Whether It's Wednesday Or A Saturday Night [2/2]
part one
Spencer has huge black sunglasses perched on his nose, and his hair is a mess, the lines around his mouth tight, skin pale, and he pretty much looks tremendously hungover.
They had promised to meet Brendon at Bryar’s Music, though, so they’d picked up some milkshakes, and now they’re hiding out in the magazine aisle, surreptitiously watching Jon and his friends dick around on some instruments in the back, basically exactly like every other Saturday.
The Butcher is leaning on the front counter, and Ryan nudges Spencer’s arm. He says, “Go ask if you can play with them.”
Spencer snorts. “Don’t think so.”
Ryan frowns, because Spencer isn’t going to get anywhere with Jon if they never interact with each other. So maybe Ryan presses his fingers into the necklace through the thin material of his shirt, and maybe he wishes for Spencer to have a little fucking confidence already. Spencer is amazing. He doesn’t know why Spencer can’t see that.
Spencer’s head suddenly snaps up, and he pushes his sunglasses up off his face, pinning his hair back at weird angles, and he looks sort of adorably mussed, but Ryan isn’t going to tell him that. Or point out that he’d grabbed Ryan’s t-shirt that morning in his stupor, and that it’s sort of tight around his shoulders, riding up a little at his belly. He’s got a half-grown beard shading his jaw, an almost-blond mustache - and Schechter’s gonna make him shave it all off any day now, but Ryan secretly thinks it looks awesome, and is slightly jealous, ‘cause he can barely grow peach fuzz on his own face - and his appearance is not at all up to Spencer’s usual standards. If Spencer ever figures this all out, he’s going to kill Ryan.
But right then, Spencer just calmly places his magazine back on the shelf and makes his way towards the rear of the store.
Brendon glances up from his spot on the floor, knees up around his ears, the latest Rolling Stone spread out in front of him. “Hey, what’s Spence-”
“Shut up,” Ryan says, then crooks a finger and Brendon scrambles to his feet, eyes big and curious as they slip around the corner.
They watch Spencer nod at Jon and Sisky, watch him slide behind one of the full kits set up, palming the Butcher’s abandoned drumsticks, and he just starts fucking playing, and it’s so unbelievably awesome.
Ryan’s heart is pounding almost as loud as the drums in his ears, and Jon’s face, Jon’s expression, melts from stunned to pleased to near ecstatic between one beat and the next. By the time they’re done, the last twang of Tomrad’s guitar stretching out in the air above their heads, Jon’s grinning at Spencer like he hung the fucking moon and then took Jon for a ride to see it up close.
Spencer’s breathing hard, a little sweaty.
Tomrad says, “Spencer motherfucking Smith, ladies and gentlemen.”
Spencer swipes his hair back off his face - he’d lost his sunglasses from his immensely awesome playing; Ryan’s maybe only a little biased - and beams.
That’s the one thing about the beard, Ryan thinks. Spencer’s beam isn’t nearly as potent.
Jon doesn’t seem to notice the muted wattage, though. He just says, “Okay, wow, you need to be near me smiling, like, every second of every day.”
Brendon mutters, “Finally, geez,” under his breath.
Spencer looks dazed, but his grin doesn’t falter, not even a tiny little bit.
*
So Ryan doesn’t exactly abuse his powers, but he gets some free pie out of Ray - Ray’s notoriously tightfisted with his pie - and then they end up trooping back to Spencer’s house to watch Circle of Friends, even though Brendon and Spencer hate that movie.
“With a passion,” Brendon says, but he pops it into the DVD player and Ryan just smiles behind his hand.
It’s a little mean, maybe, but he’s not hurting anyone. Spencer talks about Jon through most of it, anyway.
“Did you see when he held my hand?” Spencer asks. “He’s got, like, calluses all over his fingers. And he takes pictures and he likes cats and pizza and that shirt I wore last week with the rainbow zebra.” He looks especially pleased by the last one, pink cheeked.
Brendon nods. “Hang on tight, Spence. JWalk’s a keeper.”
Spencer looks like he’s trying not to smile too hard, but he fails completely. “I know.”
Ryan thinks being magic is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, if it helps make Spencer that happy. And if things actually go Ryan’s way for once, well. He’s not going to complain.
*
Ryan had made plans to meet Gerard in the auditorium on Sunday, and when Ryan shows up that afternoon he finds Gerard slumped behind the garden set, the faux stone wall.
“Do you ever feel,” Ryan says, settling down next to him, “that you’re always in the wrong place?”
Gerard arches an eyebrow at him, needle pausing over a satin rosette he’s inexplicably sewing onto a red vest. “Huh?”
“Like whatever you’re doing now,” Ryan pointedly eyes Gerard’s fingers, “isn’t what you were actually meant to do?”
“I don’t know.” Gerard shrugs. “Destiny is kind of what you make it.” He gives Ryan a tiny sliver of a smile, like he’s poking fun at himself but it isn’t particularly funny. “I could probably be anything I wanted to be, right, but I’d have to move out of my mom’s basement.”
Ryan chews on his thumbnail, bends his knees and stares at the tiny crisscross weave of his pants. He thinks maybe Gerard’s problem is motivation. Gerard needs a goal, but he needs a reason to go for that goal, and Gerard desperately needs to move out of his mom’s basement, Christ.
He wonders if he can wish for vague things, like world peace or Gerard’s happiness, since he’s not exactly sure of the details that’ll be involved in fixing Gerard.
Gerard smoothes the material under his hands, then lifts it up and says, “Okay, here, let me see the fit.”
Ryan blinks at him. “The fit?”
“Get up,” Gerard prompts, gaining his own feet. “Try this on for me.”
Ryan gets up, pulls off his jacket and neckerchief and then slides the vest on over his t-shirt. He feels a little ridiculous, but he buttons it up.
Gerard hmmms, says, “Gapes a little in the back, you’re a skinny little fuck,” and then murmurs almost to himself, “Definitely needs more roses, like,” he cuts the side of his hand over Ryan’s heart, “all down here.”
Ryan looks down at himself. It’s kind of nice, actually. “What’s this for?” he asks, because he doesn’t remember any rose vests in the costume sketches, and there wouldn’t be any reason to fit it to Ryan anyway.
“Fun,” Gerard says. He smiles, pushing his dark hair behind his ears.
There has to be a way, Ryan thinks, to make that smile permanent.
*
The way Ryan figures it works is that he wants something to happen, and it just happens, and everything is centered around the necklace Pete gave him.
“It’s like a wand, dude, only not a wand, because a wand is fucking conspicuous, right?”
“And you’re a witch, too?” Ryan asks doubtfully. He’s in Pete’s kitchen again, but this time he eats some cookies. It’s not like things can get any weirder. Pete’s sort of in his lap. Ryan’s not exactly sure how that happened.
Pete squirms a little, throws an arm over Ryan’s shoulders and settles sideways on his knees. “You’re fucking bony, kid,” Pete mutters, and then, “I’m kind of a witch. I’ve never had much power so, like, keep that thing with my blessing or whatever.” He gestures at the necklace. “Patrick’ll kill me if I try any more magic by myself, anyway.”
Ryan nods, presses his fingers into the charm, and it’s just a whim, really, a quick thread of thought, because Mike has been really nice to him and friendly and Ryan can’t help but think how great it’d be if there was more, if he’d look at him the same soft way he looks at Keltie. He almost can’t believe he’s actually going to ask this, but, “So, is there any kind of love spell I could try?”
Two hours later, Pete’s covered in paprika and he says, “Wait, wait, I know what we did wrong this time,” and Ryan’s ready to give up.
It’s a stupid idea anyhow.
Pete takes a bite of deviled egg and nods. “Yeah, okay, I don’t think we were supposed to hard boil the eggs.”
Ryan slumps down, bangs his forehead on the kitchen table. “Okay, never mind,” he says. “This is so dumb.”
“Good.”
Ryan tips his head to the side, looks up at Pete across the table from him. “What?”
Pete beams. “Oh, come on, love spell? Don’t mess with the heart, dude. It fucks your mind after a while.” He rubs his hands together and waggles his eyebrows. “Now, we can make you popular. That’d fucking rock.”
*
Monday starts off strange and only gets weirder.
A pack of girls stop him on his way up the front steps, admiring his pants, matching vest, scarf, “Oh my god, how do you get your hair to do that,” and Ryan tries to smile at them, but he thinks it comes off more as a baring of teeth. Not like they notice.
Nor does McCracken notice his flinch when he picks Ryan first for kickball teams in gym - Ryan likes being last, because that way they’re usually already losing spectacularly by the time he gets the ball.
By lunch, Ryan’s jittery from all the freaking touching and he’s used to Brendon, for god’s sake.
Spencer eyes him from across the table. “Why’re you so grumpy?” he asks.
“I’ve had four girls and three guys ask me to the formal,” Ryan says.
“That’s. Good?”
“Spencer,” Ryan says flatly, “Travis made me give him a high five. Gaylor is wearing my scarf,” Gaylor, who never comes to school - and sure there’d been a mocking edge to his, “Hey, hey, look at me, dudes, I’m Ryan Ross,” but still - “Mr. Lacey smiled at me, and I’m not going to the formal, Spencer, because we never go to dances.” They always rent movies with Brendon on school dance nights, because dances are just excuses for everyone to act like asses and listen to crappy music.
“Uh.” Spencer drops his gaze to the table, body tensed up. “Jon might have asked me. I maybe already said yes.”
Ryan barely pauses. He just says, “Well, okay, yeah,” because Jon asking Spencer out is the best news he’s heard all day.
Spencer’s shoulders relax and he grins stupidly at Ryan. “So you have to come, too,” he says.
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Maybe.”
“I’ve decided,” Brendon says grandly, dropping a stack of textbooks onto the table with a loud thwack, “to embrace my inner unicorn.”
There’s a brief mutual silent appreciation for Brendon’s utter weirdness.
