Phenomen (3/?)
Title: Phenomenon (3/?)
Author: silver_kamoku (me)
Fandom: Panic! At the Disco
Rating: PG-13 (this chapter)
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
POV: 1rst Person Ryan
Summary: Ryan has his suspicions about Jon concerning Brendon. Whether it is just some sort of sick paranoia, or if something horrible actually happened to Brendon remains to be seen. Pre-split. Pretty.Odd.-centered. Really weird plot line.
Disclaimer: Completely fabricated from the catacombs of my brain.
Warnings: .....descriptions of injury
I wake up, screaming, having no clue as to what I was dreaming about. My spine jerks straight, my thighs flex and heels pressing into the floor, my whole body jolts. I quickly silence my still sound-making mouth with my left hand, and glance at Spencer and Jon, who are stirring. Jon yawns like a cat in my face, and his breath is terrible. Mine must be similar. Jon pats my head in his half-awake state, ruffling my curly, un-straightened mane. I can feel the fuzz on my face when I scratch my nose in my arm.
There is no point in sitting around and wasting time, now that our duties are postponed, and the hope of Brendon being conscious hanging around the air. I sit uneasily on the wearing-down paisley armchair that resides in one of the copious lounge areas in the hospital. This particular area is closest to the sector in which Brendon is rooming, having been brought there after his surgery was finished.
He now has two pins in his knee, a small plate in his skull, and many apparatuses that support what is left of his mending ribcage. I was surprised to hear that the ribs heal quite well. I heard Jon talking with the doctor, who claimed that despite the ribs being totally snapped, they would make full recovery. Unlike the fracture in his skull, though. There is little to no chance of brain damage because the angle of the fracture indicates it was just enough force and placement to crack the skull, but not enough so that the brain tissue took force.
Even though I was privy to all this information, I still could not help imagining horrible scenarios in which Brendon had turned mentally disabled, and his whole life ruined. After all, the band could not continue with him if he were not himself.
As for his leg, it will be fine after some time of healing, and his foot was not actually broken, as they had first thought. Apparently, it would not even effect his walking after the healing time, unless he was the type to do hikes or marathons. Which he isn’t. I tried to listen and understand more than that, but I didn’t really get all the doctor jargon and mumbo jumbo that was being exchanged. However, for some reason, it still greatly upsets me that Brendon is now partially composed of metal bits. He will probably think that it is awesome and badass, or something. He’s had broken bones when he was a kid, from skateboarding, but none like this. I can’t find it in myself to laugh at how stupid the Brendon in my head sounds, appreciating his own injuries.
We all sip stale, burnt hospital coffee, scalding our throats in the process, but not caring. Somehow, Jon is humming to himself, tapping the table and reading some drug store, (or hospital?), paperback. A blond, beefy man cradles an equally blond, bodacious woman in front of the setting sun. The tapping continues like a metronome. It is annoying as hell. I tell him.
“Aww, don’t be a jerk-face, Ross,” he replies, unusually snarky. Spencer glares at us over his newspaper. He flutters it loud and huffs. I hold my head in my hands, the feeling of boredom starting to sink in, as well as a migraine.
I glanced at the double doors, earlier, that boldly state: “NO ENTERING WITHOUT DOCTOR PERMISSION.” I snort at it now. Snooty doctors. I just want to burst through those beige, swinging doors and rush to his room, if I only get to glance at him, it is worth being tackled by security. I sigh and force those thoughts away. It won’t happen, so why waste energy thinking it? Maybe I’m just impatient. Maybe I just hate hospitals. Why isn’t Jon impatient?! Even Spencer keeps checking his watch, or asking at the nearest reception desk to see if Brendon has gained consciousness yet.
Thankfully, my phone starts buzzing against my crotch, and I dig it out to answer, without even looking at caller ID.
“Yo, my duckling.” It is Pete Wentz.
“Hi. How’s it goin’?” I am used to his stupid nicknames. Especially that one. It is at least better than ‘one-who-I-sired’, in any case. I get pretty mad when he says that.
