a positive sign that Ryan wants to talk. It’s always a bit touch and go. Ryan had called him a watermelon a couple of days ago and Spencer had gotten smacked in the chin for thanking him.
“There’s something wrong with you,” Spencer begins. He wants to stress how terrible it is to Ryan, because it is terrible, for Spencer, but he’s not sure how. Ryan doesn’t seem to care that something is wrong with him and has been for the past two weeks. He doesn’t begin to care when Spencer says it out loud either.
“You talk in blues and yellows,” Ryan gives right back. But he doesn’t look tight, like Spencer feels. “Sometimes with a hint of pink.” He nods. “It’s a nice color combination on you, very flattering.”
“Oh,” says Spencer.
“I approve,” says Ryan.
Spencer folds his hands. He crosses his legs. He unfolds his hands and rubs a hand through his hair. He uncrosses his legs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Ryan,” he says. “As your best friend since the time Billy-down-the-street made us hold hands and eat worm spaghetti with mud sauce, I have to tell you that you’re crazy.”
Ryan does not react.
“Or possessed,” Spencer says. “I thought you might be possessed too.”
“Oh?” says Ryan, sounding surprised. “No, I don’t think so though. But that would be nice.”
The only nice thing about Ryan being possessed is that getting him better would be cheap, Spencer thinks. He doesn’t know for certain, but he’s pretty sure the church does not charge for exorcisms. It’s not really a booming business these days.
“But maybe we should go to church,” says Ryan, musing. “I wonder how that would taste. I bet it’d taste like semen, don’t you think? Spencer? I think it would taste like that.”
Spencer gapes, watching Ryan lick his lips and look pleased.
He doesn’t like to, but he has admits defeat. He tried. He tried really hard. But Ryan needs help that Spencer can’t give him.
;;
He tries to take Ryan to church anyway.
;;
Ryan will not go to church. Ryan gets half-way up the steps of the Baptist church and faints.
;;
Ryan does not go home anymore either. He has a home, a nice, well-furnished, rich-colored home with a good stock of wine, but he does not use it anymore. He uses Spencer’s.
This is, perhaps, the main reason why Spencer would like to get Ryan well. Of course he doesn’t mind Ryan’s company, but. Ryan goes to work, Ryan comes back to Spencer’s house and Ryan sits on Spencer’s bed. Spencer works in a music shop on the main strip of town. He often doesn’t get home until late but no matter the hour, he finds Ryan, sitting on his bed with his shoes off. Ryan usually looks meditative, except his eyes are open and he breathes deeply, irregularly.
It scares the shit out of Spencer every time.
And he wants his bed back. Spencer wants his bed back. Ryan refuses to move and Spencer’s been sleeping around him, or on the couch when he’s truly tired. It’s exhausting, having to sleep next to someone who thinks you snore in bright orange.
“Are you hungry?” asks Spencer. It’s after eleven and he’s just gotten home, hours after Ryan, most likely. Madam Asher likes Ryan, she always makes he sure leaves on time. Ryan never eats when he comes back to Spencer’s house. He just sits on Spencer’s bed. Some days, Spencer swears that Ryan gets smaller. His insanity is compacting him from the inside.
“I’m making dinner,” says Spencer finally. “Only I can’t cook and you know that so I’m going to eat leftovers from your aunt’s casserole.”
Ryan glances at him and there is a ghost of a smile. He’s probably seeing Spencer’s words in neon yellow. Ryan’s such a jerk.
“I’m making you a plate too but you can’t eat it on my bed.” He tries to glare, look extra intimidating.
Ryan looks undaunted but he gets up off the bed and pads after him anyway, cooing a little, under his breath. Like a duck. Spencer wonders if Ryan sees animal personalities in people. Ryan claims to see colors where there aren’t any, taste things that can’t be tasted. It doesn’t seem like too far of a stretch for Ryan to see animals. Spencer wonders if Ryan can feel things that can’t be felt as well.
Spencer wonders if he’ll ever get his bed back, or his best friend.
Ryan pokes at his aunt’s casserole and eats half a baby carrot. That’s not so unnatural. He did the same before he saw colors and smelt wood and stopped doing much besides sitting on Spencer’s bed. Ryan never did like his aunt’s surprise casserole.
Spencer turns on the radio. It’s too quiet. There’s a pop song on the radio, a song about breaking hearts in the summertime. Spencer glances at Ryan, who is scrutinizing his carrot, and he thinks he knows the feeling.
He lets the sound hang around them, filling space.
Ryan looks up halfway through. “Shapes,” says Ryan. “Spencer, shapes.” He taps his fingers against the tabletop, in time with the music.
“What?” says Spencer.
Ryan echoes the singer, just a little off in tone, a line about parents and secrets. He slaps a palm down on the tabletop. “It’s round,” he cries. “It starts off round and it gets rounder.”
Spencer turns off the radio, and it chokes into silence. He collects their plates and pushes Ryan into the bedroom. He strips down to his boxers without embarrassment and climbs into bed. Ryan stands in the doorway, caught. “Round,” he says. “Like-”
“No metaphors,” says Spencer, tired. “Bedtime.”
Ryan sits cross legged on the end of the bed the entire night. Spencer does not sleep well.
;;
Spencer tries to take Ryan to church. Ryan passes out on the steps of the Catholic chapel.
;;
“You’re distracted,” says Stump. “What’s going on, Smith?”
“Nothing,” says Spencer, quickly, trying to remember what he was doing. He can’t. He looks down at the songbook in his hands. “I’m fine.”
“You’re distracted, dude,” says Stump. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” says Spencer, waving around a songbook. “Peachy.”
Stump stares.
Fuck Ryan and his colors.
“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” says Stump, finally, looking a little uncertain of Spencer’s capabilities as stock bitch/junior salesman.
“Yes,” says Spencer. “Yes, thank you, yes. Thanks. I’m fine.”
Stump walks away.
“Just a little blue,” says Spencer under his breath and hits himself in the face with the songbook.
He’s going to get Ryan well if it kills him.
;;
Spencer takes Ryan to the Episcopalian church. Ryan faints and hits his head so hard it bleeds. So Spencer takes Ryan to a doctor. The doctor thinks he’s depressed and sends him to a counselor. Spencer takes Ryan to a counselor. The counselor thinks he’s in shock from the war and sends him to a home that deals with veterans. Spencer takes Ryan to the veteran’s home, though neither of them are veterans. The veterans claim Ryan as one of their own.
Spencer takes Ryan back home.
;;
Madam Asher stops by the music shop herself one day and Spencer knows he’s fucked, for real this time. Madam Asher is dangerous on a good day, and today she’s wearing all black with fishnet stockings.
“Spencer Smith,” she says, placing a well-manicured hand flat on the counter. “We need to talk.”
Spencer nods and pretends like he doesn’t know for certain Stump’n’Bryar are listening at the other of the store, their argument on Gibson paused. He tries not to feel prematurely embarrassed, but it’s hard. Madam Asher looks like she’s about to unleash hell.
“Ryan is not doing well.”
Spencer nods again.
“He’s a good man, but he’s not doing well. Yes,” she brushes hair out of her eyes and stares him down, “yes, he’s got wonderful technique and a unique sense of style, yes, the customers adore him, but,” she pins him with a glare. “He’s not been himself lately.”
“I’m sorry,” says Spencer. “He’s uh. Been under the weather lately.”
“Under the weather!” She looks like she’s considering spitting on him. She settles for poking him in the chest. “I know under the weather, Spencer James Smith. Ryan is not under the weather.”
“It’s a unique kind of under the weather,” says Spencer. “I tried to make him stay home, but he loves your shop so much-”
“He stands in the showroom and tells me he’s breathing the colors!” shouts Madam Asher. “He hasn’t made a stitch in the past two weeks. He talks absolute nonsense. I’ve been putting him in the stockroom just to keep him out of sight!”
Spencer winces.
“I’m worried,” says Madam Asher in a lowered voice. “He showed remarkable talent when I took him on, but now he’s useless.”
Spencer winces again.
“I’m going to have to let him go,” says Madam Asher. “He’s frightening the customers and he’s become, quite frankly, dead weight. I’m worried about him, Spencer. This is probably for the best.”
“No!” says Spencer. Ryan will be crushed. “Um. No, please. Just, let me talk to him, alright? He’s uh. He’s just been down lately, I’ll. Take him to a doctor. I’m sorry. Give me a chance to talk to him.”
Madam Asher frowns.
“The weekend,” says Spencer. “I’ll take him to the city and I’ll get him better,” he waves his hand around the music shop, “than, uh. Let me talk to him, please. He loves your shop. He’s happy there.”
“He doesn’t act like it,” said Madam Asher. “I’m not even sure he’s lucid.” Her voice drops lower. “Spencer, I am worried about him. I don’t think it’s fair to keep him on when he’s so obviously unwell.”
“The weekend,” begs Spencer. “It’s a Thursday, I’ll take him up to the city on Saturday. I can, uh. I can get him better. Don’t fire him.”
Madam Asher sighs. “I’ll give you the weekend and I’ll giving him a day of leave tomorrow.” She puts her fingers together, steeples them high. “If he’s still unwell by Monday, I have to let him go. I’m sorry.”
Spencer doesn’t put his head on the desk when she leaves, but it’s a near thing.