Then Spencer echoes, “Embrace your inner unicorn.”
“Mikey, you know Mikey, Gerard’s brother,” Brendon says, and Ryan vaguely remembers Mikey Way, but Ryan’s pretty sure he graduated already, “he’s, like, trying to talk Gerard out of the tuba closet-”
“What?”
Brendon waves a hand. “He’s fine. Mikey says he’s fine, but Mikey totally told me about this unicorn shit, right? Like, deep down everyone has a tiny unicorn, this pure love part of your soul, and VickyT’s wounding me with her rejection, guys, so I need to find some peace and move on.”
Ryan furrows his brow. He’s not sure any of that made sense. Also, he’s kind of still hung up on the Gerard thing. “Gerard’s in the tuba closet?”
“Focus, Ryan Ross! I need to find an appropriate outlet for my sexual affection before my inner unicorn gets, like, its horn lopped off, because unicorns can’t live without their horns,” Brendon says, nodding. “A lesson well learned from Tom Cruise.”
Spencer is just staring at Brendon with huge eyes. He’s well past any kind of mocking, it seems.
“Okay,” Ryan says to Spencer, “you figure out what the hell Brendon’s talking about, and I’m gonna go find Gerard.”
*
The band room kind of freaks Ryan out when it’s empty. All the lonely, waiting instruments and echoing acoustics and the giant Fighting Badger painted on the back wall.
He sneaks in, spots a dark-haired guy with clunky glasses sitting on the floor to the left, just outside what must be the tuba closet, and he figures that’s Mikey. He looks familiar; his face is sort of Gerard-like, only thinner.
“Gerard?” Ryan asks softly.
Mikey stares up at him for a moment, then hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s okay,” he says.
Ryan really wonders about Gerard’s past if hiding in a high school tuba closet is considered okay. He arches his eyebrows, but Mikey shakes his head.
“No, really, he gets like this sometimes. He’s thinking.” He pats the floor next to him.
Ryan pushes his bag into an empty chair and joins Mikey by the door. “Ryan,” he says, and Mikey nods.
“Mikey.”
Ryan nods back, settles his shoulders against the wall. It’s a little awkward. Ryan’s never been very good with strangers, and Mikey seems content to just sit there, staring down at his fingers linked in his lap.
Gerard’s costume sketchpad is at Mikey’s feet, so Ryan reaches out, slides it over and flips it open.
Mikey slants him a look, but doesn’t say anything. It’s not like the sketches are private, Ryan’s seen them all anyway. Towards the back, there’s a drawing of Ryan’s rose vest - and Ryan’s not going to say it’s over the top, exactly, but there’s just, like, an awful lot of roses on it - and then a study of hands on the fret of a guitar. Ryan traces the lines with his finger, then flips the page, the same hands but from a longer view, the body around them horizontal, sort of arched off a stage, neck bared and throat tense and mouth open and eyes closed.
“Who’s this?” Ryan asks.
Mikey looks startled. “Frank,” he says, studying the sketch, then he turns his head and yells through the door, “Hey, Gee, since when do you have an inappropriate crush on my best friend?”
There’s a muffled, “I’ve got an inappropriate crush on your mom,” and Ryan. Doesn’t want to go there.
Ryan can work with a crush, though. Obviously, he can’t do anything about Frank, because he doesn’t know him, and Pete’s warned him about meddling with love, but he can maybe get Gerard out there. He can give him a chance; keep him from hiding in tuba closets and his mom’s basement.
He says, “Hey, Gerard,” and Gerard’s voice sounds slightly closer on, “Ryan?”
“What’s up?” Ryan asks.
A pause. “Nothing,” he says finally. Then the door cracks and slowly swings inward, so just Gerard’s face is visible. He looks like maybe he’s been crying, a thin line of red around his eyes, but his cheeks are dry. “I think I know what I want to do with my life.”
*
Ryan gets quiet and withdrawn when he’s nervous, so he has no idea what’s set him off babbling with Mike. He can’t seem to shut up.
“So he wants to save lives, right, but I have no idea how. It’s just. I think he’s had a rough time, and he doesn’t want anyone else to have to go through that, you know?”
They’re sitting at the dining room table, books spread out, and Ryan can’t stop talking about Gerard. Mike’s grinning at him, though, and he nods his head.
“I get that,” Mike says.
Ryan grins back, then clears his throat and ducks his head a little and says, “So, um, existential-”
“You have really pretty eyes,” Mike cuts in.
Ryan jerks his head up. Mike’s scooted his chair a little closer, Ryan thinks.
“Um.” Ryan has okay eyes. They’re nothing special, as far as eyes go. “Thanks.”
“You.” Mike pauses, leans a little into Ryan’s personal space. He reaches a hand up, hooks his fingers over the scarf around Ryan’s neck, tugs a little. “How are you real?” Mike says, so soft, almost a whisper, and Ryan licks his lips.
“Mike-”
“I’m gonna kiss you, okay?” Mike asks, and he waits for Ryan’s nod - and Ryan nods, of course Ryan nods, because he’s not stupid, and he’s kind of wanted to kiss Mike for forever - and then he tugs even harder on Ryan’s scarf, so hard the knot slips, exposing his throat all the way down to his low henley collar.
Ryan swallows hard and his hands are shaking, curled into themselves on the tabletop, and it’s not like Ryan’s never kissed anyone before. He’s even had sex, thank you very much - although it’d been once, and with Brendon, and kind of horribly awkward and messy and traumatizing, and he’s just lucky Brendon’s such a complete spaz or it could have meant the end of everything, even their friendship - but he pushes that out of his mind, because he’s getting way ahead of himself here. A kiss. Right.
The angle is awkward. They’re side by side, and Ryan’s barely turned towards Mike, and Mike has to grab his chin, has to tip his mouth up to Ryan’s, and then Ryan licks his lips again and Mike makes this little sound in the back of his throat.
Ryan’s the one who ends up pushing forward, mouth slightly open, lower lip sliding down to catch the indent just above Mike’s chin before Mike opens up, moves his hand around to the back of Ryan’s neck and pulls him closer. Mike’s lips are chapped and rough, breath warm, and then-
“So don’t mind me.”
Ryan jerks back, fingers curling into Mike’s wrist. He breathes out, harsh, heart skittering.
Mike just drops his hands, gives Gabe a loose smile. “Gabe.”
Gabe arches an eyebrow. “Mike. Are you corrupting my little brother?”
“Christ, Gabe,” Ryan says with a groan, but Mike laughs, says, “I’m trying to. You’re kind of cramping my style, dude.”
“Well, then.” Gabe gives him a salute and a smarmy grin. “Carry on,” he says, and Ryan thinks maybe he’s going to die, he’s so embarrassed, but at least Gabe spins on his heel and leaves. Small blessings.
He palms his face, feels the heat burning into his fingers.
“So,” Mike says.
Ryan peeks out from between his fingers.
Mike moves closer again, asks, “So, where were we?” and Ryan finds himself leaning away, finds himself putting his hands on Mike’s chest to brace him back.
“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” Ryan asks, then bites his lip, watching Mike’s eyes. He thinks he should’ve asked that before, but he also kind of wants to swallow the words back down his throat, because he kind of knows the answer to that already, and hi, kissing. The kissing part was pretty awesome.
Mike shrugs, gaze sliding past Ryan’s shoulder. He says, “Not really,” and Ryan knows that’s a yes. A pretty shitty yes, too, and Ryan had been sure Mike was better than that.
“Maybe you should go,” Ryan says.
It’s almost funny, Mike’s face. The way his eyes go wide and stunned, the way his skin washes pale, then flushes in from his ears. “But. I’m not lying, Ryan,” he says.
Ryan nods. “Okay.” He doesn’t want to argue about it.
“No, I mean. Keltie’s a good friend,” he says, and Brendon’s words come back to Ryan, and Ryan can’t believe Brendon had called that.
“Really?” Ryan asks, skeptical. Brendon is hardly ever right about things. He’s sort of socially backward.
“Look, you’re just.” Mike pauses, looks down at their books. “You’re just different.” He flashes him a quick grin. “Chris really likes you.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. Gaylor’s a giant douche, but Ryan kind of likes him, too.
Mike clears his throat. He starts flipping his books closed, shuffling his papers together, stuffs the whole mess into his book bag. Finally, he gets to his feet and says, “Come with me to the formal on Friday.”
Ryan maybe hesitates a little, but he says, “All right, yes. I’ll go with you.”
*
Ryan has no idea what’s wrong, but he’s not happy. He thinks it has something to do with the fawning group of freshmen he’s got following him around and the way Mr. Lacey’s eyes light up every time he catches sight of him.
Pete had been totally wrong. This popularity business is just plain creepy.
“All right,” Brendon says, sinking to sit on the stage in between Ryan and Spencer, “I’ve got a list.”
“A list?” Spencer asks.
Brendon waves a notebook in front of Spencer’s face. “Yep. A list of perspective dates, Spencer Smith.”
Ryan leans over, catches Spencer’s name near the top. “Seriously?”
Spencer rips the pad out of Brendon’s hands. “Okay, no,” he says, then snaps his fingers. “Give me a pen.”
“It’s a good list,” Brendon grumbles, fishing a pencil out of his bag.
“Seriously, no.” Spencer shakes his head, crossing out his name, then starts down the rest of the list. “And no. No, no-Greta Salpeter?”
Brendon shrugs. “She’s-”
“Dating the entire jazz band,” Spencer says, and Ryan doesn’t think that’s strictly true, just some sort of rumor that no one seems to be able to prove or disprove, given that none of them actually date other people.
“What about-”
“No. No way, here,” Spencer says, handing back the notebook.
“You’ve crossed out to the whole thing,” Brendon says, pouting.
“Not true.”
Ryan hooks his chin over Brendon’s shoulder. “The Butcher?”
“He’s called the Butcher,” Brendon says, grin blooming over his face. “How is that not awesome, right?”
“Pretty cool,” Ryan agrees.
