With A Ghost [ryden, standalone, pg-13]
Title: With A Ghost
Author:
silver_etoile
Rating: PG-13
POV: Third
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
Disclaimer: This is not true.
Warning: contains some physical/verbal abuse
Summary: Ryan vowed he'd never become like his dad, but maybe he has... in a way.
A/N: written for smphonyofslash who requested ryden w/some abuse.
*
The thing is… Ryan never wanted to become his father.
He didn’t touch alcohol, kept himself well away from drugs of any kind, stayed clear of those people who leered at him in the corners of clubs, dark eyes hinting of dark things that he wasn’t allowed to think about. He wasn’t going to becoming his father and that was final.
Ryan had never hit anyone, never lifted so much as a finger against anyone - his friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, family, anyone. He liked to think that he was passive aggressive, but he knew that wasn’t all true.
When he and Brendon got together, things changed for Ryan. Somehow, he didn’t see Brendon the same way as when they first got together. Brendon still brought him Starbucks after a long shift at work, still snuggled into his side in the too hot apartment, skin sticky with sweat only caused by the air around them.
It didn’t bother Ryan at first, how Brendon acted, how he clung to him like a lifeline when they were together in a crowd. He didn’t mind the words breathed into his ear, the fingers on his arm, too warm and too close. It wasn’t really about that anyway. It never would be.
It was about Ryan and things he couldn’t explain, things he said, how he pushed Brendon away at parties and social gatherings, how Brendon shied away from him later.
Ryan didn’t know when things changed, and in fact, he didn’t even notice until the day Brendon walked out.
*
“How was work?” Brendon asked, plopping down on the couch, a box of Chinese takeout in his hands. Digging his chopsticks in, he pulled out a bunch of noodles, slurping them into his mouth.
Wrinkling his nose, Ryan dropped down at the other end. “God, Bren, can’t you eat like a civilized person?”
Brendon sucked the last noodle into his mouth and didn’t reply, glancing down at the box.
“Work?” he asked again instead, digging with his chopsticks but not pulling out any more noodles.
“It was the same as always.” Ryan shrugged, grabbing a fork and stabbing a piece of chicken inside the box. “Did you do anything other than lay around here all day?”
Brendon hesitated. “I had lunch with Jon.”
Ryan’s rolled eyes didn’t go unnoticed by Brendon, who cast his gaze back down to the box.
“So you actually left the house. I’m amazed.”
Brendon shifted uncomfortably, but Ryan wasn’t paying attention, pushing broccoli out of the way with a frown.
“Jon wants to start a band.”
Ryan’s laugh was sharp and Brendon winced, barely noticeable. “Yeah right. And you want to join, right?”
“Well,” Brendon started slowly but stopped at the look on Ryan’s face.
Sighing, Ryan dug his fork into the box. “Bands are just a waste of time.”
“It’s just for fun,” Brendon mumbled, but his voice wasn’t very strong and he didn’t push when Ryan snorted.
“Fun is going to a movie not wasting your time learning an instrument only to get rejected by every bar owner in town.”
Brendon didn’t speak for a moment, poking uninterestedly at his food.
“We could be good,” he offered finally.
Ryan laughed derisively. He didn’t even look at Brendon, just glanced up at the television screen where some old comedy was playing, the laugh track filling the silences that stretched between them.
It didn’t used to be like this. Brendon used to fill each silence with laughing stories, with smiles, hand gestures, with something more companionable than a laugh track.
“Maybe if you put as much effort into finding a job as you did thinking up stupid schemes like this, we wouldn’t have to live in this crappy apartment where the faucet leaks and there are cockroaches in the bathroom.” Ryan huffed and set down his box, losing his appetite.
Brendon’s face fell slightly and he clutched his box tightly. “I want to be in the band,” he said finally, and Ryan’s eyes slid to him for the first time since he’d arrived home.
“No, you don’t. You can’t play anything.”
“I could learn,” Brendon mumbled but Ryan cut him off.
“You’d lose interest an hour after you bought a guitar and then we’d be stuck with some stupid instrument, just like the time you wanted to take up painting, or pottery, or that idiotic acting class you went to and were quoting Shakespeare for a month. God, I thought I’d never get Romeo and Juliet out of my head. So you see, Bren? You’re just gonna give it up anyway, so why even bother? It’s just more hassle for me. I don’t want to deal with that anymore.”
Brendon was silenced and he finally set his box down on the coffee table. “I want to be in the band,” he said again, voice quiet, and Ryan rolled his eyes, huffing.
“You can’t. You can’t even get a job. How would you expect to learn to play in a band? Your attention span is shorter than a fly’s.”
Brendon’s bottom lip was quivering, but Ryan didn’t even notice, reaching for the remote and changing the channel.