“Has the baby woken up yet?” he asks, mildly. That would be Brendon he’s talking about, if it weren’t obvious enough.
I grind my teeth. “No. We are waiting at the hospital for him. Got all of our schedules crap put off.”
“My sympathies, man. There are many stupid jokes I could say right now, but I know how serious this probably is for you guys. I mean, if Patrick ever…”
Pete can go on and on…and when it comes to Patrick, it is the worst. I hum at the right moments, though, and agree with his points. Even when he starts explaining how he would want to follow Patrick, even if it meant living in a parallel universe where Fall Out Boy’s lead singer was a cannibal. I learned to just roll with it. Meeting Pete and Gabe in the same room can do that to you. Pete somehow misses the whole “guy” memo, though. The one that says guy can understand each other’s problems in three words or less. It is fine with me, though. Pete is a sincere, honest guy and a nice distraction for me right now. When I say Pete is sincere and honest, take it with a grain of salt. You certainly have to consider time, place, and people. But anyway, he is a great distraction until Doctor Conway starts to walk towards our little misfit band with purpose.
“Sorry, Pete, gotta go!” I say quickly, eyes swiveling to the doc.
“Tell your frontman I say ‘hi’!” The line clicks dead. Spencer jerks in his seat and Jon glances at the learned man.
“Are you the ones with Mr. Urie?” His accent would be humorous, if we weren’t all so anxious. It has a slight German timbre, tinged with something…Swedish?
“That would be us,” Jon chimes in, cheerily and steady. I feel like someone is pressing fast-forward on my arteries. My head gets static-filled.
“Good, good,” the doctor says, but who know what the hell that means? Is he saying Brendon is good? That it is good we are with him? What?
“He is awake, but groggy. He should be starting to recover, but he has low mobility and needs to remain committed here.”
What a freak, I muse. He makes it sound like Brendon is a wounded bird, instead of a talented piano man. The stress is getting to me.
“For how long?” Jon smoothly inquires. The doctor is thinking for a while, and then tells us two weeks. Jon groans about the tour, or something and I shrug. Two weeks? A month? A year? Who cares! He’s gonna be fine! I consider that to be practically a miracle, if you think about all the injuries he sustained.
“But, also, you should know,” Conway says, “the injuries were rather odd for a fall, as you three are claiming. Brendon won’t talk, but if you ask my professional opinion, this looks more like physical assault.”
My blood runs cold. Conway sounds absolutely concerned. Jon starts to yell at the poor doctor, saying that he is calling us liars and should be sued. Spencer attempts at mediating the two, and over-apologizes to the man. Throughout the chaos, I’m stuck on one thought.
“Can I see him now?”
The doc looks annoyed, but he probably deals with angry relatives all the time, so he spins around and leads us through those damn double doors. We trail behind like sedated ants.
The hallway within is white and wide, beige tiles lining the too-clean floor. Machines, carts of medical supplies, and people take up seventy percent of the space, leaving us to doge anyone in a hurry. There is a slight chemical tang in the air, as well as a smell that I would rather not think too hard about. People swish by, left and right. There are always crowds of people. We reach a glass door that is shrouded with plastic teal curtains, and labeled “Brendon Urie”, followed by a bunch of nonsense that I can only assume tells the doctors why he is committed. Not committed, staying here. Damn, committed sounds like he did something, like attacked people.
The doctor pauses over a silver door handle and makes the international shushing motion before fluidly opening the institutional door. I scoff mentally. As if we don’t know to be quiet. What does he think we are toddlers? I ignore the little voice in my head telling me that I was always quiet when I was a toddler, because I did not have many people to talk to.