“Dude,” says Stump. “Are you-”
“Fuck!” says Spencer. “No, no, I’m not.”
“What’s wrong with Ryan?”
“Ryan’s possessed,” says Spencer. “Or crazy, or, fuck. I don’t know.”
“Have you-”
“Yes! I’ve taken him to a doctor, I’ve taken him to a counselor, I’ve tried taking him into three different churches and all he’s got to show for it is a cut on his forehead.” He groans. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I can’t even- there’s nothing-” He does put his head on his arms on the desk this time.
“You need a miracle,” observes Stump.
Bryar snorts, and then he looks up and says, “oh yeah, dude.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer. “Yeah, well.” He stands up. “Yeah.”
“No, I know a guy,” says Bryar. “Swears by this minister.”
“Not that again,” says Stump, crossing his arms.
“No, seriously,” says Bryar. “He swears he’s the real deal.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer. He’s considering locking Ryan in his bedroom and feeding him on a diet of pineapple and water. He will read the Bible through the door at him. Spencer doesn’t have a Bible and he doesn’t know where to get pineapples this time of year, but he knows that pineapples are meant to be cleansing and the Bible is meant to be wholesome and the combination of the two could fix Ryan. Maybe.
“This guy performs miracles,” says Bryar. “Out in the corner of the old fairgrounds. Him and like, this little band of freaks, they perform miracles.”
“Uh huh,” says Spencer. He has five dollars in his back pocket. Would that buy him a Bible? Perhaps he can steal one.
“I had a friend,” says Bryar. “He was a sinner and now he’s a saint.”
Stump’s eyeroll is visible even from where Spencer is standing. But Spencer is listening, a little.
“He’s a believer, now,” says Bryar, wistfully. “He swears he saw a man who couldn’t walk stand up and dance.” He nods at Spencer. “He saw a blind man describe what everyone was wearing.”
Spencer maybe allows himself to hope. It’s stupid, but he’s desperate. “Where is this guy?”
“Back of the old fairgrounds, I told you,” says Bryar. “You want to meet my friend? He was a real sinner.”
;;
It’s Billy-from-down-the-road. Spencer can’t believe it. “Spencer,” Billy says. “How lovely to see you.”
“Hi,” says Spencer. It’s Thursday evening and they’re standing on the sidewalk in front of Billy’s house. Ryan is at home, sitting on Spencer’s bed in his bare feet. Spencer feels oddly frantic. He came here on a whim, he tells himself, and this is what it has turned out to be. He can walk away from this and punch Bryar in the stomach tomorrow. Also, he’s almost as tall as Billy now. Billy can’t make him eat worm spaghetti with mud sauce anymore.
“Robert told me you were curious about the miracles of God.”
“Uh,” says Spencer. “I’ve got this friend.”
Billy nods serenely. “Ryan?”
“Um,” says Spencer. “Yes. Ryan. He’s unwell. Bryar told me you knew a guy?”
“I know a miracle worker,” says Billy, with a smile that could elevate demons. “He saved me, Spencer. He could save you and Ryan too.”
“Right,” says Spencer. “Yeah. It’s really just Ryan.”
“Aren’t you worried about your eternal and everlasting soul?” says Billy. “Aren’t you worried about what’s next?”
“No, I’m good,” says Spencer. “Ryan, though. Ryan’s unwell. In the head. Billy, can your-”
Billy holds up a hand. “Spencer. Spencer. I’m no longer Billy. That man is not me. I have transcended that title. I am a new person.”
Spencer stares. His mouth is a little open too.
“My name,” he says, sweeping his arms out, “is William Beckett.”
It is only because Ryan is sitting at home on Spencer’s bed in his bare feet that Spencer does not punch Billy in the stomach and walk away. He’s almost as tall as Billy. He could do it. But he won’t, and it is only for Ryan that he won’t. He frowns.
“Can your miracle worker fix Ryan?” says Spencer.
“My friend,” says Billy, “the question is not can Ryan be fixed, but is Ryan open and ready to be healed?”
Spencer’s curls his hands into fists and takes a deep breath. He counts to five and uncurls his fists and smiles at Billy. “Why not,” he says, and Billy lights up.
Why not, thinks Spencer, and writes down the time at which the service is held.
;;
It’s not a church service. It’s a circus. Ryan clutches Spencer’s arm. “I feel faint,” he says. “Spencer. There’s colors all around, in the noise, and it’s jagged like spiked punch, brandy in the plants.”
Spencer takes a moment to decipher the sentence. “Are you going to pass out?” he asks.
“Not yet,” replies Ryan and holds Spencer’s elbow a little bit tighter. Spencer rolls his eyes and approaches the brightly-colored tent tucked into the corner of the fairgrounds.
“Hello,” sings one boy at the entrance.
“Hello,” sings another boy at the entrance, sticking his head out from the tent-opening.
“Hello,” sings the first boy again.
“Uh, hi,” says Spencer.
“Hi!” the two boys say together. “Is this your first time attending?”
“Yes,” says Spencer.
“YES!” shout the two boys, high-fiving each other. The slightly taller of the two throws his arms around Ryan. Ryan freezes.
“You’re gonna believe,” promises one of the boys. He takes Spencer’s arm and drags him in. It’s a procession then, a crazy boy, Spencer, Ryan and another crazy boy. Really, Spencer is just the only sane person in their tiny processional. He shouldn’t be surprised. That’s just his life, these days.
“You’re gonna believe,” tells the other boy to Ryan. “I’m a believer. Sisky’s a believer.”
Sisky grins at Spencer, nodding.
“We’re all believers here,” says the boy. “Preacher works the miracles, and we believe.”
“Oh, God,” says Spencer, blanching.
“Amen,” says the boy. He releases Ryan and Ryan stumbles into Spencer, clutching at the lapels of his coat. “Enjoy the service! Keep your heart open!”
He races towards the door. “Butcher!” shouts Sisky. “Butcher, Preacher said no running the sanctuary!” They disappear behind the brightly colored tent-openings. Streamers, in rainbow order. Spencer feels ashamed of himself for coming.
He looks around the tent.
Billy smiles at them from the third row of the white folding chairs that make up the sorry sanctuary. With his legs crossed in black slacks, he looks almost like a changed man. Except for that deranged smile. Spencer remembers that smile from when he was five. Billy gives them a little wave.
Spencer turns away. “Oh God,” he says. “Oh my fucking - okay, Ryan. We’re going. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t. Oh my god.”
Ryan is still, transfixed by something beyond Spencer’s shoulder. Spencer turns around again.
The cacophony outside had been the shrieks of Butcher and Sisky and the excited chatter of attendees but inside, the tent is all together more calm and sedate. Due, Spencer realises, to a man sitting cross-legged on the stage with a bass in his lap, bouncing along to his own rhythm.
“Ryan,” Spencer says gently. “We should go.”
Ryan’s hand shoots out quick and pinches him in the side. Spencer squeaks and Ryan glares at him. “We’re not going anywhere.”
They sit in the fifth row of white folding chairs, far away from Billy and far from the bass player that Ryan keeps craning his neck to peer at.
“He’s talented, isn’t he?” A voice says from behind them. “Yeah, Jon’s pretty much the best.”
Spencer turns. A young man grins at him. He’s wearing a red snake-skin jacket, black slacks and his hair is stupid. Also, he looks a little unhinged.
Spencer is surrounded by crazy people. He pushes back a sigh and tries to smile.
“Brendon Urie,” says the unhinged young man that Spencer does not want to know. He holds out a hand that Spencer does not want to shake. “Good to see you, good to see you here. Today. Uh. What brings you down our way?”
“Ryan is possessed,” says Spencer, shaking Brendon’s hand for the shortest amount of time possible. “We’re hoping the preacher can help him.”
Ryan is still staring, glassy-eyed, at the man on stage, Jon the Bass Player. Ridiculously, Spencer is a little jealous that Jon seems to exist for Ryan, in a way that no one else seems to. He frowns.
“Possessed,” says Brendon, musing. “That’s. . .actually, that’s a new one.”
“He might also be crazy,”says Spencer. “He, like. Sees colors. And he doesn’t really sleep anymore. He just sits around on my bed with his shoes off.” He shrugs. “One of my bosses said your preacher might be able to help us.”
“I’m sorry,” says Brendon. He looks understanding, and sort of worried for a moment, but it passes and he looks professional and religious again in the next.
He squeezes Spencer’s shoulder. “We’ll do what we can.” He pauses, looking a little embarrassed. “And. I just want you to know. This is a safe place for you both. We’re an open and accepting congregation.”
Spencer stares and stares and stares and bursts out laughing at Brendon in his red-snakeskin jacket and the primary-colored tent they’re sitting in and the streamers hanging from the tent flap and Jon on stage with Ryan’s full attention and he laughs until he looks around and sees Billy frowning.
“Thank you,” he says. “Although Ryan’s just a friend.”
Brendon grins, open and accepting. “Cool. I gotta run, but uh. Pleasure to meet you.” He squeezes Spencer’s shoulder again and stands. He ruffles Ryan’s hair as he edges out of the row of chairs but Ryan’s retaliation is swift and Brendon limps away, clutching his side and muttering.
Spencer puts an arm over the back of Ryan’s chair. He smiles, a little.
