Recognize Myself: Part One
Masterpost / Prologue
"No, it's not - I don't get a lot of what you do, but I get your logic, and I get why I don't get it. But, I mean this I really, really don't get. You've just, like, decided to be miserable the rest of your life?"
"I'm not miserable," Jon says, shifts the blanket up over his shoulder. He can't have this conversation with his scars hanging out, however faint they might be now, however much Ryan insists he can’t even see them.
"You're not comfortable, though. You put more energy into pretending your body's the way you want it to be - "
"Fuck you." This conversation is over, absolutely fucking over. Jon rolls over and hopes Ryan won't keep talking if he's stuck talking to Jon's blanket-covered back.
"That's not - it's what you do, though. Like. You know what your body's actually like. I know what your body's actually like. Or, like, I can guess, since you won't let me see. And you know you're not gonna make any more changes to it. So wouldn't it make you a fuck of a lot happier to, like, be okay with what you have? It'd at least be easier for you."
"That's all very nice," Jon says, "except you're only saying it because you're sick of my underwear getting in the way."
"Actually, that part's kind of hot? But, yeah, I mean, I'm not gonna pretend it doesn't bother me we've been dating for, like, ever, and I don't get to see you naked."
"It's not about you."
"I know. But...kind of? Like - "
"Ryan." Jon sits up, throwing the blanket aside with a little more force than it really needs. "I let you fuck me. Even if it’s not - it’s just anal, it’s still fucking huge for me, you ungrateful dick. So if you could maybe not make me regret it by asking for more, like I knew you would the minute I gave in on one thing, that would be fucking awesome."
"I'm not - if I wanted to be a dick about it, dude, there's nothing stopping me from pulling your underwear down an extra inch when I fuck you. It's not, like, 'I want to see you naked', not entirely, it's more like - you're going to spend the entire rest of your life hiding?"
"Yes," Jon says; it's not that simple, but he's tired of explaining shit. "Also, the rest of my life sleeping on the couch. Goodnight, asshole."
*
Ryan's couch is actually pretty comfortable, or at least it is when Ryan takes a fucking hint and doesn't climb on while Jon's sleeping so he wakes up stiff and too sweaty and still kind of cranky.
"The thing is," Ryan says, "your shit would be hard to navigate even for someone who's good at dealing with people's shit. Can I at least get a little credit for fucking up less than I used to?"
"No," Jon mumbles into the couch cushion, but when he shifts to face Ryan, he doesn't look as much like he just wants Jon to admit he's right to end the argument as like he actually doesn't want Jon mad at him. Someday, Jon will be less easy. "Maybe."
"Cool. And, like, I really won't - you can run around in, like, fifty layers if that's what you want, I just - stuff."
"You just stuff," Jon repeats, because he's way too tired to translate Ryan-speak.
"Um. Yeah. Like - "
"Okay," Jon says to cut him off, and burrows his face into Ryan's chest a little so he can go back to sleep.
*
Jon spends a little over half an hour in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom, taking his harness off, putting it back on, taking it back off again. Ryan - Ryan might be on to something, maybe, a little, like maybe the way part of Jon's shower ritual is to switch from his everyday harness to his waterproof one so he doesn't even have to go the length of the shower without that weight between his legs, maybe the way Ryan drapes fabric over this mirror so Jon won't have to see himself while he makes the switch, maybe that's not really sustainable behavior for the rest of his life. Or maybe it could be, but shouldn't.
It's not as bad as Jon was afraid of, at least; he half-expected the sight of himself as he really is, rather than the way his harness lets him be, would make him sick. Which, okay, maybe - maybe that's a good sign he's not doing the right thing for himself.
But it's not - he can let his eyes travel down past the smooth planes of his chest to the thatch of hair and missing flesh between his legs, and he feels...he hates it, God he hates it, but it's nowhere near as violent a hate as it used to be. He times himself, five minutes without the harness, ten minutes with; the third time he takes off the harness, he doesn’t have to stop himself from reaching for it before his watch beeps that his five minutes are up.
*
One of the best things about living with Ryan is no matter how fucked-up Jon's schedule gets, Ryan's is always worse, which means Jon generally gets at least an hour, usually more, in the morning (or early afternoon, whatever) to himself. And, yeah, in his apartment in Chicago he could have a lot more than that, but it's harder to appreciate when it's constant.
The house smells like coffee and weed, at least from the kitchen through the living room; the bedroom smells like old clothes because it's well past time to do laundry, and the bathroom smells like litter. Dylan's sprinting up and down the hall fighting with something, most likely an invisible something, which means Ryan's gonna come stumbling in any minute, not quite awake even though he went to bed a little over twelve hours ago.
"Are you clipping coupons?" Ryan asks from the doorway, right on schedule.
"And making a shopping list," Jon says. "This time, we're gonna remember to get more than chips and pop-tarts."
Ryan leans in and kisses Jon's cheek before fumbling his way to the coffee pot. "Such a good little housew - uh."
Jon freezes halfway through cutting out a buy one, get one cereal deal, and bites back the profanity building up in his throat. Ryan's trying, his brain says, the good part, the part that gets that Ryan's been fucking up less and less, to the point sometimes Jon forgets he's someone who does fuck up. Ryan's trying.
When Jon looks over his shoulder, Ryan's standing completely still, coffee pot tipped just slightly over the last clean mug. His eyes are huge, and he is definitely bracing himself.
"It's not - it's fine."
"I call Spencer a housewife all the time," Ryan says. Jon believes it, Hell Jon's probably heard it before. Ryan - for all Ryan loves words, he loves them best when he can pick and choose which part of their meanings to keep, and usually the "this word means 'girl'" meanings are the ones that get dropped first.
"It's fine," Jon says, and he means it. "Drink your coffee, we have shit to do today."
It must show in his voice, or his face, that he's not actually mad; Ryan was bracing himself so hard it’s actually visible when he stops. "Put chips and pop-tarts on the list," he says, before he turns back to fix his coffee. "We don't want to forget those."
*
“This isn’t for you,” Jon says; Ryan doesn’t ask. The silence gives him an easy excuse to take a few extra seconds to steel himself, like maybe he’s just waiting for a question before he steps out of the bathroom.
Ryan does an actual double-take, up to Jon, back to his book, back up to Jon with his eyes almost comically wide. Jon clenches and unclenches his fist, bites back the desire to turn around and come back out with his dick secure in his boxers. But there’s nothing in Ryan’s eyes even close to the scrutiny Jon subjected himself to in the mirror for the last couple weeks; Jon can do this.
To his credit, Ryan’s eyes drift downwards once, and then stay on his face. “You - wow.”
“Shut up,” Jon says, and crosses the room so he can climb into bed.
“Uh, you - are we - “
“Sleeping,” Jon says. “Just sleeping.”
“No, right, totally. I can sleep, yeah.” Ryan shuts his book without marking his place, and knocks the clock off the bedside table when he flails to turn off his lamp. “Do we - can I touch you?”
“Not there,” Jon says, and waits for Ryan to nod before he turns his back so Ryan can spoon against him. Ryan wriggles around a whole lot before he pulls the blanket up to slide under, and when he presses against Jon’s back it’s skin-to-skin everywhere. Which is - it’s actually nice enough that for the first time, Jon thinks maybe pushing himself like this could be worth it.
Ryan’s arm hovers near Jon’s waist for a second too long; Jon tangles his fingers with Ryan’s and pulls his arm down, high enough on Jon’s chest he’ll be able to sleep without worrying about it.
*
The sun is the best kind of too hot on Jon's skin, keeping him comfortably roasted. His legs are already getting sore from playing fetch with Marley for just a little too long, an ache he'll be feeling all day tomorrow if he keeps going. Jon fucking loves the beach; aside from the sand, even the uncomfortable parts aren't really bad.
"Which is why you need to move here for good," Ryan says, when Jon flops down on the blanket with a loud declaration of his love. Ryan's face is all shadow under the brim of his ridiculous sun hat, hidden behind sunglasses that take up at least three-quarters of his face. He's got about as much skin showing as a Victorian lady, because he has something against actually using sunscreen, and Jon should want to make fun of him for it but he just smiles, dopey and wide, and ducks under Ryan's hat for a quick kiss.
"Maybe," Jon says, and kisses him again before pushing himself back up for more fetch.
Jon plays with Marley for another half hour before his legs decide he is absolutely done for the day; when he gets back to the blanket, Ryan's rolled his pant lets up and discarded his shirt, pale skin already pinking in the sun as he naps. Jon sighs and takes a minute to weigh the way Ryan will whine if he wakes him up against the way Ryan will whine if he gets any more sunburned. It's a harder decision than it would be with a normal person, but he's kind of gotten used to that. You have to, with Ryan.
*
"I'm dying," Ryan says, while Jon rubs aloe over his beet-red back with the lightest possible touch.
"You are not."
"You don't know that. You're not a doctor."
"I'm also not an idiot."
"I know my body, and I know what it feels like when it's dying."
Jon sits back on his knees, rests his weight on Ryan's thighs. "How would you possibly know that? You've never died before."
"Less talking," Ryan says, "more back rubs."
"I should just let you suffer," Jon says, but he keeps rubbing aloe in to Ryan's back, his legs, his chest, until Ryan's practically boneless, melting into the bed.
*
"Clover's trying to eat me. Again."
"No," Jon says, even before he tilts his head back to see that she's just licking at Ryan's pant leg. "If she were trying to eat you, she would have tenderized you first, and you haven't been whining so I know she wasn't."
"You'd whine too," Ryan says.
"Maybe. But she loves me too much to tenderize me, don't you baby?"
Ryan passes the joint down, and runs his fingers through Jon's hair instead of lifting his hand all the way back up. Ryan is the best.
"Do they answer you?"
"No. I think if I thought they talked back, I'd be crazy."
"I'm pretty sure it's crazier to talk to things that don't answer back."
"Says the guy who had a full conversation with the microwave the other day."
Ryan tugs on Jon's hair a little, which feels pretty awesome. "If it would respond to the buttons, I wouldn't have to tell it what I want it to do."
That almost makes sense, at least enough that it's not worth it to keep the subject going. Besides, if he gets Ryan worked up enough, he'll stop petting Jon so he can talk with his hands, and that would suck.
They pass the joint back in forth in silence for...a while, who knows. Long enough for Clover to get tired of Ryan's pants and hop off the couch to curl up in Jon's lap.
"Compared to your cats," Ryan says, still combing his fingers through Jon's hair, "where do I fall?"
"Uh," Jon says, "third."
"Above Marley?" Ryan sounds genuinely surprised. Jon's not sure if he should feel bad, if maybe Ryan not expecting Jon to like him as much as Jon’s pets is a bad thing, but right now it's just kind of funny.
"No, you said cats. You're third on the list of cats. And second on the list of dogs. And fourth overall."
"Oh," Ryan says; when Jon tilts his head back, Ryan's smiling. "Cool."
*
If you're dating a fully-transitioned transman, who looks like a normal guy -- and nearly all of us pass really well after testosterone and mastectomies -- and you get to the taking-off-your-clothes part with him, it's real important not to choke up when finally faced with his genitalia. Some people, unfortunately, do the deer-in-headlights thing when the dissonance of this male body without the "expected" dangling male genitals hits them. The minds of some biomen, especially, may instinctively think "castration!" and they may even flinch. If you're even slightly afraid that you may react this way, I suggest that you buy Loren Cameron's book "Body Alchemy" and study the photos until you're more familiar with the anatomical dissonance of a transman's body.1
There’s another tab open, the Amazon page for the recommended book. Jon’s having trouble breathing, suddenly, can’t get enough air in around his heart now that it’s lodged securely in his throat. In a good way, fuck, in the best way, just - maybe Jon’s an idiot, maybe he’s an asshole, but somehow in the process of accepting that Ryan didn’t get this stuff and was going to slip up occasionally, it hadn’t ever occurred to him that Ryan might be putting extra effort into not fucking up.
Jon just blinks at the page, frozen a little bit from the rush of - rush of everything, fuck, guilt over underestimating Ryan, no small amount of anger at himself for being a big enough dick to just not consider that Ryan gave enough of a shit to try, and this massive fucking swell of affection he's a little surprised doesn't propel him right off the bed and into the shower to kiss Ryan fucking senseless.
The shower stops and Jon shakes himself a little, logs into Twitter and types some arbitrary phrase since he can't remember what the fuck he'd been planning to tweet in the first place. The bathroom door opens with a cloud of steam and cologne, because Ryan is exactly the kind of asshole who puts cologne on just to sleep in, just as Jon's shutting the computer.
"If I had a bigger water heater," Ryan says, as he sheds his towel and climbs into bed, "I'd stay in there forever."