His plush cheeks indent the pure white pillow where his head rests, and are decorated with blossoms of yellow-green and some grape. Thick snow-like gauze material joins his greasy hair in a fucked-up version of a symphony. There is a large, paper-like blanket on top of him, obscuring any shape aside from a lump. What makes me gasp, however, is his eyes. They are open, sure. I think. Two peach colored flaps surround the orbs, rendering his feline-like eyes to be repulsive. They only clue I have that informs me of his awareness is the moving of his lips and the slight sounds of discomfort that escape. Perhaps if I looked hard, though, I might have been able to see his pupils slide side to side. His lips are chapped something terrible, and resemble a flaky pastry like baklava. Glowing pink patches ring the mouth, evidence of whatever torture is required during surgery. He makes a sound like a keening moan of his upper throat.
“Brendon,” I breathe in, like a first breath. He laughs, and it sounds like desert air rumpling a piece of dry paper. The sound doesn’t come across as an effort to reply, but rather the only outlet for expression available.
“Is it too hard to talk, Bren?” Spencer asks. The head on the pillow bobs like that of a woman, exhausted from having just given birth. A sickness was starting to pool in my gut, flooding in as blood forming a bruise. Such a feeling begs my body to give out, and do something. Scream. Punch a hole in the white wall. Kick the metal foot of the bed. Cry. I feel my eyes water and burn like I put hydrogen peroxide in them, but I hold it in. I don’t cry. I didn’t even cry when he died. Not even once. At least…not physically.
Spencer rounds the foot of the bed to right side, dropping to his knees and reaching his left hand to rest heavily on Brendon’s temple, away from any bandages. The two seem like strangers to me. Spencer, Brendon. Brendon, Spencer. And the drummer knows exactly what to do to comfort him. What do I know? I can hardly even look at the state he’s in. Irrational shame fills my senses when I do. The heart-wrenching scene, like the first time seeing a certain cliché, is almost dulled by how much I don’t want this to turn serious. It would be much better if the guy would just jump out of bed and laugh it off, saying that he wasn’t really sick and nothing happened. Everything is completely normal.
But, of course, that doesn’t happen. Instead, the singer leans his forehead into the touch to acknowledge his awareness of the situation. It would have looked more cat-like if he had only been a bit more casual about it. My body roots itself to the floor where I stand, a good yard away from the foot of the stupid rolling bed. A plastic sack filled with off-colored fluid hangs on a shiny silver stand, its tentacle reaching casually down and inserting itself under an arm with raised veins and no tattoo. The hand extending outwards is bandaged with lighter linens in many places. The forefinger, in particular, has a casing of plastic that emits a pink-red glow from its innards. I know from experience that such a device is used to monitor heart rate. Of course, the memories are too vivid, and there is no space for them in my mind at the present. The rather slow, steady beeping coming from an overlarge stainless steel box that looms in the corner goes unnoticed.
“-and we apologized greatly, so we will be doing the show as soon as possible. That is, if you’re up to it. The fans are so understanding…if you need a week or two, heck, even a month…”
Spencer goes on and on, filling Brendon in on every last detail. Even what the waiting area in the hospital is like. Either he was unable to say anything to make Spencer stop talking, or he was actually interested, but either way, the drummer went on to cover every topic with twice as many words as necessary. As his voice filled the room, my hands were itching to run their fingers over his pale arm, feel the protrusions of bone and the warmth of the sweet life fluid running like a highway just under the skin. Where it belongs. Fuck. What kind of sick freak am I? I sound worse than a serial killer. Normal people don’t think of blood so…poetically. That’s when I remember the fourth member of the room, and look behind my shoulder where he is leaning against the wall, arms crossed and staring at my two other friends. Before we can meet eyes, I slide on over back to the door, which he is a foot away from.
“He looks terrible,” I grumble into Jon’s right ear, quiet so that the one in question cannot hear. I have to lean down to do so. Jon is a normal height, but like Pete, he finds himself too short. Not everyone can share my physique of Jack Skellington, and on that note, not everyone should. Whenever Jon makes a crack about his height, Spencer is quick to say that unlike the rest of us, he has enough muscle to look strong and attract the hot girls. The drummer is right in that sense; Brendon and I mostly attract tweens and teens. Jon works out some, though, which Brendon and I do not do. Spencer goes with him now and again. I observe the definition in Jon’s right arm, and wonder how much power and strength they actually have.