;;
From the back of the tent comes a roar. It’s been minutes now, or possibly hours, and the tent is packed with chattering people and warm with excited breath. Ryan’s a little paler then before, but he hasn’t passed out yet. Spencer counts his blessings.
Until Butcher and Sisky come screaming down the aisle. Ryan grabs Spencer’s hand and holds it tight. He looks sick.
They leap onto stage amidst cheers and applause. Jon the bass player has moved off stage and is tucked up in the corner on a piano bench. He’s still playing bass, but it’s punctuated by random notes as his elbows hit the piano keys, and the tempo is upbeat.
“Welcome to the end of the world!” shouts Butcher, his arms thrown wide.
“What,” says Spencer, startled, but the entire crowd cheers around them. Ryan twitches.
“Welcome to the end of all history!” shouts Butcher, and the crowd around them seems ecstatic, filled with delight at the idea. Ryan’s hand tightens in his.
“So what happens next?” says Sisky, hanging off Butcher’s shoulders. “Are we the end of all history?” He brightens. “If we’re the end, are we immortal?”
Spencer thinks he sees Butcher shake his head, but he must have imagined it, because the next minute Sisky is up on Butcher’s back, arms wrapped around Butcher’s shoulders. Butcher holds his knees.
“Immortal to who,” says Butcher. He raises his voice, and the crowd starts to shout at him. “Who will remember us?”
“Do you know?” asks Sisky, folding his arms around Butcher.
“I do,” says a quiet voice from the back and the crowd falls still.
Brendon’s standing in the back, in the light of the canvas flaps and streamers. He almost looks angelic, except for his jacket.
Spencer could punch Brendon in the stomach. He could. He’s taller then Brendon, and Brendon is no angel. “Ryan,” he whispers.
Brendon strides to the front of the tent, and he talks a mile a minute about signs and wonders, the end of the world, miracles, God. His stage voice is deeper and more pronounced and he’s almost a convincing preacher. Spencer stares.
“Ryan,” says Spencer, shaking his head, shaking himself out of it. “We need to get out of here. Now.”
Ryan looks at him blankly, and nods at the stage.
Brendon’s waving his arms and the crowd murmurs approval at whatever he’s selling. Jon is still playing bass. Spencer slumps back in his chair. Spencer should have this place shut down. He should burn this place down, this brightly colored tent with streamers and screaming boys who are now prowling the aisles with top hats, collecting money.
He tosses some coins in for Ryan. He’s so ashamed.
“I feel,” says Brendon, on stage, “a great pain in this crowd.”
The crowd approves and they let him know.
“I feel sorrow and misery in this crowd,” says Brendon.
The crowd approves of this as well. Brendon waits and paces. Spencer finds himself leaning forward and sits back, stepping on his own foot. Ryan gives him a funny look. Spencer gives him a funnier one.
“You,” says Brendon. “You.” And he points to a young woman in the second row. She looks up, dazed.
“Come here,” says Brendon. Spencer almost laughs out loud. Brendon’s no older than this young lady but everything in his face suggests he might be.
The lady is helped to her feet by Sisky and Butcher, and they lead her to the stage, supporting her arms and murmuring. The lady looks ill, certainly, and she’s silent. She looks around at everyone, confused.
“What’s your name?” Brendon asks, taking the lady’s hands. She shakes her head and touches her throat.
“Mute,” Brendon says sadly. “She has no voice.” He raises his voice, as if to make up for her lack of one. “She cannot speak.”
The crowd makes a sad sound.
“Pray with me,” he says, and he gets down on his knees with the young lady, holding both her hands in his larger, stronger ones.
Spencer can’t make out the words, but he’s pretty sure Brendon is praying for God to touch this woman, touch her in her heart, in her throat, take her pain away, have mercy on this poor woman with so much to give and so much to love. And the crowd echoes him.
Spencer turns to Ryan. “We’re going,” he says but Ryan’s holding tight to one of Spencer’s hands in both of his and he shakes his head, looking fascinated by the scene in front of them.
“What do you see?” whispers Spencer.
“Light,” whispers Ryan back. “And he makes sounds like waves crashing.”
Spencer sits back, and waits. He only goes to church when his mother asks why he hasn’t gone with the family in the past few weeks. He does not pray. He does not believe. He likes Christmas because of the smiles on his sisters’ faces only.
Brendon howls and both Spencer and Ryan jump. A soft, musical sound follows him and Spencer realises suddenly that the mute girl is humming.
Spencer’s mouth drops open and the girl stands of her own accord. There’s a flush to her cheeks that was not there before and she starts dancing, and singing. Brendon stands too and takes her hands again, proclaiming the miracle of God. The young lady is weeping as she dances.
Spencer looks around and notices a great deal of the crowd is in tears as well. Ryan’s mouth is open and he looks puzzled.
“What’s going on?” he whispers to Ryan.
“I don’t know,” says Ryan. “Can we go?”
They sneak out while everyone is praying, but Butcher is waiting outside with a top hat. He salutes as they pass. He’s still shirtless even though it’s early evening and starting to chill. Spencer drops a couple more coins in.
“Jolly good, sir,” says Butcher. “Bless you, bless you both.” He’s affected a high British accent.
“Yeah,” says Spencer.
“See you later,” says Butcher and he winks. Spencer takes Ryan’s arm and guides him away.
“I’m sorry,” says Spencer. “That was- I am so sorry.”
Ryan doesn’t answer, staring at his shoes.
“We’ll take you to a real doctor,” says Spencer. “We’ll go to the city tomorrow. We’re not- this was so stupid, I don’t know what I was thinking.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Fucking Bryar. Fucking Billy.” He lets go of Ryan’s elbow. “We’re not, I don’t know. You’re not possessed. I don’t know. This is stupid.”
Ryan kicks at the dirt as they walk away. He looks up and cranes around, looking back at the brightly colored tent.
“I want to go back tomorrow,” he says and Spencer groans.
;;
Spencer stops at Ryan’s house on the way back home. Ryan refuses to go in, shading his eyes, so Spencer leaves him on the front stoop and walks in alone. He can’t remember the last time Ryan changed his clothes, and it’s more than a little depressing, Ryan who could change twice a day every day for a year and never wear the same thing twice.
He sighs and pushes open the door to Ryan’s walk-in closet. He grabs Ryan’s favorite paisley shirt and Ryan’s favorite pinstriped pants. He starts to grab Ryan’s favorite flowered jacket when his hand brushes against something smooth and warm.
“Ahh, fuck,” says Sisky and he leaps out from between the coats and rushes out. Spencer drops Ryan’s clothes and races after him, but Sisky is halfway over the fence in Ryan’s backyard by the time Spencer figures out how Sisky got into Ryan’s bedroom. There is a round window in the bathroom above the sink that is just slightly ajar. It’s tiny, but it’s the only open window. Sisky must have been a contortionist before he got caught up with Brendon.
Spencer stomps out without any of Ryan’s clothes, making sure to check that all the doors and windows are locked before leaving. He could definitely punch Sisky. Sisky is much smaller then him.
Ryan’s sitting on the front stoop with his arms over his knees, oblivious.
;;
Spencer leaves Ryan sitting on his bed in his bare feet and goes down to back corner of the old fairgrounds to pick a fight.
It’s well and truly evening now, with the crickets loud and distracting all around. It’s dark out in dusty old lot and Spencer wishes he’d brought a flashlight. When Spencer was small, the fairgrounds used to be a bright and noisy place but the carnival is long gone now. All that’s left is the brightly colored tent in the corner, a car and trailer parked a little ways away behind it, and a small bonfire in front of it.
Spencer approaches, looking around. Someone is playing bass, accompanied by piano, inside the tent and there is no one by the small campfire, save the remnants of dinner and blanket rolls. He goes to the trailer and knocks.
No one answers, so he pulls himself up to the window and catches a glimpse of the young mute lady, passing a bottle to Butcher. They are both laughing uproariously. Spencer drops down to the ground and goes back to the tent, pushing through the closed tent flaps.
Brendon is on the piano, singing a loud and cheerful pop song Ryan had declaimed as ‘too much like applesauce’ three days ago. Jon sits on the stage next to him, grinning and harmonizing.
They don’t even notice Spencer enter, and he has to walk halfway through the tent before Jon stops playing, staring at him with a sour note left hanging in the air.
“You’re a fraud,” says Spencer, which is not what he meant to say at all.
Brendon rises off the piano bench. “Good to see you again.”
Spencer waves him away. “I know you’re a fraud. I don’t care. Where’s Sisky?”
Brendon almost looks disappointed as he asks, “why do you want Sisky?”
“I have to punch him.”
“Violence is not the way of-”
“I know you’re not a preacher, come on. You don’t have to pretend,” Spencer cuts in. “No. Sisky was in Ryan’s house, stealing shit. I need to punch him.” He glares at Brendon. “And then I’m going to report you to the police, you son of a bitch.”
“You must have been mistaken,” says Brendon smoothly. “Sisky was with us all night.”
“He recognised me,” says Spencer. “Where the fuck is he?” He pauses, crosses his arms. “You fucker. Is that your thing? Sell religion to the ill and rob them while they’re out at church?”
“No,” says Brendon. “We sell hope.”
