Not!Fic: Ryan of Green Gables - The End
This is seriously the most melodramatic thing I have ever written in my entire life, and I am VERY ATTACHED TO IT. Does this even really resemble AoGG anymore? Again, I'm skipping many years and mixing everything up, but, hey, if you like LOVE and TEARS and Ryan being honestly so adorable I could squish him, you might not hate me for ALMOST BREAKING RYAN'S EMO HEART! Previous parts are here, here, here, here, and here (and they're also linked internally). Thank you all for coming along with me on this... whatever the hell this is :) Enjoy!
Gerard moves out to Frank’s. They debate moving Frank in with Gerard and Mikey, but Mikey puts his foot down, because as much as he loves the two of them, it’s a little too much, at least right then. Gerard thinks, after a little while, Mikey will be more amenable to making a home together, the three of them, so he agrees to share Frank’s tiny house for the time being.
Ryan starts his second year of college, renting the same little cottage as the year before, and William has been learning to cook and nearly burns the place down at least once a week. Nick and Tyson stop by all the time, even though Brendon is still keeping his distance, and Greta acquires a gentleman caller, a Mr. Toro, who is older and has amazingly curly hair and treats her like a lady.
Gabe is still an ass, but he does two things that forever endear him to Ryan.
One, he somehow gets Brendon to come around again. It’s different, of course, because things can never stay the same, and they sit on opposite couches and hardly touch, but their conversation volleys are easier than they have been, the others in the room acting as unwitting buffers, and their time together becomes precious to Ryan, something to look forward to, something he remembers with a smile.
And two, Gabe finds his old story - because Gabe is always rifling through things he shouldn’t be - the one that Ryan can barely look at without shame curling in his stomach.
He says, “This is decent, Ross. Bit overdone, but mainly solid,” and Gabe is a writer himself, so he fancies he knows exactly what he’s talking about. He asks, “You write anything else?” and Ryan can honestly say he hasn’t. Not in a long while. He always felt sick about it, even though Gerard had readily forgiven him.
Gabe, of course, brings this up in front of everyone, and Brendon cocks his head and asks, “Why not, Ryan? Isn’t that what you always wanted to do?”
Ryan doesn’t want to say a word about Gerard, he doesn’t, so he just shrugs. “I’m not that good.”
Brendon laughs. “You’re great,” he says, and his face shows he means it. “I was always trying to catch up to you in school, but your essays trumped mine, every time.” He sounds proud, and Ryan bites his lip.
“So I’m clever with words, it’s nothing.”
“You shouldn’t.” Brendon frowns. “I hate it when put yourself down, Ryan.”
“I’m not,” Ryan says, honestly bewildered. He’s not. He’s just more realistic, nowadays.
“Well,” Brendon says matter-of-factly, leaning back in his seat. “I think you could do excellent work, if maybe you just wrote about what you really loved.”
*
Ryan falls into writing again completely by accident, even though he can’t quite shake Brendon’s encouragement, his genuine faith in Ryan, his offhand words of advice.
He’s penning a letter to Spencer about Gabe, and Gabe’s latest entanglement with a bold and fun-loving girl, Vicky - whom Ryan likes, really, and she seems to be an even match for Gabe and his absurd shenanigans - and the letter turns more narrative than anything else, halfway through. Then it turns into a short story, and then a series of stories, The Misadventures of Gabe Saporta, and Gabe is truly amused by it all, says he’ll sign copies for the masses if Ryan ever sends it out for publishing.
They aren’t anything that Ryan is serious about, though. What he wants to do, what he truly wants to write about is his home, the only place he’s ever really belonged.
He wants to write about Pete and Patrick and their legendary love affair. He wants to write about Spencer, his sharp wit and shy smile. He wants to write about Mikey and their Jersey cow, Frank’s years of quiet courting, Gerard’s open, honest face and kind heart. He wants to write about William, his tall, graceful body and his sweet angelic voice, his penchant for pranks and his booming laughter.
There are so many stories he wants to tell, so many lives to flesh out, that he buries himself in words for months and months, throughout the summer and even into the beginning of his third college year.
He tweaks with it for even longer than that; it has to be perfect, because it’s for everyone he loves, for Gerard and Mikey and Spencer and Jon and even Brendon, because Brendon is always so good at pointing out what Ryan’s missing, what’s directly in front of his nose. It has to be just right.