"I take it that means there's no hot water for me."
"No," Ryan says. "Which is too bad, because you kind of stink."
That's normally Jon's cue to fight back, start a stupid war of stupid insults until one of them - usually Jon - can't keep a straight face anymore. Instead he rolls onto his side, kisses Ryan deep and thorough and long.
Ryan blinks a little dazedly at him when he pulls back, smiling wide and genuinely pleased. "Okay. I forgive you for smelling so bad."
Jon just rolls his eyes and tucks himself against Ryan's side so he can talk to Ryan's chest, not have to make eye contact. "I think, maybe," he says, "we could try...stuff." He winces, a little, because what the fuck, but as much as he suddenly wants this, the words don't want to come out.
"Stuff," Ryan says, agreeable even though he couldn't possibly know what Jon's talking about. "Okay."
"Like, the kind of stuff where - there. Stuff there."
"Um," Ryan says, and rests a hand on Jon's hip, taps his middle finger a couple times. “There, there?"
"You could fuck me," Jon says, in a rush. "I would - that would be okay. That would be good, even, I think."
Ryan's finger freezes mid-tap, and Jon is acutely aware of how close it is to that last part of him he hasn't let Ryan have. He bites his lip and flexes his hand a little on the urge to squirm away, but Ryan - Ryan who is not an idiot, Ryan who is trying, Ryan who is so much better than Jon had ever expected to have even when he's not that good - shifts his hand up to Jon's ribs anyway.
"Are you sure?"
"As sure as I'm gonna get."
"Because we don't have to - I don't need - "
"I know," Jon says, and manages to push himself up a little, manages to look Ryan in the eye without flinching away. "But you can."
"Okay. I - okay. Wow. Okay. Like, were you thinking, like, now, because I don't think I can - "
"Not tonight," Jon says.
"Right, no, totally. Whenever you're ready."
Jon kisses Ryan again before he shifts away, fumbling with his boxers and the harness he's been taking on and off for so long it's not even a little tricky to unbuckle it under the blankets without looking. He's gotten used to it already, to falling asleep and waking up skin against skin, touching everywhere.
"I won't be a dick about it," Ryan says in Jon's ear when he presses against Jon's back. "I promise."
"I know," Jon says. "I trust you."
*
Maybe. Maybe this was a bad idea, maybe he’s not ready, maybe -
“We don’t have to do this,” Ryan says, rolling off Jon to lie on his side next to him.
“I want to.”
Ryan arches his eyebrows. “Absolutely nothing about you right now says ‘I want this’, dude.”
“My mouth.”
Ryan quirks his lips a little at that, an almost-smile. “I just - if you don’t want - “
“I need this,” Jon says. “I need to - I need to be able to do this.”
“I’m not one hundred percent on board,” Ryan says. “I just want that on the record so later when you’re mad and try to fight with me, I can bring that up.”
“I won’t fight with you. And if you don’t want it, just say so.”
“I want it,” Ryan says, hasty. “Shit, do I want it. But I’m not convinced you do.”
Jon sighs, makes a concentrated effort to relax. “Being nervous doesn’t mean I don’t want it.”
“Okay, just - can I - how do I make it easier for you?”
“Um. We need to do it so you can’t see. Like. Spooning, maybe? Or I’m gonna be worried about you looking. And it can’t - just like anal, it has to be exactly the same.”
“I can do that, yeah. Like, lube, and stretching?”
“Yeah, that - yeah.”
Ryan leans in and kisses Jon. “What about - “
“Just like anal.”
“Okay, but - “
“Ryan, fuck, it’s not that fucking hard. Would you do it to fuck me in the ass? If not, don’t do it now.”
Ryan frowns a little, and Jon doesn’t get what the fuck his problem is.
“I - okay, but - okay. Okay.”
Jon smiles in what he hopes is a more reassuring than anxious way, and rolls over on his side.
*
Ryan's breath is hot against the back of Jon's head, puffing out slower and slower until he's breathing normally. Jon squirms a little, hoping he'll get the hint and pull out, but he just tightens his hand on Jon's dick, gives it a slow jerk that rocks the base against Jon's clit the way Jon loves when he's not too weirded out and uncomfortable to enjoy it.
"Did you - " Ryan starts, but Jon cuts him off.
"I need a shower," Jon says, and Ryan doesn't push it, just pulls out and lets go so he can roll away.
Jon tugs the waterproof harness out of its resting place behind the clean towels, switches with his back to the mirror because he's let Ryan keep it uncovered. It makes it a little harder to wash up where he needs to, but that's not really as big a concern right now as it maybe should be.
They've been sleeping together naked for about a month now, but Ryan doesn't say a word when Jon steps out of the bathroom in the boxer briefs that are tight enough to hold his dick in place so he can sleep without a harness. He doesn't say anything when Jon tucks himself against Ryan's side, even though if Ryan sleeps on his back he'll complain about a sore neck for at least a day after. He does say something when Jon says, quiet in the dark room, "we're not doing that again."
"Okay," is what he says. "That's fine."
And he says something else, after his breathing’s evened out enough Jon thinks he’s asleep, when Jon's too tired to hear him right. It’s either "I'm sorry" or "I love you"; right now, they're probably kind of the same thing.
*
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Jon takes a drag of his cigarette and doesn’t look away from the sunset. He blows the smoke out as slowly as he can, stalling. He’s been avoiding Ryan all day, not the easiest to do in a small house when neither of them ever go anywhere. It’s not fair to Ryan, and part of knowing that Ryan’s trying should be Jon trying harder himself; as easy it is to pretend any problems they have are just because Ryan doesn’t understand everything there is to understand about Jon, it’s bullshit.
“Not really,” Jon says, but he pats the lawn chair next to him in invitation. Ryan takes it, and Jon offers up the last few drags of the cigarette. The neighborhood’s as quiet as it ever gets, which isn’t exactly quiet at all, just enough noise to make Jon and Ryan’s own silence more noticeable.
“Was it something I did?” Ryan asks, finally.
“No, shit, no. It was - it was just too much. Too big a step.”
“You should have asked me to stop.”
“I thought it might - I thought I’d get over it? Like if I kept going there’d be a breaking point, or something.”
“What was it - “ Ryan pauses, and sighs, leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I know you don’t like talking about this shit. But I think this might be the time for me to, like, make you?”
Jon bites his lip, nods a little even though Ryan’s not looking at him. “Maybe.”
“Okay. So, uh. What was the problem?”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Like, I just. I couldn’t get out of my head enough.”
“We could try with you high, or something.”
“Maybe.”
“Or, like, smaller stuff. I could go down on you.”
The idea of Ryan getting that close - Jon picked fucking for a reason, because they could do it without him worrying about Ryan seeing anything. “No.”
“Okay.”
“I just - it’s. I was making some progress. And I feel like that ruined it.”
Ryan sits back then, looks over at Jon. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t - it’s not you. You’re great, Ryan, you’re - that was me. I fucked up.”
A breeze kicks up, blows Ryan’s hair across his frown. Jon wants to reach out and brush it off, but he feels awkward in his own skin, like if he moves he’s going to burst right out of it.
“I don’t really know what to do for you, sometimes.”
“I know,” Jon says. “That’s not your fault. You’re - seriously, you’re great. I’m just. I’m not easy.”
“Easy’s boring,” Ryan says; he’s wearing sunglasses so Jon can’t tell if his eyes match the smile in his voice, but he chooses to believe they do. Ryan’s earned himself the benefit of the doubt.
*
Jon went through a period, after he told his parents who he was but before that got him anywhere, where he spent a lot of time holed up in his room watching horrible romantic comedies. The thing about those is they set up these worlds where men and women were so incredibly different there couldn't possibly be any confusion - people who acted like men were men, end of story.
It's possible he picked up more from that period than he thought, considering the way Z keeps calling him Chicago's answer to Hugh Grant.
"It's cute, though," she says. "Ryan needs someone who treats him like a delicate princess."
Jon's pretty sure he's not that bad, but instead of defending him, Ryan just says, "Duh."
"I need another beer. You want anything?"
"Yes," Ryan says, "I want Z to stop being so jealous that I get to be a princess."
"Fat chance, Ross," Z says.
"Okay. I'll settle for a refill, then." Ryan's glass is still half-full, but the ice is melting so chances are good he'll just dismiss the rest of it as too watery and waste four dollars of an eight dollar gin and tonic. Jon rolls his eyes and scoots out of the booth, winces a little - must've slept on his back wrong - and leans over to kiss Ryan before he walks away so Z will have plenty to tease him about while Jon's getting drinks. Not that she ever has trouble coming up with something on her own.
The wait at the bar is ridiculous, dudebro bartender and too many girls using their low-cut tops and his dudebro-ness against him for Jon to get any attention; Z and Ryan are arguing about something French-sounding when Jon finally gets back, leaning over the table all seriousness, slipping in and out of French and English. That's kind of hot, actually.
They stop when Jon slides back into his seat and can't hold back the wince when his back twinges again.
"Your back again?" Ryan asks, rests his hand just above Jon's waistband.
"Slept on it wrong, I think."
Ryan frowns. "That's like the third time this week."
Fifth. "Maybe we need a new mattress."
"Maybe," Ryan says, and lets Z draw him back in to the argument. He doesn't take his hand off Jon's back.
*
The computer is just sitting there looking inviting; Jon isn't, at all, the kind of person who runs to the internet for every little medical worry, but it kind of feels like his body is fighting with him and he'd like to figure out why. There's the back thing, and the way he'd almost come just from Ryan mouthing at his nipples last night, his lips sending these hot shocks of almost-pain that kind of felt the way women in porn pretend to feel when their nipples get played with. And today, just now, when Jon was doing his get-comfortable-with-my-body thing in the mirror, they kind of looked darker. Not red, or bruised, or anything that would explain the sudden sensitivity, but definitely a few shades darker.
He can chalk up the headaches he's been waking up with to all the drinking he and Ryan have been doing, too many nights at bars with Z or Greenwald or both, but even if he ignores those, he's a little worried.
"Are you taking another fucking nap?" Ryan yells from the living room, and oh yeah, there's that, the way Jon's lost his ability to stay awake for a full day. He adds lethargic to the list of symptoms in the search box, and...yeah, no, that can't be it.
"No," Jon answers, and then asks as an afterthought, "Hey, do you remember when we fought about the kitchen?"
Jon's periods usually come with a few days of this fucking rage he prefers a little to the shame he used to have, but he's an asshole who hasn't learned to not take his shit out on everyone else, and they've fought every month for the past - for a while. It sucks, but right now the idea that he has a big memorable fight to remember the timing of all his fucking periods by is kind of a good one.
"Um, I don't know, a month and a half? Two months? What day is it now, 'cause it was, like, the first week of October."
Jon doesn't look at the calendar; he doesn't know the date, but he's got a good enough idea. Still. It's - it's a whole lot of coincience, and his back just hurts from the mattress, and his head just hurts from too much drinking, and he's just paranoid about his nipples because he’s been weird about them since the day he decided not to have anything done to them during his top surgery. There's a totally logical explanation for all of it.
*
"Your box of decorations is too heavy for me to lift," Ryan says, when Jon starts filling their cart with ornaments.
"Lots of things are too heavy for you to lift. And those are just the essentials."
"I don't think you really grasp what 'essentials' means."
Jon rolls his eyes and throws in a few packs of tinsel. Ryan knew what he was getting into when he told Jon yes, he wanted Jon to stay for Christmas and yes, he'd let Jon decorate to his liking.
Obviously he was lying, since he doesn't seem too excited by the giant inflatable snowman on display.
"No," he says. "I'm putting my foot down."
He actually puts his foot down, because he's Ryan and he's ridiculous. Jon doesn't press the inflatable snowman issue. Even though it would look exactly the right kind of tacky in the backyard.
"Wanna go get the car? I'll check out."
"Okay, but if you sneak anything inflatable in there, I'm kicking you out."
"And you'd let me back in the first time you forgot to pay a bill," Jon says to Ryan's retreating back; Ryan flips him off just before he turns the corner to leave through the candy aisle.
Jon starts towards the checkout, takes the long way that brings him by the pharmacy. He starts to turn down an aisle, stops, starts again, stops one more time. He's just - it doesn't mean anything. It's not a girl thing to buy, guys probably pick them up for their girlfriends all the time. Guys who have girlfriends, not guys who have boyfriends, because they're for girls.
But. He'll never stop worrying until he's ruled it out, and he's had trouble sleeping since he tried to have Google diagnose his shit. Jon grits his teeth, turns down the aisle, and grabs a two-pack of pregnancy tests.