“I could learn,” he said finally, almost too quiet, and Ryan barely heard. Turning, he fixed Brendon with a hard glare.
“You can’t even learn how to use the DVD remote,” he snapped at him sharply, watching how Brendon’s face crumbled and he pushed himself up. “Where are you going?” he asked as Brendon headed into the bedroom.
Brendon didn’t reply, emerging a few minutes later with his old, ripped duffle bag.
“I’m going to be in a band,” was all he said before he grabbed his key and left through the front door.
Ryan stared after for a minute, then blinked and sat back on the couch. Brendon couldn’t have left. He would be back, Ryan thought. He would be back.
*
Three days later, Brendon wasn’t back.
He hadn’t called, hadn’t come back to the apartment, hadn’t been anywhere that Ryan could tell.
As Ryan sat on the couch, eating leftover Chinese, he wasn’t listening to the laugh track. Something in his stomach made him feel sick, sort of tight and twisted around his gut. His cell phone was on the coffee table but it hadn’t rung since four days ago when Spencer had called to check that they were still on for movie night.
Blinking, Ryan only glanced up when he heard a knock on his front door.
The knock came again, louder, harsher against the wood.
“Ryan!” His dad’s voice, loud and slightly slurred, letters running together, came seeping in through the door. “Open up!”
Huddling on his bed, Ryan prayed that his dad would give up, slink back down to his armchair, and open up another beer.
“George Ryan Ross!” The voice came again, the pounding louder, the doorknob jiggling wildly. “You better not have locked this door! This is my house, and I say what goes on in it.” The knob jiggled again, metal against wood, and Ryan squeezed his eyes shut. “I heard what your little fag friends did today at school, what the principal found you doing with that boy from down the street! I won’t stand for it, Ryan!”
Cringing, Ryan heard the doorknob rattle and fall, a dull clunk on the carpet. Scrambling up from his bed, he backed against the wall, flat as he could.
“You don’t deserve to live in this house,” came his dad’s voice, words slurring, growing louder as the door was shoved open, bouncing off the wall. A few pencils clattered off Ryan’s desk and onto the floor. “You don’t deserve to be treated like a person. Your mother and me didn’t raise you to be some faggot kissing boys under the bleachers. It’s disgusting and God won’t stand for it.”
Ryan wanted to ask what his dad knew about God or anything about religion and faith for that matter, but any words he might have had stuck in his throat as his dad loomed in the doorway, hair disheveled, an empty bottle swinging in his hand. His heart was thrumming against his ribcage and he was too far away from the window to escape.
“You unclean bastard,” his dad growled, lunging forward even as Ryan tried to dart away, but he was caught by the wrist and twisted forward, fingers leaving bruising streaks on his skin. “You don’t deserve to live, polluting this world.”
Ryan fell, shoved back against the wall, sliding down and cradling his wrist where red marks already littered it. He didn’t look up, didn’t meet his father’s eyes, didn’t try to fight back.
“You’re lucky you’re our only son,” his dad slurred, looming above him, bloodshot eyes darting over his mussed clothes, the bruises surfacing on his wrist even as he curled in upon himself. “One more of these phone calls, though,” he dad continued, hand curling around Ryan’s leg as he tried to protect himself. “And that won’t matter.”
He pulled away with a bruising pinch to Ryan’s leg, throwing the beer bottle against the wall as he left, and Ryan flinched away from the shatter, burying his face in his arms as he curled in upon himself.
“Ryan?”
Stirring, Ryan glanced up at the voice now calling through the door.
“Ryan, are you there?” Spencer’s voice was muffled behind the wood, and it took another minute for Ryan to drag himself up.
When he opened the door, Spencer didn’t come in, eyes flitting down him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately, and Ryan shook his head.
Eying him carefully, Spencer stepped inside, setting the DVD he’d brought on the counter and glancing around the empty apartment. Everything was anally neat, which wasn’t normal.
“Where’s Brendon?” he asked after a moment, noting the conspicuous lack of Brendon’s usual pile of jumbled shoes by the door, the Disney DVDs scattered over the coffee table, the empty cans of Red Bull littered on the counters.
Ryan shrugged, heading back to the couch and sitting down, changing the channel unseeingly.
“What does that mean?” Spencer asked, following him. “You don’t know where he is?”
Ryan shrugged again. “He didn’t come back.”
“Where did he go?” Spencer sounded concerned now, watching Ryan closely. Ryan could close up for all sorts of reasons, but Spencer had seen them all.
“I don’t know,” Ryan said finally, frowning at the remote in his hands and changing the channel again.
“Well, what happened?”
“I don’t know,” Ryan repeated slowly.