He can’t wait to show Spencer. He can’t wait to show Brendon, and that’s an odd thought, really.
He hasn’t seen a lot of Brendon lately. Not like he’s been seeing much of anyone, holed up in his bedroom with his manuscript. William or Greta sneaks in with food for him, bullies him into bed and sleep, makes sure he gets to all his classes. He’s been lost, so focused on his work.
William tells Ryan that Brendon has been seeing someone, a man, Bob, who he met through Greta and her Mr. Toro. Ryan gets a squirmy feeling in his stomach. Brendon apparently hasn’t been around much because he’s. He’s out courting, and that’s different, because Ryan doesn’t remember Brendon courting anyone before, unless he counts himself. Which he doesn’t, not really, since Ryan had no idea at the time that was what he was doing.
But it’s fine. It’s totally fine and great, actually, because Brendon has found someone! He’s finally over Ryan! Ryan is truly happy for him, especially after he meets Bob, after they’re introduced formally.
Brendon and Ryan stumble upon each other at the nearby park, and Brendon is strolling with a blond man, slightly imposing but with kind eyes. Bob Bryar, his full name, is stiff backed and reserved, but he quirks a smile at Brendon’s enthusiasm, and his grip is firm when he shakes Ryan’s hand.
Later, Brendon stops by the house alone, seems antsy and nervous, hands fluttering, and says that Bob has asked him to marry him. He tells Ryan carefully, watching his face, and Ryan says how much he likes Bob, how nice he seems, and Brendon hugs him, tight and fierce and unexpected, since he hasn’t touched Ryan much in years.
Ryan feels an ache behind his eyes, a pressure, but he hugs Brendon back and doesn’t say a word.
*
It’s Christmas when Ryan’s book is finally published, in the very middle of Ryan’s fourth and final year at college.
He’s cozy in the front parlor of Green Gables, Spencer sitting close beside him. Across the room, Frank and Gerard are holding hands, talking quietly, and Andy, Mikey and Jon are playing a round of cards, and the fire is so warm they’ve all unbuttoned the tops of their shirts, ties pulled loose.
Spencer is marveling over a copy of Ryan’s book, the crisp spine, the fresh paper smell, Ryan’s name embossed in neat block letter type. His fingers trail over the title plate, and he bites his lip at the inscription, because it is surely the best thing he’s ever seen. He reads it aloud, everyone absent listeners, Ryan’s dedication to Gerard and Mikey, the family of my heart, to Spencer, my brother, my soulmate, to William, the steadiest friend I could ever hope for, and to Brendon, with love.
There’s a thick silence, and Gerard sniffs, eyes watery.
And then Andy taps his pipe into his palm and says, “Brendon Urie’s dying,” and Ryan’s heart nearly stops in his chest.
Mikey sends Andy a chastising glance, then says softly, “We didn’t want you to hear it from someone else, Ryan,” because he knows the two of them have a strangely close and complicated relationship.
“He’s. What?” Ryan is sure he didn’t hear that right, couldn’t have, because what they said was impossible.
Spencer grips his arm. “He’s been sick, Ryan,” he says, and the words are all wrong. “They’re not expecting him to make it.”
“Not.” Ryan stumbles to his feet, feeling hollowed out, raw. “He can’t be,” he insists. He can’t be.
Ryan presses a palm over his mouth and flees the house, rounds the back towards the barn to hitch their old horse up to the wagon, to go see for himself, to see how perfectly fine Brendon is.
He hears footsteps behind him and then Gerard’s hands are on the worn leather harnesses, quiet, finishing what Ryan’s shaky fingers were fumbling with.
When he’s done, he wraps his arms around Ryan’s waist and tips his forehead onto the back of Ryan’s neck. Ryan takes a deep breath, shudders.
“I love him,” Ryan says, so low it’s barely a whisper, and he wasn’t aware of how true those words were until they spilled out into the sharp and cold winter air. He’s in love with Brendon. It’s in the twist of his heart, the moth wings brushing the insides of his stomach, the bitter taste in his mouth.
Gerard lightly kisses his nape and says, “I know.” He hadn’t, before. Gerard would never claim to be very observant, to know what’s going on in Ryan’s overactive mind, but Ryan had gone so white, so stunned, pain writ so bright in his eyes, that it was so very hard to miss.
Ryan loves Brendon. Gerard thinks maybe he always has.
