[Ryan/Brendon] To Crawl Back To You.
Title: To Crawl Back To You. [~about 1290 words]
Author: me (shattered_ink )
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon.
Rated: PG-13 (for swearing, mild/moderate violence, & self-harm)
Summary: In which Ryan owns Brendon - and not in a good way.
Disclaimer: THIS IS AN ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP FIC, MMKAY? I don't own them and this didn't happen. The title is courtesy of Fall Out Boy's The Pros & Cons of Breathing. xD
A/N: I figured I might as well write for this challenge, since it was a free-for-all. This just came to me and I went with it. Written quickly, no beta, etc. Hope you like it. :]
Brendon was covered in marks. Smears of Sharpie and ballpoint ink, faint pink fingerprints and fading bruises, crooked cuts and swerving scars trailing up his arms and spiraling around his rib cage. His lip was cracked and bleeding from where his face had hit a table, his eye swelling from where a balled fist had met it. Spencer sometimes asked about the marks, because he was worried, because he wanted to help. But Brendon always said the same thing to anyone who asked.
"No, no, it's okay. The marks - they aren't mine."
And while Spencer could sense that there was something in these words he wasn't getting, he could never quite put his finger on what that thing was. So he decided to drop it, let the matter rest. He decided to leave Brendon alone.
Which - looking back on it - might have been the worst possible thing he could have done.
*
Ryan hated himself. For every slap, for every fight, for every mark he left on Brendon, he made sure to leave an even bloodier mark on himself. It wasn't the same; he knew that. But he figured this attempt at atonement was good enough. Was better than nothing.
"Brendon. You awake?"
Ryan listened for his breathing pattern, decided Brendon must have really been asleep, and pulled the cap off his Sharpie, leaning in close. Careful not to write over Brendon's other marks, Ryan shaped and shaded the letters until they were bold. Three-dimensional.
M-I-N-E. Right across his forehead.
His hair, his eyes, his lips, his nose, his ears, his throat, his skin, his scars - every inch of Brendon now, more or less, had been marked. Every inch of Brendon now, more or less, was Ryan's.
*
Brendon ran his peeling, bleeding knuckles under the faucet, cringing as the water hit his skin like ice-fire. He didn't know how he would cover this one up; wrapping his hand would be too obvious. Leaving the skin exposed would bring in even more questions.
Jon stepped into the kitchen, nodded to Brendon, and shot a look at the running water. "Dude," he said. "What're you doing?"
Brendon opened his mouth just as Ryan stepped into the room, gave him the most casual of nods, took a seat. "I'm washing my hands," Brendon said, quietly. He had to be careful now; he had to say the right words.
"You've been washing them for a while, man." Jon smiled, eyes lazy and shining, slightly drunk. "You become a sudden germaphobe or something? Scared to get a little dirty?"
Times like these, Brendon wished he could disappear. Wished he could sit and hug his knees to his chest, hug himself so tight that he shrunk into himself and vanished. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ryan shifting. Nothing would happen, not with Jon there, but the problem was that Jon would eventually leave.
Everyone left. Everyone but Ryan.
"I heard that you have to wash them for a long time to get most of the germs off," Brendon said. "Like, the Meet & Greets? You never know what's on people's hands, you know?"
"Hey." Jon raised his palms, innocent. "Whatever floats your boat, dude."
He grabbed a beer from the fridge and wandered off; Ryan and Brendon both counted his steps, counted twenty-two before the sound of them faded. Brendon cut the faucet off. Ryan stood, came up behind him.
Brendon didn't breathe as Ryan hooked him into a hug, those long arms feeling more like chains each time they were around him.
*
"I think I know what's going on."
Spencer rolled the windows up, put the car in neutral and slung his arms over the wheel. He couldn't even look at Brendon, sitting in the passenger seat. He couldn't stand to see the welts running down Brendon's face, couldn't stand to see the tears sitting unshed in his eyes.
"Is he," Spencer started. "Does he hit you?"
Brendon swallowed, tears stinging his face as they rolled over contusions.
"Brendon. Talk to me, Brendon. Does he hit you? Did he do this to your face?"
"Why are you asking," Brendon whispered. "Why are you asking when you already know?"
Spencer was out of the car and stomping toward the house before Brendon could blink, could even think to stop him.
*
Needless to say, there was a fight.
Spencer stormed into the kitchen, grabbed Ryan by his skinny throat, and Jon tried to pull them apart but Ryan was throwing blind punches and kicks, ended up hitting Jon in the eye, knocking him into the table. Spencer shoved Ryan toward the sink, screaming strings of words that didn't fit together, that didn't make a lot of sense, but Ryan got the point. "What the fuck is your problem," Ryan sputtered, and Spencer said, "What the fuck is yours? You're such a little shit."