It is at this moment that Sisky strolls in wearing one of Ryan’s aubergine-colored overcoats. “Yo, Bren, I got us some-”
He bolts when Spencer snarls but Spencer’s quick. He tackles Sisky, punches him once in the stomach, and walks away.
He was not counting on Butcher jumping on his back, and pushing his face into the dust, but Spencer’s proud of himself for taking initiative anyway.
;;
Spencer walks into his house with dusty eyelashes, a split lip, bruises on his chest and a cut on his forehead in the same place as Ryan’s. Ryan is still sitting on his bed with his shoes off, legs crossed. He doesn’t even look up when Spencer walks in.
Spencer strips, swears when he catches his swollen lip on a button that he couldn’t undo, and goes into the bathroom. He looks like shit.
He ducks his head to wash his face and when he stands up straight again, Ryan is behind him, peering at him in the mirror. Spencer doesn’t shriek, but it’s a close thing.
“I want to go back tomorrow,” says Ryan.
“They’re frauds,” says Spencer. “They’re just taking our money. And other people’s money. And other people’s overcoats.” He touches his lip and winces. “They’re just a bunch of robbers. They’ll be gone in a couple of weeks.”
“I want to go,” says Ryan. He takes Spencer’s shoulders and spins him around. He touches the cut on Spencer’s head. “They’re not faking.”
“They are,” says Spencer. “I saw that mute girl drinking with Butcher, and Sisky was-” he cuts off suddenly. Ryan’s talking to him. Ryan’s holding a conversation with him. He stares at Ryan, who presses his fingers onto Spencer’s forehead, opening the cut.
“They’re sinners,” muses Ryan, staring at Spencer’s blood on his fingers. “But they are not liars.”
“How do you know?” says Spencer. “You’re possessed. You’re not right in the head.”
Ryan holds his bloodied fingers. “Baby blue,” he says, and wanders out of the bathroom.
;;
They go back the next day. Sisky is not wearing one of Ryan’s aubergine overcoats, but he is wearing a dark-colored t-shirt. Butcher is shirtless. They give him twin smiles of delight. “So good to see you,” they intone, “good morning Ryan and Spencer.”
They’re a little muted today, as if from pain or shame. Spencer smirks.
“How are you?” asks Butcher to Ryan. Ryan is not looking at him. He’s looking past him into the tent. Spencer glares at Butcher and ushers Ryan in before him.
“Open your heart,” hisses Sisky, breathless and sharp in his ear as he passes. “You don’t even know, man.”
Spencer clenches his fists, raises his head high, and follows Ryan. Ryan sits closer this time, the second row on the side. He’s rapt with Jon’s bass playing, looking relaxed and steady with his hands folded in his lap.
Spencer crosses his legs, uncrosses his legs, crosses his arms, folds his hands in his lap, curls his toes and finally sits back and feels angry at no one in particular. His lip hurts.
Brendon is nowhere to be seen. And the young, formerly-mute lady is sitting in the row in front of them, humming along, bouncing in her seat. She looks remarkably sober.
Spencer touches her shoulder. “Have you seen Brendon? Will he be here today?”
Her eyes flash dark at him, but she catches herself before speaking and replies sweetly, “God willing. Sometimes Preacher can be late.”
Spencer can’t believe it but even the girl’s voice even sounds unsteady, as if she hadn’t been speaking her entire life.
She turns around and Spencer sits back again, restless. He looks around. Jon’s still on stage. He’s actually pretty good. Spencer itches to accompany him. The church could use a drummer. Something to give the place a little rhythm and shine.
Spencer frowns. This is not a church. And Spencer does not want to play drums with Jon.
He smooths over the folds of his pants.
“Stop fidgeting,” says Ryan without looking at him.
Spencer sits back and sits still. It’s the prolonged exposure to crazy people. It’s making him a little bit unsound.
He tries to think of all the euphemisms for insanity and misses Brendon’s silent entrance behind a jubilant Sisky and Butcher.
;;
Brendon cures a man of cancer, today. Spencer doesn’t recognise the man. He almost thinks it might be real, until Brendon catches his eye and smiles.
They stay for the entire service anyway, and Ryan looks almost normal at the end of it.
;;
They trail out after the audience has mostly gone. Ryan makes him sit through all of Jon’s music while everyone else leaves. If Spencer didn’t know better, he’d suspect infatuation. But the color’s back in Ryan’s cheeks and the strange light is gone from his eyes, so he doesn’t fuss. Just crosses and uncrosses his legs until Ryan pinches him and tells him to pay attention.
Outside, all the audience has cleared out and gone home. Sisky and Butcher are stretched out in the sun like cats in the dust, a little ways away from all the activity. Spencer squints, but he can’t find the bonfire, or any signs of their scuffle last night.
The formerly mute girl is standing by Brendon side as he enthuses to a couple, and she smirks at Spencer. “Preacher,” she says, tugging on his sleeve. “Preacher, this man was lookin’ for ya.”
Spencer glares. The girl is shameless and she smiles.
Brendon lights up. “Spencer!” He takes Spencer’s hand, shaking it. The couple leave with huge smiles. Brendon’s face falls. “We need to talk.”
Spencer looks over at Ryan, but Ryan looks unfocused, staring at the air between Brendon and Spencer.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we do.”
“You’re a dick,” says the girl. “Punching Sisky. He never hurt you.”
“He was stealing,” Spencer glances at Ryan, “I’m pretty sure that’s a crime.”
“Stealing from someone who won’t need his things anymore,” the girl snaps.
Spencer can’t punch girls. He wishes he could.
Brendon touches the girl’s shoulder. “Greta, that’s. Okay. I’ll take care of this.”
Greta wanders away and drops into the dust next to Sisky and Butcher, talking furious and low. She glares at Spencer, and Brendon, and Ryan, which is not fair, Spencer thinks, as Ryan is not even listening, but twitching as he does and starting to look panicked.
“Why did you come back?” Brendon asks.
“Ryan wanted to come,” says Spencer.
“Huh,” says Brendon. And then he says, “you know, we’re sinners, but we do give people hope.”
“You also steal from them and take their money under false pretenses.”
“But-”
“That guy today,” says Spencer. “Did you really cure him of cancer?”
“No,” says Brendon. “We hired him. He’s an actor from Indianapolis.”
Spencer’s restless, wants some violence or some work to keep his hands busy. “I don’t know why I didn’t go straight to the police,” he mutters.
“I dunno,” says Brendon. “Ryan enjoys our services. Don’t you, Ryan?”
Ryan jumps a little at the sound of his name.
“No,” says Spencer. “He does not enjoy your performances. He only likes Jon.”
Brendon grins. “Jon.”
Ryan looks around. “Spencer, baby blue in brown, it’s all over, I can’t. I can’t. It tastes like breath.”
“Okay,” says Spencer. “Okay, we’ll go.”
“Bye,” says Brendon and he swaggers off towards his fellow crooks, sunbathing in the April dust.
Ryan sneezes and says, “I want to go back tomorrow.”
Spencer has never attended so much church in his life.
next
Band(s): PATD, TAI, THS, FOB, MCR
Pairing(s): gen (Brendon/Spencer)
Word Count: 21,469
Rating/Warnings: pg. Warnings for language, vague religious discussion, unexplained phenomena, people who might be slightly crazy, Ryan Ross. A small town au.
Author Notes: Big ups to hatoyona for the great beta, dreamofthem for telling me it didn’t suck, belle_bing for jumping in last minute and putting up with my crazy, sunqist for the awesome mix, and for anyone I might have rambled at excitedly along the way. And our lovely big bang mods! You are all so cool.
Bonus Rambling:This started out as an au of au wherein Brendon is a repressed preacher and the other three are into vigilante justice. Someday that au might be finished although probably not posted because it’s not written in any kind of digestible format. Oops. Anyway, I was writing it basically over emails to hatoyona and I was all “yaaaay Brendon! Wouldn’t it be hilarious if he was a sleazy preacher!” and she was all “maybe but you should finish this first!” And then I didn’t, obviously, I wrote this instead. Sorry bb! ily! This story contains almost no resemblance to the first au. Anyway, enjoy. I was trying for inoffensive crazy on Ryan’s part and instead ended up with like, River Tam levels of crazy. Sorry for that as well. Parenthetical title (I am such a shit, I know) from Bare Naked Ladies "One Week".
Spencer lives in the middle of nowhere. He has come to accept this.
One night, Ryan says, “Spencer, you’re so fucking salty, sometimes, you know?” and it’s all over because the next night he comes over and says, “Spencer, I can’t sleep.”
;;
Spencer and Ryan are friends, have been since they were five. They were five years old when Billy the Bully, Billy-from-down-the-street made them hold hands and eat worm spaghetti with mud sauce. Spencer remembers the day well. The mud sauce was cold and rough and Ryan threw up when Billy wandered away. Spencer patted his back and asked him if he wanted a candy. Spencer had a candy under his bed and he was saving it for a special occasion but he thought Ryan might need it more than he did.
They were best friends from that day out. When they grew up, they lived a street away from each other, in tiny houses that their parents bought them while they struggled to find footing in jobs they only sort of enjoyed. They ate lunch together, sometimes.