*
Over at the Urie’s, Ryan is ushered into Brendon’s bedroom, and the air is hot and stale and Ryan is crying. He’s crying, he can’t stop crying, and Brendon’s a pale husk of himself, too small, glazed eyes too big nestled in the sharp bones of his face.
“Brendon,” Ryan says, and he swipes his palms over his cheeks, trying to get himself under control, to be strong, and Brendon’s eyes flutter close, breathing labored. “No, Brendon, god no, please.” He drops to his knees, clutches a dry hand, fingers so thin they seem brittle. “You can’t leave me, you can’t.”
Brendon doesn’t answer, barely moves at all, and Ryan slumps forward, rolling his forehead along the edge of the bed.
“You can’t leave me, Brendon,” he gasps, words a sticky mess in between sobs. “Brendon, Brendon, I’m so in love with you.”
*
Ryan’s a little embarrassed, afterwards. He’d pretty much broken down in front of the entire Urie clan, and Ryan’s probably imagining it, but he thinks they look at him differently now.
Brendon barely survives, but he survives, and Ryan is suddenly awkward. Awkward, uncomfortable in his skin, hyperaware, and he wonders if Brendon knows, if Brendon is still marrying Bob, if Brendon. If he knows. Ryan almost thinks it would be better if Brendon didn’t, if they could go back to the way things always were between them.
William thinks he’s being stupid. “You’ve already told him,” he points out.
“While he was unconscious and on the brink of death,” Ryan says, and the thought still hurts, squeezes his chest tight, but Brendon’s better now, thank god. Not completely well, but better, and getting stronger everyday, if Spencer’s letters can be trusted - and of course then can, because it’s Spencer.
William shakes his head. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to be Spencer’s best friend for so many years and still be so dumb.”
Ryan’s not exactly sure what William means. “I’m not dumb. I’m just. Cautious.”
“Dumb. Spencer would’ve had Brendon in bed by now,” William says with a cheeky grin, and Ryan blushes hot and resists the urge to protest and fall into William’s trap - Spencer is a gentleman, and would’ve done no such thing.
“Spencer,” William goes on, taunting, “knows what he wants, and ends up with exactly that.”
Ryan sinks down low in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. He tries his best to brood, but William is still grinning at him, and Ryan can never resist William’s grin. “I’ll go visit him,” he capitulates finally, and William leans over and ruffles his hair.
*
When Ryan finally makes it home again, it’s early spring, damp and still slightly chilly. He procrastinates for a day or two, until Mikey’s silent stares drive him nearly insane - they aren’t damning or accusing or even questioning, but they make Ryan squirm inside just the same.
Brendon is outside when Ryan knocks on the Urie’s front door. He’s out back, one of Brendon’s sisters says, pointing the way, and Ryan stuffs his hands in his pockets as he slowly walks around the house.
He stops, just at the edge of the long, sprawling lawn. It isn’t quite a hesitation. He watches as Brendon laughs, hoarse, poised over a dark-haired toddler playing in a pile of dirt, a worn red shawl tucked over his shoulders and upper arms.
Brendon still looks too thin, but there’s color in his cheeks, and his hair is neatly trimmed above his ears. He says, “Your mom’s going to kill me,” but he doesn’t pull the child out of the dirt, just leans down to tug affectionately at tousled pigtails, and then his head comes up at an angle, eyes accidentally catching Ryan’s.
His smile doesn’t fade exactly, doesn’t fall, but Ryan thinks it looks softer, somehow. More intimate.
Ryan walks closer, makes his feet move, prays he doesn’t stumble along the way, and Brendon straightens up completely, tugging the shawl more firmly around him.
“Hi,” he says, and Ryan swallows hard and says back, “Hello.”
“Hi!” the little girl says, tilting her head and grinning a patently Urie grin up at them. She’s got smudges all over her chubby face, her dress surely ruined, legs on either side of a small hole in the lawn, tiny shovel clutched by both hands.
Brendon laughs and says, “My favorite niece, Abby,” with a flourish.
“I’m going to hazard she takes after you,” Ryan says, amused, feeling slightly more at ease.
“Which is why she’s my very favorite.” Brendon nods, and Ryan can’t stop looking at his face, at the fatigue around his eyes, at the genuine joy, though, that is shining out of them.
“How are you?” Ryan asks, because he’s not sure what else to say.
Brendon shrugs. “I’ve been better.”