“Poor thing,” Jon puts out, sounding a bit excited, or something, “Brendon’s never had a high tolerance to pain.” He hasn’t? I never noticed. Okay, maybe he did cry when he got his first tattoo. But Brendon is very skilled physically. He can do a perfect handstand, he is great at dancing, and sports are definitely his thing. And I didn’t even mention his skateboarding skills, or ability to do a full backflip. And bowling…the list just goes on. Yeah, so maybe he is not just skilled, but talented. Which could explain why he loves surfing, too. Just another sport he discovered, and of course, got good at. I mull this over in my brain until a voice wafts our way from the bed. At first, I was as alarmed as waking up on the bus to screaming girls. His voice, if you can even call it that, resembles someone speaking while trying to gargle wet gravel and sand.
“Where’s Ryan?” he asks Jon, who moved to stand near him and currently rests a hand on Brendon’s knee area. I maneuver around the IV stand to exist on the unoccupied side of the bed. The noise makes him tense up.
“I’m here,” I say, unsure of how to conduct my voice so it ends up sounding like a confused middle-schooler, cracking and everything. He sighs heavily, chest expanding up and then falling. The air brushes my face, cold.
“Can’t see,” he rasps, sounding exhausted. Oops. His head is still turned to the right, facing Jon and Spencer. I grab his temple and the back of his head where the hair ends, and mould his face to the other side. His lips turn upwards when he presumably sees me, finally.
“Next time,” I try to say bravely, but my voice somehow sticks in my throat like glue, “Next time, you are not allowed upstairs, near windows, or a foot away from my person.”
The laughter he lets out sounds healthier this time, but frowns at the end. I force my face not to catch fire as I realize how the last part of that could sound wrong. Bren is usually the awkwardly phrased one, not me. But, I was just trying to tell him how much I disapprove of this situation. I didn’t mean to sound to sappy or protective. Who needs sappy crap? From me, at least. People don’t usually feel comfortable enough to unload or open up their emotional baggage onto me. It takes a personality like Pete’s or Brendon’s to do that. Even then, they pick and choose.
Not even Spencer shares a lot about his personal life, or what he’s thinking with me. I suppose he works it out on his own before seeking out help from others. At least, he always seems to. I never ask, though. I wonder if that means I’m not a very good friend. I do get more snippy than most people can tolerate. Like when Brendon is joking around too much when I’m trying to be serious and get things done. Or when he just won’t listen. Or when he does something incredibly idiotic.
“We probably should go,” Spencer says, loud and casually. He stands, angling his hips purposefully at Jon and I stare. I guess he’s saying we should let Brendon rest? Jon voices his agreement, feigning some duty that he previously forgot and we reluctantly form a glob that makes its way out of the room after a quick goodbye and promises to visit later. My instinct tells me not to go when I go to close the door behind us, but instead it wants me to stay and make sure Brendon doesn’t get bored or lonely, or dead. Ridiculous notions. I leave.
We drive back to my place, again, and I’m hoping that after this fiasco, we never have to take this particular route again. My house feels like bad luck. The highway feels like a tragedy. The sun, setting high in the sky sears orange and ocher, spreading like liquid metal. I close my eyelids and breath in, catching the scent of smog from the city that leaks in from the cracked-open window. Jon drives like he wants to go as fast as possible. The speed, and kiss of the wind makes tingles run up and down my arms, legs, all rushing together into my head. Rhythms come together as well, and it sounds like summer melting into fall.
I jot notes down into my sidekick and email them to myself. Just a few lines, nothing melody-like. As we glide into the extended driveway, and the engine fades away, I can tell that it is a movie night. Watchman, for sure. Spencer does not disappoint when he suggests it on our way in. After another Jon Walker-cooked meal, we are all asleep on the plush couch as super-humans duke it out onscreen. Deify the norm.