Spencer thinks he’s been a good friend over the years. He’s put up with a lot of things from Ryan; his rose phase, his bow-tie phase, the time he ran away and told Spencer where he was going, which wasn’t really running away at all, but was a big headache from Ryan’s parents, and Spencer’s too, when Spencer got bored and ran away to Ryan. They had been ten then.
He’s reaching his limit though. He thinks he might go insane. He feels close to it. It’s breathing down on him while his back is turned.
He opens his eyes and Ryan is breathing down on him, face blank.
“I got the blues,” says Ryan, “I got the blues, Spencer.”
“You need a shower,” says Spencer, rolling over and edging away. Ryan sits back.
“Baby blues,” he says. “Around here,” he gestures with his right hand at his left shoulder. “Baby blues all around here, Spencer.”
“You know what’s blue?” says Spencer. He covers a yawn. “Water is blue. Water is totally blue and you should totally go wash because you’re starting to smell.”
Ryan frowns, he says, “I didn’t sleep last night. It didn’t taste right.”
“Huh,” says Spencer. He’s been doing research at the library, even though the librarian scares him, all smiles and graciousness. But he’s braved the librarian for Ryan. Ryan hasn’t slept for the past two weeks, just like he hasn’t showered for the past two weeks. Spencer thinks Ryan might be crazy.
“Ryan,” says Spencer, sitting up, “we need to talk.”
“Can’t today,” says Ryan sternly. “I got the blues right around here.”
He looks so stern, patting his left shoulder, that Spencer gives up. He gets out of bed and goes to work. He makes a sandwich for Ryan before he leaves though, placing it on a blue plate on the counter, with a note that says “EAT ME.” Ryan probably won’t though, because Ryan won’t eat anything these days. But it’s not gonna be through Spencer’s lack of trying that Ryan won’t eat. Oh, no, it’s because Ryan is crazy.
Spencer thinks that, all things considered, he’s a good friend.
;;
When he comes home from work - late, because Stump’n’Bryar are fucking slave drivers - the plate is upside down, sandwich squished sadly underneath. The note has had a bite taken out of it. Spencer sighs, and cleans up the mess.
;;
Ryan sits on Spencer’s bed, legs crossed, without socks or shoes on. He’s wearing the same floral shirt and the same green trousers that he showed up in two weeks ago.
“Ryan,” says Spencer, sitting in a chair next to his bed. “We need to talk.”
“You’re wooden! Fresh cut,” says Ryan, delighted, and Spencer decides to take this as a positive sign that Ryan wants to talk. It’s always a bit touch and go. Ryan had called him a watermelon a couple of days ago and Spencer had gotten smacked in the chin for thanking him.
“There’s something wrong with you,” Spencer begins. He wants to stress how terrible it is to Ryan, because it is terrible, for Spencer, but he’s not sure how. Ryan doesn’t seem to care that something is wrong with him and has been for the past two weeks. He doesn’t begin to care when Spencer says it out loud either.
“You talk in blues and yellows,” Ryan gives right back. But he doesn’t look tight, like Spencer feels. “Sometimes with a hint of pink.” He nods. “It’s a nice color combination on you, very flattering.”
“Oh,” says Spencer.
“I approve,” says Ryan.
Spencer folds his hands. He crosses his legs. He unfolds his hands and rubs a hand through his hair. He uncrosses his legs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Ryan,” he says. “As your best friend since the time Billy-down-the-street made us hold hands and eat worm spaghetti with mud sauce, I have to tell you that you’re crazy.”
Ryan does not react.
“Or possessed,” Spencer says. “I thought you might be possessed too.”
“Oh?” says Ryan, sounding surprised. “No, I don’t think so though. But that would be nice.”
The only nice thing about Ryan being possessed is that getting him better would be cheap, Spencer thinks. He doesn’t know for certain, but he’s pretty sure the church does not charge for exorcisms. It’s not really a booming business these days.
“But maybe we should go to church,” says Ryan, musing. “I wonder how that would taste. I bet it’d taste like semen, don’t you think? Spencer? I think it would taste like that.”
Spencer gapes, watching Ryan lick his lips and look pleased.
He doesn’t like to, but he has admits defeat. He tried. He tried really hard. But Ryan needs help that Spencer can’t give him.
;;
He tries to take Ryan to church anyway.
;;
Ryan will not go to church. Ryan gets half-way up the steps of the Baptist church and faints.
;;
Ryan does not go home anymore either. He has a home, a nice, well-furnished, rich-colored home with a good stock of wine, but he does not use it anymore. He uses Spencer’s.
This is, perhaps, the main reason why Spencer would like to get Ryan well. Of course he doesn’t mind Ryan’s company, but. Ryan goes to work, Ryan comes back to Spencer’s house and Ryan sits on Spencer’s bed. Spencer works in a music shop on the main strip of town. He often doesn’t get home until late but no matter the hour, he finds Ryan, sitting on his bed with his shoes off. Ryan usually looks meditative, except his eyes are open and he breathes deeply, irregularly.
It scares the shit out of Spencer every time.
And he wants his bed back. Spencer wants his bed back. Ryan refuses to move and Spencer’s been sleeping around him, or on the couch when he’s truly tired. It’s exhausting, having to sleep next to someone who thinks you snore in bright orange.
“Are you hungry?” asks Spencer. It’s after eleven and he’s just gotten home, hours after Ryan, most likely. Madam Asher likes Ryan, she always makes he sure leaves on time. Ryan never eats when he comes back to Spencer’s house. He just sits on Spencer’s bed. Some days, Spencer swears that Ryan gets smaller. His insanity is compacting him from the inside.
“I’m making dinner,” says Spencer finally. “Only I can’t cook and you know that so I’m going to eat leftovers from your aunt’s casserole.”
Ryan glances at him and there is a ghost of a smile. He’s probably seeing Spencer’s words in neon yellow. Ryan’s such a jerk.
“I’m making you a plate too but you can’t eat it on my bed.” He tries to glare, look extra intimidating.
Ryan looks undaunted but he gets up off the bed and pads after him anyway, cooing a little, under his breath. Like a duck. Spencer wonders if Ryan sees animal personalities in people. Ryan claims to see colors where there aren’t any, taste things that can’t be tasted. It doesn’t seem like too far of a stretch for Ryan to see animals. Spencer wonders if Ryan can feel things that can’t be felt as well.
Spencer wonders if he’ll ever get his bed back, or his best friend.
Ryan pokes at his aunt’s casserole and eats half a baby carrot. That’s not so unnatural. He did the same before he saw colors and smelt wood and stopped doing much besides sitting on Spencer’s bed. Ryan never did like his aunt’s surprise casserole.
Spencer turns on the radio. It’s too quiet. There’s a pop song on the radio, a song about breaking hearts in the summertime. Spencer glances at Ryan, who is scrutinizing his carrot, and he thinks he knows the feeling.
He lets the sound hang around them, filling space.
Ryan looks up halfway through. “Shapes,” says Ryan. “Spencer, shapes.” He taps his fingers against the tabletop, in time with the music.
“What?” says Spencer.
Ryan echoes the singer, just a little off in tone, a line about parents and secrets. He slaps a palm down on the tabletop. “It’s round,” he cries. “It starts off round and it gets rounder.”
Spencer turns off the radio, and it chokes into silence. He collects their plates and pushes Ryan into the bedroom. He strips down to his boxers without embarrassment and climbs into bed. Ryan stands in the doorway, caught. “Round,” he says. “Like-”
“No metaphors,” says Spencer, tired. “Bedtime.”
Ryan sits cross legged on the end of the bed the entire night. Spencer does not sleep well.
;;
Spencer tries to take Ryan to church. Ryan passes out on the steps of the Catholic chapel.
;;
“You’re distracted,” says Stump. “What’s going on, Smith?”
“Nothing,” says Spencer, quickly, trying to remember what he was doing. He can’t. He looks down at the songbook in his hands. “I’m fine.”
“You’re distracted, dude,” says Stump. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” says Spencer, waving around a songbook. “Peachy.”
Stump stares.
Fuck Ryan and his colors.
“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” says Stump, finally, looking a little uncertain of Spencer’s capabilities as stock bitch/junior salesman.
“Yes,” says Spencer. “Yes, thank you, yes. Thanks. I’m fine.”
Stump walks away.
“Just a little blue,” says Spencer under his breath and hits himself in the face with the songbook.
He’s going to get Ryan well if it kills him.
;;
Spencer takes Ryan to the Episcopalian church. Ryan faints and hits his head so hard it bleeds. So Spencer takes Ryan to a doctor. The doctor thinks he’s depressed and sends him to a counselor. Spencer takes Ryan to a counselor. The counselor thinks he’s in shock from the war and sends him to a home that deals with veterans. Spencer takes Ryan to the veteran’s home, though neither of them are veterans. The veterans claim Ryan as one of their own.
Spencer takes Ryan back home.
;;
Madam Asher stops by the music shop herself one day and Spencer knows he’s fucked, for real this time. Madam Asher is dangerous on a good day, and today she’s wearing all black with fishnet stockings.
“Spencer Smith,” she says, placing a well-manicured hand flat on the counter. “We need to talk.”
Spencer nods and pretends like he doesn’t know for certain Stump’n’Bryar are listening at the other of the store, their argument on Gibson paused. He tries not to feel prematurely embarrassed, but it’s hard. Madam Asher looks like she’s about to unleash hell.