“You don’t know?” Spencer stared. It wasn’t like Ryan not to know where Brendon was, or at least who he was with.
Ryan blinked. “I don’t know.”
Frowning, Spencer took the remote out of Ryan’s hand as he made to change the channel again. “Ryan,” he said softly, and Ryan stirred.
“Do you think I’m like my dad?” he asked at length, staring unseeingly at the television that Spencer turned off. Only the black screen stared back at him.
“What are you talking about?” Spencer asked. “Of course you’re not.”
“Are you sure?” Ryan asked, but his voice wasn’t insistent. He just stared at the screen, a small frown marring his features.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Spencer repeated firmly, frowning at Ryan. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” Ryan replied after a minute, no longer stoic, but feeling strange, a tight clench to his stomach, an unexplainable wave of nausea overcoming him. “I feel. I don’t know.”
“What happened with Brendon?” Spencer pushed insistently.
“He wanted to be in a band,” Ryan said, and it almost didn’t make any sense as he said it.
“A band?” Spencer didn’t understand.
“Yeah,” Ryan repeated slowly. “And I said he was too stupid to learn how to play a guitar.”
Spencer had opened his mouth but he shut it after that, not meeting Ryan’s eyes when Ryan turned to him. Ryan inspected him for a minute until his eyes widened and the color drained from his face.
“I am,” he breathed. “I am like him.”
“No, you’re not,” Spencer assured him, but Ryan shook his head.
“Yes, I am. I push away people who love me, I run then down, I-I don’t even know where Brendon is, and it’s been three days. I haven’t even called to see if he’s okay or even alive. I just, just stopped caring.” Ryan felt like he was going to hyperventilate, but it didn’t happen as he stared at the black TV screen.
“That’s not true,” Spencer said, his voice hard, but Ryan couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t hear anything but the ringing in his ears, loud and blocking out all other sounds.
Everything was silent except the buzz as Ryan stirred. Pushing himself up, Ryan’s arms trembled with the strength. He could still feel the sting, the sharp punch to his cheek. He could taste the blood on his lip, see it drip onto the carpet as he struggled to rise. His ears stung, loud and ringing as he tried to push through, watching his dad’s lips moving but no words penetrating the buzz.
His mother stood in a far corner, huddled away, dark eyes hooded and watching as his dad weaved around, shouting words he couldn’t hear.
“Good for nothing son of a bitch! I’ll teach you to disrespect me and my house!”
Ryan winced at the kick to his ribs, losing what strength he had left and collapsing on the floor, fingers curling desperately into the musty carpet.
“I warned you!” his dad roared, eyes wild, arms gesturing as he yelled. “You and that kid! It’s not natural and you’re going to hell for it. I won’t have you living under my roof anymore, not like this. How could anyone love a kid like you? You good for nothing…” He paused to take a heaving breath, lumbering back to where Ryan flinched and cowered. “You-you-you get out of my house! I want you out! You’re not worth anything to anyone, you hear me? Nothing! And you’ll never be welcome back here. Never!”
Breathing heavily, his dad stumbled back a few steps, leaving Ryan broken on the floor.
“You are not like him,” Spencer said firmly, pulling Ryan around to him, forcing him to stare in his eyes. “You are not an asshole. You don’t hit Brendon. You don’t tell him he’s worth nothing.”
“Yes, I do,” Ryan whispered, the realization frightening himself. “I do. Spencer, how did this happen?”
“It didn’t.”
“Yes, it did,” Ryan insisted, staring imploringly at Spencer. He needed him to understand. “I think I might have lost Brendon.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Spencer scoffed, but Ryan was shaking his head, feeling as though he were going to be sick. “Brendon loves you.”
“No,” Ryan whispered. “I went too far. I always do. I never tell him that I love him, or that he can do anything he wants. I always push him away. And now I pushed him away for good.”
Spencer didn’t know what to say as Ryan pulled from his grip, curling up at the other end of the couch and staring at the blank screen.
*
In retrospect, Ryan should have known straightaway that this was where Brendon would go.
The apartment door was as plain as all the others surrounding it. The six was slightly crooked but Ryan resisted the temptation to straighten it as he stood before the door, shifting from one foot to the other, debating if he really should be there, if he even deserved the chance to talk to Brendon.
Finally, he sucked up the sick feeling in his stomach and knocked on the door. He almost hoped that no one was home when it wasn’t immediately answered.
But then he heard the click of the lock and the door was pulled open about a foot.
Ryan wasn’t really surprised to see Jon there, blocking the rest of the apartment from Ryan. He didn’t have his usual easy smile on, and Ryan knew he knew.
“Ryan,” he only said, and Ryan fidgeted.
“Uh, hi,” he replied, wondering if Brendon was in there somewhere. He was sure he was, but he had to get past Jon first.