“Butcher, Andy, hey, Andy,” Brendon calls out, scrambling to his feet and bounding across the stage.
Ryan can see the Butcher’s bemused smile as Brendon hooks an arm around his neck. “Spencer Smith, matchmaker,” he says.
Spencer smiles. “Jon mentioned something.” He pokes Ryan’s side. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with you?”
“I’ve started a craze,” Ryan deadpans.
“Yeah.” Spencer bobs his head. “I think half the school is wearing scarves now, and the headband is making a comeback, apparently. I’m pretty sure that’s your fault.”
“Whatever,” Ryan says. It’s practical. It keeps his hair out of his eyes. That isn’t the point, though. The point is that Ryan had spotted a sophomore that morning who was wearing his exact same shirt and exact same pants, and the shoes were fucking familiar, too, so Ryan’s thinking about investing in some blinds. “Mike’s taking me to the formal.”
“Mike Kennerty?” Spencer asks, and thanks for sounding so incredulous, Spencer, geez. Like it’s so hard to believe. Like Mike wanting to-okay. Okay, it’s weird, yeah.
It’s weird, because a popularity spell might not be as damning as a love spell, but it still fucks with your mind. There’s every possibility that Mike actually doesn’t like him at all, and Ryan’s stomach sort of bottoms out.
*
Pete’s shop is closed, so Ryan leans on the buzzer. It’s a good fifteen minutes before he hears the bolt slide and the soft snick of the door opening, and Pete’s a little disheveled, but he doesn’t look unhappy to see him. He just grins, says, “Ryan, dude, come on in,” and takes a step back.
Patrick shuffles down the steps just as Ryan moves into the front room. He’s got pajama bottoms on, and Ryan checks his watch again, because he’s pretty sure it’s only, like, five at night.
“So what’s up?” Pete asks. He clicks on a lamp. Ryan’s thinks it’s new, and it’s got multi-colored glass panels on the shade, throwing weak light onto the bookshelf behind it, the dark blue and brown aubusson rug covering the floor. The whole shop is just really sort of depressing.
“How am I supposed to know who likes me for me?” Ryan asks, and Pete’s brows shoot up.
“Well. Normally, people who like other people will engage in what I like to call friendly conversation. There may be smiling involved, or, like, shoulder pats-”
“Pete. Pete, I’m.” Ryan shakes his head. “The spell, Pete, okay?”
“Wait, what spell?” Patrick asks, arms crossed over his chest. “Pete?”
Pete waves him off. “Just a tiny little popularity spell, it’s nothing. It’s less than nothing. Barely a spell, even-”
“They’re calling my hair style The Ryan,” Ryan says.
“Huh.” Pete cocks his head. “Really? I mean, it’s alright. It isn’t anything spec-”
“I don’t think that’s the point, Pete,” Patrick says, and he looks like maybe he wants to punch Pete, and Ryan certainly isn’t going to stop him. Patrick just drops into a chair, though, with a huge, heavy sigh.
“So I think I maybe want it to go away,” Ryan says. “The popularity spell, I mean.”
Pete doesn’t seem surprised. “Okay. Okay, give me back the necklace then.”
“What?”
“Something like this always snowballs, so it’s tough to just stop it, right?” Pete shrugs. “Let go of the necklace, and everything goes back to normal.”
“But. But, I haven’t helped Gerard yet,” Ryan says, clutching the charm with tight fingers.
“The guy who wants to save lives?” Pete nods, opens his mouth to add something, but Patrick cuts him off.
“You don’t have to be magic to be a good friend, Ryan.”
“But it helps,” Pete says.
“No,” Patrick says sternly, giving Pete a glare. “No, it doesn’t.”
Ryan bounces his gaze between Patrick and Pete, watching them make increasingly pissy faces at each other. Or rather, Patrick is making pissy faces, and Pete’s just alternately widening his eyes and scrunching his face up in a snarl, and then he reaches out and pokes Patrick in the stomach until Patrick slaps his hand away and calls him an asshole. Patrick’s smiling, though.
Ryan, of course, doesn’t really want to give up the necklace. Not yet, at least, and it’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid, but he’s kind of relieved that the popularity spell isn’t something they can just reverse, because, hey, he tried! He tried, and now he’s stuck with Mike whether it’s real or not, and maybe that’s okay for now.
“Look,” Patrick says. “Are any of your friends, any of the people who hung around you before the spell-are any of them treating you differently?”
Ryan lifts a hand, rubs the back of his head. Friends, no. He shrugs. Spencer and Brendon have been the same as always.
“Then it shouldn’t matter.”
“It shouldn’t,” Pete says, nodding, “but maybe it does.”
*
“Here,” Gabe says, handing Ryan a grape popsicle. “You look like you need this.”
Ryan looks down at the half-melted sticky mess, then blinks at Gabe.
Gabe cocks a finger at him and says, “Popsicles and kittens, man. Unstoppable forces of cheer.”
Gabe’s been off ever since he turned human again. He’s dropped most of his friends, stopped going to lacrosse practice, and started devoting his time to, “Saving the children with rocking dance music, Ross. The future is doomed, and we’re throwing the party.”
Victoria and Bill seem to just go along with his whims, and he’s spending an awful lot of time with Travis and Travis’s stash of questionable substances, and there’s something going on in the garage. Something that requires a lot of noise and a giant poster of Steve Perry.
Whatever, though, at least he’s decent to Ryan now.
Gabe pulls him under his freakishly long arm and tells him not to upset the cobra with his mope-ish vibes. “Be happy, dude,” he says to Ryan. “Live for the moment, before the moment eats you.”
Gabe seems to be full of warped platitudes. It’s almost endearing.
Ryan’s finding it a little hard to be happy when he’s got everything he ever wanted, though, and that’s just pathetic, right?
*
“Is this really necessary?” Spencer asks.
“Yes,” Gerard says absently. He’s caging Spencer’s waist with his spread hands. “Too tight?”
Spencer coughs. “No.”
Ryan’s kneeling at Spencer’s feet, pinning up the hem. They’re using parts of an old costume, since they don’t have the funds or the time to start from scratch. There’s no boning, but the blouse is fitted around his stomach, with a thick band sitting high from the skirt.
Gerard cocks his head, and Ryan sits back on his heels, taking in Spencer’s pink cheeks.
“Okay, we’re good for now,” Gerard says. “You can change.”
“Thank god,” Spencer mutters, and then Jon’s behind him, pulling him back and then hefting him over his shoulder, and Spencer kicks out and yelps, “What the fuck, Walker.”
“Spencer, Spencer, you’re so pretty,” Jon says, a little out of breath, because Spencer’s kind of bigger than Jon. Taller, at least. “I’m stealing you away.”
“Jon, put me-put me down,” Spencer shouts, but he’s laughing now, and Jon starts staggering and falls into Sisky, who actually goes down hard and without much of a fight.
Spencer’s sprawled on top of Jon, laughing into his neck, and Jon’s smile is huge, and Sisky’s making little weak kitten noises. It’s pretty funny.
Gerard clucks his tongue, then giggles, shakes his head. “You’re next, Ryan.”
“Next for what?” They still have to fit the Butcher and Audrey.
Gerard reaches for his satchel and pulls out a box. “I finished this last night,” he says, and oh-so-carefully tugs off the lid, pushes tissue paper aside to reveal-the most ridiculous piece of clothing Ryan has ever laid eyes on. It’s awesome.
“The roses I added really make it, you know?” Gerard’s eyes are twinkling.
“I love it,” Ryan says, and he really, really does.
The vest is tiny, the explosion of rosettes is huge, and then Gerard holds up a red sash and says, “You can tie this around your waist. It matches.”
*
Brendon’s bouncing on Ryan’s bed. “You look perfect,” he says, and Brendon’s wearing some sort of hideous flowered shirt with a matching ascot, so Ryan’s pretty sure he’s telling the truth.
The doorbell rings and Brendon hops to his feet. “Okay, so I guess I’m running late,” Brendon says, heading for the hallway. “I still have to pick up Andy.”
Ryan’s frozen in front of his mirror. He hears Brendon let Mike in, hears him slip out and start his van - the whir-whir-cough-sputter, because Brendon’s purple van is ancient, but at least he has wheels - and Ryan curls his hands into fists. The necklace is inside his shirt, heavy and warm against his skin. He can do this. Everything’ll be fine.
“Ryan?” Mike calls up.
Ryan takes a deep breath, grabs his wallet and keys. “Coming,” he says, and then he’s, like, staring down at Mike at the bottom of the steps.
Mike’s wearing a suit jacket and a button down open over a tee and jeans. He looks casual and hot and Ryan fidgets self-consciously with the lowest poofy rose.
“Wow.” Mike grins. “That’s a pretty kick-ass vest, Ry.”
Ryan feels his cheeks heat up. He can’t tell if Mike’s making fun of him or not, but he doesn’t think so. He’s just really glad Gabe left hours ago to set up for the dance. “Ready?” he asks, and Mike nods.
Gaylor is waiting for them out in Mike’s car. He’s sprawled across the backseat, and he basically doesn’t stop laughing the entire ride to school. “Ross,” he gasps. “Seriously, fuck, you’re my goddamn hero.”
Ryan purses his lips, but Mike’s smiling this totally amused smile, sending him little sideways glances, so it’s hard to stay pissed off.
Gaylor’s down to intermittent giggling by the time they spill out of the car and into the school parking lot, and Ryan notices he’s still wearing Ryan’s giraffe scarf - and Ryan kind of wants it back, but now he’s afraid of all the places it’s been, because with Gaylor you never know.
Gerard’s sitting on the curb as they walk up to the double gymnasium doors. He’s smoking, though he’s obviously trying to be sneaky about it, and he waves at them with a little smile. “I’m here to tell you that alcohol’s verboten, and if you want to lambada, take it off school grounds.”
Gaylor says, “Yes, sir,” and Gerard laughs.