“Ryan is not doing well.”
Spencer nods again.
“He’s a good man, but he’s not doing well. Yes,” she brushes hair out of her eyes and stares him down, “yes, he’s got wonderful technique and a unique sense of style, yes, the customers adore him, but,” she pins him with a glare. “He’s not been himself lately.”
“I’m sorry,” says Spencer. “He’s uh. Been under the weather lately.”
“Under the weather!” She looks like she’s considering spitting on him. She settles for poking him in the chest. “I know under the weather, Spencer James Smith. Ryan is not under the weather.”
“It’s a unique kind of under the weather,” says Spencer. “I tried to make him stay home, but he loves your shop so much-”
“He stands in the showroom and tells me he’s breathing the colors!” shouts Madam Asher. “He hasn’t made a stitch in the past two weeks. He talks absolute nonsense. I’ve been putting him in the stockroom just to keep him out of sight!”
Spencer winces.
“I’m worried,” says Madam Asher in a lowered voice. “He showed remarkable talent when I took him on, but now he’s useless.”
Spencer winces again.
“I’m going to have to let him go,” says Madam Asher. “He’s frightening the customers and he’s become, quite frankly, dead weight. I’m worried about him, Spencer. This is probably for the best.”
“No!” says Spencer. Ryan will be crushed. “Um. No, please. Just, let me talk to him, alright? He’s uh. He’s just been down lately, I’ll. Take him to a doctor. I’m sorry. Give me a chance to talk to him.”
Madam Asher frowns.
“The weekend,” says Spencer. “I’ll take him to the city and I’ll get him better,” he waves his hand around the music shop, “than, uh. Let me talk to him, please. He loves your shop. He’s happy there.”
“He doesn’t act like it,” said Madam Asher. “I’m not even sure he’s lucid.” Her voice drops lower. “Spencer, I am worried about him. I don’t think it’s fair to keep him on when he’s so obviously unwell.”
“The weekend,” begs Spencer. “It’s a Thursday, I’ll take him up to the city on Saturday. I can, uh. I can get him better. Don’t fire him.”
Madam Asher sighs. “I’ll give you the weekend and I’ll giving him a day of leave tomorrow.” She puts her fingers together, steeples them high. “If he’s still unwell by Monday, I have to let him go. I’m sorry.”
Spencer doesn’t put his head on the desk when she leaves, but it’s a near thing.
“Dude,” says Stump. “Are you-”
“Fuck!” says Spencer. “No, no, I’m not.”
“What’s wrong with Ryan?”
“Ryan’s possessed,” says Spencer. “Or crazy, or, fuck. I don’t know.”
“Have you-”
“Yes! I’ve taken him to a doctor, I’ve taken him to a counselor, I’ve tried taking him into three different churches and all he’s got to show for it is a cut on his forehead.” He groans. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I can’t even- there’s nothing-” He does put his head on his arms on the desk this time.
“You need a miracle,” observes Stump.
Bryar snorts, and then he looks up and says, “oh yeah, dude.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer. “Yeah, well.” He stands up. “Yeah.”
“No, I know a guy,” says Bryar. “Swears by this minister.”
“Not that again,” says Stump, crossing his arms.
“No, seriously,” says Bryar. “He swears he’s the real deal.”
“Yeah,” says Spencer. He’s considering locking Ryan in his bedroom and feeding him on a diet of pineapple and water. He will read the Bible through the door at him. Spencer doesn’t have a Bible and he doesn’t know where to get pineapples this time of year, but he knows that pineapples are meant to be cleansing and the Bible is meant to be wholesome and the combination of the two could fix Ryan. Maybe.
“This guy performs miracles,” says Bryar. “Out in the corner of the old fairgrounds. Him and like, this little band of freaks, they perform miracles.”
“Uh huh,” says Spencer. He has five dollars in his back pocket. Would that buy him a Bible? Perhaps he can steal one.
“I had a friend,” says Bryar. “He was a sinner and now he’s a saint.”
Stump’s eyeroll is visible even from where Spencer is standing. But Spencer is listening, a little.
“He’s a believer, now,” says Bryar, wistfully. “He swears he saw a man who couldn’t walk stand up and dance.” He nods at Spencer. “He saw a blind man describe what everyone was wearing.”
Spencer maybe allows himself to hope. It’s stupid, but he’s desperate. “Where is this guy?”
“Back of the old fairgrounds, I told you,” says Bryar. “You want to meet my friend? He was a real sinner.”
;;
It’s Billy-from-down-the-road. Spencer can’t believe it. “Spencer,” Billy says. “How lovely to see you.”
“Hi,” says Spencer. It’s Thursday evening and they’re standing on the sidewalk in front of Billy’s house. Ryan is at home, sitting on Spencer’s bed in his bare feet. Spencer feels oddly frantic. He came here on a whim, he tells himself, and this is what it has turned out to be. He can walk away from this and punch Bryar in the stomach tomorrow. Also, he’s almost as tall as Billy now. Billy can’t make him eat worm spaghetti with mud sauce anymore.
“Robert told me you were curious about the miracles of God.”
“Uh,” says Spencer. “I’ve got this friend.”
Billy nods serenely. “Ryan?”
“Um,” says Spencer. “Yes. Ryan. He’s unwell. Bryar told me you knew a guy?”
“I know a miracle worker,” says Billy, with a smile that could elevate demons. “He saved me, Spencer. He could save you and Ryan too.”
“Right,” says Spencer. “Yeah. It’s really just Ryan.”
“Aren’t you worried about your eternal and everlasting soul?” says Billy. “Aren’t you worried about what’s next?”
“No, I’m good,” says Spencer. “Ryan, though. Ryan’s unwell. In the head. Billy, can your-”
Billy holds up a hand. “Spencer. Spencer. I’m no longer Billy. That man is not me. I have transcended that title. I am a new person.”
Spencer stares. His mouth is a little open too.
“My name,” he says, sweeping his arms out, “is William Beckett.”
It is only because Ryan is sitting at home on Spencer’s bed in his bare feet that Spencer does not punch Billy in the stomach and walk away. He’s almost as tall as Billy. He could do it. But he won’t, and it is only for Ryan that he won’t. He frowns.
“Can your miracle worker fix Ryan?” says Spencer.
“My friend,” says Billy, “the question is not can Ryan be fixed, but is Ryan open and ready to be healed?”
Spencer’s curls his hands into fists and takes a deep breath. He counts to five and uncurls his fists and smiles at Billy. “Why not,” he says, and Billy lights up.
Why not, thinks Spencer, and writes down the time at which the service is held.
;;
It’s not a church service. It’s a circus. Ryan clutches Spencer’s arm. “I feel faint,” he says. “Spencer. There’s colors all around, in the noise, and it’s jagged like spiked punch, brandy in the plants.”
Spencer takes a moment to decipher the sentence. “Are you going to pass out?” he asks.
“Not yet,” replies Ryan and holds Spencer’s elbow a little bit tighter. Spencer rolls his eyes and approaches the brightly-colored tent tucked into the corner of the fairgrounds.
“Hello,” sings one boy at the entrance.
“Hello,” sings another boy at the entrance, sticking his head out from the tent-opening.
“Hello,” sings the first boy again.
“Uh, hi,” says Spencer.
“Hi!” the two boys say together. “Is this your first time attending?”
“Yes,” says Spencer.
“YES!” shout the two boys, high-fiving each other. The slightly taller of the two throws his arms around Ryan. Ryan freezes.
“You’re gonna believe,” promises one of the boys. He takes Spencer’s arm and drags him in. It’s a procession then, a crazy boy, Spencer, Ryan and another crazy boy. Really, Spencer is just the only sane person in their tiny processional. He shouldn’t be surprised. That’s just his life, these days.
“You’re gonna believe,” tells the other boy to Ryan. “I’m a believer. Sisky’s a believer.”
Sisky grins at Spencer, nodding.
“We’re all believers here,” says the boy. “Preacher works the miracles, and we believe.”
“Oh, God,” says Spencer, blanching.
“Amen,” says the boy. He releases Ryan and Ryan stumbles into Spencer, clutching at the lapels of his coat. “Enjoy the service! Keep your heart open!”
He races towards the door. “Butcher!” shouts Sisky. “Butcher, Preacher said no running the sanctuary!” They disappear behind the brightly colored tent-openings. Streamers, in rainbow order. Spencer feels ashamed of himself for coming.
He looks around the tent.
Billy smiles at them from the third row of the white folding chairs that make up the sorry sanctuary. With his legs crossed in black slacks, he looks almost like a changed man. Except for that deranged smile. Spencer remembers that smile from when he was five. Billy gives them a little wave.
Spencer turns away. “Oh God,” he says. “Oh my fucking - okay, Ryan. We’re going. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t. Oh my god.”
Ryan is still, transfixed by something beyond Spencer’s shoulder. Spencer turns around again.
The cacophony outside had been the shrieks of Butcher and Sisky and the excited chatter of attendees but inside, the tent is all together more calm and sedate. Due, Spencer realises, to a man sitting cross-legged on the stage with a bass in his lap, bouncing along to his own rhythm.
“Ryan,” Spencer says gently. “We should go.”
Ryan’s hand shoots out quick and pinches him in the side. Spencer squeaks and Ryan glares at him. “We’re not going anywhere.”