Jon wasn’t really that big or intimidating, but the way he stood in the doorway, stocky frame blocking the inside, arms crossed over his chest, made Ryan nervous.
“Is Brendon here?” he asked finally when Jon didn’t speak, only eyed him up and down.
“Yeah, he is,” Jon replied after a minute but didn’t move.
“Can I… talk to him?” Ryan asked hesitantly, feeling scrutinized under Jon’s eyes, usually so friendly and cheerful, but now guarded and slightly angry.
For a moment, he was sure Jon was going to say no and slam the door in his face, but he was relieved, and maybe a little terrified, when Jon took a step backwards, opening the door to Ryan.
Ryan saw Brendon straightaway, lingering awkwardly in the doorway to the kitchen. He didn’t meet Ryan’s eyes but scuffed his flip flop against the linoleum.
Glancing between the two, Jon paused. “I’ll be right in there,” he said, pointing to the bedroom, giving Ryan a hard look and Brendon a careful one.
Brendon jerked his head softly and Jon left them alone, although Ryan noticed that he didn’t shut the door all the way behind him as he did so.
The silence was bordering on uncomfortable as Ryan stood just inside the door and Brendon hovered in the doorway to the kitchen.
In all honesty, Ryan didn’t know what to say.
He needed to explain to Brendon why he was such an idiot, why he acted so stupid, why he pushed him away, but no words seemed good enough.
Finally, Brendon swallowed and tucked closer to the doorframe, almost as though it might protect him.
“If you want me to get my stuff, I can do it tomorrow,” he said, and Ryan felt like his heart was falling out of his chest.
“No,” he said, rushed and too quick. Brendon didn’t look up yet. “I don’t want you to move out.”
“Well, you don’t want me to do anything else either,” Brendon shot back, and Ryan knew he deserved every bit of hurt that he felt from those words, so harsh and angry, but underneath it all, desperate for this all to go away.
“Brendon,” he said finally, “I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Explain what?” Brendon looked angry, but Ryan knew he was just hurt as he stood plastered to the wall, expression guarded but begging for Ryan to explain, to understand. “That you think I’m an idiot who can’t do anything? That you don’t love me? ‘Cause I think I got all that already.”
“No,” Ryan said swiftly, taking a step forward but stopped when Brendon flinched. “I don’t think any of those things.”
“You have a great way of showing it,” Brendon replied, hugging his middle and glancing at Ryan slowly.
“I know.” Ryan wanted to die. He wanted to fall off a building at that moment rather than look at Brendon’s pitiful face anymore. “Brendon, I am the world’s biggest idiot. I swear. Even more than the woman who sued McDonald’s for spilling her own coffee on herself. Really.”
Brendon didn’t say anything, hunched in a little on himself. Ryan recognized the pose. He’d used it many a time as a teenager.
Sighing, Ryan felt like the world’s biggest asshole. Brendon hadn’t done anything to deserve the way he treated him.
“I can’t take it back,” he said finally, “what I said, but I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you; it just sort of comes out when I don’t expect it. It’s like this thing inside me that I can’t control, and whenever you look at me and tell me you love me, it just feels like I’m suffocating and I have to say stupid things to hurt you.”
“But why?” Brendon’s voice broke in the middle and he glanced away.
“I don’t know,” Ryan replied desperately. “I don’t know why I do it. I guess I’m just afraid.”
“Of what?” Brendon asked, his tone just as desperate as Ryan’s.
“I don’t want you to leave me,” Ryan whispered, “but I’m afraid that you will because everyone does.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Brendon replied, and Ryan shook his head.
“It doesn’t, does it? God, I am so fucked up. You don’t want to be with me, Bren. I’m just going to end up hurting us both.”
Pausing, Brendon finally peeled himself away from the doorway, taking a tentative step forward.
“You might,” he agreed. “But you can’t sabotage yourself.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Ryan asked desperately. “I don’t want to lose you, but I can’t stay with you. I don’t know what to do.”
Brendon bit his lip slowly. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “Maybe you should talk to someone.”
“Someone?” Ryan frowned.
“Like a therapist or psychiatrist or something.” Brendon sounded reluctant even as he suggested it, but Ryan was quiet for a minute.
“A therapist,” he murmured after a minute, and Brendon nodded.
“You could get help.”
Ryan paused then glanced up at Brendon. “Would you still be here?”
Brendon held Ryan’s eyes for a minute before he nodded. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I love you.”
For the first time in a long time. Ryan’s stomach didn’t clench in that horrible tightening way, and he let out a slow breath, nodding at Brendon.
“I’ll call tomorrow morning.”
Brendon only nodded, mouth quirking as his eyes dropped and Ryan sighed into the silence.