A/N: Less interesting chapter. Next chapter is fun.
Author: silver_kamoku (me)
Fandom: Panic! At the Disco
Rating: PG-13 (this chapter)
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
POV: 1rst Person Ryan
Summary: Ryan has his suspicions about Jon concerning Brendon. Whether it is just some sort of sick paranoia, or if something horrible actually happened to Brendon remains to be seen. Pre-split. Pretty.Odd.-centered. Really weird plot line.
Disclaimer: Completely fabricated from the catacombs of my brain.
Warnings: .....descriptions of injury
I wake up, screaming, having no clue as to what I was dreaming about. My spine jerks straight, my thighs flex and heels pressing into the floor, my whole body jolts. I quickly silence my still sound-making mouth with my left hand, and glance at Spencer and Jon, who are stirring. Jon yawns like a cat in my face, and his breath is terrible. Mine must be similar. Jon pats my head in his half-awake state, ruffling my curly, un-straightened mane. I can feel the fuzz on my face when I scratch my nose in my arm.
There is no point in sitting around and wasting time, now that our duties are postponed, and the hope of Brendon being conscious hanging around the air. I sit uneasily on the wearing-down paisley armchair that resides in one of the copious lounge areas in the hospital. This particular area is closest to the sector in which Brendon is rooming, having been brought there after his surgery was finished.
He now has two pins in his knee, a small plate in his skull, and many apparatuses that support what is left of his mending ribcage. I was surprised to hear that the ribs heal quite well. I heard Jon talking with the doctor, who claimed that despite the ribs being totally snapped, they would make full recovery. Unlike the fracture in his skull, though. There is little to no chance of brain damage because the angle of the fracture indicates it was just enough force and placement to crack the skull, but not enough so that the brain tissue took force.
Even though I was privy to all this information, I still could not help imagining horrible scenarios in which Brendon had turned mentally disabled, and his whole life ruined. After all, the band could not continue with him if he were not himself.
As for his leg, it will be fine after some time of healing, and his foot was not actually broken, as they had first thought. Apparently, it would not even effect his walking after the healing time, unless he was the type to do hikes or marathons. Which he isn’t. I tried to listen and understand more than that, but I didn’t really get all the doctor jargon and mumbo jumbo that was being exchanged. However, for some reason, it still greatly upsets me that Brendon is now partially composed of metal bits. He will probably think that it is awesome and badass, or something. He’s had broken bones when he was a kid, from skateboarding, but none like this. I can’t find it in myself to laugh at how stupid the Brendon in my head sounds, appreciating his own injuries.
We all sip stale, burnt hospital coffee, scalding our throats in the process, but not caring. Somehow, Jon is humming to himself, tapping the table and reading some drug store, (or hospital?), paperback. A blond, beefy man cradles an equally blond, bodacious woman in front of the setting sun. The tapping continues like a metronome. It is annoying as hell. I tell him.
“Aww, don’t be a jerk-face, Ross,” he replies, unusually snarky. Spencer glares at us over his newspaper. He flutters it loud and huffs. I hold my head in my hands, the feeling of boredom starting to sink in, as well as a migraine.
I glanced at the double doors, earlier, that boldly state: “NO ENTERING WITHOUT DOCTOR PERMISSION.” I snort at it now. Snooty doctors. I just want to burst through those beige, swinging doors and rush to his room, if I only get to glance at him, it is worth being tackled by security. I sigh and force those thoughts away. It won’t happen, so why waste energy thinking it? Maybe I’m just impatient. Maybe I just hate hospitals. Why isn’t Jon impatient?! Even Spencer keeps checking his watch, or asking at the nearest reception desk to see if Brendon has gained consciousness yet.
Thankfully, my phone starts buzzing against my crotch, and I dig it out to answer, without even looking at caller ID.
“Yo, my duckling.” It is Pete Wentz.
“Hi. How’s it goin’?” I am used to his stupid nicknames. Especially that one. It is at least better than ‘one-who-I-sired’, in any case. I get pretty mad when he says that.