He pokes Ryan’s shoe with the toe of his own. “Have fun,” Gerard says, and Ryan still isn’t exactly sure how to help him, but Gerard seems kind of happy, right at that moment, so Ryan thinks maybe it’ll all be okay.
*
The gym is lit with paper lanterns and littered with multi-colored balloons, and Ryan spots Travis at the DJ table, iPod cued up with a light dance tune, bobbing his head as Gabe struts the stage, and Ryan can’t hear what he’s saying, but he looks like he’s giving Bill and Victoria some sort of pep talk.
Gabe had apparently created a band out of thin air in literal minutes, just calling up a few guitarists he knows, recruiting Bill and Nate and VickyT, and they play mainly Journey covers, but they’re kind of good. Extremely entertaining, at least.
Schechter’s letting them headline the formal because they offered to do it for free. Ryan’s sure he didn’t know about their limited repertoire at the time, but it’s not like anyone minds. It’s Gabe. The entire school body would probably follow him over a cliff. They’ll party their asses off to Journey if they have to.
When Gabe paces to a stop at the front of the stage, he spins his hat around backwards and waits for Travis to flick off the stereo system.
“I’m not here to save the world,” Gabe shouts into the mic, and the room gets quiet, and Ryan admires the way he’s got everyone hooked, “I’m just here to make sure we all go out rocking,” and then VickyT turns her keytar up, and Bill and Gabe trade off verses on Separate Ways.
*
Some kid that Ryan has never seen before in his entire life, he swears, says, “Hi, Ryan,” and sort of looks up at him with cartoon-wide eyes.
“Um. Hi?” Ryan gives him an uncomfortable little wave and follows Mike through the crowd.
Three lacrosse players bump his fist, one gives him a bear hug that lifts him off his feet, five girls make him promise to dance with them later, and Mr. Nolan practically has to drag Mr. Lacey over to the other side of the room after he offers to get Ryan, “Punch? Cookies? Wet nap?”
Gaylor drapes an arm around Ryan’s neck and near-yells into his ear, “Motherfucking Ross, hook me up with that chick in Gabe’s band.”
Ryan scrunches his forehead. “Victoria?”
“VickyT, yeah, shit, those legs, dude, I want to fucking live on her tits, right?”
Ryan’s pretty sure if Victoria ever hears Gaylor talking about her like that he’ll end up with a bloody mouth and a permanent limp. The thought’s really, really hilarious. “Go for it,” he says. “I’ll put in a good word.”
Gaylor shakes him before letting go, and then Mike catches his eye and says, “So you’re popular tonight.”
Ryan jerks a little, fumbles over, “Um, not. I don’t think I’d call it popular,” but Mike still has that same amused look on his face, like everything Ryan says or does is so damn cute. That’s actually starting to get irritating.
“Seriously,” Mike says to Ryan, and he links their hands together. “I get that you’re great and all, but I’m gonna get jealous pretty soon.”
“Are you.” Ryan looks down at their hands, fingers threaded, and something tightens in his chest so hard he has trouble taking in a breath, gets lightheaded. “Fuck,” he whispers.
“What?”
“I’m.” Ryan looks around wildly. Tomrad and Jon have Spencer out on the dance floor, Brendon’s grinning, talking nonstop at the Butcher, some dark-haired girl has her tongue down Sisky’s throat, and the rest of the room is, like, staring dreamily at Ryan, and Ryan is freaking the fuck out. “I’m,” Ryan starts again. “I need some air. I’ll be right back.”
*
The necklace is fucking choking him.
That’s what it is.
“So I’m supposed to say that anyone who leaves the dance isn’t allowed back in,” Gerard says, leaning into the wall next to him.
Ryan barely manages a nod in his direction. He unfastens the top few buttons of his shirt.
“You okay?” Gerard asks.
Ryan takes deep breaths, in and out, stares out into the parking lot, concentrates on the spill of lamplight shiny on top of Gabe’s beloved Le Baron. “Say,” Ryan starts slowly, “there’s this guy.”
“What’s his name?”
Ryan blinks. “Um. Joe? There’s this guy, Joe, and one day he realizes he’s,” Ryan flaps a hand, “really awesome at guitar. He’s, like, the pied piper of guitarists.”
Gerard says, “Okay.”
“And all of a sudden,” Ryan goes on, “everyone wants to be near him, be his friend, especially this other guy, this guy that Joe really likes a lot, but has previously never even, like, noticed him, right?”
“Who’s-”
“Andy. Joe and Andy, okay?” Ryan’s warming up to his story now and he turns, one shoulder against the wall, so he can look straight into Gerard’s face. “Andy’s great. Andy’s popular and cool and mellow and stuff, and it’s. He’s around Joe all the time now, and that’s awesome, Joe loves that, except he can’t tell if it’s his killer guitar playing skills that have tempted Andy into being his friend, or-”
“Or if he’s Joe’s friend for real.” Gerard nods. “But, I mean, how much can guitar playing change a guy?”
“It doesn’t, that’s the point. It doesn’t change him, but it changes how everyone sees him. And he can stop playing guitar, he can give it up, have everything go back the way it was, but he’s afraid that, well.” Ryan half-shrugs.
Gerard chews on his bottom lip, narrows his eyes. “Okay, but if it doesn’t actually change Joe, then wouldn’t Andy still be fine with him, even without the guitar? Because if he’s spending all this time with Joe, he’d have to think Joe was pretty cool anyway.”
“But.” Ryan grimaces. It makes sense if they’re talking about fucking guitars, and not about actual magical influences.
Gerard fishes a battered pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. He says, “I guess the point is that Joe’s not gonna be happy unless he puts down the guitar and finds out the truth, no matter what it is.”
Ryan sighs, swings back around to slump into the wall. “What if he really likes playing the guitar?” he asks softly.
Gerard’s quiet for a few minutes. He taps out a cigarette, lights up, and Ryan watches the smoke curl up and away as he exhales, watches it dissipate into the night. Finally, Gerard says, “Who says he can’t pick it back up again?”
*
The absolute worst that could happen, Ryan thinks, is that he could get his heart broken.
It’s pretty fucking daunting.
He slips back into the gym and sees Keltie standing with Mike and Gaylor, sees Ritter leaning into her, his other arm wrapped around Wheeler’s waist. Keltie’s laughing, and she’s still smiling when she spots Ryan, so Ryan steels himself and walks over, nods hello.
“Ryan, hey,” Keltie says.
Mike gives him a worried look, asks, “Everything good?”
Ryan says, “Yeah,” and, “I’m fine,” and hopes that Keltie doesn’t decide to punch him. He hooks a thumb underneath the necklace chain, pulls it up and out of his shirt collar, whips it over his head. “Hold this a minute,” he says, pressing it into Keltie’s hands.
He doesn’t know how it’s supposed to happen, but he figures it’s, like, a clean break. Like the atmosphere in the room’ll shift, and everyone and their dog will forget who the hell Ryan is - they never really knew before, right?
Mike’s still watching him, and Ryan doesn’t give himself enough time to see his expression change, figures he’s only got one chance at this, and he puts his entire heart into kissing him. Really kissing him, mouth hard on Mike’s, and it’s kind of funny, the way Mike’s surprise unbalances him, makes him flail a little, held steady by Ryan’s hands on his face.
Ryan doesn’t expect Mike to relax into it. He’s hoping, yeah, but he’s anticipating being pushed back, getting decked by Keltie, getting yelled out of the room.
But it’s sort of like the gym melts away. Like there’s nothing there but Ryan and Mike and the roaring in Ryan’s head, heart pounding so hard he can feel it throbbing in his fingertips.
And Mike kisses him back.
*
Ryan won’t remember much, afterwards. He’ll remember pulling away, panting. He’ll remember Mike’s mouth, wet, the way it curled up just the slightest sly bit, the sort of delighted twinkle in his eyes.
He won’t remember Gabe narrating - “And that’s Mike’s hand on Ryan’s ass, people, I think this counts as the lambada” - but that’s probably a good thing.
*
Keltie hands him his necklace back with a weird twist to her mouth, but she doesn’t seem upset at all, so that’s a plus. “Nice show,” she says, and smirks a little.
Gaylor says, “You’re a strange dude, Ross,” and taps Ryan’s forehead with his middle finger. “Mentally fucked. It’s awesome.”
Mike shoves Gaylor back and asks Ryan, “What was that?”
“Um. A hello?” The problem is that Ryan never has any idea what Mike’s thinking. He’s got a default setting of amiable, but he could be, like, seething or something on the inside-who knows?
“Okay.” Mike cocks his head, mouth quirked up. “Seriously, Ryan, no one else in the world.”
“You aren’t, uh,” Ryan waves a hand, “feeling any different are you?” The spell’s gone, and they’re pretty much still all hanging around him with varying expressions of tolerance and amusement.
“Oh, he’s feeling different,” Ritter says, and Mike says, “Fuck off, Ty,” but he’s smiling, and he rolls his eyes a little.
“You should dance with me,” Mike says to Ryan.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan sees Ritter make a face and start breaking it down to Wheel in the Sky while Wheeler just fucking loses it, doubles over laughing.
“You should dance with me far away from these shitheads,” Mike amends.
Ryan feels sort of fuzzy warm and lightheaded and awesome. It’s kind of the best night ever.
And then Gabe pulls Gerard up on stage, and says, “I caught this dude singing fucking Justin Timberlake in the bathroom, and there’s nothing sexier, ladies and gentlemen, than the ability to rock JT.”
Gabe loops an arm around Gerard’s shoulders, whispers something in his ear, and Gerard laughs-shaking his head emphatically, but laughing, grin so big.
Gabe says, “Oh yes,” into the mic, smirking at Gerard, even though no one could hear what he’d told him before, and then Gerard leans over and he starts-he starts singing. Singing his motherfucking heart out, and it’s like the whole room catches fire.
And, okay, sure, it’s Journey, and it’s Any Way You Want It, but Ryan can see where this is going. He just hopes Gerard can see it, too.