*
FIN.
Author:
silver_etoile
Rating: PG-13
POV: Third
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
Disclaimer: This is not true.
Warning: contains some physical/verbal abuse
Summary: Ryan vowed he'd never become like his dad, but maybe he has... in a way.
A/N: written for smphonyofslash who requested ryden w/some abuse.
*
The thing is… Ryan never wanted to become his father.
He didn’t touch alcohol, kept himself well away from drugs of any kind, stayed clear of those people who leered at him in the corners of clubs, dark eyes hinting of dark things that he wasn’t allowed to think about. He wasn’t going to becoming his father and that was final.
Ryan had never hit anyone, never lifted so much as a finger against anyone - his friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, family, anyone. He liked to think that he was passive aggressive, but he knew that wasn’t all true.
When he and Brendon got together, things changed for Ryan. Somehow, he didn’t see Brendon the same way as when they first got together. Brendon still brought him Starbucks after a long shift at work, still snuggled into his side in the too hot apartment, skin sticky with sweat only caused by the air around them.
It didn’t bother Ryan at first, how Brendon acted, how he clung to him like a lifeline when they were together in a crowd. He didn’t mind the words breathed into his ear, the fingers on his arm, too warm and too close. It wasn’t really about that anyway. It never would be.
It was about Ryan and things he couldn’t explain, things he said, how he pushed Brendon away at parties and social gatherings, how Brendon shied away from him later.
Ryan didn’t know when things changed, and in fact, he didn’t even notice until the day Brendon walked out.
*
“How was work?” Brendon asked, plopping down on the couch, a box of Chinese takeout in his hands. Digging his chopsticks in, he pulled out a bunch of noodles, slurping them into his mouth.
Wrinkling his nose, Ryan dropped down at the other end. “God, Bren, can’t you eat like a civilized person?”
Brendon sucked the last noodle into his mouth and didn’t reply, glancing down at the box.
“Work?” he asked again instead, digging with his chopsticks but not pulling out any more noodles.
“It was the same as always.” Ryan shrugged, grabbing a fork and stabbing a piece of chicken inside the box. “Did you do anything other than lay around here all day?”
Brendon hesitated. “I had lunch with Jon.”
Ryan’s rolled eyes didn’t go unnoticed by Brendon, who cast his gaze back down to the box.
“So you actually left the house. I’m amazed.”
Brendon shifted uncomfortably, but Ryan wasn’t paying attention, pushing broccoli out of the way with a frown.
“Jon wants to start a band.”
Ryan’s laugh was sharp and Brendon winced, barely noticeable. “Yeah right. And you want to join, right?”
“Well,” Brendon started slowly but stopped at the look on Ryan’s face.
Sighing, Ryan dug his fork into the box. “Bands are just a waste of time.”
“It’s just for fun,” Brendon mumbled, but his voice wasn’t very strong and he didn’t push when Ryan snorted.
“Fun is going to a movie not wasting your time learning an instrument only to get rejected by every bar owner in town.”
Brendon didn’t speak for a moment, poking uninterestedly at his food.
“We could be good,” he offered finally.
Ryan laughed derisively. He didn’t even look at Brendon, just glanced up at the television screen where some old comedy was playing, the laugh track filling the silences that stretched between them.
It didn’t used to be like this. Brendon used to fill each silence with laughing stories, with smiles, hand gestures, with something more companionable than a laugh track.
“Maybe if you put as much effort into finding a job as you did thinking up stupid schemes like this, we wouldn’t have to live in this crappy apartment where the faucet leaks and there are cockroaches in the bathroom.” Ryan huffed and set down his box, losing his appetite.
Brendon’s face fell slightly and he clutched his box tightly. “I want to be in the band,” he said finally, and Ryan’s eyes slid to him for the first time since he’d arrived home.
“No, you don’t. You can’t play anything.”
“I could learn,” Brendon mumbled but Ryan cut him off.
“You’d lose interest an hour after you bought a guitar and then we’d be stuck with some stupid instrument, just like the time you wanted to take up painting, or pottery, or that idiotic acting class you went to and were quoting Shakespeare for a month. God, I thought I’d never get Romeo and Juliet out of my head. So you see, Bren? You’re just gonna give it up anyway, so why even bother? It’s just more hassle for me. I don’t want to deal with that anymore.”
Brendon was silenced and he finally set his box down on the coffee table. “I want to be in the band,” he said again, voice quiet, and Ryan rolled his eyes, huffing.
“You can’t. You can’t even get a job. How would you expect to learn to play in a band? Your attention span is shorter than a fly’s.”
Brendon’s bottom lip was quivering, but Ryan didn’t even notice, reaching for the remote and changing the channel.