They sit in the fifth row of white folding chairs, far away from Billy and far from the bass player that Ryan keeps craning his neck to peer at.
“He’s talented, isn’t he?” A voice says from behind them. “Yeah, Jon’s pretty much the best.”
Spencer turns. A young man grins at him. He’s wearing a red snake-skin jacket, black slacks and his hair is stupid. Also, he looks a little unhinged.
Spencer is surrounded by crazy people. He pushes back a sigh and tries to smile.
“Brendon Urie,” says the unhinged young man that Spencer does not want to know. He holds out a hand that Spencer does not want to shake. “Good to see you, good to see you here. Today. Uh. What brings you down our way?”
“Ryan is possessed,” says Spencer, shaking Brendon’s hand for the shortest amount of time possible. “We’re hoping the preacher can help him.”
Ryan is still staring, glassy-eyed, at the man on stage, Jon the Bass Player. Ridiculously, Spencer is a little jealous that Jon seems to exist for Ryan, in a way that no one else seems to. He frowns.
“Possessed,” says Brendon, musing. “That’s. . .actually, that’s a new one.”
“He might also be crazy,”says Spencer. “He, like. Sees colors. And he doesn’t really sleep anymore. He just sits around on my bed with his shoes off.” He shrugs. “One of my bosses said your preacher might be able to help us.”
“I’m sorry,” says Brendon. He looks understanding, and sort of worried for a moment, but it passes and he looks professional and religious again in the next.
He squeezes Spencer’s shoulder. “We’ll do what we can.” He pauses, looking a little embarrassed. “And. I just want you to know. This is a safe place for you both. We’re an open and accepting congregation.”
Spencer stares and stares and stares and bursts out laughing at Brendon in his red-snakeskin jacket and the primary-colored tent they’re sitting in and the streamers hanging from the tent flap and Jon on stage with Ryan’s full attention and he laughs until he looks around and sees Billy frowning.
“Thank you,” he says. “Although Ryan’s just a friend.”
Brendon grins, open and accepting. “Cool. I gotta run, but uh. Pleasure to meet you.” He squeezes Spencer’s shoulder again and stands. He ruffles Ryan’s hair as he edges out of the row of chairs but Ryan’s retaliation is swift and Brendon limps away, clutching his side and muttering.
Spencer puts an arm over the back of Ryan’s chair. He smiles, a little.
;;
From the back of the tent comes a roar. It’s been minutes now, or possibly hours, and the tent is packed with chattering people and warm with excited breath. Ryan’s a little paler then before, but he hasn’t passed out yet. Spencer counts his blessings.
Until Butcher and Sisky come screaming down the aisle. Ryan grabs Spencer’s hand and holds it tight. He looks sick.
They leap onto stage amidst cheers and applause. Jon the bass player has moved off stage and is tucked up in the corner on a piano bench. He’s still playing bass, but it’s punctuated by random notes as his elbows hit the piano keys, and the tempo is upbeat.
“Welcome to the end of the world!” shouts Butcher, his arms thrown wide.
“What,” says Spencer, startled, but the entire crowd cheers around them. Ryan twitches.
“Welcome to the end of all history!” shouts Butcher, and the crowd around them seems ecstatic, filled with delight at the idea. Ryan’s hand tightens in his.
“So what happens next?” says Sisky, hanging off Butcher’s shoulders. “Are we the end of all history?” He brightens. “If we’re the end, are we immortal?”
Spencer thinks he sees Butcher shake his head, but he must have imagined it, because the next minute Sisky is up on Butcher’s back, arms wrapped around Butcher’s shoulders. Butcher holds his knees.
“Immortal to who,” says Butcher. He raises his voice, and the crowd starts to shout at him. “Who will remember us?”
“Do you know?” asks Sisky, folding his arms around Butcher.
“I do,” says a quiet voice from the back and the crowd falls still.
Brendon’s standing in the back, in the light of the canvas flaps and streamers. He almost looks angelic, except for his jacket.
Spencer could punch Brendon in the stomach. He could. He’s taller then Brendon, and Brendon is no angel. “Ryan,” he whispers.
Brendon strides to the front of the tent, and he talks a mile a minute about signs and wonders, the end of the world, miracles, God. His stage voice is deeper and more pronounced and he’s almost a convincing preacher. Spencer stares.
“Ryan,” says Spencer, shaking his head, shaking himself out of it. “We need to get out of here. Now.”
Ryan looks at him blankly, and nods at the stage.
Brendon’s waving his arms and the crowd murmurs approval at whatever he’s selling. Jon is still playing bass. Spencer slumps back in his chair. Spencer should have this place shut down. He should burn this place down, this brightly colored tent with streamers and screaming boys who are now prowling the aisles with top hats, collecting money.
He tosses some coins in for Ryan. He’s so ashamed.
“I feel,” says Brendon, on stage, “a great pain in this crowd.”
The crowd approves and they let him know.
“I feel sorrow and misery in this crowd,” says Brendon.
The crowd approves of this as well. Brendon waits and paces. Spencer finds himself leaning forward and sits back, stepping on his own foot. Ryan gives him a funny look. Spencer gives him a funnier one.
“You,” says Brendon. “You.” And he points to a young woman in the second row. She looks up, dazed.
“Come here,” says Brendon. Spencer almost laughs out loud. Brendon’s no older than this young lady but everything in his face suggests he might be.
The lady is helped to her feet by Sisky and Butcher, and they lead her to the stage, supporting her arms and murmuring. The lady looks ill, certainly, and she’s silent. She looks around at everyone, confused.
“What’s your name?” Brendon asks, taking the lady’s hands. She shakes her head and touches her throat.
“Mute,” Brendon says sadly. “She has no voice.” He raises his voice, as if to make up for her lack of one. “She cannot speak.”
The crowd makes a sad sound.
“Pray with me,” he says, and he gets down on his knees with the young lady, holding both her hands in his larger, stronger ones.
Spencer can’t make out the words, but he’s pretty sure Brendon is praying for God to touch this woman, touch her in her heart, in her throat, take her pain away, have mercy on this poor woman with so much to give and so much to love. And the crowd echoes him.
Spencer turns to Ryan. “We’re going,” he says but Ryan’s holding tight to one of Spencer’s hands in both of his and he shakes his head, looking fascinated by the scene in front of them.
“What do you see?” whispers Spencer.
“Light,” whispers Ryan back. “And he makes sounds like waves crashing.”
Spencer sits back, and waits. He only goes to church when his mother asks why he hasn’t gone with the family in the past few weeks. He does not pray. He does not believe. He likes Christmas because of the smiles on his sisters’ faces only.
Brendon howls and both Spencer and Ryan jump. A soft, musical sound follows him and Spencer realises suddenly that the mute girl is humming.
Spencer’s mouth drops open and the girl stands of her own accord. There’s a flush to her cheeks that was not there before and she starts dancing, and singing. Brendon stands too and takes her hands again, proclaiming the miracle of God. The young lady is weeping as she dances.
Spencer looks around and notices a great deal of the crowd is in tears as well. Ryan’s mouth is open and he looks puzzled.
“What’s going on?” he whispers to Ryan.
“I don’t know,” says Ryan. “Can we go?”
They sneak out while everyone is praying, but Butcher is waiting outside with a top hat. He salutes as they pass. He’s still shirtless even though it’s early evening and starting to chill. Spencer drops a couple more coins in.
“Jolly good, sir,” says Butcher. “Bless you, bless you both.” He’s affected a high British accent.
“Yeah,” says Spencer.
“See you later,” says Butcher and he winks. Spencer takes Ryan’s arm and guides him away.
“I’m sorry,” says Spencer. “That was- I am so sorry.”
Ryan doesn’t answer, staring at his shoes.
“We’ll take you to a real doctor,” says Spencer. “We’ll go to the city tomorrow. We’re not- this was so stupid, I don’t know what I was thinking.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Fucking Bryar. Fucking Billy.” He lets go of Ryan’s elbow. “We’re not, I don’t know. You’re not possessed. I don’t know. This is stupid.”
Ryan kicks at the dirt as they walk away. He looks up and cranes around, looking back at the brightly colored tent.
“I want to go back tomorrow,” he says and Spencer groans.
;;
Spencer stops at Ryan’s house on the way back home. Ryan refuses to go in, shading his eyes, so Spencer leaves him on the front stoop and walks in alone. He can’t remember the last time Ryan changed his clothes, and it’s more than a little depressing, Ryan who could change twice a day every day for a year and never wear the same thing twice.
He sighs and pushes open the door to Ryan’s walk-in closet. He grabs Ryan’s favorite paisley shirt and Ryan’s favorite pinstriped pants. He starts to grab Ryan’s favorite flowered jacket when his hand brushes against something smooth and warm.
“Ahh, fuck,” says Sisky and he leaps out from between the coats and rushes out. Spencer drops Ryan’s clothes and races after him, but Sisky is halfway over the fence in Ryan’s backyard by the time Spencer figures out how Sisky got into Ryan’s bedroom. There is a round window in the bathroom above the sink that is just slightly ajar. It’s tiny, but it’s the only open window. Sisky must have been a contortionist before he got caught up with Brendon.
Spencer stomps out without any of Ryan’s clothes, making sure to check that all the doors and windows are locked before leaving. He could definitely punch Sisky. Sisky is much smaller then him.
