114 - a
here, where the daylight begins
(or, the journey of ryan ross and what happened next)
Panic! At The Disco/My Chemical Romance, plus cameos. (Ryan/Gerard, some Ryan/TomRad, others)
22,212 words, r, third person. Thanks to wishpaper for the read-through and to denialgreen for the wonderfully fabulous beta job. A quick word of warning - I took a few liberties with the publishing industry. I've never worked in publishing, and while I did my best to research, I wouldn't say that all the data herein is completely truthful to real life. Still, I am glad to have finally finished this, after two months of work!
Ryan finishes the book two years, five months, and fourteen days after Panic ends. It takes up twelve black notebooks; each one is five inches by eight-and-a-half inches, with one hundred and twenty blank pages, unlined.
Ryan finishes the book two years, five months, and fourteen days after Panic ends. It takes up twelve black notebooks; each one is five inches by eight-and-a-half inches, with one hundred and twenty blank pages, unlined. He writes the whole first draft by hand, and it takes three black ball-point pens, the kind you can find in any office supplies closet, in any Staples store, in any college book store. He likes that, thinks about all the other hands that could have been using each particular pen, if only he’d waited two days before buying it. Thinks about every person with similar pens pressed to similar pages, and wonders, really, if he’s doubting himself enough.
He’s written lyrics for ten years. A novel, however, is something different.
+
He decides that he wants to call it Temperance, or, the Journey of Johnny Wilson and What Happened Next. It isn’t, actually, a children’s story, but. The whimsy is something he doesn’t use as often as he thinks that he possibly should.
He emails Spencer four and a half minutes after he puts his pen down, the final word on page eighty-six of book twelve.
June 4th, 2:08 AM
To: Spence (sjsv@pipeline.com)
From: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)
Cc:
Subject: the you know what project
spence -
I think I might be done.
- ryan
His current apartment is one of those tragic places with no cell reception anywhere in the building, but reliable internet access. He’d call - maybe - except that it doesn’t seem worth it to wander down six flights of stairs to the sidewalk, especially given that Spencer might not actually be awake.
The downside being that he has to wait eight hours until Spencer checks his email to hear back.
June 4th, 10:24 AM
To: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)
From: Spencer (sjsv@pipeline.com)
Cc:
Subject: RE: the you know what project
Seriously? Are you ever going to let me read it?
Also, find an apartment with fucking cell reception. As I’m sure you haven’t actually stepped outside in over a week, you probably haven’t talked to anyone out loud in even longer.
Get some fucking fresh air.
Ryan snorts, and rolls his eyes, and thinks about making tea.
+
Panic’s last show was on December 21st, and it was good. It was a good show.
It still wasn’t exactly enough.
+
Jon said, a week after,
“You should move up to Chicago, Ry. It would be awesome if you were in town.” He’d smiled earnestly in the way that Ryan still isn’t completely used to, but Ryan hadn’t thought he should rely on them as much as he was sure he had been.
“I was thinking of getting a place in New York,” he’d said, because, conceivably, New York was a place where people move. And he hadn’t thought he’d mind it, that much. “Rent some space, see what happens.”
Jon shrugged and nodded, “your choice, man. You know you’re always welcome to crash, right? Visit, whatever?”
“I know,” Ryan had said, and he could feel his mouth tilt to the side as he smiled. And he had known. It took him a long time, but he actually had.
+
It takes him another two months to type up the manuscript. He’s careful with his own writing, the words like a fragile frame of what he really wants to say - more latticework than a crisp outline.
He calls Spencer, sitting on the steps in front of his building.
“Spence,” he says, when he hears the phone pick up.
“Ryan,” Spencer says, his voice heavily sarcastic. “Nice to hear your actual voice for once, asshole. What’s up?”
“I don’t -” Ryan starts, and sighs. “Haven’t talked to you in awhile.”
“You haven’t talked to anyone in awhile, dude. It’s been, like, a week. Jon was almost ready to start a search party - which, yeah, hard from Chicago. I think Pete secretly suspects that you’re actually dead.”
Ryan opens his mouth to defend himself, but Spencer cuts him off, a verbal eye roll clear in his tone.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Blah, blah, writing, blah, art. We get it. You’re a recluse. You’re still an asshole, though.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, biting his lower lip to keep the smile in. “I know.”
“Well, as long as we’ve got that straight.”
+
Finding a publisher is harder that it sounds when you’re Ryan Ross. Especially when you’re Ryan Ross.
He gets eight repetitions of the same thing - “it’s great, Mr. Ross, but it’s not exactly what we’re looking for right now.” He doesn’t think they’ve actually bothered to read it, and he hates being called Mr. Ross. Mr. Ross was his father. Ryan will never be Mr. Ross.
He decides on a pseudonym after that, George Morris, because it seems less like a lie than it might otherwise.
It takes another few months, but he’s at the Starbucks on the corner of his block when his phone vibrates in his pocket.
“Mr. Morris?” the woman on the other end asks, her voice somewhere between kind and authoritative.
“That’s me,” Ryan says. He’s jiggling his foot under the table, and he carefully sets his earl grey on the tabletop. The string from the tea bag is slowly dripping liquid onto the light wood.
“This is Jeanne Benson from Treehouse.” She stops, and he suspects that there’s something he should be saying, but he’s never been good at that part. It’s one of the things even time hasn’t changed.
“Um, yeah, hi,” he says, finally, looking at the scuffed toes of his shoes.
“Hi,” she says, a laugh in her voice. Ryan wonders if it’s directed at him. “I’m just calling to give you a heads up, really. You’ll get the real confirmation in the mail soon, but we thought you might want to hear that we’re interested in publishing your novel.”
“Really?” It’s out of Ryan’s mouth before he can think about confidence, professionalism.