*
Ryan's at the movies with Spencer, so Jon tries to take advantage of the time to decorate without any distractions. There's something else he can only do when he doesn't have to worry about Ryan seeing, though, and knowing there's a pregnancy test sitting on the bathroom counter is a way bigger distraction than Ryan breaking ornaments.
Jon manages to get the lights on the tree before he can't wait any more; the word PREGNANT on the little screen makes him wish he hadn't hurried. It - there's a reason he bought two, this one probably glitched, he drank too much water, not enough water, something.
The tree is blinking invitingly at him after he sets the second test up; he's so afraid to check it he ends up getting the entire thing decorated, plus the fake snow stuck on the windowsills.
PREGNANT, the second test says, and Jon can't - there are a billion things in his head, but the only thing he can process is I have to get the fuck out of here. Fuck. Fuck.
Packing hardly takes any time at all, considering how much of his shit he has spread all over the house. He's starting to think he can get out before Ryan gets back, not have to deal with him, when Clover decides the last thing she wants is to get in her carrier. Jon has her cornered under the bed when the front door opens and closes.
"You were right," Ryan calls, "it sucked. Next time I'm picking. You should come next time, he was asking about you."
Ryan's voice is getting closer, voice and footsteps and Clover keeps backing away and Jon can't fucking handle this right now.
"Like, it would be great for me if you two would - Uh," Ryan says, and Jon drops his head a little. Fuck. "Why are you - I thought you were here until New Year’s."
"Fuck you."
Jon can almost hear Ryan blinking in confusion behind his back. "Because I got your schedule wrong?"
Jon focuses on coaxing Clover into her cat carrier, because just Ryan's stupid voice is making him want to punch things, and he doesn't want to hurt his hand on Ryan's stupid fucking wall or his stupid fucking face. Clover's being a little bitch, though, hiding just out of reach under the bed; still, Jon has more patience for cat bullshit than people bullshit.
"I'm sure you told me -“
"Ryan," Jon half-growls, slamming his hand against the floor hard enough Clover goes sprinting out of the room, and goddammit now Ryan's made Jon's cat mad at him. Asshole. "Shut up."
"No. You can at least tell me - "
"How fucking stupid do you have to be," Jon says, because fine, fuck, if Ryan wants to do this, they'll do this, "to not know to use a fucking condom?"
Ryan blinks his stupid I'm-lost blink a few times, then his eyes go comically wide. Well. It's comical when Jon's about one percent as upset as he is now. Right now it just makes Ryan look intolerably stupid.
"I - are you - "
"It's not fucking rocket science. It rolls right the fuck on."
"You - I didn't - you said I couldn't do anything different than usual."
"Within reason," Jon yells, too loud, loud enough to drown out the he has a point traitorously popping up in the back of his mind. Ryan doesn't get to have a fucking point right now, Jon's too mad for that.
"It wasn't - I was trying to - "
"I don't care. I can't - I need to go home, because I can't deal with your stupid fucking face right now."
"Jon," Ryan starts, but he just opens and closes his mouth a few more times without finishing. Jon gives him a minute, in case it turns out there actually are words that will make this better, in case it turns out Ryan can find those words. He doesn't, though, doesn't find any words, and Jon just walks away to give wrangling Clover another try.
*
Jon texts Andy with enough details Andy won't ask.
(Andy wouldn’t ask, anyway, Andy’s better at rolling with things than maybe anyone Jon knows. But Tom keeps telling Jon he’s fucking weird about feeling like he owes people things, and maybe he’s got a point, because Jon’s not sure he can pretend Andy being the only one to get a text has to do with anything other than Andy being the very first person, other than Tom, to call Jon “dude”, to make him stop worry about passing for five seconds.)
Ryan gets a text, too, but it's one word to Andy's twenty. Jon waits for Andy's that's rough, dude, do what you gotta but not Ryan's answer before he tweets, and then he shuts his phone off and locks himself in his room with his guitar and a notebook. When he turns his phone back on, it's three in the morning and he has twenty missed calls from the Nicks. They gave up around two; maybe they got hold of someone else. Maybe Andy did the right thing, the thing Jon couldn't handle doing, maybe he called them. Maybe they talked to Ryan. Ryan, who texted just once, half an hour ago, can I call you?
No, Jon sends back, but after he's in bed, Marley warming his feet and Dylan stretched out along his back, he adds at least not tonight.
*
Jon's in Chicago a week before he calls his parents to let them know that yeah, he'd like to do Christmas with them after all.
"I thought Ryan won holiday custody this year."
"It wasn't a contest, Dad," Jon says. "And he forfeited."
"Okay," his dad says; the amount of sympathy packed into that one syllable makes Jon feel raw, sliced open. "We'll expect you on Christmas Eve to help wrap for the kids, then."
"It's a date."
Jon finally calls Ryan back later that night, and tells himself it has nothing to do with how unprepared he is for two days at home with the pity he'll get if he has to say "Ryan and I aren't even talking".
*
"So, I saw this dog today," Ryan says, when Jon picks up the phone.
"How exciting for you."
"No, but, it was wearing flip-flops."
"And how high were you at the time?" Ryan doesn't answer; he's probably gesturing, he tends to forget that whoever he's talking to can't see him. "Words, Ryan. It's a phone, use your words."
"Not very," Ryan says. "I'm not actually stupid enough to drive to the beach when I'm so fucked up I'm hallucinating, what the fuck."
"You might have hallucinated that you were okay to drive," Jon says.
"Maybe I hallucinated the beach and I was in my bathroom. No, but, like, not on his feet - "
"What?"
"The flip-flops. His owner had them hanging off his collar so she didn't have to carry them."
"That's...actually a really good idea," Jon says, sits up enough so he can see Marley over in the corner chewing on a bone. He casts a considering look at the sandals discarded in the corner, and frowns a little. Marley's not tall enough, damn.
"It's like all your favorite things in one. I thought I got a picture but I guess I hit cancel instead of save? Or my phone ate it. Or something."
"I think my imagination can handle it."
"Cool," Ryan says. "Next time you come down, we can make Marley your flip-flop bitch."
Jon kind of wants to be annoyed, start another stupid fight over Ryan just assuming he'll be visiting again. They haven't talked, really, haven't gotten past stupid stories and, like, small talk about the weather yet, and Jon doesn't really know if he likes Ryan just assuming that when they do talk, it'll end in Jon crawling back. Or maybe this is Ryan's way of crawling back.
Whatever. He shoves it down, concentrates on Ryan's brain going to the same place his own did. Being on the same page as Ryan is better than fighting with him, anyway.
"He's too short, I think."
"We'll have to make a friend with little feet, then," Ryan says. "Or get a taller dog."
Jon likes the idea of them getting a pet together so much he forgets he's supposed to be mad about Ryan making assumptions.
*
"I'm shopping," Jon says, "but I can probably handle talking and driving a cart. I'm talented like that."
"You are," Ryan agrees. "Fun shopping, or grocery shopping?"
"Grocery shopping is fun. At least, eating is fun, and I need to get groceries to eat."
"You're kind of a weird dude."
"Yes. Out of the two of us, I'm the weird one. You're the pot, and I'm, like, a pink kettle, and I'm the blackest."
"You just called yourself a pink kettle," Ryan says. "I rest my case."
Jon can't actually argue with that. He chooses to believe it's because of how absurd it is, not because Ryan's right; the idea that he might actually be weirder than Ryan isn't something he can really wrap his head around.
"Do you have a list?" Ryan asks, when Jon's gone a minute or so without saying anything. "And your grandmotherly coupon book?"
"It's plain blue, how the fuck is it grandmotherly?"
"It's a coupon book."
Okay, point. "I've saved like twenty bucks already, dude."
"You should use it to buy me stuff," Ryan says. "I'm out of food again."
"I taught you how to shop, Ross." Jon finishes up in the frozen aisle, and is about to hang up so he won't be that douchebag on the phone while he checks out when he remembers how much he's been craving salty shit lately. One more trip down the chip aisle would probably be a good idea.
"No, you taught me how to sit there while you made a list. And then walk behind you while you followed the list. You, like, gave me a fish."
"What?"
"Give a man a fish, teach him to fish, y'know. Eat for a day, eat for a lifetime."
"You're ridiculous, and I need to hang up so I can check out."
"This is why you need to come back," Ryan says. "So I don't starve."
Jon sighs. "Ryan - "
"No, I know, I wasn't - whenever. I just meant, like, eventually."
"Eventually."
"The soon kind of eventually."
"Maybe," Jon says. "We'll see. And I'll e-mail you a shopping list you can use as a starting point."
"You're the best," Ryan says, earnestly.
"And you're ridiculous," Jon says. "Goodbye."
When he gets home, he spends maybe twice as long writing a list for Ryan as he did for himself.
*
"No, I can talk, it's just Brendon and Spencer."
It kind of sounds like more than them, but compared to the crickets chirping in Jon's apartment it makes sense three people - especially if one of those people is Brendon - would sound like a party. Jon thinks, maybe, he hears a voice he doesn't recognize, but if it's not a video game character, it's probably Dallon, and Ryan has weird ideas about being a traitor, or something. Weird ideas that maybe Jon contributed to; Ryan's on his best behavior, right now, and it's kind of uncomfortable to stumble on the weird fucked-up things Jon's managed to convince him count as "best".
"They're bummed you left without hanging out," Ryan continues.
"Sure they are. And it was kind of sudden."
"They don't know that, so, y'know. And don't be a dick."
"I'm not."
Jon hears, in the background, something about phone sex, laughter loud enough he wants to hold the phone away from his ear a little. His own apartment is completely silent, Marley and the cats all asleep somewhere too far away for him to hear their breathing, Marley's little dog snores. Jon needs to wind the stupid antique clock Ryan got him, the ticking is obnoxious but it's something.
"I'm gonna let you go, dude, I have decorating to do."
The plan had been for Jon to stay at Ryan's at least through New Year's, maybe longer, and all his favorite decorations are in a box he'd shipped to Ryan's place before he flew down. If Ryan realizes that, he doesn't let on.
"Right, no, yeah," Ryan says, "sure. I'll, uh, call you later?"
"Sure."
Jon winds the clock and hunts down Clover, because stretching out on the couch to watch too much Food Network is always better with a purring cat on his stomach. The first time the clock chimes, it startles him so badly he scares Clover away; he rolls his eyes and calls Tom.
"I need to get out of here," he says, and barely waits for the address of the bar Tom's already at with Sean before he's out the door.
*
“You’re so fucking frustrating,” Ryan says, and it sounds like he just threw something. Jon waits for it, for the phone to go silent so he can brace himself for a day, maybe more, maybe a lot more of wondering if maybe he finally did it, finally pushed too hard. He can still hear Ryan breathing, though, a harsh sigh followed by the kind of deep breath Ryan usually takes when he’s mid-fight with Brendon and trying to defuse so he can get the fuck out of there. “If you tell me what you need, I’ll do it. But I don’t know what the fuck to do right now, and I can’t - fuck.”
“It’s - I don’t know, Ryan, if there’s anything you can do, you’re doing it.”
“Yelling at you?”
“Talking to me. Like. It’s. I don’t know, if I could put it into words I’d tell you. It’s easier to remember the reasons I don’t want to fight if I’m not looking at you.”
Ryan sighs again. “Okay. That’s - that kind of sucks for me, but I can deal.”
“I’m sorry,” Jon says, and maybe he should have apologized before this, apologized better, but the words still feel kind of raw on his tongue, like the part of him that doesn’t think this is his fault isn’t willing to give any ground.
“Okay,” Ryan says. “Did you see Tosh.0 last night?”
*
Jon wakes up with a visible baby bump on December twenty-third, and when he’s checking it out in the mirror notices - okay, probably no one else would think of them as breasts, but his chest is definitely not as flat as it used to be. The rational part of his brain knows it wasn't that sudden, that if he hadn't been so good at denial he might've gotten used to it by now. Plus, with the beard and the bulge in his pants and all the other things about him that say "this is a dude", the little baby bump and not-quite-breasts just kind of look like the beer gut and man-tits of a guy who's stopped working out.
The irrational part of his brain uses his arm to throw a bottle of shampoo at the mirror, and then screams loudly enough to drown out the rational part.
*
Jon fucking loves Marley, but it's hard to hide in bed when he's got a dog to take care of. Cats are better for wallowing; he can refill their food and water whenever he feels like getting up, pet them when they seek him out and demand it, listen to them playing and feel less alone without actually having to be less alone.
When he gets back from taking Marley on the shortest possible walk that'll still keep him happy enough he won't be begging again in an hour, there's a bulky package from Ryan resting against the door. A squishy package that jingles when he opens it; his favorite Christmas sweater, the one he shipped with his decorations so he couldn't forget to pack it.