“Been worse, too,” Ryan says, and his voice is so quiet, the words almost mangled to a stop in his dry throat, that he’s not sure Brendon hears him.
Brendon says, “Yes,” though, watching him in a searching way, like he’s trying to parse all of Ryan’s thoughts, like if he’s just careful enough, he could spot all of Ryan’s secrets, desires, right there on his face.
“Brendon, I. I don’t know if.” Ryan feels stupid, slow, contrary to his mind and heart racing, and Brendon is perhaps the only person he’s never been able to properly articulate himself around, and that makes sense to Ryan now, makes sense in the way that Ryan had never before been thinking straight, thinking clearly, with Brendon so close. He turns his head, stares off towards the clump of lilac bushes, the fence and farmland beyond. “I don’t know what’s between you and Bob,” he ends up saying finally. “I know that you. That you must.” He silently curses his stuttering, but he just can’t make himself say, I know that you must love him, not without breaking his own heart.
“Ryan.” A hand curls over Ryan’s wrist, but he doesn’t turn back, not until Brendon shakes him, says, “Ryan, look at me.”
He’s smiling that same soft smile.
“What?” Ryan asks, and it comes out breathless and Ryan feels a blush start up from his neck.
“It’s always been you,” Brendon says. “It will always be-” His hand slips up, light on his arm, presses into Ryan’s nape. Calloused fingers caress the line of his throat, soft, in direct contrast to his firm, “It will always be you.”
Ryan bites his lip, blinks. “Oh.”
Brendon arches his eyebrows, expectant, amused, maybe a little uncertain, and Ryan clambers over another, “Oh,” and, “Yes, yes, god, for me, too,” and then his hands are in Brendon’s hair, cupping the back of his head and Ryan has had very few kisses in his lifetime, and none of them were even remotely like this. None of them were Brendon’s.
“Ryan,” Brendon says, and he’s holding him so tight, like Ryan might disappear or change his mind or something, and Ryan can’t blame him, he can’t.
Ryan murmurs, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” over and over again against Brendon’s mouth.
“Ryan, shut up,” Brendon says, but Ryan can feel his lips curving up into a smile, and it’s possible that Ryan’s crying, just a little, but Brendon thankfully doesn’t mention it. Just catches a few stray drops with a thumb, smoothing the skin of his cheek. “I’m sure you can make it up to me.”
Ryan lets out a wet laugh, not taking offense, and in his head there’s William, waggling his brows suggestively, and Ryan says, “Anything, Brendon. Anything. Forever.”
The end.
Gerard moves out to Frank’s. They debate moving Frank in with Gerard and Mikey, but Mikey puts his foot down, because as much as he loves the two of them, it’s a little too much, at least right then. Gerard thinks, after a little while, Mikey will be more amenable to making a home together, the three of them, so he agrees to share Frank’s tiny house for the time being.
Ryan starts his second year of college, renting the same little cottage as the year before, and William has been learning to cook and nearly burns the place down at least once a week. Nick and Tyson stop by all the time, even though Brendon is still keeping his distance, and Greta acquires a gentleman caller, a Mr. Toro, who is older and has amazingly curly hair and treats her like a lady.
Gabe is still an ass, but he does two things that forever endear him to Ryan.
One, he somehow gets Brendon to come around again. It’s different, of course, because things can never stay the same, and they sit on opposite couches and hardly touch, but their conversation volleys are easier than they have been, the others in the room acting as unwitting buffers, and their time together becomes precious to Ryan, something to look forward to, something he remembers with a smile.
And two, Gabe finds his old story - because Gabe is always rifling through things he shouldn’t be - the one that Ryan can barely look at without shame curling in his stomach.
He says, “This is decent, Ross. Bit overdone, but mainly solid,” and Gabe is a writer himself, so he fancies he knows exactly what he’s talking about. He asks, “You write anything else?” and Ryan can honestly say he hasn’t. Not in a long while. He always felt sick about it, even though Gerard had readily forgiven him.
Gabe, of course, brings this up in front of everyone, and Brendon cocks his head and asks, “Why not, Ryan? Isn’t that what you always wanted to do?”
Ryan doesn’t want to say a word about Gerard, he doesn’t, so he just shrugs. “I’m not that good.”
Brendon laughs. “You’re great,” he says, and his face shows he means it. “I was always trying to catch up to you in school, but your essays trumped mine, every time.” He sounds proud, and Ryan bites his lip.