“I could learn,” he said finally, almost too quiet, and Ryan barely heard. Turning, he fixed Brendon with a hard glare.
“You can’t even learn how to use the DVD remote,” he snapped at him sharply, watching how Brendon’s face crumbled and he pushed himself up. “Where are you going?” he asked as Brendon headed into the bedroom.
Brendon didn’t reply, emerging a few minutes later with his old, ripped duffle bag.
“I’m going to be in a band,” was all he said before he grabbed his key and left through the front door.
Ryan stared after for a minute, then blinked and sat back on the couch. Brendon couldn’t have left. He would be back, Ryan thought. He would be back.
*
Three days later, Brendon wasn’t back.
He hadn’t called, hadn’t come back to the apartment, hadn’t been anywhere that Ryan could tell.
As Ryan sat on the couch, eating leftover Chinese, he wasn’t listening to the laugh track. Something in his stomach made him feel sick, sort of tight and twisted around his gut. His cell phone was on the coffee table but it hadn’t rung since four days ago when Spencer had called to check that they were still on for movie night.
Blinking, Ryan only glanced up when he heard a knock on his front door.
The knock came again, louder, harsher against the wood.
“Ryan!” His dad’s voice, loud and slightly slurred, letters running together, came seeping in through the door. “Open up!”
Huddling on his bed, Ryan prayed that his dad would give up, slink back down to his armchair, and open up another beer.
“George Ryan Ross!” The voice came again, the pounding louder, the doorknob jiggling wildly. “You better not have locked this door! This is my house, and I say what goes on in it.” The knob jiggled again, metal against wood, and Ryan squeezed his eyes shut. “I heard what your little fag friends did today at school, what the principal found you doing with that boy from down the street! I won’t stand for it, Ryan!”
Cringing, Ryan heard the doorknob rattle and fall, a dull clunk on the carpet. Scrambling up from his bed, he backed against the wall, flat as he could.
“You don’t deserve to live in this house,” came his dad’s voice, words slurring, growing louder as the door was shoved open, bouncing off the wall. A few pencils clattered off Ryan’s desk and onto the floor. “You don’t deserve to be treated like a person. Your mother and me didn’t raise you to be some faggot kissing boys under the bleachers. It’s disgusting and God won’t stand for it.”
Ryan wanted to ask what his dad knew about God or anything about religion and faith for that matter, but any words he might have had stuck in his throat as his dad loomed in the doorway, hair disheveled, an empty bottle swinging in his hand. His heart was thrumming against his ribcage and he was too far away from the window to escape.
“You unclean bastard,” his dad growled, lunging forward even as Ryan tried to dart away, but he was caught by the wrist and twisted forward, fingers leaving bruising streaks on his skin. “You don’t deserve to live, polluting this world.”
Ryan fell, shoved back against the wall, sliding down and cradling his wrist where red marks already littered it. He didn’t look up, didn’t meet his father’s eyes, didn’t try to fight back.
“You’re lucky you’re our only son,” his dad slurred, looming above him, bloodshot eyes darting over his mussed clothes, the bruises surfacing on his wrist even as he curled in upon himself. “One more of these phone calls, though,” he dad continued, hand curling around Ryan’s leg as he tried to protect himself. “And that won’t matter.”
He pulled away with a bruising pinch to Ryan’s leg, throwing the beer bottle against the wall as he left, and Ryan flinched away from the shatter, burying his face in his arms as he curled in upon himself.
“Ryan?”
Stirring, Ryan glanced up at the voice now calling through the door.
“Ryan, are you there?” Spencer’s voice was muffled behind the wood, and it took another minute for Ryan to drag himself up.
When he opened the door, Spencer didn’t come in, eyes flitting down him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately, and Ryan shook his head.
Eying him carefully, Spencer stepped inside, setting the DVD he’d brought on the counter and glancing around the empty apartment. Everything was anally neat, which wasn’t normal.
“Where’s Brendon?” he asked after a moment, noting the conspicuous lack of Brendon’s usual pile of jumbled shoes by the door, the Disney DVDs scattered over the coffee table, the empty cans of Red Bull littered on the counters.
Ryan shrugged, heading back to the couch and sitting down, changing the channel unseeingly.
“What does that mean?” Spencer asked, following him. “You don’t know where he is?”
Ryan shrugged again. “He didn’t come back.”
“Where did he go?” Spencer sounded concerned now, watching Ryan closely. Ryan could close up for all sorts of reasons, but Spencer had seen them all.
“I don’t know,” Ryan said finally, frowning at the remote in his hands and changing the channel again.
“Well, what happened?”
“I don’t know,” Ryan repeated slowly.
“You don’t know?” Spencer stared. It wasn’t like Ryan not to know where Brendon was, or at least who he was with.