Jon doesn't call Ryan, because he has to wear four undershirts to hide what his body's turning into, and that's under a bulky sweater. But he sends out an e-mail, the same one to four addresses, is Ryan doing Christmas stuff with one of you? He shouldn't be alone before he goes back to bed to hide a little longer.
He has three replies when he drags himself back up at some ridiculous hour straddling late night and early morning; Z and Alex said essentially the same thing, You're full of shit, Walker and if you're that worried, call him, dickhead. Brendon was nice enough to send an outline of all the plans he's aware of, and even if he finished with btw, stop being an ass, it makes Jon feel a little better.
Jon can feel Spencer's disapproval radiating out from the space in his inbox Spencer's reply should be. He deserves that.
*
The idea of lying to his parents about this makes guilt twist hotly in Jon's gut, but it's not so intense he doesn't feel a little relieved when the sweater Ryan returned turns out to be plenty bulky enough to disguise his shape. With four undershirts, he's pretty sure it won't make his mom suspicious even when she hugs him. He’d feel better if he hadn’t gotten rid of his chest binders after his surgery, but the undershirts are better than nothing.
It's not - his parents have been so fucking good about it, about everything, and he can't walk up to his mom and say, "You know how you've gotten used to never getting any grandkids from me? Well, get un-used to it. And then get used to it again." It's not lying, at least not only lying. He's being considerate.
He switches the sweater for his second-favorite, stuffs it in his overnight bag, and gets the pets and gifts gathered up. And if he sits in the car for ten minutes because that's how long it takes to psych himself up, it’s not like any of them are likely to tell anyone.
Within an hour, Jon's almost forgotten why he decided hiding from the world was his first choice; his parents are playing with the cats while Jon wraps a truly ridiculous amount of gifts for his nephew and nieces. There's eggnog, and the whole house smells like Christmas tree, and he's pretty sure there hasn't been thirty seconds of silence since he walked in, and he feels less empty than he has in weeks.
He remembers when his mother corners him in the kitchen just before he goes to bed.
"I'm not Ryan Ross' biggest fan," she says. "But I liked the way you looked when you told us you wouldn't be home for the holidays a lot more than I like the way you look now."
Jon's surprised enough by how close she just came to admitting Ryan might not actually be bad for him he forgets to worry about the baby bump when she hugs him. And, yeah, that - if he has to be worried about hugging his mom, yeah, it kind of makes sense he'd want to avoid people.
*
Jon gets home late on the 25th, so worn out from a day of pretending to be okay enough his parents won't worry too much he just lets the cats out of their carriers and crawls into bed. When he wakes up, too hot in the sweater and extra layers of undershirt he hadn't taken off, it's almost six in the morning.
He fills six dishes, food and water for everyone, and shuts himself in the extra bedroom he uses for a music room. Marley scratches twice, morning and evening, to go out for a short walk in the freezing December air; other than that, Jon doesn't leave the room until he can't stop yawning enough to write.
It's after midnight when that happens. Jon eats a sandwich before he goes to bed, less because he's hungry than because he doesn't think he should go more than twenty-four hours without eating. He wakes up with heartburn and a few more pages of lyrics in his head, so once he makes sure the animals are set he locks himself away again.
And that's what Jon does every day. He switches from writing to playing at one point, from playing for himself to recording, and some days Marley wants to go out more than twice, but mostly it's the same thing all week. His mom calls three times, and he answers, but keeps it short. Tom texts nine or ten, but Jon only answers the last, did u die or 4get to pay ur bill?
Ryan calls every day. Jon doesn't answer once.
*
"I'm outside your door," Tom says, and knocks loudly enough Jon can hear it both through the phone and from his bedroom at the far end of the apartment. "And I'm not taking no for an answer."
"I don't feel like going out," Jon says.
"It's amazing how little I care. It's New Year's, dude, take the night off from being emo."
"I'm not being emo," Jon lies; Tom bangs on the door again.
"You should know I am not above calling your mom and telling her I'm worried about you."
"You're too nice for that, you wouldn't want to worry her."
"I kind of am worried about you, though, dude," Tom says, too sincere for Jon to ignore.
"Give me five minutes," Jon says, and starts rummaging for enough clean undershirts to hide his shape. "Fucker. Stop trying to break the door down."
*
Around the time it's too late for anyone to be going to bed, too early for anyone to be waking up, Tom's living room looks a little like a battlefield, hazy with smoke and turned into an obstacle course by all the people who just fell asleep wherever they were sitting when they hit the pass-out point.
“Ryan’s been calling me," Tom says, slow with exhaustion. "I thought you guys were talking."
"We were. We fought again."
"Sucks," Tom says, and takes another sip of beer. The fact that he's still drinking and still conscious is kind of awe-inspiring. "He's - I dunno. I like you two together."
"Yeah, well."
"And sometimes you get kind of oversensitive about things, so maybe - "
"I'm pregnant." Jon regrets it the instant it's out of his mouth, thinks for a desperate minute about how to spin it into a joke. To Tom's credit, his eyes only go wide for a minute; he takes a long swig, almost finishes off the bottle, but Jon can't blame him for stalling. Hell, if his mind weren't whited out, he'd probably appreciate the extra time to think of something to say to make that sound like something other than what it is.
"That- whoa. That's possible?"
Jon snorts. "Apparently, yeah."
"You've been drinking all night."
"I'm not having it, Jesus."
"You - wow. You don't - seriously?"
"No," Jon says. "No, I made it up, because I'm so good about joking about stuff that proves I'm not actually a guy."
Tom smacks his shoulder, hard enough it actually hurts through five layers. "Shut the fuck up, asshole."
"Uh."
"Nothing proves you're not a guy, what the fuck. Nothing can prove that. You're a guy."
"But - "
Tom hits him again, even harder. "Do you remember that dude at your support group with the really great boobs?"
"Uh. Kinda? I - "
"And do you remember almost breaking my nose?"
The one and only time Tom had given him a ride to his support group. Yeah. Jon remembers. "Kind of."
Tom snorts in disbelief, but he doesn't press Jon to admit that yeah, he can replay the whole thing in vivid detail in his head. "If no one gets to say D-cups make him less of a dude, no one gets to say being knocked up makes you less of one. So shut the fuck up, before I have to keep being the kind of asshole that punches pregnant guys." He takes another swig, finishes the bottles, and rolls his eyes at Jon. "Don't cry, dude, I don't know how to respond to that since I can't really call you a girl."
"I'm not crying, asshole," Jon says, instead of the thousand other things he could, should be saying to Tom.
"Just saying," Tom says, and slings his arm around Jon's shoulders. "And...whatever you need, dude. I'll, like, push you down the stairs, if you ask. Please don't ask, though."
The fact that Jon thinks almost seriously about that for even an instant is either a good sign that he's really, really fucked up, or that it's way too late for him to still be awake. Probably both.
"I - thanks, Tom."
"Don't thank me, I'm not finished. We haven't gotten to the part where I call you an asshole for holding Ryan entirely responsible for this."
"I don't."
"Which is why he needs me to tell him no, you're not dead, just a recluse?"
Jon sighs and leans into Tom's side a little. "There's only so much I can handle," Jon says. "And dealing with myself isn't as easy as ignoring a bunch of calls."
There should be more argument, more lecture; however good Jon's reasoning is, and he's not pretending it is any good, he's being a complete dick. Tom just squeezes his shoulder.
"Whatever you need to do," he says. "Come on, Sean's passed out over there, you can crash in his bed."
*
It would be nice to say talking to Tom helped. It did, it really did, but not...it wasn't enough, and when Jon goes home he spends one hour with his pets and twelve shut in the music room. Except maybe the helpfulness was just delayed; when Jon starts yawning, he goes to bed, like he had all the week before, but when he wakes up - there's nothing pushing him back into the same routine.
He plays with the cats with their laser pointer until his wrist aches, because he feels bad for ignoring them, bundles up tight and walks Marley until he acts like he's had enough for the same reason. Then he sits down in the open, in the living room, and picks out the five songs he's okay with anyone else hearing.
Jon spends another hour on it, typing in words that don't look on paper they way they sound in the song, picking a picture at random from his "Nature and stuff" folder, waffling over how much to charge for the one good - maybe good, hopefully good - thing he managed to squeeze out of his breakdown, or whatever that was. It's worth nothing, and it's worth everything, and Jon just closes his eyes and points at the row of number keys.
He e-mails his mom while he waits, because he knows he hasn't done a good enough job pretending to be okay for her to stop worrying. I've been busy, he tells her, and it feels like a lie even though it really isn't. And it's a rough time of year to be fighting with Ryan, you know? That part feels less dishonest, but not totally honest, and Jon ends it there before he makes himself feel any more guilty.
The uploads take forever, big files on a too-slow connection, and Jon ends up just sitting and watching the little progress bar. When it finishes, he tweets before he can decide he doesn't actually want to share this part of himself with anyone. He shuts the computer down, so he doesn't spend all night watching what people are saying, watching the site statistics, puts on a hoodie because he feels weirdly naked right now, and calls Ryan.
"Dude," Ryan says, "dude. I was starting to think you died."
"No you weren't."
"No," Ryan agrees. "Tom promised you were alive. Although maybe I was worried you made him promise not to tell me."
Jon could tell Ryan he wouldn't do that, but he wouldn't blame Ryan for not believing him. He could tell Ryan he appreciates the worry, because he does, but that's a little too much to give away right now. He settles on, "are you drunk?"
"Little bit," Ryan says. "It turns out Annie can drink me under the table, which doesn't make any sense. She's, like, me, but a foot shorter."
"I miss you," Jon says; he shouldn't, it gives away a lot more than being glad Ryan worried does. But it's the only thing left after Jon spent a week forcing everything else out, pushing the anger and most of the fear until right now, that's what he feels, that's what he has - Jon misses Ryan, full stop.
"Seriously? I can be on a plane in, like - Alex, dude, Alex, stop looking at porn or whatever and look me up a flight to - "
"No, I - no."
"But - "
"If I see you right now, I'm gonna get mad again."
"So get mad."
"I'm sick of being mad."
Ryan sighs, harsh enough Jon imagines he can feel it through the phone. "Okay. If that's - fine. Okay."
"I'm working on it," Jon says, and it's the first time he's admitted to himself that maybe Ryan isn't the one at fault here, maybe Ryan's not the asshole, or at least not the only asshole. "I'm sorry, just. Stuff."
"Just stuff," Ryan says, and Jon can't read his voice. "Okay. If I call you tomorrow, will you answer?"
"Yeah," Jon says. "Definitely."
*
Jon misses Ryan's call, too busy wrestling two cat carriers through the door to get to his pocket in time. Next year, he'll schedule their boosters on different days. Of course, he said that last year, too.
"Sorry," he says, when he's gotten the cats settled. "Bad time."
"Oh, uh, I can call later."
"No," Jon says, "no, it's fine. I meant just, like, the thirty seconds my phone was ringing were bad."
"Oh. Okay. So, uh," Ryan says, "you didn't tell me you were making music."
"I wasn't the last time I talked to you."
"Yesterday?"
Jon sinks down on the couch. "Right. No, sorry. I didn't - I don't know."
"They're good," Ryan says. "It's good. You - I like them."
"Good. Uh. Thanks."
Silence, then, and Jon scrubs his hand through his hair, waits it out.
"You - you're not okay, are you?"
Jon thinks about lying to him; he meant what he said yesterday, that he doesn't want to be mad and he doesn't think he can see Ryan without getting mad. But he's never been all that subtle a writer, even to people who don't know him as well as Ryan does, and lying to Ryan about this, at least right now, feels a little like cheating at solitaire.
"No," he says. "I'm not."
"Okay," Ryan says. "Okay. Um, is it because - have you done the - gotten the - thing?"
Jon sighs. "No. Not - not yet."
"Do you - should I be there?"
Jon sighs, scrubs his hand through his hair. "I don't think there's going to be a 'there'."
Ryan sucks in a breath so loud Jon can almost feel the suction on his ear. "You're gonna - did you decide to - "
"I didn’t decide, I just...it’s not about deciding," Jon says. "It’s about me being a gigantic pussy."
"Oh," Ryan says, and Jon ignores what sounds like hopefulness lurking in Ryan's voice. If he acknowledges Ryan's not as upset about this as Jon is, he's never - they're never - there's no reason to keep talking to him. "You’re not - don’t call yourself a pussy, dude."
“Chickenshit.”
“Better,” Ryan says. There’s silence, then, and maybe it’s wishful thinking but Jon thinks it feels less awkward than it has for a while. Ryan’s breath keeps hitching on the other end, like he’s about to say something, but it’s almost a full five minutes before anything comes out. “Let me come visit you,” he says.
Jon thinks maybe, but he says, “okay.”