“Yep. Really interested, actually.”
“Oh,” Ryan says. “Oh, wow. Um, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, and while it sounds genuine enough over the phone, Ryan knows that genuine doesn’t always mean what you’d think it does. “Just call any time to set up an appointment.”
“Thank you,” he says, again.
+
Temperance isn’t about Panic, not like everyone is going to think it is, if, when, they find out that he wrote it. It’s not autobiographical. It isn’t his life, their lives, on paper in pretty prose, trying to sell what he used to be and can’t be anymore.
It isn’t, though, completely divorced from that. He’s not sure he knows how to be, really.
+
He emails his friends, the people he thinks count. He’s not sure if he has enough names, not sure who he’s leaving out. He knows who should be there, and who isn’t.
November 14th, 5:56 PM
To: Spence (sjsv@pipeline.com), Jon (rockonj@honestyunlimited.com), Pete (fobfan1@sixteencandles.net), Bren (seriouslybden@honestyunlimited.com)
From: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)
Cc:
Subject: I swear I’ll stop talking about it eventually
guys -
yeah yeah yeah, I haven’t called in awhile. soon, okay?
I thought you might want to know, I found a publisher. I even have my own pseudonym.
told you I could do it.
- ryro
Spencer takes about twelve minutes to respond. Pete takes about four minutes longer. Ryan’s not exactly surprised; while Pete’s email goes directly to his phone, Spencer’s just gotten used to checking every few minutes. Ryan suspects that Spencer is more worried than he’s said.
November 14th, 6:08 PM
To: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)
From: Spencer (sjsv@pipeline.com)
Cc: Jon (rockonj@honestyunlimited.com), Pete (fobfan1@sixteencandles.net), Brendon (seriouslybden@honestyunlimited.com)
Subject: RE: I swear I’ll stop talking about it eventually
Never doubted you, dude.
November 14th, 6:12 PM
To: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)
From: Pete (fobfan1@sixteencandles.net)
Cc: Jon (rockonj@honestyunlimited.com), Spencer (sjsv@pipeline.com), Brendon (seriouslybden@honestyunlimited.com)
Subject: RE: I swear I’ll stop talking about it eventually
now you just have to tell us your name so we can make everyone go buy it
- p
The thing is, Ryan doesn’t really want Pete’s help. He knows, he knows that Pete’s name, his opinion, actually means something, that his business talent has proven him even when no one except Patrick even considered it possible, but. Ryan doesn’t always want to be “that kid from Panic”, not to everyone else. Even if that who he’ll always be, in his head, to himself, that doesn’t mean it’s what he wants.
+
The thing about Fall Out Boy is that they didn’t really break up. They still haven’t - they get fancy terms like indefinite hiatus, instead. Pete’s business endeavors just slowly took over until he didn’t have the time, and what else could they do? Replace their frontman? Patrick, Ryan knows, wasn’t ever really fine with it, not with giving up the music, but he’s found his niche in producing and studio musician work, and when they have all have a spare moment, he calls for a tour. He usually gets what he wants. Pete’s always been that way about Patrick.
+
Brendon, it turns out, has left him maybe sixteen texts since he sent out the email. Ryan isn’t sure whether to be surprised or impressed, so he settles on neither.
The first just says, dude, i bet your book is so cool.
The second says, can i read it please?
The third continues in this trend, saying, please pretty please?
And then, the fourth, if i ever write a book i promise i will let you read it first.
Ryan reads all sixteen, about half of which are just please? or seriously, you’re avoiding me, aren’t you?
Ryan sends one in return, walking to subway. It says, shortly, no, purposefully obscure.
+
Jon’s new band is something, in that way that means really fucking great and complicated to explain - according to Spencer, anyway, and years and years of experience have taught Ryan to trust Spencer’s word on things. Spencer calls him from Chicago, and says,
“Hey, so, Jon’s band.” Ryan is sitting at the table in his kitchen nook, the only real table in his entire apartment, and he’s got notebook ten spread out in front of him, almost halfway through. His ball-point pen is sticking out of his mouth, clenched between his teeth. Spencer’s voice is that half-excited, half-expressionless lilt that means he’s trying too hard not to hope - that something’s gone right and he doesn’t want to jinx it.
“Mm?” Ryan says around the pen. His walls are suspiciously blank. He thinks that he’s been here long enough that he should remedy that.
“I told you about it, right? Jon’s on bass, obviously, and he conned Tom into playing guitar. They picked up this total kid to play drums - his name’s Dave, he’s like, twenty, or something - and he’s pretty good. Like, you know. He’s pretty good.”
“Yeah?” Ryan says, pulling the pen out of his mouth. “Not you on drums?”
“Uh-uh,” Spencer says. “Jon asked me to manage.” Spencer says this like it’s something reverent, like it’s surprising that someone would leave organizational details up to him, surprising that they’d trust him with booking gigs and signings and keeping the accounts straight. Ryan’s just surprised it’s taken them this long.
“Really? That’s awesome, Spencer.” He means it, he does. “Who’s the vocalist?”
Spencer is silent for too long. Ryan doesn’t want to know, so he doesn’t think about it.
“Um,” Spencer says, “Tom and Jon are splitting back vocal duties, but. Well. Brendon’s singing.” Ryan holds in a breath until he’s counted to one, two, three, ten, seventeen, twenty, and then he lets it out. He’s not allowed to feel abandoned - he’s the one that left them. Jon asked, Jon asked. They are all there, and he’s here, and that was his choice. It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t know they’re all there, working on that band, without him.
“Do you have a name?”
“Well, normally, people call me Spencer,” Spencer says. Ryan just sighs.
“Okay, seriously. No.”