“So I’m clever with words, it’s nothing.”
“You shouldn’t.” Brendon frowns. “I hate it when put yourself down, Ryan.”
“I’m not,” Ryan says, honestly bewildered. He’s not. He’s just more realistic, nowadays.
“Well,” Brendon says matter-of-factly, leaning back in his seat. “I think you could do excellent work, if maybe you just wrote about what you really loved.”
*
Ryan falls into writing again completely by accident, even though he can’t quite shake Brendon’s encouragement, his genuine faith in Ryan, his offhand words of advice.
He’s penning a letter to Spencer about Gabe, and Gabe’s latest entanglement with a bold and fun-loving girl, Vicky - whom Ryan likes, really, and she seems to be an even match for Gabe and his absurd shenanigans - and the letter turns more narrative than anything else, halfway through. Then it turns into a short story, and then a series of stories, The Misadventures of Gabe Saporta, and Gabe is truly amused by it all, says he’ll sign copies for the masses if Ryan ever sends it out for publishing.
They aren’t anything that Ryan is serious about, though. What he wants to do, what he truly wants to write about is his home, the only place he’s ever really belonged.
He wants to write about Pete and Patrick and their legendary love affair. He wants to write about Spencer, his sharp wit and shy smile. He wants to write about Mikey and their Jersey cow, Frank’s years of quiet courting, Gerard’s open, honest face and kind heart. He wants to write about William, his tall, graceful body and his sweet angelic voice, his penchant for pranks and his booming laughter.
There are so many stories he wants to tell, so many lives to flesh out, that he buries himself in words for months and months, throughout the summer and even into the beginning of his third college year.
He tweaks with it for even longer than that; it has to be perfect, because it’s for everyone he loves, for Gerard and Mikey and Spencer and Jon and even Brendon, because Brendon is always so good at pointing out what Ryan’s missing, what’s directly in front of his nose. It has to be just right.
He can’t wait to show Spencer. He can’t wait to show Brendon, and that’s an odd thought, really.
He hasn’t seen a lot of Brendon lately. Not like he’s been seeing much of anyone, holed up in his bedroom with his manuscript. William or Greta sneaks in with food for him, bullies him into bed and sleep, makes sure he gets to all his classes. He’s been lost, so focused on his work.
William tells Ryan that Brendon has been seeing someone, a man, Bob, who he met through Greta and her Mr. Toro. Ryan gets a squirmy feeling in his stomach. Brendon apparently hasn’t been around much because he’s. He’s out courting, and that’s different, because Ryan doesn’t remember Brendon courting anyone before, unless he counts himself. Which he doesn’t, not really, since Ryan had no idea at the time that was what he was doing.
But it’s fine. It’s totally fine and great, actually, because Brendon has found someone! He’s finally over Ryan! Ryan is truly happy for him, especially after he meets Bob, after they’re introduced formally.
Brendon and Ryan stumble upon each other at the nearby park, and Brendon is strolling with a blond man, slightly imposing but with kind eyes. Bob Bryar, his full name, is stiff backed and reserved, but he quirks a smile at Brendon’s enthusiasm, and his grip is firm when he shakes Ryan’s hand.
Later, Brendon stops by the house alone, seems antsy and nervous, hands fluttering, and says that Bob has asked him to marry him. He tells Ryan carefully, watching his face, and Ryan says how much he likes Bob, how nice he seems, and Brendon hugs him, tight and fierce and unexpected, since he hasn’t touched Ryan much in years.
Ryan feels an ache behind his eyes, a pressure, but he hugs Brendon back and doesn’t say a word.
*
It’s Christmas when Ryan’s book is finally published, in the very middle of Ryan’s fourth and final year at college.
He’s cozy in the front parlor of Green Gables, Spencer sitting close beside him. Across the room, Frank and Gerard are holding hands, talking quietly, and Andy, Mikey and Jon are playing a round of cards, and the fire is so warm they’ve all unbuttoned the tops of their shirts, ties pulled loose.
Spencer is marveling over a copy of Ryan’s book, the crisp spine, the fresh paper smell, Ryan’s name embossed in neat block letter type. His fingers trail over the title plate, and he bites his lip at the inscription, because it is surely the best thing he’s ever seen. He reads it aloud, everyone absent listeners, Ryan’s dedication to Gerard and Mikey, the family of my heart, to Spencer, my brother, my soulmate, to William, the steadiest friend I could ever hope for, and to Brendon, with love.