"What else is new?" Ryan snapped, muscles straining as he held Spencer off. "What did I even do?"
"You've been fucking pounding on our best friend for weeks, for months, you asshole!"
Ryan stopped short, staggered back against the counter. "I - you - did he say that to you?"
"So you know who I'm talking about." Spencer scowled. "You - I can't believe you."
"Spence." Jon blinked, confused. "Spence, what's happening?"
"Ryan's leaving," Spencer said. "Ryan is getting the hell out of the band."
*
The four of them sat in a row on the porch - Ryan, Spencer, Jon, and Brendon, in that order. Ryan picked at his most recent cuts, the ones he'd made right after the fight, scratching at them until they bled all over again, scratching until he had cuts on his cuts. Spencer smacked his hand every once in a while, then looked away before Ryan could see his eyes. Could see the misery in them.
Jon's hand was slung around Brendon's shoulder, but Brendon was shaking, staring at his hands, at his scabbed knuckles and the blurred remains of words like stay, words like love, words like mine, on his pale and bruising skin.
"I don't want to see you go, man."
Spencer was the first to speak, his words directed at Ryan's leather shoes. Everyone shifted, uncomfortable, unsure whether to agree or not. So Spencer went on.
"I'm never going to look at you the same way, ever. You know that. But this isn't even about me. This is about you and Brendon. So. Bren. What do you think?"
Brendon shuddered; he might have forgotten how to think, what to think. "I think," he said. "I think Ryan should stay."
Which wasn't unexpected. Which wasn't a surprise. But Ryan - stunned and slightly overwhelmed - Ryan still cried.
*
They all went to see the guys in Fall Out Boy, who offered some sort of band counseling service. "It's kind of like marriage counseling," Joe had explained, "except with tight pants and weird hair and, like, drumsticks and shit."
Fall Out Boy band counseling taught them this:
Ryan and Brendon were over; that was inevitable. No matter how many tips Ryan got from Pete on self-control, no matter how many self-esteem talks Patrick had with Brendon, there was no reversing the effects of this, no erasing the bruises or hiding marks.
Spencer and Jon were on their toes, but Ryan seemed to be doing okay. He smiled a lot. Sometimes, he laughed.
Brendon was doing fine, too. Within a month, his former, happier self was showing more of its sunny face.
When it came time for them to head out on tour, they were all in relatively good places.
And right before the first show, seconds before they took the stage, Ryan hooked Brendon into a hug.
His arms, Brendon noticed, well, his arms didn't feel at all like chains.
*
Author: me (shattered_ink )
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon.
Rated: PG-13 (for swearing, mild/moderate violence, & self-harm)
Summary: In which Ryan owns Brendon - and not in a good way.
Disclaimer: THIS IS AN ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP FIC, MMKAY? I don't own them and this didn't happen. The title is courtesy of Fall Out Boy's The Pros & Cons of Breathing. xD
A/N: I figured I might as well write for this challenge, since it was a free-for-all. This just came to me and I went with it. Written quickly, no beta, etc. Hope you like it. :]
Brendon was covered in marks. Smears of Sharpie and ballpoint ink, faint pink fingerprints and fading bruises, crooked cuts and swerving scars trailing up his arms and spiraling around his rib cage. His lip was cracked and bleeding from where his face had hit a table, his eye swelling from where a balled fist had met it. Spencer sometimes asked about the marks, because he was worried, because he wanted to help. But Brendon always said the same thing to anyone who asked.
"No, no, it's okay. The marks - they aren't mine."
And while Spencer could sense that there was something in these words he wasn't getting, he could never quite put his finger on what that thing was. So he decided to drop it, let the matter rest. He decided to leave Brendon alone.
Which - looking back on it - might have been the worst possible thing he could have done.
*
Ryan hated himself. For every slap, for every fight, for every mark he left on Brendon, he made sure to leave an even bloodier mark on himself. It wasn't the same; he knew that. But he figured this attempt at atonement was good enough. Was better than nothing.
"Brendon. You awake?"
Ryan listened for his breathing pattern, decided Brendon must have really been asleep, and pulled the cap off his Sharpie, leaning in close. Careful not to write over Brendon's other marks, Ryan shaped and shaded the letters until they were bold. Three-dimensional.
M-I-N-E. Right across his forehead.
His hair, his eyes, his lips, his nose, his ears, his throat, his skin, his scars - every inch of Brendon now, more or less, had been marked. Every inch of Brendon now, more or less, was Ryan's.
*
Brendon ran his peeling, bleeding knuckles under the faucet, cringing as the water hit his skin like ice-fire. He didn't know how he would cover this one up; wrapping his hand would be too obvious. Leaving the skin exposed would bring in even more questions.
Jon stepped into the kitchen, nodded to Brendon, and shot a look at the running water. "Dude," he said. "What're you doing?"