“Jon’s insisting the name be Honesty Unlimited.” Spencer’s voice has just that tentative edge he’d had when he’d said to Ryan, however many year ago, “do you think the drums would be fun?”
“Do it,” Ryan says.
+
Ryan, if asked, would say that the third album is his favorite. A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out is too much of his own pain for him to handle in large doses - it’s hard remembering how vicious, how barbed every word is and how much he meant it.
Like to Like is the only time Ryan can remember being hated for being happy. He remembers Keltie’s head on his shoulder, her hair curved under his jaw, and finally being able to smile in public and how he expected them to want him to laugh, how he’d thought happiness was the goal. Apparently not. Ryan doesn’t really like thinking about it much.
Spencer’s always told him he cares too much what other people think, and Ryan knows that it’s probably true, but he’s no worse than Brendon, and less in the forefront. fourteen songs to use you by was his fuck you, his musical suck my cock to the rest of the world, and so this is the album he listens to when he feels nostalgic, slumped in his chair in the living room, his eyes closed, hands clasped together. fourteen songs is the only time he’s ever said to himself, it’s done, you’re done, and actually meant it in a satisfactory way. He suspects that it will never happen again.
By the time colorburn and lightsoft came out he knew that he was almost through. Spencer knew, but then again, Spencer always knows. Maybe even before Ryan is aware, Spencer knows. Ryan thinks, though, that even Brendon saw it this time - he can still hear it in the tenor of his voice, and even if it’s Ryan fault, listening to it still makes him want to walk away.
+
Ryan calls Frank’s cell phone on Friday morning, November 18th, three days before he’s scheduled to have his first meeting with the publisher. Frank picks up mid-yawn.
“Can I talk to Gerard?” Ryan says, and Frank sighs. Ryan can’t exactly tell if he’s faking or not, but he’s done this enough to make assumptions, and he figures that Frank actually doesn’t mind. He’s never gotten around to getting Gerard’s cell phone number, and this method works often enough that he hasn’t bothered. He knows that he should, it just. It would seem too personal.
“What, I don’t even get a hello?” Frank asks. “I swear, you get ruder every time.”
“Hi, Frank,” he says. Frank laughs, and says, “See, now, was that so hard?”
“I guess not,” Ryan says. He pauses as he hears muttering in the background, shades of Gerard’s voice saying, “dude, Frank, give me the phone.”
“Yeah, yeah, Gerard, whatever,” Frank says, voice muffled and farther away.
“Hey, Ryan.” Gerard’s voice is all smile, like the wide exposure of white teeth.
“Hi, Gerard.” Ryan’s not sure exactly what to say next, but, thankfully, Gerard decides to help him out.
“So, what’s up? I haven’t talked to you in, what, two months?”
“Um,” Ryan says, and he thinks that, maybe, he should have found time to learn normal social skills - to stay in contact and reciprocate. He wonders if it’s too late. “I didn’t mean -”
“No, no, seriously. I like hearing from you, Ryan. You should maybe do it more often, even.” Gerard says it like Ryan needs to be reminded, and. Maybe he does. Sometimes. Ryan bites his lips, sitting on the edge of his bed wearing jeans he’s had since that one semester of college and a shirt he stole from Spencer sometime during touring. It might have, at one point, belonged to Brendon or Jon.
“Okay,” Ryan says, curling his toes up in the hem of his pants and pulling his legs up until he’s sitting cross-legged. “Are you free sometime - I mean - if you wanted to -” Ryan takes a deep breath, makes an effort to stop, slow down, start over. “I mean. I know you guys are recording now, but if you wanted to, I have some free time, and human contact might be nice. Spencer’s always telling me that actual physical contact does wonders.”
“Spencer’s probably right. Want to come out to my house tomorrow? I can show you the new costume designs for the concept album.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, staring out the window to the street. My Chem is on album number eight. Somehow, Ryan’s not at all surprised that they’ve made it this far. “That would be really nice.”
+
The Gerard thing happened unexpectedly, maybe six months before the end, and Ryan still doesn’t quite know what to make of it.
“Hi,” Gerard had said, stopping next to Ryan. Ryan was sitting half offstage on one of the amps. Two hours until show time, and nowhere else to be.
“Hi,” Ryan had said, squinting up at Gerard, who wasn’t actually that much taller than him, and wasn’t that much wider, either. Slim and white, both of them. Gerard had smiled down at him, arms crossed over his chest, fingers tapping a rhythm against his own skin.
“Should I leave you alone?” Gerard has asked, and his grin had been mostly it’s okay, you can tell me the truth and partially do you know how hard it was for me to come over here?, and so Ryan had just said,
“Oh! No, don’t.” He’d scrubbed a hand through his sweaty hair, and Gerard had sat on the dirty stage, legs crossed beneath him.
And that had sort of been that.
+
Ryan’s never been up to see Jon and Brendon play - he knows it makes him a bad friend, but. There are some things he doesn’t really want to see, yet. He’ll get there, he’s sure. Probably.
“You should come out sometime,” Jon had said, the month before, “I haven’t actually seen you in six months, dude. Not since my housewarming party thing in March, and that hardly even counts.”
Ryan had winced. He’d spent half of the party avoiding people, and ended up hiding out in Jon’s new bedroom until the guests had left. Jon had let him stay in the bed, and they’d watched Moulin Rouge for old time’s sake. Spencer had joined them about halfway through, pulling Brendon behind him, the two of them piling up, and sneaking under the covers.
“I’m sorry,” he’d said.
“Don’t feel guilty, Ryan,” Jon had said, in that way that meant I know how you think, dude. “There’s no point.”
“I know,” Ryan said. “Can’t help it.”