Spencer has huge black sunglasses perched on his nose, and his hair is a mess, the lines around his mouth tight, skin pale, and he pretty much looks tremendously hungover.
They had promised to meet Brendon at Bryar’s Music, though, so they’d picked up some milkshakes, and now they’re hiding out in the magazine aisle, surreptitiously watching Jon and his friends dick around on some instruments in the back, basically exactly like every other Saturday.
The Butcher is leaning on the front counter, and Ryan nudges Spencer’s arm. He says, “Go ask if you can play with them.”
Spencer snorts. “Don’t think so.”
Ryan frowns, because Spencer isn’t going to get anywhere with Jon if they never interact with each other. So maybe Ryan presses his fingers into the necklace through the thin material of his shirt, and maybe he wishes for Spencer to have a little fucking confidence already. Spencer is amazing. He doesn’t know why Spencer can’t see that.
Spencer’s head suddenly snaps up, and he pushes his sunglasses up off his face, pinning his hair back at weird angles, and he looks sort of adorably mussed, but Ryan isn’t going to tell him that. Or point out that he’d grabbed Ryan’s t-shirt that morning in his stupor, and that it’s sort of tight around his shoulders, riding up a little at his belly. He’s got a half-grown beard shading his jaw, an almost-blond mustache - and Schechter’s gonna make him shave it all off any day now, but Ryan secretly thinks it looks awesome, and is slightly jealous, ‘cause he can barely grow peach fuzz on his own face - and his appearance is not at all up to Spencer’s usual standards. If Spencer ever figures this all out, he’s going to kill Ryan.
But right then, Spencer just calmly places his magazine back on the shelf and makes his way towards the rear of the store.
Brendon glances up from his spot on the floor, knees up around his ears, the latest Rolling Stone spread out in front of him. “Hey, what’s Spence-”
“Shut up,” Ryan says, then crooks a finger and Brendon scrambles to his feet, eyes big and curious as they slip around the corner.
They watch Spencer nod at Jon and Sisky, watch him slide behind one of the full kits set up, palming the Butcher’s abandoned drumsticks, and he just starts fucking playing, and it’s so unbelievably awesome.
Ryan’s heart is pounding almost as loud as the drums in his ears, and Jon’s face, Jon’s expression, melts from stunned to pleased to near ecstatic between one beat and the next. By the time they’re done, the last twang of Tomrad’s guitar stretching out in the air above their heads, Jon’s grinning at Spencer like he hung the fucking moon and then took Jon for a ride to see it up close.
Spencer’s breathing hard, a little sweaty.
Tomrad says, “Spencer motherfucking Smith, ladies and gentlemen.”
Spencer swipes his hair back off his face - he’d lost his sunglasses from his immensely awesome playing; Ryan’s maybe only a little biased - and beams.
That’s the one thing about the beard, Ryan thinks. Spencer’s beam isn’t nearly as potent.
Jon doesn’t seem to notice the muted wattage, though. He just says, “Okay, wow, you need to be near me smiling, like, every second of every day.”
Brendon mutters, “Finally, geez,” under his breath.
Spencer looks dazed, but his grin doesn’t falter, not even a tiny little bit.
*
So Ryan doesn’t exactly abuse his powers, but he gets some free pie out of Ray - Ray’s notoriously tightfisted with his pie - and then they end up trooping back to Spencer’s house to watch Circle of Friends, even though Brendon and Spencer hate that movie.
“With a passion,” Brendon says, but he pops it into the DVD player and Ryan just smiles behind his hand.
It’s a little mean, maybe, but he’s not hurting anyone. Spencer talks about Jon through most of it, anyway.
“Did you see when he held my hand?” Spencer asks. “He’s got, like, calluses all over his fingers. And he takes pictures and he likes cats and pizza and that shirt I wore last week with the rainbow zebra.” He looks especially pleased by the last one, pink cheeked.
Brendon nods. “Hang on tight, Spence. JWalk’s a keeper.”
Spencer looks like he’s trying not to smile too hard, but he fails completely. “I know.”
Ryan thinks being magic is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, if it helps make Spencer that happy. And if things actually go Ryan’s way for once, well. He’s not going to complain.
*
Ryan had made plans to meet Gerard in the auditorium on Sunday, and when Ryan shows up that afternoon he finds Gerard slumped behind the garden set, the faux stone wall.
“Do you ever feel,” Ryan says, settling down next to him, “that you’re always in the wrong place?”
Gerard arches an eyebrow at him, needle pausing over a satin rosette he’s inexplicably sewing onto a red vest. “Huh?”
“Like whatever you’re doing now,” Ryan pointedly eyes Gerard’s fingers, “isn’t what you were actually meant to do?”
“I don’t know.” Gerard shrugs. “Destiny is kind of what you make it.” He gives Ryan a tiny sliver of a smile, like he’s poking fun at himself but it isn’t particularly funny. “I could probably be anything I wanted to be, right, but I’d have to move out of my mom’s basement.”
Ryan chews on his thumbnail, bends his knees and stares at the tiny crisscross weave of his pants. He thinks maybe Gerard’s problem is motivation. Gerard needs a goal, but he needs a reason to go for that goal, and Gerard desperately needs to move out of his mom’s basement, Christ.
He wonders if he can wish for vague things, like world peace or Gerard’s happiness, since he’s not exactly sure of the details that’ll be involved in fixing Gerard.
Gerard smoothes the material under his hands, then lifts it up and says, “Okay, here, let me see the fit.”
Ryan blinks at him. “The fit?”
“Get up,” Gerard prompts, gaining his own feet. “Try this on for me.”
Ryan gets up, pulls off his jacket and neckerchief and then slides the vest on over his t-shirt. He feels a little ridiculous, but he buttons it up.
Gerard hmmms, says, “Gapes a little in the back, you’re a skinny little fuck,” and then murmurs almost to himself, “Definitely needs more roses, like,” he cuts the side of his hand over Ryan’s heart, “all down here.”
Ryan looks down at himself. It’s kind of nice, actually. “What’s this for?” he asks, because he doesn’t remember any rose vests in the costume sketches, and there wouldn’t be any reason to fit it to Ryan anyway.
“Fun,” Gerard says. He smiles, pushing his dark hair behind his ears.
There has to be a way, Ryan thinks, to make that smile permanent.
*
The way Ryan figures it works is that he wants something to happen, and it just happens, and everything is centered around the necklace Pete gave him.
“It’s like a wand, dude, only not a wand, because a wand is fucking conspicuous, right?”
“And you’re a witch, too?” Ryan asks doubtfully. He’s in Pete’s kitchen again, but this time he eats some cookies. It’s not like things can get any weirder. Pete’s sort of in his lap. Ryan’s not exactly sure how that happened.
Pete squirms a little, throws an arm over Ryan’s shoulders and settles sideways on his knees. “You’re fucking bony, kid,” Pete mutters, and then, “I’m kind of a witch. I’ve never had much power so, like, keep that thing with my blessing or whatever.” He gestures at the necklace. “Patrick’ll kill me if I try any more magic by myself, anyway.”
Ryan nods, presses his fingers into the charm, and it’s just a whim, really, a quick thread of thought, because Mike has been really nice to him and friendly and Ryan can’t help but think how great it’d be if there was more, if he’d look at him the same soft way he looks at Keltie. He almost can’t believe he’s actually going to ask this, but, “So, is there any kind of love spell I could try?”
Two hours later, Pete’s covered in paprika and he says, “Wait, wait, I know what we did wrong this time,” and Ryan’s ready to give up.
It’s a stupid idea anyhow.
Pete takes a bite of deviled egg and nods. “Yeah, okay, I don’t think we were supposed to hard boil the eggs.”
Ryan slumps down, bangs his forehead on the kitchen table. “Okay, never mind,” he says. “This is so dumb.”
“Good.”
Ryan tips his head to the side, looks up at Pete across the table from him. “What?”
Pete beams. “Oh, come on, love spell? Don’t mess with the heart, dude. It fucks your mind after a while.” He rubs his hands together and waggles his eyebrows. “Now, we can make you popular. That’d fucking rock.”
*
Monday starts off strange and only gets weirder.
A pack of girls stop him on his way up the front steps, admiring his pants, matching vest, scarf, “Oh my god, how do you get your hair to do that,” and Ryan tries to smile at them, but he thinks it comes off more as a baring of teeth. Not like they notice.
Nor does McCracken notice his flinch when he picks Ryan first for kickball teams in gym - Ryan likes being last, because that way they’re usually already losing spectacularly by the time he gets the ball.
By lunch, Ryan’s jittery from all the freaking touching and he’s used to Brendon, for god’s sake.
Spencer eyes him from across the table. “Why’re you so grumpy?” he asks.
“I’ve had four girls and three guys ask me to the formal,” Ryan says.
“That’s. Good?”
“Spencer,” Ryan says flatly, “Travis made me give him a high five. Gaylor is wearing my scarf,” Gaylor, who never comes to school - and sure there’d been a mocking edge to his, “Hey, hey, look at me, dudes, I’m Ryan Ross,” but still - “Mr. Lacey smiled at me, and I’m not going to the formal, Spencer, because we never go to dances.” They always rent movies with Brendon on school dance nights, because dances are just excuses for everyone to act like asses and listen to crappy music.
“Uh.” Spencer drops his gaze to the table, body tensed up. “Jon might have asked me. I maybe already said yes.”
Ryan barely pauses. He just says, “Well, okay, yeah,” because Jon asking Spencer out is the best news he’s heard all day.
Spencer’s shoulders relax and he grins stupidly at Ryan. “So you have to come, too,” he says.
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Maybe.”
“I’ve decided,” Brendon says grandly, dropping a stack of textbooks onto the table with a loud thwack, “to embrace my inner unicorn.”
There’s a brief mutual silent appreciation for Brendon’s utter weirdness.
Then Spencer echoes, “Embrace your inner unicorn.”