Part Two
"No, it's not - I don't get a lot of what you do, but I get your logic, and I get why I don't get it. But, I mean this I really, really don't get. You've just, like, decided to be miserable the rest of your life?"
"I'm not miserable," Jon says, shifts the blanket up over his shoulder. He can't have this conversation with his scars hanging out, however faint they might be now, however much Ryan insists he can’t even see them.
"You're not comfortable, though. You put more energy into pretending your body's the way you want it to be - "
"Fuck you." This conversation is over, absolutely fucking over. Jon rolls over and hopes Ryan won't keep talking if he's stuck talking to Jon's blanket-covered back.
"That's not - it's what you do, though. Like. You know what your body's actually like. I know what your body's actually like. Or, like, I can guess, since you won't let me see. And you know you're not gonna make any more changes to it. So wouldn't it make you a fuck of a lot happier to, like, be okay with what you have? It'd at least be easier for you."
"That's all very nice," Jon says, "except you're only saying it because you're sick of my underwear getting in the way."
"Actually, that part's kind of hot? But, yeah, I mean, I'm not gonna pretend it doesn't bother me we've been dating for, like, ever, and I don't get to see you naked."
"It's not about you."
"I know. But...kind of? Like - "
"Ryan." Jon sits up, throwing the blanket aside with a little more force than it really needs. "I let you fuck me. Even if it’s not - it’s just anal, it’s still fucking huge for me, you ungrateful dick. So if you could maybe not make me regret it by asking for more, like I knew you would the minute I gave in on one thing, that would be fucking awesome."
"I'm not - if I wanted to be a dick about it, dude, there's nothing stopping me from pulling your underwear down an extra inch when I fuck you. It's not, like, 'I want to see you naked', not entirely, it's more like - you're going to spend the entire rest of your life hiding?"
"Yes," Jon says; it's not that simple, but he's tired of explaining shit. "Also, the rest of my life sleeping on the couch. Goodnight, asshole."
*
Ryan's couch is actually pretty comfortable, or at least it is when Ryan takes a fucking hint and doesn't climb on while Jon's sleeping so he wakes up stiff and too sweaty and still kind of cranky.
"The thing is," Ryan says, "your shit would be hard to navigate even for someone who's good at dealing with people's shit. Can I at least get a little credit for fucking up less than I used to?"
"No," Jon mumbles into the couch cushion, but when he shifts to face Ryan, he doesn't look as much like he just wants Jon to admit he's right to end the argument as like he actually doesn't want Jon mad at him. Someday, Jon will be less easy. "Maybe."
"Cool. And, like, I really won't - you can run around in, like, fifty layers if that's what you want, I just - stuff."
"You just stuff," Jon repeats, because he's way too tired to translate Ryan-speak.
"Um. Yeah. Like - "
"Okay," Jon says to cut him off, and burrows his face into Ryan's chest a little so he can go back to sleep.
*
Jon spends a little over half an hour in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom, taking his harness off, putting it back on, taking it back off again. Ryan - Ryan might be on to something, maybe, a little, like maybe the way part of Jon's shower ritual is to switch from his everyday harness to his waterproof one so he doesn't even have to go the length of the shower without that weight between his legs, maybe the way Ryan drapes fabric over this mirror so Jon won't have to see himself while he makes the switch, maybe that's not really sustainable behavior for the rest of his life. Or maybe it could be, but shouldn't.
It's not as bad as Jon was afraid of, at least; he half-expected the sight of himself as he really is, rather than the way his harness lets him be, would make him sick. Which, okay, maybe - maybe that's a good sign he's not doing the right thing for himself.
But it's not - he can let his eyes travel down past the smooth planes of his chest to the thatch of hair and missing flesh between his legs, and he feels...he hates it, God he hates it, but it's nowhere near as violent a hate as it used to be. He times himself, five minutes without the harness, ten minutes with; the third time he takes off the harness, he doesn’t have to stop himself from reaching for it before his watch beeps that his five minutes are up.
*
One of the best things about living with Ryan is no matter how fucked-up Jon's schedule gets, Ryan's is always worse, which means Jon generally gets at least an hour, usually more, in the morning (or early afternoon, whatever) to himself. And, yeah, in his apartment in Chicago he could have a lot more than that, but it's harder to appreciate when it's constant.
The house smells like coffee and weed, at least from the kitchen through the living room; the bedroom smells like old clothes because it's well past time to do laundry, and the bathroom smells like litter. Dylan's sprinting up and down the hall fighting with something, most likely an invisible something, which means Ryan's gonna come stumbling in any minute, not quite awake even though he went to bed a little over twelve hours ago.
"Are you clipping coupons?" Ryan asks from the doorway, right on schedule.
"And making a shopping list," Jon says. "This time, we're gonna remember to get more than chips and pop-tarts."
Ryan leans in and kisses Jon's cheek before fumbling his way to the coffee pot. "Such a good little housew - uh."
Jon freezes halfway through cutting out a buy one, get one cereal deal, and bites back the profanity building up in his throat. Ryan's trying, his brain says, the good part, the part that gets that Ryan's been fucking up less and less, to the point sometimes Jon forgets he's someone who does fuck up. Ryan's trying.
When Jon looks over his shoulder, Ryan's standing completely still, coffee pot tipped just slightly over the last clean mug. His eyes are huge, and he is definitely bracing himself.
"It's not - it's fine."
"I call Spencer a housewife all the time," Ryan says. Jon believes it, Hell Jon's probably heard it before. Ryan - for all Ryan loves words, he loves them best when he can pick and choose which part of their meanings to keep, and usually the "this word means 'girl'" meanings are the ones that get dropped first.
"It's fine," Jon says, and he means it. "Drink your coffee, we have shit to do today."
It must show in his voice, or his face, that he's not actually mad; Ryan was bracing himself so hard it’s actually visible when he stops. "Put chips and pop-tarts on the list," he says, before he turns back to fix his coffee. "We don't want to forget those."
*
“This isn’t for you,” Jon says; Ryan doesn’t ask. The silence gives him an easy excuse to take a few extra seconds to steel himself, like maybe he’s just waiting for a question before he steps out of the bathroom.
Ryan does an actual double-take, up to Jon, back to his book, back up to Jon with his eyes almost comically wide. Jon clenches and unclenches his fist, bites back the desire to turn around and come back out with his dick secure in his boxers. But there’s nothing in Ryan’s eyes even close to the scrutiny Jon subjected himself to in the mirror for the last couple weeks; Jon can do this.
To his credit, Ryan’s eyes drift downwards once, and then stay on his face. “You - wow.”
“Shut up,” Jon says, and crosses the room so he can climb into bed.
“Uh, you - are we - “
“Sleeping,” Jon says. “Just sleeping.”
“No, right, totally. I can sleep, yeah.” Ryan shuts his book without marking his place, and knocks the clock off the bedside table when he flails to turn off his lamp. “Do we - can I touch you?”
“Not there,” Jon says, and waits for Ryan to nod before he turns his back so Ryan can spoon against him. Ryan wriggles around a whole lot before he pulls the blanket up to slide under, and when he presses against Jon’s back it’s skin-to-skin everywhere. Which is - it’s actually nice enough that for the first time, Jon thinks maybe pushing himself like this could be worth it.
Ryan’s arm hovers near Jon’s waist for a second too long; Jon tangles his fingers with Ryan’s and pulls his arm down, high enough on Jon’s chest he’ll be able to sleep without worrying about it.
*
The sun is the best kind of too hot on Jon's skin, keeping him comfortably roasted. His legs are already getting sore from playing fetch with Marley for just a little too long, an ache he'll be feeling all day tomorrow if he keeps going. Jon fucking loves the beach; aside from the sand, even the uncomfortable parts aren't really bad.
"Which is why you need to move here for good," Ryan says, when Jon flops down on the blanket with a loud declaration of his love. Ryan's face is all shadow under the brim of his ridiculous sun hat, hidden behind sunglasses that take up at least three-quarters of his face. He's got about as much skin showing as a Victorian lady, because he has something against actually using sunscreen, and Jon should want to make fun of him for it but he just smiles, dopey and wide, and ducks under Ryan's hat for a quick kiss.
"Maybe," Jon says, and kisses him again before pushing himself back up for more fetch.
Jon plays with Marley for another half hour before his legs decide he is absolutely done for the day; when he gets back to the blanket, Ryan's rolled his pant lets up and discarded his shirt, pale skin already pinking in the sun as he naps. Jon sighs and takes a minute to weigh the way Ryan will whine if he wakes him up against the way Ryan will whine if he gets any more sunburned. It's a harder decision than it would be with a normal person, but he's kind of gotten used to that. You have to, with Ryan.
*
"I'm dying," Ryan says, while Jon rubs aloe over his beet-red back with the lightest possible touch.
"You are not."
"You don't know that. You're not a doctor."
"I'm also not an idiot."
"I know my body, and I know what it feels like when it's dying."
Jon sits back on his knees, rests his weight on Ryan's thighs. "How would you possibly know that? You've never died before."
"Less talking," Ryan says, "more back rubs."
"I should just let you suffer," Jon says, but he keeps rubbing aloe in to Ryan's back, his legs, his chest, until Ryan's practically boneless, melting into the bed.
*
"Clover's trying to eat me. Again."
"No," Jon says, even before he tilts his head back to see that she's just licking at Ryan's pant leg. "If she were trying to eat you, she would have tenderized you first, and you haven't been whining so I know she wasn't."
"You'd whine too," Ryan says.
"Maybe. But she loves me too much to tenderize me, don't you baby?"
Ryan passes the joint down, and runs his fingers through Jon's hair instead of lifting his hand all the way back up. Ryan is the best.
"Do they answer you?"
"No. I think if I thought they talked back, I'd be crazy."
"I'm pretty sure it's crazier to talk to things that don't answer back."
"Says the guy who had a full conversation with the microwave the other day."
Ryan tugs on Jon's hair a little, which feels pretty awesome. "If it would respond to the buttons, I wouldn't have to tell it what I want it to do."
That almost makes sense, at least enough that it's not worth it to keep the subject going. Besides, if he gets Ryan worked up enough, he'll stop petting Jon so he can talk with his hands, and that would suck.
They pass the joint back in forth in silence for...a while, who knows. Long enough for Clover to get tired of Ryan's pants and hop off the couch to curl up in Jon's lap.
"Compared to your cats," Ryan says, still combing his fingers through Jon's hair, "where do I fall?"
"Uh," Jon says, "third."
"Above Marley?" Ryan sounds genuinely surprised. Jon's not sure if he should feel bad, if maybe Ryan not expecting Jon to like him as much as Jon’s pets is a bad thing, but right now it's just kind of funny.
"No, you said cats. You're third on the list of cats. And second on the list of dogs. And fourth overall."
"Oh," Ryan says; when Jon tilts his head back, Ryan's smiling. "Cool."
*
If you're dating a fully-transitioned transman, who looks like a normal guy -- and nearly all of us pass really well after testosterone and mastectomies -- and you get to the taking-off-your-clothes part with him, it's real important not to choke up when finally faced with his genitalia. Some people, unfortunately, do the deer-in-headlights thing when the dissonance of this male body without the "expected" dangling male genitals hits them. The minds of some biomen, especially, may instinctively think "castration!" and they may even flinch. If you're even slightly afraid that you may react this way, I suggest that you buy Loren Cameron's book "Body Alchemy" and study the photos until you're more familiar with the anatomical dissonance of a transman's body.1
There’s another tab open, the Amazon page for the recommended book. Jon’s having trouble breathing, suddenly, can’t get enough air in around his heart now that it’s lodged securely in his throat. In a good way, fuck, in the best way, just - maybe Jon’s an idiot, maybe he’s an asshole, but somehow in the process of accepting that Ryan didn’t get this stuff and was going to slip up occasionally, it hadn’t ever occurred to him that Ryan might be putting extra effort into not fucking up.
Jon just blinks at the page, frozen a little bit from the rush of - rush of everything, fuck, guilt over underestimating Ryan, no small amount of anger at himself for being a big enough dick to just not consider that Ryan gave enough of a shit to try, and this massive fucking swell of affection he's a little surprised doesn't propel him right off the bed and into the shower to kiss Ryan fucking senseless.
The shower stops and Jon shakes himself a little, logs into Twitter and types some arbitrary phrase since he can't remember what the fuck he'd been planning to tweet in the first place. The bathroom door opens with a cloud of steam and cologne, because Ryan is exactly the kind of asshole who puts cologne on just to sleep in, just as Jon's shutting the computer.
"If I had a bigger water heater," Ryan says, as he sheds his towel and climbs into bed, "I'd stay in there forever."
"I take it that means there's no hot water for me."