“Just - visit us, okay? Sometime soon.” There wasn’t any reproach in Jon’s voice, no you’re a bad friend, Ryan. It’s not that Ryan believes Jon would think it; it’s that he’s afraid it’s true anyway.
+
Ryan remembers the performance after he finally decided he had to quit, it’s just that he remembers the sound check better. He’d been sitting on the edge of the stage, waiting for Jon and Brendon to catch up, and Spencer had sat next to him, nudging him with one shoulder. Ryan hadn’t said anything yet, but in his mind he was screaming it, and not sure how he could bear to do it, and terrified that they’d hate him when he told them. Not that they would, he knew, he did, even if he also knew that they kind of should. That they really should.
“Ryan,” Spencer had said, his voice the same quiet Ryan still hears in his head when he’s overwhelmed, calm water around the edges and steel in the center. Ryan leaned his head against Spencer’s shoulder, letting his hair, too-long and unwashed, fall over his forehead and into his eyes. He knew that Spencer wanted the answer, already knew the question, and was waiting for him.
“I - Spencer,” he’d started. “I’m sorry.” Spencer hadn’t needed him to say it, but Ryan had, and then, and then he’d said, “It’s just not right anymore. It’s not - I’m not unhappy, just - this isn’t. What I need.” He doesn’t say even if I’ll always need you, and them, even if, I don’t need this band, because those are the kinds of words his throat closes around, and those are the words Spencer can read in his silences.
“Okay,” Spencer had said. Ryan had burrowed his nose into the crook of Spencer’s neck, and breathed out.
+
Gerard still lives out in Jersey, in a big house by himself. Half of Mikey’s stuff is there, and technically, Mikey’s name is also on the lease, but Mikey lives mostly at Frank’s anyway, so the house is almost completely filled with cats, overstuffed chairs, and near-finished paintings. Ryan isn’t sure who takes care of the cats while Gerard is touring - he’s not even sure if half of them have names.
“Hi,” Gerard says, opening the door. His smile is the same as his greeting, welcoming, and Ryan can feel his shoulders relax just slightly. It’s a Gerard thing, he thinks. Gerard understands him, his long silences and wandering glances, in a way that even Spencer possibly doesn’t.
“Um,” he says, sketching a wave. “Hi.”
“Come on in,” Gerard says, stepping back. Ryan toes off his shoes and leaves them in the front hallway - Gerard’s house rules - and follows Gerard into the kitchen, where there’s still the remains of a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the island in the center. Gerard picks it up, looks at it, shrugs, and takes a bite. “Mmm,” he says, “melty peanut butter.” A grey cat butts at his legs, and Gerard just pushes at it with his foot, petting it as best he can with his toes.
“Why do I hang out with you again?” Ryan asks, both hands deep in the back pockets of his pants.
“Because your real friends live across the country,” Gerard replies, voice slightly muffled as he chews. “And I’m the best you could find on short notice.” Ryan can’t tell if he’s being serious, but it ends up not mattering, because Gerard winks at him and puts the sandwich back down on the counter. “Anyway, c’mon, I’ve got those designs to show you in the upstairs studio.”
+
Ryan leaves the house with a stern reminder from Gerard not to be a stranger, and a small painting of a girl in a green dress, her hands and face pressed to a pane of glass, looking out from the canvas. Her dark hair falls over one eye and the bridge of her nose, her expression wistful. Ryan walked by it four or five times before Gerard just turned to him, and said,
“Look, just take it. It’s not like I have much room for it in here anyway.”
“Really?” Ryan had asked - insecurity again, not that he could help it. Gerard had grinned at him.
“Yeah, sure. Go ahead. Just send me your novel when it comes out. I want to read it.”
+
Ryan hangs the painting on the blank wall across from his bed. He wakes up in the morning to the girl looking at him, and he finds it strangely comforting.
+
When he’d told them he was leaving, he’d said,
“You can replace me, I don’t mind,” and tried to keep his voice even. Brendon’s eyes had widened, and Jon had shook his head, and Spencer had said,
“I’m sorry; I don’t think we can do that.”
+
Ryan spends Tuesday in his bed, with papers spread all across the bedspread, rereading and editing, his purple editing pen hanging from his lips at a jaunty angle.
The meeting with Jeanne had gone better than he’d thought it was going to. He’d walked in the door, and pulled his hat farther down over his forehead, nodded at the receptionist, who told him to go right in, and shuffled awkwardly into her office.
It had taken her fifteen minutes to go,
“Wait, aren’t you that guy?” and he’d said, politely, that yes, he was, and that he really hoped that it wouldn’t matter, and she’d just said, “I won’t tell if you won’t,” with a smile on her face.
Ryan sort of wished that was everyone else’s reaction.
+
It’s Pete’s fault, ultimately.
He’s actually slightly apologetic afterward, which is pretty unusual. Ryan still can’t help but be angry.
It’s an easy mistake to make - the interviewer asks, “So, have you been keeping in touch with the former members of Panic?”
And Pete, Pete talks for fifteen minutes about Jon and Brendon, Spencer’s new career, and then. And then, he says,
“Oh, and Rossy’s writing a book. He’s a weird one - not even publishing it under his own name. Won’t tell me the pseudonym, either. But, well, he said it would be out sometime next year, definitely, so keep a lookout. Maybe you’ll find it.” And then he smiles that Pete smile, like he hasn’t said anything that Ryan would mind.
“Seriously, Pete, what the fuck,” Ryan says to him on the phone - he’d followed the link Spencer sent him, watched the clip, and almost slid down the stairs in his haste to call Pete fucking Wentz.
“What did I do?”
“Oh, I don’t know, talk about me and my fucking book on national television?” Ryan is seething, which, of course, means that any expression in his voice has drained away, down the back of his throat, and settled in the pit of his stomach.