Brendon opened his mouth just as Ryan stepped into the room, gave him the most casual of nods, took a seat. "I'm washing my hands," Brendon said, quietly. He had to be careful now; he had to say the right words.
"You've been washing them for a while, man." Jon smiled, eyes lazy and shining, slightly drunk. "You become a sudden germaphobe or something? Scared to get a little dirty?"
Times like these, Brendon wished he could disappear. Wished he could sit and hug his knees to his chest, hug himself so tight that he shrunk into himself and vanished. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ryan shifting. Nothing would happen, not with Jon there, but the problem was that Jon would eventually leave.
Everyone left. Everyone but Ryan.
"I heard that you have to wash them for a long time to get most of the germs off," Brendon said. "Like, the Meet & Greets? You never know what's on people's hands, you know?"
"Hey." Jon raised his palms, innocent. "Whatever floats your boat, dude."
He grabbed a beer from the fridge and wandered off; Ryan and Brendon both counted his steps, counted twenty-two before the sound of them faded. Brendon cut the faucet off. Ryan stood, came up behind him.
Brendon didn't breathe as Ryan hooked him into a hug, those long arms feeling more like chains each time they were around him.
*
"I think I know what's going on."
Spencer rolled the windows up, put the car in neutral and slung his arms over the wheel. He couldn't even look at Brendon, sitting in the passenger seat. He couldn't stand to see the welts running down Brendon's face, couldn't stand to see the tears sitting unshed in his eyes.
"Is he," Spencer started. "Does he hit you?"
Brendon swallowed, tears stinging his face as they rolled over contusions.
"Brendon. Talk to me, Brendon. Does he hit you? Did he do this to your face?"
"Why are you asking," Brendon whispered. "Why are you asking when you already know?"
Spencer was out of the car and stomping toward the house before Brendon could blink, could even think to stop him.
*
Needless to say, there was a fight.
Spencer stormed into the kitchen, grabbed Ryan by his skinny throat, and Jon tried to pull them apart but Ryan was throwing blind punches and kicks, ended up hitting Jon in the eye, knocking him into the table. Spencer shoved Ryan toward the sink, screaming strings of words that didn't fit together, that didn't make a lot of sense, but Ryan got the point. "What the fuck is your problem," Ryan sputtered, and Spencer said, "What the fuck is yours? You're such a little shit."
"What else is new?" Ryan snapped, muscles straining as he held Spencer off. "What did I even do?"
"You've been fucking pounding on our best friend for weeks, for months, you asshole!"
Ryan stopped short, staggered back against the counter. "I - you - did he say that to you?"
"So you know who I'm talking about." Spencer scowled. "You - I can't believe you."
"Spence." Jon blinked, confused. "Spence, what's happening?"
"Ryan's leaving," Spencer said. "Ryan is getting the hell out of the band."
*
The four of them sat in a row on the porch - Ryan, Spencer, Jon, and Brendon, in that order. Ryan picked at his most recent cuts, the ones he'd made right after the fight, scratching at them until they bled all over again, scratching until he had cuts on his cuts. Spencer smacked his hand every once in a while, then looked away before Ryan could see his eyes. Could see the misery in them.
Jon's hand was slung around Brendon's shoulder, but Brendon was shaking, staring at his hands, at his scabbed knuckles and the blurred remains of words like stay, words like love, words like mine, on his pale and bruising skin.
"I don't want to see you go, man."
Spencer was the first to speak, his words directed at Ryan's leather shoes. Everyone shifted, uncomfortable, unsure whether to agree or not. So Spencer went on.
"I'm never going to look at you the same way, ever. You know that. But this isn't even about me. This is about you and Brendon. So. Bren. What do you think?"
Brendon shuddered; he might have forgotten how to think, what to think. "I think," he said. "I think Ryan should stay."
Which wasn't unexpected. Which wasn't a surprise. But Ryan - stunned and slightly overwhelmed - Ryan still cried.
*
They all went to see the guys in Fall Out Boy, who offered some sort of band counseling service. "It's kind of like marriage counseling," Joe had explained, "except with tight pants and weird hair and, like, drumsticks and shit."
Fall Out Boy band counseling taught them this:
Ryan and Brendon were over; that was inevitable. No matter how many tips Ryan got from Pete on self-control, no matter how many self-esteem talks Patrick had with Brendon, there was no reversing the effects of this, no erasing the bruises or hiding marks.
Spencer and Jon were on their toes, but Ryan seemed to be doing okay. He smiled a lot. Sometimes, he laughed.
Brendon was doing fine, too. Within a month, his former, happier self was showing more of its sunny face.
When it came time for them to head out on tour, they were all in relatively good places.
And right before the first show, seconds before they took the stage, Ryan hooked Brendon into a hug.
His arms, Brendon noticed, well, his arms didn't feel at all like chains.
*