Ryan blinked. “I don’t know.”
Frowning, Spencer took the remote out of Ryan’s hand as he made to change the channel again. “Ryan,” he said softly, and Ryan stirred.
“Do you think I’m like my dad?” he asked at length, staring unseeingly at the television that Spencer turned off. Only the black screen stared back at him.
“What are you talking about?” Spencer asked. “Of course you’re not.”
“Are you sure?” Ryan asked, but his voice wasn’t insistent. He just stared at the screen, a small frown marring his features.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Spencer repeated firmly, frowning at Ryan. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” Ryan replied after a minute, no longer stoic, but feeling strange, a tight clench to his stomach, an unexplainable wave of nausea overcoming him. “I feel. I don’t know.”
“What happened with Brendon?” Spencer pushed insistently.
“He wanted to be in a band,” Ryan said, and it almost didn’t make any sense as he said it.
“A band?” Spencer didn’t understand.
“Yeah,” Ryan repeated slowly. “And I said he was too stupid to learn how to play a guitar.”
Spencer had opened his mouth but he shut it after that, not meeting Ryan’s eyes when Ryan turned to him. Ryan inspected him for a minute until his eyes widened and the color drained from his face.
“I am,” he breathed. “I am like him.”
“No, you’re not,” Spencer assured him, but Ryan shook his head.
“Yes, I am. I push away people who love me, I run then down, I-I don’t even know where Brendon is, and it’s been three days. I haven’t even called to see if he’s okay or even alive. I just, just stopped caring.” Ryan felt like he was going to hyperventilate, but it didn’t happen as he stared at the black TV screen.
“That’s not true,” Spencer said, his voice hard, but Ryan couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t hear anything but the ringing in his ears, loud and blocking out all other sounds.
Everything was silent except the buzz as Ryan stirred. Pushing himself up, Ryan’s arms trembled with the strength. He could still feel the sting, the sharp punch to his cheek. He could taste the blood on his lip, see it drip onto the carpet as he struggled to rise. His ears stung, loud and ringing as he tried to push through, watching his dad’s lips moving but no words penetrating the buzz.
His mother stood in a far corner, huddled away, dark eyes hooded and watching as his dad weaved around, shouting words he couldn’t hear.
“Good for nothing son of a bitch! I’ll teach you to disrespect me and my house!”
Ryan winced at the kick to his ribs, losing what strength he had left and collapsing on the floor, fingers curling desperately into the musty carpet.
“I warned you!” his dad roared, eyes wild, arms gesturing as he yelled. “You and that kid! It’s not natural and you’re going to hell for it. I won’t have you living under my roof anymore, not like this. How could anyone love a kid like you? You good for nothing…” He paused to take a heaving breath, lumbering back to where Ryan flinched and cowered. “You-you-you get out of my house! I want you out! You’re not worth anything to anyone, you hear me? Nothing! And you’ll never be welcome back here. Never!”
Breathing heavily, his dad stumbled back a few steps, leaving Ryan broken on the floor.
“You are not like him,” Spencer said firmly, pulling Ryan around to him, forcing him to stare in his eyes. “You are not an asshole. You don’t hit Brendon. You don’t tell him he’s worth nothing.”
“Yes, I do,” Ryan whispered, the realization frightening himself. “I do. Spencer, how did this happen?”
“It didn’t.”
“Yes, it did,” Ryan insisted, staring imploringly at Spencer. He needed him to understand. “I think I might have lost Brendon.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Spencer scoffed, but Ryan was shaking his head, feeling as though he were going to be sick. “Brendon loves you.”
“No,” Ryan whispered. “I went too far. I always do. I never tell him that I love him, or that he can do anything he wants. I always push him away. And now I pushed him away for good.”
Spencer didn’t know what to say as Ryan pulled from his grip, curling up at the other end of the couch and staring at the blank screen.
*
In retrospect, Ryan should have known straightaway that this was where Brendon would go.
The apartment door was as plain as all the others surrounding it. The six was slightly crooked but Ryan resisted the temptation to straighten it as he stood before the door, shifting from one foot to the other, debating if he really should be there, if he even deserved the chance to talk to Brendon.
Finally, he sucked up the sick feeling in his stomach and knocked on the door. He almost hoped that no one was home when it wasn’t immediately answered.
But then he heard the click of the lock and the door was pulled open about a foot.
Ryan wasn’t really surprised to see Jon there, blocking the rest of the apartment from Ryan. He didn’t have his usual easy smile on, and Ryan knew he knew.
“Ryan,” he only said, and Ryan fidgeted.
“Uh, hi,” he replied, wondering if Brendon was in there somewhere. He was sure he was, but he had to get past Jon first.