“Has the baby woken up yet?” he asks, mildly. That would be Brendon he’s talking about, if it weren’t obvious enough.
I grind my teeth. “No. We are waiting at the hospital for him. Got all of our schedules crap put off.”
“My sympathies, man. There are many stupid jokes I could say right now, but I know how serious this probably is for you guys. I mean, if Patrick ever…”
Pete can go on and on…and when it comes to Patrick, it is the worst. I hum at the right moments, though, and agree with his points. Even when he starts explaining how he would want to follow Patrick, even if it meant living in a parallel universe where Fall Out Boy’s lead singer was a cannibal. I learned to just roll with it. Meeting Pete and Gabe in the same room can do that to you. Pete somehow misses the whole “guy” memo, though. The one that says guy can understand each other’s problems in three words or less. It is fine with me, though. Pete is a sincere, honest guy and a nice distraction for me right now. When I say Pete is sincere and honest, take it with a grain of salt. You certainly have to consider time, place, and people. But anyway, he is a great distraction until Doctor Conway starts to walk towards our little misfit band with purpose.
“Sorry, Pete, gotta go!” I say quickly, eyes swiveling to the doc.
“Tell your frontman I say ‘hi’!” The line clicks dead. Spencer jerks in his seat and Jon glances at the learned man.
“Are you the ones with Mr. Urie?” His accent would be humorous, if we weren’t all so anxious. It has a slight German timbre, tinged with something…Swedish?
“That would be us,” Jon chimes in, cheerily and steady. I feel like someone is pressing fast-forward on my arteries. My head gets static-filled.
“Good, good,” the doctor says, but who know what the hell that means? Is he saying Brendon is good? That it is good we are with him? What?
“He is awake, but groggy. He should be starting to recover, but he has low mobility and needs to remain committed here.”
What a freak, I muse. He makes it sound like Brendon is a wounded bird, instead of a talented piano man. The stress is getting to me.
“For how long?” Jon smoothly inquires. The doctor is thinking for a while, and then tells us two weeks. Jon groans about the tour, or something and I shrug. Two weeks? A month? A year? Who cares! He’s gonna be fine! I consider that to be practically a miracle, if you think about all the injuries he sustained.
“But, also, you should know,” Conway says, “the injuries were rather odd for a fall, as you three are claiming. Brendon won’t talk, but if you ask my professional opinion, this looks more like physical assault.”
My blood runs cold. Conway sounds absolutely concerned. Jon starts to yell at the poor doctor, saying that he is calling us liars and should be sued. Spencer attempts at mediating the two, and over-apologizes to the man. Throughout the chaos, I’m stuck on one thought.
“Can I see him now?”
The doc looks annoyed, but he probably deals with angry relatives all the time, so he spins around and leads us through those damn double doors. We trail behind like sedated ants.
The hallway within is white and wide, beige tiles lining the too-clean floor. Machines, carts of medical supplies, and people take up seventy percent of the space, leaving us to doge anyone in a hurry. There is a slight chemical tang in the air, as well as a smell that I would rather not think too hard about. People swish by, left and right. There are always crowds of people. We reach a glass door that is shrouded with plastic teal curtains, and labeled “Brendon Urie”, followed by a bunch of nonsense that I can only assume tells the doctors why he is committed. Not committed, staying here. Damn, committed sounds like he did something, like attacked people.
The doctor pauses over a silver door handle and makes the international shushing motion before fluidly opening the institutional door. I scoff mentally. As if we don’t know to be quiet. What does he think we are toddlers? I ignore the little voice in my head telling me that I was always quiet when I was a toddler, because I did not have many people to talk to.