“Dude, no one’s going to know which is yours,” Pete’s voice is uncomprehending, and Ryan knows he’s being unreasonable, he just doesn’t really care.
“It doesn’t really matter, now they’re going to ask fucking questions about it. Oh, I am so happy I remembered not to tell you anything.” It’s not that he doesn’t want everyone to know, eventually. But he’s not ready yet, not yet.
“I’m sorry, dude; I didn’t realize it was that big a deal.” The thing is, this is Ryan. Everything is kind of a big deal.
This novel maybe more than anything else.
“It’s - okay,” Ryan says, “don’t worry about it.
+
Ryan doesn’t talk to anyone except Jeanne and the publishers for eight weeks and three days. He doesn’t actually realize it’s that long until later, when he sits at the kitchen table with his calendar and plots out the time he’s missed. He eats spaghetti-os and steamed broccoli about twice a day, sits on his bed with his computer open, drinking cup after cup of over-steeped tea, and editing. Sometimes, he sleeps.
On the fourth day, Ryan is woken up when someone knocks on his door. He’s fallen asleep on top of his covers, his laptop still open about six inches in front of his face. The screen saver is a slideshow of all his pictures - Spencer with his arm around Brendon and Ryan’s shoulders, the late Hemmy licking Pete’s face, Jon and Tom completely shitfaced outside some parking lot in south Chicago.
The knock comes again, and Ryan rolls out of bed, stumbling down the hall in his pajama pants and oversized t-shirt. He scrubs a hand through his hair, yawns, and pulls open the door.
“Dude,” Gerard says, eyebrows arched in away that clearly broadcasts I am not amused, “do you know how hard it is to find your fucking address? I had to get call Frank to get Mikey, ask Mikey to call Pete, and then ask Pete to give me Spencer’s number. Why is Spencer the only person on the planet who knows your street address? Also, he’s afraid that you died.”
“Spencer is my secret keeper,” Ryan says, “and he’s not actually afraid I died, he’s just mad I haven’t talked to him in however long it’s been.” Ryan pauses for a second. “What day is today?”
“January twenty second,” Gerard says. “It’s next year, in case you didn’t notice. You fucking missed Christmas. And New Years!” Gerard sounds angry and also partially amused - Ryan thinks he might understand the loss of time to art, but Ryan wonders if Gerard ever forgot to wish his band a happy new year. A mixture of something like guilt and dread settles in the pit of his stomach, churning in his stomach like nausea. There’s nothing he can do about it now, though. “Are you going to let me into your apartment?” Gerard asks, and, yes, definitely amusement in his voice, and maybe even a little worry.
“Oh, yeah,” Ryan says, and steps back enough that Gerard can come in. He shuts the door behind him. “I haven’t seen you since, what, the beginning of November?” Ryan actually does think that this is a long time. If he’d actually been completely aware of the passing of days, he might have actually called someone. One never knew.
“Um, Ryan? You haven’t picked up your phone or checked your email since, like, November twentieth. And why don’t you have a landline?”
“I don’t really like the phone that much,” Ryan says with a shrug. “It’s very distracting.
“Oh,” Gerard says, rolling his eyes. “So, basically, if you die in the shower one day, you don’t want anyone to know until they open the door and find your corpse rotting on the bathroom floor. Very dramatic, I’ll give you that.” Gerard says it with some admiration, and Ryan thinks it’s Gerard’s morbid sensibility getting in the way. Finally, Gerard sighs. “Why do you only have cans of spaghetti-os in your kitchen?”
Ryan rubs one hand over his face. “They’re easy to cook.”
“Okay, just checking,” Gerard says. “Now get dressed; we’re going food shopping.”
+
Brendon gave up on texting halfway through December. He’d managed to send eighty six texts during that space of time, but Ryan doesn’t bother to read them all. The last is on December thirteenth, which happened to be a Friday, at 5:06 AM. It says,
Jesus fuck, Ryan
and that’s it. Ryan thinks that Brendon may have been angry with him.
+
It takes Gerard forty five minutes in the grocery store to be satisfied that Ryan a. is not going to die of malnourishment, b. has all the major food groups, and c. knows that he is a big asshole. Ryan already knows that part. He follows behind Gerard and tries to keep quiet.
“How Spencer let this go on as long as it did I’ll never know,” Gerard says.
“Spencer’s in Chicago dealing with managing Jon and Brendon’s new band,” Ryan says. “He’s busy.” It’s the first thing he’s said since they left the apartment.
“Oh, I know,” Gerard says, pushing the shopping cart with one hand and grabbing a can of pineapples with the other, “Spencer made friends with Brian - I think they bond over dealing with crazy people on a regular basis. I just wanted to see if I could get you to talk. Insulting your best friend seemed like the easiest way.”
“And you say I’m a big asshole.”
“Hey, at least when I was a recluse from the world, my brother knew I was alive, and maybe even eating.”
Ryan does think that he has kind of a point.
+
Gerard pushes Ryan through the kitchen doorway, out into the hallway, his hands solid and warm on Ryan’s shoulder blades. Ryan has to consciously remember not to lean into it - it’s been more than two months since anyone touched him, and maybe that’s part of it, but part of it is also Gerard. The thought doesn’t disconcert him as much as it probably should. Gerard says,
“Go, call your band. I’ll put away your groceries.”
Ryan doesn’t say that maybe Gerard won’t know where to put everything, and he doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t say that maybe he’s grateful. He doesn’t say anything, just looks over his shoulder. Gerard pulls his hands away and smiles, heading toward the kitchen.
“I promise you that I don’t mind.”