There’s a thick silence, and Gerard sniffs, eyes watery.
And then Andy taps his pipe into his palm and says, “Brendon Urie’s dying,” and Ryan’s heart nearly stops in his chest.
Mikey sends Andy a chastising glance, then says softly, “We didn’t want you to hear it from someone else, Ryan,” because he knows the two of them have a strangely close and complicated relationship.
“He’s. What?” Ryan is sure he didn’t hear that right, couldn’t have, because what they said was impossible.
Spencer grips his arm. “He’s been sick, Ryan,” he says, and the words are all wrong. “They’re not expecting him to make it.”
“Not.” Ryan stumbles to his feet, feeling hollowed out, raw. “He can’t be,” he insists. He can’t be.
Ryan presses a palm over his mouth and flees the house, rounds the back towards the barn to hitch their old horse up to the wagon, to go see for himself, to see how perfectly fine Brendon is.
He hears footsteps behind him and then Gerard’s hands are on the worn leather harnesses, quiet, finishing what Ryan’s shaky fingers were fumbling with.
When he’s done, he wraps his arms around Ryan’s waist and tips his forehead onto the back of Ryan’s neck. Ryan takes a deep breath, shudders.
“I love him,” Ryan says, so low it’s barely a whisper, and he wasn’t aware of how true those words were until they spilled out into the sharp and cold winter air. He’s in love with Brendon. It’s in the twist of his heart, the moth wings brushing the insides of his stomach, the bitter taste in his mouth.
Gerard lightly kisses his nape and says, “I know.” He hadn’t, before. Gerard would never claim to be very observant, to know what’s going on in Ryan’s overactive mind, but Ryan had gone so white, so stunned, pain writ so bright in his eyes, that it was so very hard to miss.
Ryan loves Brendon. Gerard thinks maybe he always has.
*
Over at the Urie’s, Ryan is ushered into Brendon’s bedroom, and the air is hot and stale and Ryan is crying. He’s crying, he can’t stop crying, and Brendon’s a pale husk of himself, too small, glazed eyes too big nestled in the sharp bones of his face.
“Brendon,” Ryan says, and he swipes his palms over his cheeks, trying to get himself under control, to be strong, and Brendon’s eyes flutter close, breathing labored. “No, Brendon, god no, please.” He drops to his knees, clutches a dry hand, fingers so thin they seem brittle. “You can’t leave me, you can’t.”
Brendon doesn’t answer, barely moves at all, and Ryan slumps forward, rolling his forehead along the edge of the bed.
“You can’t leave me, Brendon,” he gasps, words a sticky mess in between sobs. “Brendon, Brendon, I’m so in love with you.”
*
Ryan’s a little embarrassed, afterwards. He’d pretty much broken down in front of the entire Urie clan, and Ryan’s probably imagining it, but he thinks they look at him differently now.
Brendon barely survives, but he survives, and Ryan is suddenly awkward. Awkward, uncomfortable in his skin, hyperaware, and he wonders if Brendon knows, if Brendon is still marrying Bob, if Brendon. If he knows. Ryan almost thinks it would be better if Brendon didn’t, if they could go back to the way things always were between them.
William thinks he’s being stupid. “You’ve already told him,” he points out.
“While he was unconscious and on the brink of death,” Ryan says, and the thought still hurts, squeezes his chest tight, but Brendon’s better now, thank god. Not completely well, but better, and getting stronger everyday, if Spencer’s letters can be trusted - and of course then can, because it’s Spencer.
William shakes his head. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to be Spencer’s best friend for so many years and still be so dumb.”
Ryan’s not exactly sure what William means. “I’m not dumb. I’m just. Cautious.”
“Dumb. Spencer would’ve had Brendon in bed by now,” William says with a cheeky grin, and Ryan blushes hot and resists the urge to protest and fall into William’s trap - Spencer is a gentleman, and would’ve done no such thing.
“Spencer,” William goes on, taunting, “knows what he wants, and ends up with exactly that.”
Ryan sinks down low in his seat, arms crossed over his chest. He tries his best to brood, but William is still grinning at him, and Ryan can never resist William’s grin. “I’ll go visit him,” he capitulates finally, and William leans over and ruffles his hair.
*
When Ryan finally makes it home again, it’s early spring, damp and still slightly chilly. He procrastinates for a day or two, until Mikey’s silent stares drive him nearly insane - they aren’t damning or accusing or even questioning, but they make Ryan squirm inside just the same.