His plush cheeks indent the pure white pillow where his head rests, and are decorated with blossoms of yellow-green and some grape. Thick snow-like gauze material joins his greasy hair in a fucked-up version of a symphony. There is a large, paper-like blanket on top of him, obscuring any shape aside from a lump. What makes me gasp, however, is his eyes. They are open, sure. I think. Two peach colored flaps surround the orbs, rendering his feline-like eyes to be repulsive. They only clue I have that informs me of his awareness is the moving of his lips and the slight sounds of discomfort that escape. Perhaps if I looked hard, though, I might have been able to see his pupils slide side to side. His lips are chapped something terrible, and resemble a flaky pastry like baklava. Glowing pink patches ring the mouth, evidence of whatever torture is required during surgery. He makes a sound like a keening moan of his upper throat.
“Brendon,” I breathe in, like a first breath. He laughs, and it sounds like desert air rumpling a piece of dry paper. The sound doesn’t come across as an effort to reply, but rather the only outlet for expression available.
“Is it too hard to talk, Bren?” Spencer asks. The head on the pillow bobs like that of a woman, exhausted from having just given birth. A sickness was starting to pool in my gut, flooding in as blood forming a bruise. Such a feeling begs my body to give out, and do something. Scream. Punch a hole in the white wall. Kick the metal foot of the bed. Cry. I feel my eyes water and burn like I put hydrogen peroxide in them, but I hold it in. I don’t cry. I didn’t even cry when he died. Not even once. At least…not physically.
Spencer rounds the foot of the bed to right side, dropping to his knees and reaching his left hand to rest heavily on Brendon’s temple, away from any bandages. The two seem like strangers to me. Spencer, Brendon. Brendon, Spencer. And the drummer knows exactly what to do to comfort him. What do I know? I can hardly even look at the state he’s in. Irrational shame fills my senses when I do. The heart-wrenching scene, like the first time seeing a certain cliché, is almost dulled by how much I don’t want this to turn serious. It would be much better if the guy would just jump out of bed and laugh it off, saying that he wasn’t really sick and nothing happened. Everything is completely normal.
But, of course, that doesn’t happen. Instead, the singer leans his forehead into the touch to acknowledge his awareness of the situation. It would have looked more cat-like if he had only been a bit more casual about it. My body roots itself to the floor where I stand, a good yard away from the foot of the stupid rolling bed. A plastic sack filled with off-colored fluid hangs on a shiny silver stand, its tentacle reaching casually down and inserting itself under an arm with raised veins and no tattoo. The hand extending outwards is bandaged with lighter linens in many places. The forefinger, in particular, has a casing of plastic that emits a pink-red glow from its innards. I know from experience that such a device is used to monitor heart rate. Of course, the memories are too vivid, and there is no space for them in my mind at the present. The rather slow, steady beeping coming from an overlarge stainless steel box that looms in the corner goes unnoticed.
“-and we apologized greatly, so we will be doing the show as soon as possible. That is, if you’re up to it. The fans are so understanding…if you need a week or two, heck, even a month…”
Spencer goes on and on, filling Brendon in on every last detail. Even what the waiting area in the hospital is like. Either he was unable to say anything to make Spencer stop talking, or he was actually interested, but either way, the drummer went on to cover every topic with twice as many words as necessary. As his voice filled the room, my hands were itching to run their fingers over his pale arm, feel the protrusions of bone and the warmth of the sweet life fluid running like a highway just under the skin. Where it belongs. Fuck. What kind of sick freak am I? I sound worse than a serial killer. Normal people don’t think of blood so…poetically. That’s when I remember the fourth member of the room, and look behind my shoulder where he is leaning against the wall, arms crossed and staring at my two other friends. Before we can meet eyes, I slide on over back to the door, which he is a foot away from.
“He looks terrible,” I grumble into Jon’s right ear, quiet so that the one in question cannot hear. I have to lean down to do so. Jon is a normal height, but like Pete, he finds himself too short. Not everyone can share my physique of Jack Skellington, and on that note, not everyone should. Whenever Jon makes a crack about his height, Spencer is quick to say that unlike the rest of us, he has enough muscle to look strong and attract the hot girls. The drummer is right in that sense; Brendon and I mostly attract tweens and teens. Jon works out some, though, which Brendon and I do not do. Spencer goes with him now and again. I observe the definition in Jon’s right arm, and wonder how much power and strength they actually have.