“Mikey, you know Mikey, Gerard’s brother,” Brendon says, and Ryan vaguely remembers Mikey Way, but Ryan’s pretty sure he graduated already, “he’s, like, trying to talk Gerard out of the tuba closet-”
“What?”
Brendon waves a hand. “He’s fine. Mikey says he’s fine, but Mikey totally told me about this unicorn shit, right? Like, deep down everyone has a tiny unicorn, this pure love part of your soul, and VickyT’s wounding me with her rejection, guys, so I need to find some peace and move on.”
Ryan furrows his brow. He’s not sure any of that made sense. Also, he’s kind of still hung up on the Gerard thing. “Gerard’s in the tuba closet?”
“Focus, Ryan Ross! I need to find an appropriate outlet for my sexual affection before my inner unicorn gets, like, its horn lopped off, because unicorns can’t live without their horns,” Brendon says, nodding. “A lesson well learned from Tom Cruise.”
Spencer is just staring at Brendon with huge eyes. He’s well past any kind of mocking, it seems.
“Okay,” Ryan says to Spencer, “you figure out what the hell Brendon’s talking about, and I’m gonna go find Gerard.”
*
The band room kind of freaks Ryan out when it’s empty. All the lonely, waiting instruments and echoing acoustics and the giant Fighting Badger painted on the back wall.
He sneaks in, spots a dark-haired guy with clunky glasses sitting on the floor to the left, just outside what must be the tuba closet, and he figures that’s Mikey. He looks familiar; his face is sort of Gerard-like, only thinner.
“Gerard?” Ryan asks softly.
Mikey stares up at him for a moment, then hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s okay,” he says.
Ryan really wonders about Gerard’s past if hiding in a high school tuba closet is considered okay. He arches his eyebrows, but Mikey shakes his head.
“No, really, he gets like this sometimes. He’s thinking.” He pats the floor next to him.
Ryan pushes his bag into an empty chair and joins Mikey by the door. “Ryan,” he says, and Mikey nods.
“Mikey.”
Ryan nods back, settles his shoulders against the wall. It’s a little awkward. Ryan’s never been very good with strangers, and Mikey seems content to just sit there, staring down at his fingers linked in his lap.
Gerard’s costume sketchpad is at Mikey’s feet, so Ryan reaches out, slides it over and flips it open.
Mikey slants him a look, but doesn’t say anything. It’s not like the sketches are private, Ryan’s seen them all anyway. Towards the back, there’s a drawing of Ryan’s rose vest - and Ryan’s not going to say it’s over the top, exactly, but there’s just, like, an awful lot of roses on it - and then a study of hands on the fret of a guitar. Ryan traces the lines with his finger, then flips the page, the same hands but from a longer view, the body around them horizontal, sort of arched off a stage, neck bared and throat tense and mouth open and eyes closed.
“Who’s this?” Ryan asks.
Mikey looks startled. “Frank,” he says, studying the sketch, then he turns his head and yells through the door, “Hey, Gee, since when do you have an inappropriate crush on my best friend?”
There’s a muffled, “I’ve got an inappropriate crush on your mom,” and Ryan. Doesn’t want to go there.
Ryan can work with a crush, though. Obviously, he can’t do anything about Frank, because he doesn’t know him, and Pete’s warned him about meddling with love, but he can maybe get Gerard out there. He can give him a chance; keep him from hiding in tuba closets and his mom’s basement.
He says, “Hey, Gerard,” and Gerard’s voice sounds slightly closer on, “Ryan?”
“What’s up?” Ryan asks.
A pause. “Nothing,” he says finally. Then the door cracks and slowly swings inward, so just Gerard’s face is visible. He looks like maybe he’s been crying, a thin line of red around his eyes, but his cheeks are dry. “I think I know what I want to do with my life.”
*
Ryan gets quiet and withdrawn when he’s nervous, so he has no idea what’s set him off babbling with Mike. He can’t seem to shut up.
“So he wants to save lives, right, but I have no idea how. It’s just. I think he’s had a rough time, and he doesn’t want anyone else to have to go through that, you know?”
They’re sitting at the dining room table, books spread out, and Ryan can’t stop talking about Gerard. Mike’s grinning at him, though, and he nods his head.
“I get that,” Mike says.
Ryan grins back, then clears his throat and ducks his head a little and says, “So, um, existential-”
“You have really pretty eyes,” Mike cuts in.
Ryan jerks his head up. Mike’s scooted his chair a little closer, Ryan thinks.
“Um.” Ryan has okay eyes. They’re nothing special, as far as eyes go. “Thanks.”
“You.” Mike pauses, leans a little into Ryan’s personal space. He reaches a hand up, hooks his fingers over the scarf around Ryan’s neck, tugs a little. “How are you real?” Mike says, so soft, almost a whisper, and Ryan licks his lips.
“Mike-”
“I’m gonna kiss you, okay?” Mike asks, and he waits for Ryan’s nod - and Ryan nods, of course Ryan nods, because he’s not stupid, and he’s kind of wanted to kiss Mike for forever - and then he tugs even harder on Ryan’s scarf, so hard the knot slips, exposing his throat all the way down to his low henley collar.
Ryan swallows hard and his hands are shaking, curled into themselves on the tabletop, and it’s not like Ryan’s never kissed anyone before. He’s even had sex, thank you very much - although it’d been once, and with Brendon, and kind of horribly awkward and messy and traumatizing, and he’s just lucky Brendon’s such a complete spaz or it could have meant the end of everything, even their friendship - but he pushes that out of his mind, because he’s getting way ahead of himself here. A kiss. Right.
The angle is awkward. They’re side by side, and Ryan’s barely turned towards Mike, and Mike has to grab his chin, has to tip his mouth up to Ryan’s, and then Ryan licks his lips again and Mike makes this little sound in the back of his throat.
Ryan’s the one who ends up pushing forward, mouth slightly open, lower lip sliding down to catch the indent just above Mike’s chin before Mike opens up, moves his hand around to the back of Ryan’s neck and pulls him closer. Mike’s lips are chapped and rough, breath warm, and then-
“So don’t mind me.”
Ryan jerks back, fingers curling into Mike’s wrist. He breathes out, harsh, heart skittering.
Mike just drops his hands, gives Gabe a loose smile. “Gabe.”
Gabe arches an eyebrow. “Mike. Are you corrupting my little brother?”
“Christ, Gabe,” Ryan says with a groan, but Mike laughs, says, “I’m trying to. You’re kind of cramping my style, dude.”
“Well, then.” Gabe gives him a salute and a smarmy grin. “Carry on,” he says, and Ryan thinks maybe he’s going to die, he’s so embarrassed, but at least Gabe spins on his heel and leaves. Small blessings.
He palms his face, feels the heat burning into his fingers.
“So,” Mike says.
Ryan peeks out from between his fingers.
Mike moves closer again, asks, “So, where were we?” and Ryan finds himself leaning away, finds himself putting his hands on Mike’s chest to brace him back.
“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” Ryan asks, then bites his lip, watching Mike’s eyes. He thinks he should’ve asked that before, but he also kind of wants to swallow the words back down his throat, because he kind of knows the answer to that already, and hi, kissing. The kissing part was pretty awesome.
Mike shrugs, gaze sliding past Ryan’s shoulder. He says, “Not really,” and Ryan knows that’s a yes. A pretty shitty yes, too, and Ryan had been sure Mike was better than that.
“Maybe you should go,” Ryan says.
It’s almost funny, Mike’s face. The way his eyes go wide and stunned, the way his skin washes pale, then flushes in from his ears. “But. I’m not lying, Ryan,” he says.
Ryan nods. “Okay.” He doesn’t want to argue about it.
“No, I mean. Keltie’s a good friend,” he says, and Brendon’s words come back to Ryan, and Ryan can’t believe Brendon had called that.
“Really?” Ryan asks, skeptical. Brendon is hardly ever right about things. He’s sort of socially backward.
“Look, you’re just.” Mike pauses, looks down at their books. “You’re just different.” He flashes him a quick grin. “Chris really likes you.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. Gaylor’s a giant douche, but Ryan kind of likes him, too.
Mike clears his throat. He starts flipping his books closed, shuffling his papers together, stuffs the whole mess into his book bag. Finally, he gets to his feet and says, “Come with me to the formal on Friday.”
Ryan maybe hesitates a little, but he says, “All right, yes. I’ll go with you.”
*
Ryan has no idea what’s wrong, but he’s not happy. He thinks it has something to do with the fawning group of freshmen he’s got following him around and the way Mr. Lacey’s eyes light up every time he catches sight of him.
Pete had been totally wrong. This popularity business is just plain creepy.
“All right,” Brendon says, sinking to sit on the stage in between Ryan and Spencer, “I’ve got a list.”
“A list?” Spencer asks.
Brendon waves a notebook in front of Spencer’s face. “Yep. A list of perspective dates, Spencer Smith.”
Ryan leans over, catches Spencer’s name near the top. “Seriously?”
Spencer rips the pad out of Brendon’s hands. “Okay, no,” he says, then snaps his fingers. “Give me a pen.”
“It’s a good list,” Brendon grumbles, fishing a pencil out of his bag.
“Seriously, no.” Spencer shakes his head, crossing out his name, then starts down the rest of the list. “And no. No, no-Greta Salpeter?”
Brendon shrugs. “She’s-”
“Dating the entire jazz band,” Spencer says, and Ryan doesn’t think that’s strictly true, just some sort of rumor that no one seems to be able to prove or disprove, given that none of them actually date other people.
“What about-”
“No. No way, here,” Spencer says, handing back the notebook.
“You’ve crossed out to the whole thing,” Brendon says, pouting.
“Not true.”
Ryan hooks his chin over Brendon’s shoulder. “The Butcher?”
“He’s called the Butcher,” Brendon says, grin blooming over his face. “How is that not awesome, right?”
“Pretty cool,” Ryan agrees.