Jon wasn’t really that big or intimidating, but the way he stood in the doorway, stocky frame blocking the inside, arms crossed over his chest, made Ryan nervous.
“Is Brendon here?” he asked finally when Jon didn’t speak, only eyed him up and down.
“Yeah, he is,” Jon replied after a minute but didn’t move.
“Can I… talk to him?” Ryan asked hesitantly, feeling scrutinized under Jon’s eyes, usually so friendly and cheerful, but now guarded and slightly angry.
For a moment, he was sure Jon was going to say no and slam the door in his face, but he was relieved, and maybe a little terrified, when Jon took a step backwards, opening the door to Ryan.
Ryan saw Brendon straightaway, lingering awkwardly in the doorway to the kitchen. He didn’t meet Ryan’s eyes but scuffed his flip flop against the linoleum.
Glancing between the two, Jon paused. “I’ll be right in there,” he said, pointing to the bedroom, giving Ryan a hard look and Brendon a careful one.
Brendon jerked his head softly and Jon left them alone, although Ryan noticed that he didn’t shut the door all the way behind him as he did so.
The silence was bordering on uncomfortable as Ryan stood just inside the door and Brendon hovered in the doorway to the kitchen.
In all honesty, Ryan didn’t know what to say.
He needed to explain to Brendon why he was such an idiot, why he acted so stupid, why he pushed him away, but no words seemed good enough.
Finally, Brendon swallowed and tucked closer to the doorframe, almost as though it might protect him.
“If you want me to get my stuff, I can do it tomorrow,” he said, and Ryan felt like his heart was falling out of his chest.
“No,” he said, rushed and too quick. Brendon didn’t look up yet. “I don’t want you to move out.”
“Well, you don’t want me to do anything else either,” Brendon shot back, and Ryan knew he deserved every bit of hurt that he felt from those words, so harsh and angry, but underneath it all, desperate for this all to go away.
“Brendon,” he said finally, “I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Explain what?” Brendon looked angry, but Ryan knew he was just hurt as he stood plastered to the wall, expression guarded but begging for Ryan to explain, to understand. “That you think I’m an idiot who can’t do anything? That you don’t love me? ‘Cause I think I got all that already.”
“No,” Ryan said swiftly, taking a step forward but stopped when Brendon flinched. “I don’t think any of those things.”
“You have a great way of showing it,” Brendon replied, hugging his middle and glancing at Ryan slowly.
“I know.” Ryan wanted to die. He wanted to fall off a building at that moment rather than look at Brendon’s pitiful face anymore. “Brendon, I am the world’s biggest idiot. I swear. Even more than the woman who sued McDonald’s for spilling her own coffee on herself. Really.”
Brendon didn’t say anything, hunched in a little on himself. Ryan recognized the pose. He’d used it many a time as a teenager.
Sighing, Ryan felt like the world’s biggest asshole. Brendon hadn’t done anything to deserve the way he treated him.
“I can’t take it back,” he said finally, “what I said, but I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you; it just sort of comes out when I don’t expect it. It’s like this thing inside me that I can’t control, and whenever you look at me and tell me you love me, it just feels like I’m suffocating and I have to say stupid things to hurt you.”
“But why?” Brendon’s voice broke in the middle and he glanced away.
“I don’t know,” Ryan replied desperately. “I don’t know why I do it. I guess I’m just afraid.”
“Of what?” Brendon asked, his tone just as desperate as Ryan’s.
“I don’t want you to leave me,” Ryan whispered, “but I’m afraid that you will because everyone does.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Brendon replied, and Ryan shook his head.
“It doesn’t, does it? God, I am so fucked up. You don’t want to be with me, Bren. I’m just going to end up hurting us both.”
Pausing, Brendon finally peeled himself away from the doorway, taking a tentative step forward.
“You might,” he agreed. “But you can’t sabotage yourself.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Ryan asked desperately. “I don’t want to lose you, but I can’t stay with you. I don’t know what to do.”
Brendon bit his lip slowly. “Maybe,” he said slowly. “Maybe you should talk to someone.”
“Someone?” Ryan frowned.
“Like a therapist or psychiatrist or something.” Brendon sounded reluctant even as he suggested it, but Ryan was quiet for a minute.
“A therapist,” he murmured after a minute, and Brendon nodded.
“You could get help.”
Ryan paused then glanced up at Brendon. “Would you still be here?”
Brendon held Ryan’s eyes for a minute before he nodded. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I love you.”
For the first time in a long time. Ryan’s stomach didn’t clench in that horrible tightening way, and he let out a slow breath, nodding at Brendon.
“I’ll call tomorrow morning.”
Brendon only nodded, mouth quirking as his eyes dropped and Ryan sighed into the silence.
*
FIN.