Brendon is outside when Ryan knocks on the Urie’s front door. He’s out back, one of Brendon’s sisters says, pointing the way, and Ryan stuffs his hands in his pockets as he slowly walks around the house.
He stops, just at the edge of the long, sprawling lawn. It isn’t quite a hesitation. He watches as Brendon laughs, hoarse, poised over a dark-haired toddler playing in a pile of dirt, a worn red shawl tucked over his shoulders and upper arms.
Brendon still looks too thin, but there’s color in his cheeks, and his hair is neatly trimmed above his ears. He says, “Your mom’s going to kill me,” but he doesn’t pull the child out of the dirt, just leans down to tug affectionately at tousled pigtails, and then his head comes up at an angle, eyes accidentally catching Ryan’s.
His smile doesn’t fade exactly, doesn’t fall, but Ryan thinks it looks softer, somehow. More intimate.
Ryan walks closer, makes his feet move, prays he doesn’t stumble along the way, and Brendon straightens up completely, tugging the shawl more firmly around him.
“Hi,” he says, and Ryan swallows hard and says back, “Hello.”
“Hi!” the little girl says, tilting her head and grinning a patently Urie grin up at them. She’s got smudges all over her chubby face, her dress surely ruined, legs on either side of a small hole in the lawn, tiny shovel clutched by both hands.
Brendon laughs and says, “My favorite niece, Abby,” with a flourish.
“I’m going to hazard she takes after you,” Ryan says, amused, feeling slightly more at ease.
“Which is why she’s my very favorite.” Brendon nods, and Ryan can’t stop looking at his face, at the fatigue around his eyes, at the genuine joy, though, that is shining out of them.
“How are you?” Ryan asks, because he’s not sure what else to say.
Brendon shrugs. “I’ve been better.”
“Been worse, too,” Ryan says, and his voice is so quiet, the words almost mangled to a stop in his dry throat, that he’s not sure Brendon hears him.
Brendon says, “Yes,” though, watching him in a searching way, like he’s trying to parse all of Ryan’s thoughts, like if he’s just careful enough, he could spot all of Ryan’s secrets, desires, right there on his face.
“Brendon, I. I don’t know if.” Ryan feels stupid, slow, contrary to his mind and heart racing, and Brendon is perhaps the only person he’s never been able to properly articulate himself around, and that makes sense to Ryan now, makes sense in the way that Ryan had never before been thinking straight, thinking clearly, with Brendon so close. He turns his head, stares off towards the clump of lilac bushes, the fence and farmland beyond. “I don’t know what’s between you and Bob,” he ends up saying finally. “I know that you. That you must.” He silently curses his stuttering, but he just can’t make himself say, I know that you must love him, not without breaking his own heart.
“Ryan.” A hand curls over Ryan’s wrist, but he doesn’t turn back, not until Brendon shakes him, says, “Ryan, look at me.”
He’s smiling that same soft smile.
“What?” Ryan asks, and it comes out breathless and Ryan feels a blush start up from his neck.
“It’s always been you,” Brendon says. “It will always be-” His hand slips up, light on his arm, presses into Ryan’s nape. Calloused fingers caress the line of his throat, soft, in direct contrast to his firm, “It will always be you.”
Ryan bites his lip, blinks. “Oh.”
Brendon arches his eyebrows, expectant, amused, maybe a little uncertain, and Ryan clambers over another, “Oh,” and, “Yes, yes, god, for me, too,” and then his hands are in Brendon’s hair, cupping the back of his head and Ryan has had very few kisses in his lifetime, and none of them were even remotely like this. None of them were Brendon’s.
“Ryan,” Brendon says, and he’s holding him so tight, like Ryan might disappear or change his mind or something, and Ryan can’t blame him, he can’t.
Ryan murmurs, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” over and over again against Brendon’s mouth.
“Ryan, shut up,” Brendon says, but Ryan can feel his lips curving up into a smile, and it’s possible that Ryan’s crying, just a little, but Brendon thankfully doesn’t mention it. Just catches a few stray drops with a thumb, smoothing the skin of his cheek. “I’m sure you can make it up to me.”
Ryan lets out a wet laugh, not taking offense, and in his head there’s William, waggling his brows suggestively, and Ryan says, “Anything, Brendon. Anything. Forever.”
The end.