Downstairs and outside, Ryan looks at the display of his cell phone. He’s forgotten his jacket, and the wind brushes against his bare arms, chilling his skin. Obviously, he has to call Spencer first. Spencer hasn’t been actively mad at Ryan in a long time and - Ryan doesn’t want him to be now. It’s probably too late for that.
Spencer picks up halfway through the second ring.
“You asshole,” Spencer says, traces of resentment and anger and a shade of awe in his voice. Only hints, just tinges of emotion around the edges of his words, but Ryan has made an art of Spencer translation. He tries not to feel the vague relief that floods through him - Spencer misses him, Spencer needs him, and he knows he shouldn’t doubt it after so many years. Sometimes he can’t help it.
“Hi,” Ryan says. He means I’m sorry, but he can’t make himself say it. He hopes that Spencer knows anyway.
“You’re emotionally retarded, you know that?” Spencer is angry with him, but it’s battling with relief, and Ryan doesn’t think he’ll last long against it.
“I know.” He means the problem is, I need you too much, but he doesn’t say it. He’s never said it. He’s pretty sure that Spencer knows, almost positive that Jon does, and it’s not that he thinks they’ll mind, that he thinks they do mind, it’s that it’s wrong of him to need in the first place.
They shouldn’t have to take care of him.
“Just don’t do it again,” Spencer says.
“I’ll try.” Ryan’s making no promises.
+
When he gets off the phone with Brendon (“Sometimes - God, sometimes I hate you, Ryan Ross”), and Jon (“If I don’t see you, in person, before the release of your fucking book, I’m coming up there and kidnapping you.”), he texts Pete. Pete doesn’t actually like talking on the phone that much, just texting. He says that writing the words is easier than saying them. Ryan tends to agree with him. Sometimes, when he’s writing, he can say all the things he’s unable to say out loud.
i’m not dead, he sends, still sitting on the steps outside his apartment building. It’s still cold and getting colder, but he still doesn’t get cell reception in his building, and this is more important than the cold, so he shivers, waiting for Pete’s response.
u done bein mad at me then, Pete asks, two minutes later. Despite the lack of punctuation, Ryan knows that it is, actually, a serious question - he’s good enough at Pete-speak to know - he just doesn’t understand why Pete is asking at all. He stares at the letters, confused, like they’ll suddenly reveal themselves to him.
mad? he asks back, figuring that if Pete’s been with Patrick anytime in the past twelve hours, he might actually get a straight answer.
the interview thing, is Pete’s response. Oh, Ryan thinks, oh. He is a really, really bad friend.
no, no, pete, i wasn’t mad. just reclusive, he says. When Pete doesn’t respond in the first six minutes, Ryan sends off another text, his fingers starting to hurt from the cold, freezing up at the joints. He wishes that he hadn’t forgotten a coat. i’m a really bad person, he sends, and he believes that, in some ways at least, it’s mostly true.
not any worse than me, Pete sends. Ryan doubts that, but knows better than to say so to Pete, who will actually argue about it with him.
sorry, Ryan says instead, and somehow it’s easier to type than it ever is to say aloud.
i should probably have listened to spence when he said u were just dumb, is Pete’s only response.
Ryan will be better, he will.
+
Ryan’s shivering when he closes the door to his apartment, fingers pushed deep into the pockets of his jeans, his arms bare against the cold.
Gerard looks over his shoulder from the kitchen, cooking something on the stove, and does a double take.
“Jesus Christ, Ryan, are you completely mentally deficient? Or do you just care that little about your health?” Ryan shrugs. Neither, actually, he just hasn’t talked to anyone important in over two months, and that, apparently, makes people angry with him. “Okay, this is not Vegas, dumbass, it’s New York in January.”
“I know,” Ryan says, the words shaking slightly with the vibrations from his chattering teeth. “Just didn’t think about it. Had to call Spencer.”
Gerard rolls his eyes. “Like he’d be happy if you froze to death trying to apologize to him.”
“Maybe,” is all Ryan says.
“Okay, definitely mentally deficient,” Gerard says, decisively, turning off the stove and grabbing Ryan by the shoulders, steering him into the kitchen.
“Pete thought I was mad at him,” Ryan confesses, drinking in the warmth from Gerard’s hands as he pushes Ryan into one of the chairs in the kitchen nook.
“Only because he’s almost as dumb as you are,” Gerard says. Gerard would probably know - the first few months after Mikey’s divorce from Alicia, Pete was in New Jersey on and off every few weeks. Pete’s a good friend, Ryan knows, just a little much to handle, sometimes. Gerard pulls away, and Ryan holds in a protesting noise in the back of his throat, half-formed, and swallows it back down - he can feel the residual warmth across his shoulders, the dip of his collarbones where Gerard’s thumbs were. Gerard spoons what appears to be macaroni and cheese into one of Ryan’s miscellaneous, miss-matched bowls, and doesn’t seem to notice.
“Not that dumb,” Ryan says eventually, still shivering slightly, “and thanks for cooking.” Gerard sets the bowl in front of Ryan, and then sits across from him at the table, his smile almost rueful.
“This is about the extent of my cooking abilities, I assure you.”
Ryan doesn’t say anything, just sticks a spoonful of macaroni into his mouth.
+
Ryan wakes up on the couch sometime after eleven the next morning with a blanket spread across his legs, wearing Gerard’s grayish-black hoodie. There’s a yellow post-it on the coffee table in Gerard’s tiny, spiky handwriting, proclaiming,
ryan -
sorry, had to take off - recording in about an hour. please give me my sweatshirt back at some point not in two months. sooner would be better.
no falling of the face of the earth.
- gee
There’s another post-it stuck next to the first, just a small pen sketch of his face, the hood of Gerard’s sweatshirt pulled up around his ears, hair falling across his forehead. It’s possibly Ryan’s favorite picture of himself - he looks vulnerable, maybe even delicate, and younger than he has in seven or eight years - maybe he should ask Gerard to design the cover of his book.