“Butcher, Andy, hey, Andy,” Brendon calls out, scrambling to his feet and bounding across the stage.
Ryan can see the Butcher’s bemused smile as Brendon hooks an arm around his neck. “Spencer Smith, matchmaker,” he says.
Spencer smiles. “Jon mentioned something.” He pokes Ryan’s side. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with you?”
“I’ve started a craze,” Ryan deadpans.
“Yeah.” Spencer bobs his head. “I think half the school is wearing scarves now, and the headband is making a comeback, apparently. I’m pretty sure that’s your fault.”
“Whatever,” Ryan says. It’s practical. It keeps his hair out of his eyes. That isn’t the point, though. The point is that Ryan had spotted a sophomore that morning who was wearing his exact same shirt and exact same pants, and the shoes were fucking familiar, too, so Ryan’s thinking about investing in some blinds. “Mike’s taking me to the formal.”
“Mike Kennerty?” Spencer asks, and thanks for sounding so incredulous, Spencer, geez. Like it’s so hard to believe. Like Mike wanting to-okay. Okay, it’s weird, yeah.
It’s weird, because a popularity spell might not be as damning as a love spell, but it still fucks with your mind. There’s every possibility that Mike actually doesn’t like him at all, and Ryan’s stomach sort of bottoms out.
*
Pete’s shop is closed, so Ryan leans on the buzzer. It’s a good fifteen minutes before he hears the bolt slide and the soft snick of the door opening, and Pete’s a little disheveled, but he doesn’t look unhappy to see him. He just grins, says, “Ryan, dude, come on in,” and takes a step back.
Patrick shuffles down the steps just as Ryan moves into the front room. He’s got pajama bottoms on, and Ryan checks his watch again, because he’s pretty sure it’s only, like, five at night.
“So what’s up?” Pete asks. He clicks on a lamp. Ryan’s thinks it’s new, and it’s got multi-colored glass panels on the shade, throwing weak light onto the bookshelf behind it, the dark blue and brown aubusson rug covering the floor. The whole shop is just really sort of depressing.
“How am I supposed to know who likes me for me?” Ryan asks, and Pete’s brows shoot up.
“Well. Normally, people who like other people will engage in what I like to call friendly conversation. There may be smiling involved, or, like, shoulder pats-”
“Pete. Pete, I’m.” Ryan shakes his head. “The spell, Pete, okay?”
“Wait, what spell?” Patrick asks, arms crossed over his chest. “Pete?”
Pete waves him off. “Just a tiny little popularity spell, it’s nothing. It’s less than nothing. Barely a spell, even-”
“They’re calling my hair style The Ryan,” Ryan says.
“Huh.” Pete cocks his head. “Really? I mean, it’s alright. It isn’t anything spec-”
“I don’t think that’s the point, Pete,” Patrick says, and he looks like maybe he wants to punch Pete, and Ryan certainly isn’t going to stop him. Patrick just drops into a chair, though, with a huge, heavy sigh.
“So I think I maybe want it to go away,” Ryan says. “The popularity spell, I mean.”
Pete doesn’t seem surprised. “Okay. Okay, give me back the necklace then.”
“What?”
“Something like this always snowballs, so it’s tough to just stop it, right?” Pete shrugs. “Let go of the necklace, and everything goes back to normal.”
“But. But, I haven’t helped Gerard yet,” Ryan says, clutching the charm with tight fingers.
“The guy who wants to save lives?” Pete nods, opens his mouth to add something, but Patrick cuts him off.
“You don’t have to be magic to be a good friend, Ryan.”
“But it helps,” Pete says.
“No,” Patrick says sternly, giving Pete a glare. “No, it doesn’t.”
Ryan bounces his gaze between Patrick and Pete, watching them make increasingly pissy faces at each other. Or rather, Patrick is making pissy faces, and Pete’s just alternately widening his eyes and scrunching his face up in a snarl, and then he reaches out and pokes Patrick in the stomach until Patrick slaps his hand away and calls him an asshole. Patrick’s smiling, though.
Ryan, of course, doesn’t really want to give up the necklace. Not yet, at least, and it’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid, but he’s kind of relieved that the popularity spell isn’t something they can just reverse, because, hey, he tried! He tried, and now he’s stuck with Mike whether it’s real or not, and maybe that’s okay for now.
“Look,” Patrick says. “Are any of your friends, any of the people who hung around you before the spell-are any of them treating you differently?”
Ryan lifts a hand, rubs the back of his head. Friends, no. He shrugs. Spencer and Brendon have been the same as always.
“Then it shouldn’t matter.”
“It shouldn’t,” Pete says, nodding, “but maybe it does.”
*
“Here,” Gabe says, handing Ryan a grape popsicle. “You look like you need this.”
Ryan looks down at the half-melted sticky mess, then blinks at Gabe.
Gabe cocks a finger at him and says, “Popsicles and kittens, man. Unstoppable forces of cheer.”
Gabe’s been off ever since he turned human again. He’s dropped most of his friends, stopped going to lacrosse practice, and started devoting his time to, “Saving the children with rocking dance music, Ross. The future is doomed, and we’re throwing the party.”
Victoria and Bill seem to just go along with his whims, and he’s spending an awful lot of time with Travis and Travis’s stash of questionable substances, and there’s something going on in the garage. Something that requires a lot of noise and a giant poster of Steve Perry.
Whatever, though, at least he’s decent to Ryan now.
Gabe pulls him under his freakishly long arm and tells him not to upset the cobra with his mope-ish vibes. “Be happy, dude,” he says to Ryan. “Live for the moment, before the moment eats you.”
Gabe seems to be full of warped platitudes. It’s almost endearing.
Ryan’s finding it a little hard to be happy when he’s got everything he ever wanted, though, and that’s just pathetic, right?
*
“Is this really necessary?” Spencer asks.
“Yes,” Gerard says absently. He’s caging Spencer’s waist with his spread hands. “Too tight?”
Spencer coughs. “No.”
Ryan’s kneeling at Spencer’s feet, pinning up the hem. They’re using parts of an old costume, since they don’t have the funds or the time to start from scratch. There’s no boning, but the blouse is fitted around his stomach, with a thick band sitting high from the skirt.
Gerard cocks his head, and Ryan sits back on his heels, taking in Spencer’s pink cheeks.
“Okay, we’re good for now,” Gerard says. “You can change.”
“Thank god,” Spencer mutters, and then Jon’s behind him, pulling him back and then hefting him over his shoulder, and Spencer kicks out and yelps, “What the fuck, Walker.”
“Spencer, Spencer, you’re so pretty,” Jon says, a little out of breath, because Spencer’s kind of bigger than Jon. Taller, at least. “I’m stealing you away.”
“Jon, put me-put me down,” Spencer shouts, but he’s laughing now, and Jon starts staggering and falls into Sisky, who actually goes down hard and without much of a fight.
Spencer’s sprawled on top of Jon, laughing into his neck, and Jon’s smile is huge, and Sisky’s making little weak kitten noises. It’s pretty funny.
Gerard clucks his tongue, then giggles, shakes his head. “You’re next, Ryan.”
“Next for what?” They still have to fit the Butcher and Audrey.
Gerard reaches for his satchel and pulls out a box. “I finished this last night,” he says, and oh-so-carefully tugs off the lid, pushes tissue paper aside to reveal-the most ridiculous piece of clothing Ryan has ever laid eyes on. It’s awesome.
“The roses I added really make it, you know?” Gerard’s eyes are twinkling.
“I love it,” Ryan says, and he really, really does.
The vest is tiny, the explosion of rosettes is huge, and then Gerard holds up a red sash and says, “You can tie this around your waist. It matches.”
*
Brendon’s bouncing on Ryan’s bed. “You look perfect,” he says, and Brendon’s wearing some sort of hideous flowered shirt with a matching ascot, so Ryan’s pretty sure he’s telling the truth.
The doorbell rings and Brendon hops to his feet. “Okay, so I guess I’m running late,” Brendon says, heading for the hallway. “I still have to pick up Andy.”
Ryan’s frozen in front of his mirror. He hears Brendon let Mike in, hears him slip out and start his van - the whir-whir-cough-sputter, because Brendon’s purple van is ancient, but at least he has wheels - and Ryan curls his hands into fists. The necklace is inside his shirt, heavy and warm against his skin. He can do this. Everything’ll be fine.
“Ryan?” Mike calls up.
Ryan takes a deep breath, grabs his wallet and keys. “Coming,” he says, and then he’s, like, staring down at Mike at the bottom of the steps.
Mike’s wearing a suit jacket and a button down open over a tee and jeans. He looks casual and hot and Ryan fidgets self-consciously with the lowest poofy rose.
“Wow.” Mike grins. “That’s a pretty kick-ass vest, Ry.”
Ryan feels his cheeks heat up. He can’t tell if Mike’s making fun of him or not, but he doesn’t think so. He’s just really glad Gabe left hours ago to set up for the dance. “Ready?” he asks, and Mike nods.
Gaylor is waiting for them out in Mike’s car. He’s sprawled across the backseat, and he basically doesn’t stop laughing the entire ride to school. “Ross,” he gasps. “Seriously, fuck, you’re my goddamn hero.”
Ryan purses his lips, but Mike’s smiling this totally amused smile, sending him little sideways glances, so it’s hard to stay pissed off.
Gaylor’s down to intermittent giggling by the time they spill out of the car and into the school parking lot, and Ryan notices he’s still wearing Ryan’s giraffe scarf - and Ryan kind of wants it back, but now he’s afraid of all the places it’s been, because with Gaylor you never know.
Gerard’s sitting on the curb as they walk up to the double gymnasium doors. He’s smoking, though he’s obviously trying to be sneaky about it, and he waves at them with a little smile. “I’m here to tell you that alcohol’s verboten, and if you want to lambada, take it off school grounds.”
Gaylor says, “Yes, sir,” and Gerard laughs.