Ryan’s sitting on the front stoop with his arms over his knees, oblivious.
;;
Spencer leaves Ryan sitting on his bed in his bare feet and goes down to back corner of the old fairgrounds to pick a fight.
It’s well and truly evening now, with the crickets loud and distracting all around. It’s dark out in dusty old lot and Spencer wishes he’d brought a flashlight. When Spencer was small, the fairgrounds used to be a bright and noisy place but the carnival is long gone now. All that’s left is the brightly colored tent in the corner, a car and trailer parked a little ways away behind it, and a small bonfire in front of it.
Spencer approaches, looking around. Someone is playing bass, accompanied by piano, inside the tent and there is no one by the small campfire, save the remnants of dinner and blanket rolls. He goes to the trailer and knocks.
No one answers, so he pulls himself up to the window and catches a glimpse of the young mute lady, passing a bottle to Butcher. They are both laughing uproariously. Spencer drops down to the ground and goes back to the tent, pushing through the closed tent flaps.
Brendon is on the piano, singing a loud and cheerful pop song Ryan had declaimed as ‘too much like applesauce’ three days ago. Jon sits on the stage next to him, grinning and harmonizing.
They don’t even notice Spencer enter, and he has to walk halfway through the tent before Jon stops playing, staring at him with a sour note left hanging in the air.
“You’re a fraud,” says Spencer, which is not what he meant to say at all.
Brendon rises off the piano bench. “Good to see you again.”
Spencer waves him away. “I know you’re a fraud. I don’t care. Where’s Sisky?”
Brendon almost looks disappointed as he asks, “why do you want Sisky?”
“I have to punch him.”
“Violence is not the way of-”
“I know you’re not a preacher, come on. You don’t have to pretend,” Spencer cuts in. “No. Sisky was in Ryan’s house, stealing shit. I need to punch him.” He glares at Brendon. “And then I’m going to report you to the police, you son of a bitch.”
“You must have been mistaken,” says Brendon smoothly. “Sisky was with us all night.”
“He recognised me,” says Spencer. “Where the fuck is he?” He pauses, crosses his arms. “You fucker. Is that your thing? Sell religion to the ill and rob them while they’re out at church?”
“No,” says Brendon. “We sell hope.”
It is at this moment that Sisky strolls in wearing one of Ryan’s aubergine-colored overcoats. “Yo, Bren, I got us some-”
He bolts when Spencer snarls but Spencer’s quick. He tackles Sisky, punches him once in the stomach, and walks away.
He was not counting on Butcher jumping on his back, and pushing his face into the dust, but Spencer’s proud of himself for taking initiative anyway.
;;
Spencer walks into his house with dusty eyelashes, a split lip, bruises on his chest and a cut on his forehead in the same place as Ryan’s. Ryan is still sitting on his bed with his shoes off, legs crossed. He doesn’t even look up when Spencer walks in.
Spencer strips, swears when he catches his swollen lip on a button that he couldn’t undo, and goes into the bathroom. He looks like shit.
He ducks his head to wash his face and when he stands up straight again, Ryan is behind him, peering at him in the mirror. Spencer doesn’t shriek, but it’s a close thing.
“I want to go back tomorrow,” says Ryan.
“They’re frauds,” says Spencer. “They’re just taking our money. And other people’s money. And other people’s overcoats.” He touches his lip and winces. “They’re just a bunch of robbers. They’ll be gone in a couple of weeks.”
“I want to go,” says Ryan. He takes Spencer’s shoulders and spins him around. He touches the cut on Spencer’s head. “They’re not faking.”
“They are,” says Spencer. “I saw that mute girl drinking with Butcher, and Sisky was-” he cuts off suddenly. Ryan’s talking to him. Ryan’s holding a conversation with him. He stares at Ryan, who presses his fingers onto Spencer’s forehead, opening the cut.
“They’re sinners,” muses Ryan, staring at Spencer’s blood on his fingers. “But they are not liars.”
“How do you know?” says Spencer. “You’re possessed. You’re not right in the head.”
Ryan holds his bloodied fingers. “Baby blue,” he says, and wanders out of the bathroom.
;;
They go back the next day. Sisky is not wearing one of Ryan’s aubergine overcoats, but he is wearing a dark-colored t-shirt. Butcher is shirtless. They give him twin smiles of delight. “So good to see you,” they intone, “good morning Ryan and Spencer.”
They’re a little muted today, as if from pain or shame. Spencer smirks.
“How are you?” asks Butcher to Ryan. Ryan is not looking at him. He’s looking past him into the tent. Spencer glares at Butcher and ushers Ryan in before him.
“Open your heart,” hisses Sisky, breathless and sharp in his ear as he passes. “You don’t even know, man.”
Spencer clenches his fists, raises his head high, and follows Ryan. Ryan sits closer this time, the second row on the side. He’s rapt with Jon’s bass playing, looking relaxed and steady with his hands folded in his lap.
Spencer crosses his legs, uncrosses his legs, crosses his arms, folds his hands in his lap, curls his toes and finally sits back and feels angry at no one in particular. His lip hurts.
Brendon is nowhere to be seen. And the young, formerly-mute lady is sitting in the row in front of them, humming along, bouncing in her seat. She looks remarkably sober.
Spencer touches her shoulder. “Have you seen Brendon? Will he be here today?”
Her eyes flash dark at him, but she catches herself before speaking and replies sweetly, “God willing. Sometimes Preacher can be late.”
Spencer can’t believe it but even the girl’s voice even sounds unsteady, as if she hadn’t been speaking her entire life.
She turns around and Spencer sits back again, restless. He looks around. Jon’s still on stage. He’s actually pretty good. Spencer itches to accompany him. The church could use a drummer. Something to give the place a little rhythm and shine.
Spencer frowns. This is not a church. And Spencer does not want to play drums with Jon.
He smooths over the folds of his pants.
“Stop fidgeting,” says Ryan without looking at him.
Spencer sits back and sits still. It’s the prolonged exposure to crazy people. It’s making him a little bit unsound.
He tries to think of all the euphemisms for insanity and misses Brendon’s silent entrance behind a jubilant Sisky and Butcher.
;;
Brendon cures a man of cancer, today. Spencer doesn’t recognise the man. He almost thinks it might be real, until Brendon catches his eye and smiles.
They stay for the entire service anyway, and Ryan looks almost normal at the end of it.
;;
They trail out after the audience has mostly gone. Ryan makes him sit through all of Jon’s music while everyone else leaves. If Spencer didn’t know better, he’d suspect infatuation. But the color’s back in Ryan’s cheeks and the strange light is gone from his eyes, so he doesn’t fuss. Just crosses and uncrosses his legs until Ryan pinches him and tells him to pay attention.
Outside, all the audience has cleared out and gone home. Sisky and Butcher are stretched out in the sun like cats in the dust, a little ways away from all the activity. Spencer squints, but he can’t find the bonfire, or any signs of their scuffle last night.
The formerly mute girl is standing by Brendon side as he enthuses to a couple, and she smirks at Spencer. “Preacher,” she says, tugging on his sleeve. “Preacher, this man was lookin’ for ya.”
Spencer glares. The girl is shameless and she smiles.
Brendon lights up. “Spencer!” He takes Spencer’s hand, shaking it. The couple leave with huge smiles. Brendon’s face falls. “We need to talk.”
Spencer looks over at Ryan, but Ryan looks unfocused, staring at the air between Brendon and Spencer.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we do.”
“You’re a dick,” says the girl. “Punching Sisky. He never hurt you.”
“He was stealing,” Spencer glances at Ryan, “I’m pretty sure that’s a crime.”
“Stealing from someone who won’t need his things anymore,” the girl snaps.
Spencer can’t punch girls. He wishes he could.
Brendon touches the girl’s shoulder. “Greta, that’s. Okay. I’ll take care of this.”
Greta wanders away and drops into the dust next to Sisky and Butcher, talking furious and low. She glares at Spencer, and Brendon, and Ryan, which is not fair, Spencer thinks, as Ryan is not even listening, but twitching as he does and starting to look panicked.
“Why did you come back?” Brendon asks.
“Ryan wanted to come,” says Spencer.
“Huh,” says Brendon. And then he says, “you know, we’re sinners, but we do give people hope.”
“You also steal from them and take their money under false pretenses.”
“But-”
“That guy today,” says Spencer. “Did you really cure him of cancer?”
“No,” says Brendon. “We hired him. He’s an actor from Indianapolis.”
Spencer’s restless, wants some violence or some work to keep his hands busy. “I don’t know why I didn’t go straight to the police,” he mutters.
“I dunno,” says Brendon. “Ryan enjoys our services. Don’t you, Ryan?”
Ryan jumps a little at the sound of his name.
“No,” says Spencer. “He does not enjoy your performances. He only likes Jon.”
Brendon grins. “Jon.”
Ryan looks around. “Spencer, baby blue in brown, it’s all over, I can’t. I can’t. It tastes like breath.”
“Okay,” says Spencer. “Okay, we’ll go.”
“Bye,” says Brendon and he swaggers off towards his fellow crooks, sunbathing in the April dust.
Ryan sneezes and says, “I want to go back tomorrow.”
Spencer has never attended so much church in his life.
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