+
Sometimes, when Ryan looks at himself in the mirror, it’s like nothing has changed. They were so young in the beginning that even after ten years there are no wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and mouth, and his hair is thick and brown and maybe a little cleaner under his fingers. His collarbones and shoulder blades and hip bones still jut just a little too much, and he still doesn’t smile enough. Sometimes when he looks in the mirror, Ryan wonders if he’s made up all the intervening years, and that maybe in two weeks he has to go back on tour, or back to the studio.
Luckily, the illusion doesn’t last long.
+
Ryan finally gets around to visiting Chicago after another three weeks, when Jeanne tells him,
“Ryan, seriously, we have it under control. Go do non-book things for a while, okay?” leaving Ryan at a loss.
“Dude,” Jon says, when Ryan calls him, “I was totally serious. You’re not getting out of it.” Ryan’s been in close contact with all of them, checking in every few days, but Jon still sounds determined.
“Okay,” Ryan says. “I’ll come up on Tuesday.”
“And stay until at least Thursday,” Jon pushes, a raised eyebrow in his voice.
“Until Friday,” Ryan says. Jon makes a satisfied noise, and Ryan tries not to feel too proud of himself, too much of I did that, I did something right.
Ryan doesn’t call the airport, just books his reservations online. He pauses, and then decides to stay until Saturday morning.
+
Ryan still hasn’t given back Gerard’s sweatshirt. He’s actually been wearing it more and more often, around the house, to the Starbucks, and once, even, to his publisher’s office. He should really give it back, he knows that he should, but he likes it. It’s comfortable. Comforting, maybe.
He wears it on the plane to Chicago, pulling the brim of his hat down over his forehead and tugging the hood more firmly around his ears. It’s been almost three years since Panic broke up, but that doesn’t stop Ryan from being recognized every once in awhile. He’d rather not have to deal with it in the airport, where he’s also trying not to freak out about the close quarters and leaving the book up to the publishers and seeing his band. It shouldn’t make him nervous but - there’s a reason he hasn’t seen them in over six months. He’s afraid that he’s going to be put in a room with them and not have the strength to leave again.
He puts his bag on the conveyor belt and steps through the metal detectors (he refuses to check his baggage, would rather have control over it at all times than not have to schlep it around with him), and waits for the attendant to give him the go ahead.
“Boarding pass, sir,” the woman says in a bored voice, raising her eyebrows at him, eyes half-lidded in disdain. Ryan holds out his e-ticket for her to see, and with a quirk of her lips, she motions him past.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, snagging his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He stuffs his fingers into the pocket of the hoodie, reminding himself through touch where he’s from and why he should go back.
Three hundred feet and seven gates past the security checkpoint, and he’s on his way.
continued in part two
(or, the journey of ryan ross and what happened next)
Panic! At The Disco/My Chemical Romance, plus cameos. (Ryan/Gerard, some Ryan/TomRad, others)
22,212 words, r, third person. Thanks to wishpaper for the read-through and to denialgreen for the wonderfully fabulous beta job. A quick word of warning - I took a few liberties with the publishing industry. I've never worked in publishing, and while I did my best to research, I wouldn't say that all the data herein is completely truthful to real life. Still, I am glad to have finally finished this, after two months of work!
Ryan finishes the book two years, five months, and fourteen days after Panic ends. It takes up twelve black notebooks; each one is five inches by eight-and-a-half inches, with one hundred and twenty blank pages, unlined.
Ryan finishes the book two years, five months, and fourteen days after Panic ends. It takes up twelve black notebooks; each one is five inches by eight-and-a-half inches, with one hundred and twenty blank pages, unlined. He writes the whole first draft by hand, and it takes three black ball-point pens, the kind you can find in any office supplies closet, in any Staples store, in any college book store. He likes that, thinks about all the other hands that could have been using each particular pen, if only he’d waited two days before buying it. Thinks about every person with similar pens pressed to similar pages, and wonders, really, if he’s doubting himself enough.
He’s written lyrics for ten years. A novel, however, is something different.
+
He decides that he wants to call it Temperance, or, the Journey of Johnny Wilson and What Happened Next. It isn’t, actually, a children’s story, but. The whimsy is something he doesn’t use as often as he thinks that he possibly should.
He emails Spencer four and a half minutes after he puts his pen down, the final word on page eighty-six of book twelve.
June 4th, 2:08 AM
To: Spence (sjsv@pipeline.com)
From: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)
Cc:
Subject: the you know what project
spence -
I think I might be done.
- ryan
His current apartment is one of those tragic places with no cell reception anywhere in the building, but reliable internet access. He’d call - maybe - except that it doesn’t seem worth it to wander down six flights of stairs to the sidewalk, especially given that Spencer might not actually be awake.
The downside being that he has to wait eight hours until Spencer checks his email to hear back.
June 4th, 10:24 AM
To: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)
From: Spencer (sjsv@pipeline.com)
Cc:
Subject: RE: the you know what project
Seriously? Are you ever going to let me read it?
Also, find an apartment with fucking cell reception. As I’m sure you haven’t actually stepped outside in over a week, you probably haven’t talked to anyone out loud in even longer.
Get some fucking fresh air.
Ryan snorts, and rolls his eyes, and thinks about making tea.
+
Panic’s last show was on December 21st, and it was good. It was a good show.
It still wasn’t exactly enough.
+
Jon said, a week after,
“You should move up to Chicago, Ry. It would be awesome if you were in town.” He’d smiled earnestly in the way that Ryan still isn’t completely used to, but Ryan hadn’t thought he should rely on them as much as he was sure he had been.