He pokes Ryan’s shoe with the toe of his own. “Have fun,” Gerard says, and Ryan still isn’t exactly sure how to help him, but Gerard seems kind of happy, right at that moment, so Ryan thinks maybe it’ll all be okay.
*
The gym is lit with paper lanterns and littered with multi-colored balloons, and Ryan spots Travis at the DJ table, iPod cued up with a light dance tune, bobbing his head as Gabe struts the stage, and Ryan can’t hear what he’s saying, but he looks like he’s giving Bill and Victoria some sort of pep talk.
Gabe had apparently created a band out of thin air in literal minutes, just calling up a few guitarists he knows, recruiting Bill and Nate and VickyT, and they play mainly Journey covers, but they’re kind of good. Extremely entertaining, at least.
Schechter’s letting them headline the formal because they offered to do it for free. Ryan’s sure he didn’t know about their limited repertoire at the time, but it’s not like anyone minds. It’s Gabe. The entire school body would probably follow him over a cliff. They’ll party their asses off to Journey if they have to.
When Gabe paces to a stop at the front of the stage, he spins his hat around backwards and waits for Travis to flick off the stereo system.
“I’m not here to save the world,” Gabe shouts into the mic, and the room gets quiet, and Ryan admires the way he’s got everyone hooked, “I’m just here to make sure we all go out rocking,” and then VickyT turns her keytar up, and Bill and Gabe trade off verses on Separate Ways.
*
Some kid that Ryan has never seen before in his entire life, he swears, says, “Hi, Ryan,” and sort of looks up at him with cartoon-wide eyes.
“Um. Hi?” Ryan gives him an uncomfortable little wave and follows Mike through the crowd.
Three lacrosse players bump his fist, one gives him a bear hug that lifts him off his feet, five girls make him promise to dance with them later, and Mr. Nolan practically has to drag Mr. Lacey over to the other side of the room after he offers to get Ryan, “Punch? Cookies? Wet nap?”
Gaylor drapes an arm around Ryan’s neck and near-yells into his ear, “Motherfucking Ross, hook me up with that chick in Gabe’s band.”
Ryan scrunches his forehead. “Victoria?”
“VickyT, yeah, shit, those legs, dude, I want to fucking live on her tits, right?”
Ryan’s pretty sure if Victoria ever hears Gaylor talking about her like that he’ll end up with a bloody mouth and a permanent limp. The thought’s really, really hilarious. “Go for it,” he says. “I’ll put in a good word.”
Gaylor shakes him before letting go, and then Mike catches his eye and says, “So you’re popular tonight.”
Ryan jerks a little, fumbles over, “Um, not. I don’t think I’d call it popular,” but Mike still has that same amused look on his face, like everything Ryan says or does is so damn cute. That’s actually starting to get irritating.
“Seriously,” Mike says to Ryan, and he links their hands together. “I get that you’re great and all, but I’m gonna get jealous pretty soon.”
“Are you.” Ryan looks down at their hands, fingers threaded, and something tightens in his chest so hard he has trouble taking in a breath, gets lightheaded. “Fuck,” he whispers.
“What?”
“I’m.” Ryan looks around wildly. Tomrad and Jon have Spencer out on the dance floor, Brendon’s grinning, talking nonstop at the Butcher, some dark-haired girl has her tongue down Sisky’s throat, and the rest of the room is, like, staring dreamily at Ryan, and Ryan is freaking the fuck out. “I’m,” Ryan starts again. “I need some air. I’ll be right back.”
*
The necklace is fucking choking him.
That’s what it is.
“So I’m supposed to say that anyone who leaves the dance isn’t allowed back in,” Gerard says, leaning into the wall next to him.
Ryan barely manages a nod in his direction. He unfastens the top few buttons of his shirt.
“You okay?” Gerard asks.
Ryan takes deep breaths, in and out, stares out into the parking lot, concentrates on the spill of lamplight shiny on top of Gabe’s beloved Le Baron. “Say,” Ryan starts slowly, “there’s this guy.”
“What’s his name?”
Ryan blinks. “Um. Joe? There’s this guy, Joe, and one day he realizes he’s,” Ryan flaps a hand, “really awesome at guitar. He’s, like, the pied piper of guitarists.”
Gerard says, “Okay.”
“And all of a sudden,” Ryan goes on, “everyone wants to be near him, be his friend, especially this other guy, this guy that Joe really likes a lot, but has previously never even, like, noticed him, right?”
“Who’s-”
“Andy. Joe and Andy, okay?” Ryan’s warming up to his story now and he turns, one shoulder against the wall, so he can look straight into Gerard’s face. “Andy’s great. Andy’s popular and cool and mellow and stuff, and it’s. He’s around Joe all the time now, and that’s awesome, Joe loves that, except he can’t tell if it’s his killer guitar playing skills that have tempted Andy into being his friend, or-”
“Or if he’s Joe’s friend for real.” Gerard nods. “But, I mean, how much can guitar playing change a guy?”
“It doesn’t, that’s the point. It doesn’t change him, but it changes how everyone sees him. And he can stop playing guitar, he can give it up, have everything go back the way it was, but he’s afraid that, well.” Ryan half-shrugs.
Gerard chews on his bottom lip, narrows his eyes. “Okay, but if it doesn’t actually change Joe, then wouldn’t Andy still be fine with him, even without the guitar? Because if he’s spending all this time with Joe, he’d have to think Joe was pretty cool anyway.”
“But.” Ryan grimaces. It makes sense if they’re talking about fucking guitars, and not about actual magical influences.
Gerard fishes a battered pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket. He says, “I guess the point is that Joe’s not gonna be happy unless he puts down the guitar and finds out the truth, no matter what it is.”
Ryan sighs, swings back around to slump into the wall. “What if he really likes playing the guitar?” he asks softly.
Gerard’s quiet for a few minutes. He taps out a cigarette, lights up, and Ryan watches the smoke curl up and away as he exhales, watches it dissipate into the night. Finally, Gerard says, “Who says he can’t pick it back up again?”
*
The absolute worst that could happen, Ryan thinks, is that he could get his heart broken.
It’s pretty fucking daunting.
He slips back into the gym and sees Keltie standing with Mike and Gaylor, sees Ritter leaning into her, his other arm wrapped around Wheeler’s waist. Keltie’s laughing, and she’s still smiling when she spots Ryan, so Ryan steels himself and walks over, nods hello.
“Ryan, hey,” Keltie says.
Mike gives him a worried look, asks, “Everything good?”
Ryan says, “Yeah,” and, “I’m fine,” and hopes that Keltie doesn’t decide to punch him. He hooks a thumb underneath the necklace chain, pulls it up and out of his shirt collar, whips it over his head. “Hold this a minute,” he says, pressing it into Keltie’s hands.
He doesn’t know how it’s supposed to happen, but he figures it’s, like, a clean break. Like the atmosphere in the room’ll shift, and everyone and their dog will forget who the hell Ryan is - they never really knew before, right?
Mike’s still watching him, and Ryan doesn’t give himself enough time to see his expression change, figures he’s only got one chance at this, and he puts his entire heart into kissing him. Really kissing him, mouth hard on Mike’s, and it’s kind of funny, the way Mike’s surprise unbalances him, makes him flail a little, held steady by Ryan’s hands on his face.
Ryan doesn’t expect Mike to relax into it. He’s hoping, yeah, but he’s anticipating being pushed back, getting decked by Keltie, getting yelled out of the room.
But it’s sort of like the gym melts away. Like there’s nothing there but Ryan and Mike and the roaring in Ryan’s head, heart pounding so hard he can feel it throbbing in his fingertips.
And Mike kisses him back.
*
Ryan won’t remember much, afterwards. He’ll remember pulling away, panting. He’ll remember Mike’s mouth, wet, the way it curled up just the slightest sly bit, the sort of delighted twinkle in his eyes.
He won’t remember Gabe narrating - “And that’s Mike’s hand on Ryan’s ass, people, I think this counts as the lambada” - but that’s probably a good thing.
*
Keltie hands him his necklace back with a weird twist to her mouth, but she doesn’t seem upset at all, so that’s a plus. “Nice show,” she says, and smirks a little.
Gaylor says, “You’re a strange dude, Ross,” and taps Ryan’s forehead with his middle finger. “Mentally fucked. It’s awesome.”
Mike shoves Gaylor back and asks Ryan, “What was that?”
“Um. A hello?” The problem is that Ryan never has any idea what Mike’s thinking. He’s got a default setting of amiable, but he could be, like, seething or something on the inside-who knows?
“Okay.” Mike cocks his head, mouth quirked up. “Seriously, Ryan, no one else in the world.”
“You aren’t, uh,” Ryan waves a hand, “feeling any different are you?” The spell’s gone, and they’re pretty much still all hanging around him with varying expressions of tolerance and amusement.
“Oh, he’s feeling different,” Ritter says, and Mike says, “Fuck off, Ty,” but he’s smiling, and he rolls his eyes a little.
“You should dance with me,” Mike says to Ryan.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan sees Ritter make a face and start breaking it down to Wheel in the Sky while Wheeler just fucking loses it, doubles over laughing.
“You should dance with me far away from these shitheads,” Mike amends.
Ryan feels sort of fuzzy warm and lightheaded and awesome. It’s kind of the best night ever.
And then Gabe pulls Gerard up on stage, and says, “I caught this dude singing fucking Justin Timberlake in the bathroom, and there’s nothing sexier, ladies and gentlemen, than the ability to rock JT.”
Gabe loops an arm around Gerard’s shoulders, whispers something in his ear, and Gerard laughs-shaking his head emphatically, but laughing, grin so big.
Gabe says, “Oh yes,” into the mic, smirking at Gerard, even though no one could hear what he’d told him before, and then Gerard leans over and he starts-he starts singing. Singing his motherfucking heart out, and it’s like the whole room catches fire.
And, okay, sure, it’s Journey, and it’s Any Way You Want It, but Ryan can see where this is going. He just hopes Gerard can see it, too.