"No," Ryan says. "Which is too bad, because you kind of stink."
That's normally Jon's cue to fight back, start a stupid war of stupid insults until one of them - usually Jon - can't keep a straight face anymore. Instead he rolls onto his side, kisses Ryan deep and thorough and long.
Ryan blinks a little dazedly at him when he pulls back, smiling wide and genuinely pleased. "Okay. I forgive you for smelling so bad."
Jon just rolls his eyes and tucks himself against Ryan's side so he can talk to Ryan's chest, not have to make eye contact. "I think, maybe," he says, "we could try...stuff." He winces, a little, because what the fuck, but as much as he suddenly wants this, the words don't want to come out.
"Stuff," Ryan says, agreeable even though he couldn't possibly know what Jon's talking about. "Okay."
"Like, the kind of stuff where - there. Stuff there."
"Um," Ryan says, and rests a hand on Jon's hip, taps his middle finger a couple times. “There, there?"
"You could fuck me," Jon says, in a rush. "I would - that would be okay. That would be good, even, I think."
Ryan's finger freezes mid-tap, and Jon is acutely aware of how close it is to that last part of him he hasn't let Ryan have. He bites his lip and flexes his hand a little on the urge to squirm away, but Ryan - Ryan who is not an idiot, Ryan who is trying, Ryan who is so much better than Jon had ever expected to have even when he's not that good - shifts his hand up to Jon's ribs anyway.
"Are you sure?"
"As sure as I'm gonna get."
"Because we don't have to - I don't need - "
"I know," Jon says, and manages to push himself up a little, manages to look Ryan in the eye without flinching away. "But you can."
"Okay. I - okay. Wow. Okay. Like, were you thinking, like, now, because I don't think I can - "
"Not tonight," Jon says.
"Right, no, totally. Whenever you're ready."
Jon kisses Ryan again before he shifts away, fumbling with his boxers and the harness he's been taking on and off for so long it's not even a little tricky to unbuckle it under the blankets without looking. He's gotten used to it already, to falling asleep and waking up skin against skin, touching everywhere.
"I won't be a dick about it," Ryan says in Jon's ear when he presses against Jon's back. "I promise."
"I know," Jon says. "I trust you."
*
Maybe. Maybe this was a bad idea, maybe he’s not ready, maybe -
“We don’t have to do this,” Ryan says, rolling off Jon to lie on his side next to him.
“I want to.”
Ryan arches his eyebrows. “Absolutely nothing about you right now says ‘I want this’, dude.”
“My mouth.”
Ryan quirks his lips a little at that, an almost-smile. “I just - if you don’t want - “
“I need this,” Jon says. “I need to - I need to be able to do this.”
“I’m not one hundred percent on board,” Ryan says. “I just want that on the record so later when you’re mad and try to fight with me, I can bring that up.”
“I won’t fight with you. And if you don’t want it, just say so.”
“I want it,” Ryan says, hasty. “Shit, do I want it. But I’m not convinced you do.”
Jon sighs, makes a concentrated effort to relax. “Being nervous doesn’t mean I don’t want it.”
“Okay, just - can I - how do I make it easier for you?”
“Um. We need to do it so you can’t see. Like. Spooning, maybe? Or I’m gonna be worried about you looking. And it can’t - just like anal, it has to be exactly the same.”
“I can do that, yeah. Like, lube, and stretching?”
“Yeah, that - yeah.”
Ryan leans in and kisses Jon. “What about - “
“Just like anal.”
“Okay, but - “
“Ryan, fuck, it’s not that fucking hard. Would you do it to fuck me in the ass? If not, don’t do it now.”
Ryan frowns a little, and Jon doesn’t get what the fuck his problem is.
“I - okay, but - okay. Okay.”
Jon smiles in what he hopes is a more reassuring than anxious way, and rolls over on his side.
*
Ryan's breath is hot against the back of Jon's head, puffing out slower and slower until he's breathing normally. Jon squirms a little, hoping he'll get the hint and pull out, but he just tightens his hand on Jon's dick, gives it a slow jerk that rocks the base against Jon's clit the way Jon loves when he's not too weirded out and uncomfortable to enjoy it.
"Did you - " Ryan starts, but Jon cuts him off.
"I need a shower," Jon says, and Ryan doesn't push it, just pulls out and lets go so he can roll away.
Jon tugs the waterproof harness out of its resting place behind the clean towels, switches with his back to the mirror because he's let Ryan keep it uncovered. It makes it a little harder to wash up where he needs to, but that's not really as big a concern right now as it maybe should be.
They've been sleeping together naked for about a month now, but Ryan doesn't say a word when Jon steps out of the bathroom in the boxer briefs that are tight enough to hold his dick in place so he can sleep without a harness. He doesn't say anything when Jon tucks himself against Ryan's side, even though if Ryan sleeps on his back he'll complain about a sore neck for at least a day after. He does say something when Jon says, quiet in the dark room, "we're not doing that again."
"Okay," is what he says. "That's fine."
And he says something else, after his breathing’s evened out enough Jon thinks he’s asleep, when Jon's too tired to hear him right. It’s either "I'm sorry" or "I love you"; right now, they're probably kind of the same thing.
*
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Jon takes a drag of his cigarette and doesn’t look away from the sunset. He blows the smoke out as slowly as he can, stalling. He’s been avoiding Ryan all day, not the easiest to do in a small house when neither of them ever go anywhere. It’s not fair to Ryan, and part of knowing that Ryan’s trying should be Jon trying harder himself; as easy it is to pretend any problems they have are just because Ryan doesn’t understand everything there is to understand about Jon, it’s bullshit.
“Not really,” Jon says, but he pats the lawn chair next to him in invitation. Ryan takes it, and Jon offers up the last few drags of the cigarette. The neighborhood’s as quiet as it ever gets, which isn’t exactly quiet at all, just enough noise to make Jon and Ryan’s own silence more noticeable.
“Was it something I did?” Ryan asks, finally.
“No, shit, no. It was - it was just too much. Too big a step.”
“You should have asked me to stop.”
“I thought it might - I thought I’d get over it? Like if I kept going there’d be a breaking point, or something.”
“What was it - “ Ryan pauses, and sighs, leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I know you don’t like talking about this shit. But I think this might be the time for me to, like, make you?”
Jon bites his lip, nods a little even though Ryan’s not looking at him. “Maybe.”
“Okay. So, uh. What was the problem?”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Like, I just. I couldn’t get out of my head enough.”
“We could try with you high, or something.”
“Maybe.”
“Or, like, smaller stuff. I could go down on you.”
The idea of Ryan getting that close - Jon picked fucking for a reason, because they could do it without him worrying about Ryan seeing anything. “No.”
“Okay.”
“I just - it’s. I was making some progress. And I feel like that ruined it.”
Ryan sits back then, looks over at Jon. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t - it’s not you. You’re great, Ryan, you’re - that was me. I fucked up.”
A breeze kicks up, blows Ryan’s hair across his frown. Jon wants to reach out and brush it off, but he feels awkward in his own skin, like if he moves he’s going to burst right out of it.
“I don’t really know what to do for you, sometimes.”
“I know,” Jon says. “That’s not your fault. You’re - seriously, you’re great. I’m just. I’m not easy.”
“Easy’s boring,” Ryan says; he’s wearing sunglasses so Jon can’t tell if his eyes match the smile in his voice, but he chooses to believe they do. Ryan’s earned himself the benefit of the doubt.
*
Jon went through a period, after he told his parents who he was but before that got him anywhere, where he spent a lot of time holed up in his room watching horrible romantic comedies. The thing about those is they set up these worlds where men and women were so incredibly different there couldn't possibly be any confusion - people who acted like men were men, end of story.
It's possible he picked up more from that period than he thought, considering the way Z keeps calling him Chicago's answer to Hugh Grant.
"It's cute, though," she says. "Ryan needs someone who treats him like a delicate princess."
Jon's pretty sure he's not that bad, but instead of defending him, Ryan just says, "Duh."
"I need another beer. You want anything?"
"Yes," Ryan says, "I want Z to stop being so jealous that I get to be a princess."
"Fat chance, Ross," Z says.
"Okay. I'll settle for a refill, then." Ryan's glass is still half-full, but the ice is melting so chances are good he'll just dismiss the rest of it as too watery and waste four dollars of an eight dollar gin and tonic. Jon rolls his eyes and scoots out of the booth, winces a little - must've slept on his back wrong - and leans over to kiss Ryan before he walks away so Z will have plenty to tease him about while Jon's getting drinks. Not that she ever has trouble coming up with something on her own.
The wait at the bar is ridiculous, dudebro bartender and too many girls using their low-cut tops and his dudebro-ness against him for Jon to get any attention; Z and Ryan are arguing about something French-sounding when Jon finally gets back, leaning over the table all seriousness, slipping in and out of French and English. That's kind of hot, actually.
They stop when Jon slides back into his seat and can't hold back the wince when his back twinges again.
"Your back again?" Ryan asks, rests his hand just above Jon's waistband.
"Slept on it wrong, I think."
Ryan frowns. "That's like the third time this week."
Fifth. "Maybe we need a new mattress."
"Maybe," Ryan says, and lets Z draw him back in to the argument. He doesn't take his hand off Jon's back.
*
The computer is just sitting there looking inviting; Jon isn't, at all, the kind of person who runs to the internet for every little medical worry, but it kind of feels like his body is fighting with him and he'd like to figure out why. There's the back thing, and the way he'd almost come just from Ryan mouthing at his nipples last night, his lips sending these hot shocks of almost-pain that kind of felt the way women in porn pretend to feel when their nipples get played with. And today, just now, when Jon was doing his get-comfortable-with-my-body thing in the mirror, they kind of looked darker. Not red, or bruised, or anything that would explain the sudden sensitivity, but definitely a few shades darker.
He can chalk up the headaches he's been waking up with to all the drinking he and Ryan have been doing, too many nights at bars with Z or Greenwald or both, but even if he ignores those, he's a little worried.
"Are you taking another fucking nap?" Ryan yells from the living room, and oh yeah, there's that, the way Jon's lost his ability to stay awake for a full day. He adds lethargic to the list of symptoms in the search box, and...yeah, no, that can't be it.
"No," Jon answers, and then asks as an afterthought, "Hey, do you remember when we fought about the kitchen?"
Jon's periods usually come with a few days of this fucking rage he prefers a little to the shame he used to have, but he's an asshole who hasn't learned to not take his shit out on everyone else, and they've fought every month for the past - for a while. It sucks, but right now the idea that he has a big memorable fight to remember the timing of all his fucking periods by is kind of a good one.
"Um, I don't know, a month and a half? Two months? What day is it now, 'cause it was, like, the first week of October."
Jon doesn't look at the calendar; he doesn't know the date, but he's got a good enough idea. Still. It's - it's a whole lot of coincience, and his back just hurts from the mattress, and his head just hurts from too much drinking, and he's just paranoid about his nipples because he’s been weird about them since the day he decided not to have anything done to them during his top surgery. There's a totally logical explanation for all of it.
*
"Your box of decorations is too heavy for me to lift," Ryan says, when Jon starts filling their cart with ornaments.
"Lots of things are too heavy for you to lift. And those are just the essentials."
"I don't think you really grasp what 'essentials' means."
Jon rolls his eyes and throws in a few packs of tinsel. Ryan knew what he was getting into when he told Jon yes, he wanted Jon to stay for Christmas and yes, he'd let Jon decorate to his liking.
Obviously he was lying, since he doesn't seem too excited by the giant inflatable snowman on display.
"No," he says. "I'm putting my foot down."
He actually puts his foot down, because he's Ryan and he's ridiculous. Jon doesn't press the inflatable snowman issue. Even though it would look exactly the right kind of tacky in the backyard.
"Wanna go get the car? I'll check out."
"Okay, but if you sneak anything inflatable in there, I'm kicking you out."
"And you'd let me back in the first time you forgot to pay a bill," Jon says to Ryan's retreating back; Ryan flips him off just before he turns the corner to leave through the candy aisle.
Jon starts towards the checkout, takes the long way that brings him by the pharmacy. He starts to turn down an aisle, stops, starts again, stops one more time. He's just - it doesn't mean anything. It's not a girl thing to buy, guys probably pick them up for their girlfriends all the time. Guys who have girlfriends, not guys who have boyfriends, because they're for girls.
But. He'll never stop worrying until he's ruled it out, and he's had trouble sleeping since he tried to have Google diagnose his shit. Jon grits his teeth, turns down the aisle, and grabs a two-pack of pregnancy tests.