“Poor thing,” Jon puts out, sounding a bit excited, or something, “Brendon’s never had a high tolerance to pain.” He hasn’t? I never noticed. Okay, maybe he did cry when he got his first tattoo. But Brendon is very skilled physically. He can do a perfect handstand, he is great at dancing, and sports are definitely his thing. And I didn’t even mention his skateboarding skills, or ability to do a full backflip. And bowling…the list just goes on. Yeah, so maybe he is not just skilled, but talented. Which could explain why he loves surfing, too. Just another sport he discovered, and of course, got good at. I mull this over in my brain until a voice wafts our way from the bed. At first, I was as alarmed as waking up on the bus to screaming girls. His voice, if you can even call it that, resembles someone speaking while trying to gargle wet gravel and sand.
“Where’s Ryan?” he asks Jon, who moved to stand near him and currently rests a hand on Brendon’s knee area. I maneuver around the IV stand to exist on the unoccupied side of the bed. The noise makes him tense up.
“I’m here,” I say, unsure of how to conduct my voice so it ends up sounding like a confused middle-schooler, cracking and everything. He sighs heavily, chest expanding up and then falling. The air brushes my face, cold.
“Can’t see,” he rasps, sounding exhausted. Oops. His head is still turned to the right, facing Jon and Spencer. I grab his temple and the back of his head where the hair ends, and mould his face to the other side. His lips turn upwards when he presumably sees me, finally.
“Next time,” I try to say bravely, but my voice somehow sticks in my throat like glue, “Next time, you are not allowed upstairs, near windows, or a foot away from my person.”
The laughter he lets out sounds healthier this time, but frowns at the end. I force my face not to catch fire as I realize how the last part of that could sound wrong. Bren is usually the awkwardly phrased one, not me. But, I was just trying to tell him how much I disapprove of this situation. I didn’t mean to sound to sappy or protective. Who needs sappy crap? From me, at least. People don’t usually feel comfortable enough to unload or open up their emotional baggage onto me. It takes a personality like Pete’s or Brendon’s to do that. Even then, they pick and choose.
Not even Spencer shares a lot about his personal life, or what he’s thinking with me. I suppose he works it out on his own before seeking out help from others. At least, he always seems to. I never ask, though. I wonder if that means I’m not a very good friend. I do get more snippy than most people can tolerate. Like when Brendon is joking around too much when I’m trying to be serious and get things done. Or when he just won’t listen. Or when he does something incredibly idiotic.
“We probably should go,” Spencer says, loud and casually. He stands, angling his hips purposefully at Jon and I stare. I guess he’s saying we should let Brendon rest? Jon voices his agreement, feigning some duty that he previously forgot and we reluctantly form a glob that makes its way out of the room after a quick goodbye and promises to visit later. My instinct tells me not to go when I go to close the door behind us, but instead it wants me to stay and make sure Brendon doesn’t get bored or lonely, or dead. Ridiculous notions. I leave.
We drive back to my place, again, and I’m hoping that after this fiasco, we never have to take this particular route again. My house feels like bad luck. The highway feels like a tragedy. The sun, setting high in the sky sears orange and ocher, spreading like liquid metal. I close my eyelids and breath in, catching the scent of smog from the city that leaks in from the cracked-open window. Jon drives like he wants to go as fast as possible. The speed, and kiss of the wind makes tingles run up and down my arms, legs, all rushing together into my head. Rhythms come together as well, and it sounds like summer melting into fall.
I jot notes down into my sidekick and email them to myself. Just a few lines, nothing melody-like. As we glide into the extended driveway, and the engine fades away, I can tell that it is a movie night. Watchman, for sure. Spencer does not disappoint when he suggests it on our way in. After another Jon Walker-cooked meal, we are all asleep on the plush couch as super-humans duke it out onscreen. Deify the norm.
A/N: Less interesting chapter. Next chapter is fun.