*
Ryan's at the movies with Spencer, so Jon tries to take advantage of the time to decorate without any distractions. There's something else he can only do when he doesn't have to worry about Ryan seeing, though, and knowing there's a pregnancy test sitting on the bathroom counter is a way bigger distraction than Ryan breaking ornaments.
Jon manages to get the lights on the tree before he can't wait any more; the word PREGNANT on the little screen makes him wish he hadn't hurried. It - there's a reason he bought two, this one probably glitched, he drank too much water, not enough water, something.
The tree is blinking invitingly at him after he sets the second test up; he's so afraid to check it he ends up getting the entire thing decorated, plus the fake snow stuck on the windowsills.
PREGNANT, the second test says, and Jon can't - there are a billion things in his head, but the only thing he can process is I have to get the fuck out of here. Fuck. Fuck.
Packing hardly takes any time at all, considering how much of his shit he has spread all over the house. He's starting to think he can get out before Ryan gets back, not have to deal with him, when Clover decides the last thing she wants is to get in her carrier. Jon has her cornered under the bed when the front door opens and closes.
"You were right," Ryan calls, "it sucked. Next time I'm picking. You should come next time, he was asking about you."
Ryan's voice is getting closer, voice and footsteps and Clover keeps backing away and Jon can't fucking handle this right now.
"Like, it would be great for me if you two would - Uh," Ryan says, and Jon drops his head a little. Fuck. "Why are you - I thought you were here until New Year’s."
"Fuck you."
Jon can almost hear Ryan blinking in confusion behind his back. "Because I got your schedule wrong?"
Jon focuses on coaxing Clover into her cat carrier, because just Ryan's stupid voice is making him want to punch things, and he doesn't want to hurt his hand on Ryan's stupid fucking wall or his stupid fucking face. Clover's being a little bitch, though, hiding just out of reach under the bed; still, Jon has more patience for cat bullshit than people bullshit.
"I'm sure you told me -“
"Ryan," Jon half-growls, slamming his hand against the floor hard enough Clover goes sprinting out of the room, and goddammit now Ryan's made Jon's cat mad at him. Asshole. "Shut up."
"No. You can at least tell me - "
"How fucking stupid do you have to be," Jon says, because fine, fuck, if Ryan wants to do this, they'll do this, "to not know to use a fucking condom?"
Ryan blinks his stupid I'm-lost blink a few times, then his eyes go comically wide. Well. It's comical when Jon's about one percent as upset as he is now. Right now it just makes Ryan look intolerably stupid.
"I - are you - "
"It's not fucking rocket science. It rolls right the fuck on."
"You - I didn't - you said I couldn't do anything different than usual."
"Within reason," Jon yells, too loud, loud enough to drown out the he has a point traitorously popping up in the back of his mind. Ryan doesn't get to have a fucking point right now, Jon's too mad for that.
"It wasn't - I was trying to - "
"I don't care. I can't - I need to go home, because I can't deal with your stupid fucking face right now."
"Jon," Ryan starts, but he just opens and closes his mouth a few more times without finishing. Jon gives him a minute, in case it turns out there actually are words that will make this better, in case it turns out Ryan can find those words. He doesn't, though, doesn't find any words, and Jon just walks away to give wrangling Clover another try.
*
Jon texts Andy with enough details Andy won't ask.
(Andy wouldn’t ask, anyway, Andy’s better at rolling with things than maybe anyone Jon knows. But Tom keeps telling Jon he’s fucking weird about feeling like he owes people things, and maybe he’s got a point, because Jon’s not sure he can pretend Andy being the only one to get a text has to do with anything other than Andy being the very first person, other than Tom, to call Jon “dude”, to make him stop worry about passing for five seconds.)
Ryan gets a text, too, but it's one word to Andy's twenty. Jon waits for Andy's that's rough, dude, do what you gotta but not Ryan's answer before he tweets, and then he shuts his phone off and locks himself in his room with his guitar and a notebook. When he turns his phone back on, it's three in the morning and he has twenty missed calls from the Nicks. They gave up around two; maybe they got hold of someone else. Maybe Andy did the right thing, the thing Jon couldn't handle doing, maybe he called them. Maybe they talked to Ryan. Ryan, who texted just once, half an hour ago, can I call you?
No, Jon sends back, but after he's in bed, Marley warming his feet and Dylan stretched out along his back, he adds at least not tonight.
*
Jon's in Chicago a week before he calls his parents to let them know that yeah, he'd like to do Christmas with them after all.
"I thought Ryan won holiday custody this year."
"It wasn't a contest, Dad," Jon says. "And he forfeited."
"Okay," his dad says; the amount of sympathy packed into that one syllable makes Jon feel raw, sliced open. "We'll expect you on Christmas Eve to help wrap for the kids, then."
"It's a date."
Jon finally calls Ryan back later that night, and tells himself it has nothing to do with how unprepared he is for two days at home with the pity he'll get if he has to say "Ryan and I aren't even talking".
*
"So, I saw this dog today," Ryan says, when Jon picks up the phone.
"How exciting for you."
"No, but, it was wearing flip-flops."
"And how high were you at the time?" Ryan doesn't answer; he's probably gesturing, he tends to forget that whoever he's talking to can't see him. "Words, Ryan. It's a phone, use your words."
"Not very," Ryan says. "I'm not actually stupid enough to drive to the beach when I'm so fucked up I'm hallucinating, what the fuck."
"You might have hallucinated that you were okay to drive," Jon says.
"Maybe I hallucinated the beach and I was in my bathroom. No, but, like, not on his feet - "
"What?"
"The flip-flops. His owner had them hanging off his collar so she didn't have to carry them."
"That's...actually a really good idea," Jon says, sits up enough so he can see Marley over in the corner chewing on a bone. He casts a considering look at the sandals discarded in the corner, and frowns a little. Marley's not tall enough, damn.
"It's like all your favorite things in one. I thought I got a picture but I guess I hit cancel instead of save? Or my phone ate it. Or something."
"I think my imagination can handle it."
"Cool," Ryan says. "Next time you come down, we can make Marley your flip-flop bitch."
Jon kind of wants to be annoyed, start another stupid fight over Ryan just assuming he'll be visiting again. They haven't talked, really, haven't gotten past stupid stories and, like, small talk about the weather yet, and Jon doesn't really know if he likes Ryan just assuming that when they do talk, it'll end in Jon crawling back. Or maybe this is Ryan's way of crawling back.
Whatever. He shoves it down, concentrates on Ryan's brain going to the same place his own did. Being on the same page as Ryan is better than fighting with him, anyway.
"He's too short, I think."
"We'll have to make a friend with little feet, then," Ryan says. "Or get a taller dog."
Jon likes the idea of them getting a pet together so much he forgets he's supposed to be mad about Ryan making assumptions.
*
"I'm shopping," Jon says, "but I can probably handle talking and driving a cart. I'm talented like that."
"You are," Ryan agrees. "Fun shopping, or grocery shopping?"
"Grocery shopping is fun. At least, eating is fun, and I need to get groceries to eat."
"You're kind of a weird dude."
"Yes. Out of the two of us, I'm the weird one. You're the pot, and I'm, like, a pink kettle, and I'm the blackest."
"You just called yourself a pink kettle," Ryan says. "I rest my case."
Jon can't actually argue with that. He chooses to believe it's because of how absurd it is, not because Ryan's right; the idea that he might actually be weirder than Ryan isn't something he can really wrap his head around.
"Do you have a list?" Ryan asks, when Jon's gone a minute or so without saying anything. "And your grandmotherly coupon book?"
"It's plain blue, how the fuck is it grandmotherly?"
"It's a coupon book."
Okay, point. "I've saved like twenty bucks already, dude."
"You should use it to buy me stuff," Ryan says. "I'm out of food again."
"I taught you how to shop, Ross." Jon finishes up in the frozen aisle, and is about to hang up so he won't be that douchebag on the phone while he checks out when he remembers how much he's been craving salty shit lately. One more trip down the chip aisle would probably be a good idea.
"No, you taught me how to sit there while you made a list. And then walk behind you while you followed the list. You, like, gave me a fish."
"What?"
"Give a man a fish, teach him to fish, y'know. Eat for a day, eat for a lifetime."
"You're ridiculous, and I need to hang up so I can check out."
"This is why you need to come back," Ryan says. "So I don't starve."
Jon sighs. "Ryan - "
"No, I know, I wasn't - whenever. I just meant, like, eventually."
"Eventually."
"The soon kind of eventually."
"Maybe," Jon says. "We'll see. And I'll e-mail you a shopping list you can use as a starting point."
"You're the best," Ryan says, earnestly.
"And you're ridiculous," Jon says. "Goodbye."
When he gets home, he spends maybe twice as long writing a list for Ryan as he did for himself.
*
"No, I can talk, it's just Brendon and Spencer."
It kind of sounds like more than them, but compared to the crickets chirping in Jon's apartment it makes sense three people - especially if one of those people is Brendon - would sound like a party. Jon thinks, maybe, he hears a voice he doesn't recognize, but if it's not a video game character, it's probably Dallon, and Ryan has weird ideas about being a traitor, or something. Weird ideas that maybe Jon contributed to; Ryan's on his best behavior, right now, and it's kind of uncomfortable to stumble on the weird fucked-up things Jon's managed to convince him count as "best".
"They're bummed you left without hanging out," Ryan continues.
"Sure they are. And it was kind of sudden."
"They don't know that, so, y'know. And don't be a dick."
"I'm not."
Jon hears, in the background, something about phone sex, laughter loud enough he wants to hold the phone away from his ear a little. His own apartment is completely silent, Marley and the cats all asleep somewhere too far away for him to hear their breathing, Marley's little dog snores. Jon needs to wind the stupid antique clock Ryan got him, the ticking is obnoxious but it's something.
"I'm gonna let you go, dude, I have decorating to do."
The plan had been for Jon to stay at Ryan's at least through New Year's, maybe longer, and all his favorite decorations are in a box he'd shipped to Ryan's place before he flew down. If Ryan realizes that, he doesn't let on.
"Right, no, yeah," Ryan says, "sure. I'll, uh, call you later?"
"Sure."
Jon winds the clock and hunts down Clover, because stretching out on the couch to watch too much Food Network is always better with a purring cat on his stomach. The first time the clock chimes, it startles him so badly he scares Clover away; he rolls his eyes and calls Tom.
"I need to get out of here," he says, and barely waits for the address of the bar Tom's already at with Sean before he's out the door.
*
“You’re so fucking frustrating,” Ryan says, and it sounds like he just threw something. Jon waits for it, for the phone to go silent so he can brace himself for a day, maybe more, maybe a lot more of wondering if maybe he finally did it, finally pushed too hard. He can still hear Ryan breathing, though, a harsh sigh followed by the kind of deep breath Ryan usually takes when he’s mid-fight with Brendon and trying to defuse so he can get the fuck out of there. “If you tell me what you need, I’ll do it. But I don’t know what the fuck to do right now, and I can’t - fuck.”
“It’s - I don’t know, Ryan, if there’s anything you can do, you’re doing it.”
“Yelling at you?”
“Talking to me. Like. It’s. I don’t know, if I could put it into words I’d tell you. It’s easier to remember the reasons I don’t want to fight if I’m not looking at you.”
Ryan sighs again. “Okay. That’s - that kind of sucks for me, but I can deal.”
“I’m sorry,” Jon says, and maybe he should have apologized before this, apologized better, but the words still feel kind of raw on his tongue, like the part of him that doesn’t think this is his fault isn’t willing to give any ground.
“Okay,” Ryan says. “Did you see Tosh.0 last night?”
*
Jon wakes up with a visible baby bump on December twenty-third, and when he’s checking it out in the mirror notices - okay, probably no one else would think of them as breasts, but his chest is definitely not as flat as it used to be. The rational part of his brain knows it wasn't that sudden, that if he hadn't been so good at denial he might've gotten used to it by now. Plus, with the beard and the bulge in his pants and all the other things about him that say "this is a dude", the little baby bump and not-quite-breasts just kind of look like the beer gut and man-tits of a guy who's stopped working out.
The irrational part of his brain uses his arm to throw a bottle of shampoo at the mirror, and then screams loudly enough to drown out the rational part.
*
Jon fucking loves Marley, but it's hard to hide in bed when he's got a dog to take care of. Cats are better for wallowing; he can refill their food and water whenever he feels like getting up, pet them when they seek him out and demand it, listen to them playing and feel less alone without actually having to be less alone.
When he gets back from taking Marley on the shortest possible walk that'll still keep him happy enough he won't be begging again in an hour, there's a bulky package from Ryan resting against the door. A squishy package that jingles when he opens it; his favorite Christmas sweater, the one he shipped with his decorations so he couldn't forget to pack it.
Jon doesn't call Ryan, because he has to wear four undershirts to hide what his body's turning into, and that's under a bulky sweater. But he sends out an e-mail, the same one to four addresses, is Ryan doing Christmas stuff with one of you? He shouldn't be alone before he goes back to bed to hide a little longer.
He has three replies when he drags himself back up at some ridiculous hour straddling late night and early morning; Z and Alex said essentially the same thing, You're full of shit, Walker and if you're that worried, call him, dickhead. Brendon was nice enough to send an outline of all the plans he's aware of, and even if he finished with btw, stop being an ass, it makes Jon feel a little better.
Jon can feel Spencer's disapproval radiating out from the space in his inbox Spencer's reply should be. He deserves that.
*
The idea of lying to his parents about this makes guilt twist hotly in Jon's gut, but it's not so intense he doesn't feel a little relieved when the sweater Ryan returned turns out to be plenty bulky enough to disguise his shape. With four undershirts, he's pretty sure it won't make his mom suspicious even when she hugs him. He’d feel better if he hadn’t gotten rid of his chest binders after his surgery, but the undershirts are better than nothing.
It's not - his parents have been so fucking good about it, about everything, and he can't walk up to his mom and say, "You know how you've gotten used to never getting any grandkids from me? Well, get un-used to it. And then get used to it again." It's not lying, at least not only lying. He's being considerate.
He switches the sweater for his second-favorite, stuffs it in his overnight bag, and gets the pets and gifts gathered up. And if he sits in the car for ten minutes because that's how long it takes to psych himself up, it’s not like any of them are likely to tell anyone.
Within an hour, Jon's almost forgotten why he decided hiding from the world was his first choice; his parents are playing with the cats while Jon wraps a truly ridiculous amount of gifts for his nephew and nieces. There's eggnog, and the whole house smells like Christmas tree, and he's pretty sure there hasn't been thirty seconds of silence since he walked in, and he feels less empty than he has in weeks.
He remembers when his mother corners him in the kitchen just before he goes to bed.
"I'm not Ryan Ross' biggest fan," she says. "But I liked the way you looked when you told us you wouldn't be home for the holidays a lot more than I like the way you look now."
Jon's surprised enough by how close she just came to admitting Ryan might not actually be bad for him he forgets to worry about the baby bump when she hugs him. And, yeah, that - if he has to be worried about hugging his mom, yeah, it kind of makes sense he'd want to avoid people.
*
Jon gets home late on the 25th, so worn out from a day of pretending to be okay enough his parents won't worry too much he just lets the cats out of their carriers and crawls into bed. When he wakes up, too hot in the sweater and extra layers of undershirt he hadn't taken off, it's almost six in the morning.
He fills six dishes, food and water for everyone, and shuts himself in the extra bedroom he uses for a music room. Marley scratches twice, morning and evening, to go out for a short walk in the freezing December air; other than that, Jon doesn't leave the room until he can't stop yawning enough to write.
It's after midnight when that happens. Jon eats a sandwich before he goes to bed, less because he's hungry than because he doesn't think he should go more than twenty-four hours without eating. He wakes up with heartburn and a few more pages of lyrics in his head, so once he makes sure the animals are set he locks himself away again.
And that's what Jon does every day. He switches from writing to playing at one point, from playing for himself to recording, and some days Marley wants to go out more than twice, but mostly it's the same thing all week. His mom calls three times, and he answers, but keeps it short. Tom texts nine or ten, but Jon only answers the last, did u die or 4get to pay ur bill?
Ryan calls every day. Jon doesn't answer once.
*
"I'm outside your door," Tom says, and knocks loudly enough Jon can hear it both through the phone and from his bedroom at the far end of the apartment. "And I'm not taking no for an answer."
"I don't feel like going out," Jon says.
"It's amazing how little I care. It's New Year's, dude, take the night off from being emo."
"I'm not being emo," Jon lies; Tom bangs on the door again.
"You should know I am not above calling your mom and telling her I'm worried about you."
"You're too nice for that, you wouldn't want to worry her."
"I kind of am worried about you, though, dude," Tom says, too sincere for Jon to ignore.
"Give me five minutes," Jon says, and starts rummaging for enough clean undershirts to hide his shape. "Fucker. Stop trying to break the door down."
*
Around the time it's too late for anyone to be going to bed, too early for anyone to be waking up, Tom's living room looks a little like a battlefield, hazy with smoke and turned into an obstacle course by all the people who just fell asleep wherever they were sitting when they hit the pass-out point.
“Ryan’s been calling me," Tom says, slow with exhaustion. "I thought you guys were talking."
"We were. We fought again."
"Sucks," Tom says, and takes another sip of beer. The fact that he's still drinking and still conscious is kind of awe-inspiring. "He's - I dunno. I like you two together."
"Yeah, well."
"And sometimes you get kind of oversensitive about things, so maybe - "
"I'm pregnant." Jon regrets it the instant it's out of his mouth, thinks for a desperate minute about how to spin it into a joke. To Tom's credit, his eyes only go wide for a minute; he takes a long swig, almost finishes off the bottle, but Jon can't blame him for stalling. Hell, if his mind weren't whited out, he'd probably appreciate the extra time to think of something to say to make that sound like something other than what it is.
"That- whoa. That's possible?"
Jon snorts. "Apparently, yeah."
"You've been drinking all night."
"I'm not having it, Jesus."
"You - wow. You don't - seriously?"
"No," Jon says. "No, I made it up, because I'm so good about joking about stuff that proves I'm not actually a guy."
Tom smacks his shoulder, hard enough it actually hurts through five layers. "Shut the fuck up, asshole."
"Uh."
"Nothing proves you're not a guy, what the fuck. Nothing can prove that. You're a guy."
"But - "
Tom hits him again, even harder. "Do you remember that dude at your support group with the really great boobs?"
"Uh. Kinda? I - "
"And do you remember almost breaking my nose?"
The one and only time Tom had given him a ride to his support group. Yeah. Jon remembers. "Kind of."
Tom snorts in disbelief, but he doesn't press Jon to admit that yeah, he can replay the whole thing in vivid detail in his head. "If no one gets to say D-cups make him less of a dude, no one gets to say being knocked up makes you less of one. So shut the fuck up, before I have to keep being the kind of asshole that punches pregnant guys." He takes another swig, finishes the bottles, and rolls his eyes at Jon. "Don't cry, dude, I don't know how to respond to that since I can't really call you a girl."
"I'm not crying, asshole," Jon says, instead of the thousand other things he could, should be saying to Tom.
"Just saying," Tom says, and slings his arm around Jon's shoulders. "And...whatever you need, dude. I'll, like, push you down the stairs, if you ask. Please don't ask, though."
The fact that Jon thinks almost seriously about that for even an instant is either a good sign that he's really, really fucked up, or that it's way too late for him to still be awake. Probably both.
"I - thanks, Tom."
"Don't thank me, I'm not finished. We haven't gotten to the part where I call you an asshole for holding Ryan entirely responsible for this."
"I don't."
"Which is why he needs me to tell him no, you're not dead, just a recluse?"
Jon sighs and leans into Tom's side a little. "There's only so much I can handle," Jon says. "And dealing with myself isn't as easy as ignoring a bunch of calls."
There should be more argument, more lecture; however good Jon's reasoning is, and he's not pretending it is any good, he's being a complete dick. Tom just squeezes his shoulder.
"Whatever you need to do," he says. "Come on, Sean's passed out over there, you can crash in his bed."
*
It would be nice to say talking to Tom helped. It did, it really did, but not...it wasn't enough, and when Jon goes home he spends one hour with his pets and twelve shut in the music room. Except maybe the helpfulness was just delayed; when Jon starts yawning, he goes to bed, like he had all the week before, but when he wakes up - there's nothing pushing him back into the same routine.
He plays with the cats with their laser pointer until his wrist aches, because he feels bad for ignoring them, bundles up tight and walks Marley until he acts like he's had enough for the same reason. Then he sits down in the open, in the living room, and picks out the five songs he's okay with anyone else hearing.
Jon spends another hour on it, typing in words that don't look on paper they way they sound in the song, picking a picture at random from his "Nature and stuff" folder, waffling over how much to charge for the one good - maybe good, hopefully good - thing he managed to squeeze out of his breakdown, or whatever that was. It's worth nothing, and it's worth everything, and Jon just closes his eyes and points at the row of number keys.
He e-mails his mom while he waits, because he knows he hasn't done a good enough job pretending to be okay for her to stop worrying. I've been busy, he tells her, and it feels like a lie even though it really isn't. And it's a rough time of year to be fighting with Ryan, you know? That part feels less dishonest, but not totally honest, and Jon ends it there before he makes himself feel any more guilty.
The uploads take forever, big files on a too-slow connection, and Jon ends up just sitting and watching the little progress bar. When it finishes, he tweets before he can decide he doesn't actually want to share this part of himself with anyone. He shuts the computer down, so he doesn't spend all night watching what people are saying, watching the site statistics, puts on a hoodie because he feels weirdly naked right now, and calls Ryan.
"Dude," Ryan says, "dude. I was starting to think you died."
"No you weren't."
"No," Ryan agrees. "Tom promised you were alive. Although maybe I was worried you made him promise not to tell me."
Jon could tell Ryan he wouldn't do that, but he wouldn't blame Ryan for not believing him. He could tell Ryan he appreciates the worry, because he does, but that's a little too much to give away right now. He settles on, "are you drunk?"
"Little bit," Ryan says. "It turns out Annie can drink me under the table, which doesn't make any sense. She's, like, me, but a foot shorter."
"I miss you," Jon says; he shouldn't, it gives away a lot more than being glad Ryan worried does. But it's the only thing left after Jon spent a week forcing everything else out, pushing the anger and most of the fear until right now, that's what he feels, that's what he has - Jon misses Ryan, full stop.
"Seriously? I can be on a plane in, like - Alex, dude, Alex, stop looking at porn or whatever and look me up a flight to - "
"No, I - no."
"But - "
"If I see you right now, I'm gonna get mad again."
"So get mad."
"I'm sick of being mad."
Ryan sighs, harsh enough Jon imagines he can feel it through the phone. "Okay. If that's - fine. Okay."
"I'm working on it," Jon says, and it's the first time he's admitted to himself that maybe Ryan isn't the one at fault here, maybe Ryan's not the asshole, or at least not the only asshole. "I'm sorry, just. Stuff."
"Just stuff," Ryan says, and Jon can't read his voice. "Okay. If I call you tomorrow, will you answer?"
"Yeah," Jon says. "Definitely."
*
Jon misses Ryan's call, too busy wrestling two cat carriers through the door to get to his pocket in time. Next year, he'll schedule their boosters on different days. Of course, he said that last year, too.
"Sorry," he says, when he's gotten the cats settled. "Bad time."
"Oh, uh, I can call later."
"No," Jon says, "no, it's fine. I meant just, like, the thirty seconds my phone was ringing were bad."
"Oh. Okay. So, uh," Ryan says, "you didn't tell me you were making music."
"I wasn't the last time I talked to you."
"Yesterday?"
Jon sinks down on the couch. "Right. No, sorry. I didn't - I don't know."
"They're good," Ryan says. "It's good. You - I like them."
"Good. Uh. Thanks."
Silence, then, and Jon scrubs his hand through his hair, waits it out.
"You - you're not okay, are you?"
Jon thinks about lying to him; he meant what he said yesterday, that he doesn't want to be mad and he doesn't think he can see Ryan without getting mad. But he's never been all that subtle a writer, even to people who don't know him as well as Ryan does, and lying to Ryan about this, at least right now, feels a little like cheating at solitaire.
"No," he says. "I'm not."
"Okay," Ryan says. "Okay. Um, is it because - have you done the - gotten the - thing?"
Jon sighs. "No. Not - not yet."
"Do you - should I be there?"
Jon sighs, scrubs his hand through his hair. "I don't think there's going to be a 'there'."
Ryan sucks in a breath so loud Jon can almost feel the suction on his ear. "You're gonna - did you decide to - "
"I didn’t decide, I just...it’s not about deciding," Jon says. "It’s about me being a gigantic pussy."
"Oh," Ryan says, and Jon ignores what sounds like hopefulness lurking in Ryan's voice. If he acknowledges Ryan's not as upset about this as Jon is, he's never - they're never - there's no reason to keep talking to him. "You’re not - don’t call yourself a pussy, dude."
“Chickenshit.”
“Better,” Ryan says. There’s silence, then, and maybe it’s wishful thinking but Jon thinks it feels less awkward than it has for a while. Ryan’s breath keeps hitching on the other end, like he’s about to say something, but it’s almost a full five minutes before anything comes out. “Let me come visit you,” he says.
Jon thinks maybe, but he says, “okay.”
Part Two