“I was thinking of getting a place in New York,” he’d said, because, conceivably, New York was a place where people move. And he hadn’t thought he’d mind it, that much. “Rent some space, see what happens.”
Jon shrugged and nodded, “your choice, man. You know you’re always welcome to crash, right? Visit, whatever?”
“I know,” Ryan had said, and he could feel his mouth tilt to the side as he smiled. And he had known. It took him a long time, but he actually had.
+
It takes him another two months to type up the manuscript. He’s careful with his own writing, the words like a fragile frame of what he really wants to say - more latticework than a crisp outline.
He calls Spencer, sitting on the steps in front of his building.
“Spence,” he says, when he hears the phone pick up.
“Ryan,” Spencer says, his voice heavily sarcastic. “Nice to hear your actual voice for once, asshole. What’s up?”
“I don’t -” Ryan starts, and sighs. “Haven’t talked to you in awhile.”
“You haven’t talked to anyone in awhile, dude. It’s been, like, a week. Jon was almost ready to start a search party - which, yeah, hard from Chicago. I think Pete secretly suspects that you’re actually dead.”
Ryan opens his mouth to defend himself, but Spencer cuts him off, a verbal eye roll clear in his tone.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Blah, blah, writing, blah, art. We get it. You’re a recluse. You’re still an asshole, though.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, biting his lower lip to keep the smile in. “I know.”
“Well, as long as we’ve got that straight.”
+
Finding a publisher is harder that it sounds when you’re Ryan Ross. Especially when you’re Ryan Ross.
He gets eight repetitions of the same thing - “it’s great, Mr. Ross, but it’s not exactly what we’re looking for right now.” He doesn’t think they’ve actually bothered to read it, and he hates being called Mr. Ross. Mr. Ross was his father. Ryan will never be Mr. Ross.
He decides on a pseudonym after that, George Morris, because it seems less like a lie than it might otherwise.
It takes another few months, but he’s at the Starbucks on the corner of his block when his phone vibrates in his pocket.
“Mr. Morris?” the woman on the other end asks, her voice somewhere between kind and authoritative.
“That’s me,” Ryan says. He’s jiggling his foot under the table, and he carefully sets his earl grey on the tabletop. The string from the tea bag is slowly dripping liquid onto the light wood.
“This is Jeanne Benson from Treehouse.” She stops, and he suspects that there’s something he should be saying, but he’s never been good at that part. It’s one of the things even time hasn’t changed.
“Um, yeah, hi,” he says, finally, looking at the scuffed toes of his shoes.
“Hi,” she says, a laugh in her voice. Ryan wonders if it’s directed at him. “I’m just calling to give you a heads up, really. You’ll get the real confirmation in the mail soon, but we thought you might want to hear that we’re interested in publishing your novel.”
“Really?” It’s out of Ryan’s mouth before he can think about confidence, professionalism.
“Yep. Really interested, actually.”
“Oh,” Ryan says. “Oh, wow. Um, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, and while it sounds genuine enough over the phone, Ryan knows that genuine doesn’t always mean what you’d think it does. “Just call any time to set up an appointment.”
“Thank you,” he says, again.
+
Temperance isn’t about Panic, not like everyone is going to think it is, if, when, they find out that he wrote it. It’s not autobiographical. It isn’t his life, their lives, on paper in pretty prose, trying to sell what he used to be and can’t be anymore.
It isn’t, though, completely divorced from that. He’s not sure he knows how to be, really.
+
He emails his friends, the people he thinks count. He’s not sure if he has enough names, not sure who he’s leaving out. He knows who should be there, and who isn’t.
November 14th, 5:56 PM
To: Spence (sjsv@pipeline.com), Jon (rockonj@honestyunlimited.com), Pete (fobfan1@sixteencandles.net), Bren (seriouslybden@honestyunlimited.com)
From: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)
Cc:
Subject: I swear I’ll stop talking about it eventually
guys -
yeah yeah yeah, I haven’t called in awhile. soon, okay?
I thought you might want to know, I found a publisher. I even have my own pseudonym.
told you I could do it.
- ryro
Spencer takes about twelve minutes to respond. Pete takes about four minutes longer. Ryan’s not exactly surprised; while Pete’s email goes directly to his phone, Spencer’s just gotten used to checking every few minutes. Ryan suspects that Spencer is more worried than he’s said.
November 14th, 6:08 PM
To: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)
From: Spencer (sjsv@pipeline.com)
Cc: Jon (rockonj@honestyunlimited.com), Pete (fobfan1@sixteencandles.net), Brendon (seriouslybden@honestyunlimited.com)
Subject: RE: I swear I’ll stop talking about it eventually
Never doubted you, dude.
November 14th, 6:12 PM
To: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)
From: Pete (fobfan1@sixteencandles.net)
Cc: Jon (rockonj@honestyunlimited.com), Spencer (sjsv@pipeline.com), Brendon (seriouslybden@honestyunlimited.com)
Subject: RE: I swear I’ll stop talking about it eventually
now you just have to tell us your name so we can make everyone go buy it
- p
The thing is, Ryan doesn’t really want Pete’s help. He knows, he knows that Pete’s name, his opinion, actually means something, that his business talent has proven him even when no one except Patrick even considered it possible, but. Ryan doesn’t always want to be “that kid from Panic”, not to everyone else. Even if that who he’ll always be, in his head, to himself, that doesn’t mean it’s what he wants.
+
The thing about Fall Out Boy is that they didn’t really break up. They still haven’t - they get fancy terms like indefinite hiatus, instead. Pete’s business endeavors just slowly took over until he didn’t have the time, and what else could they do? Replace their frontman? Patrick, Ryan knows, wasn’t ever really fine with it, not with giving up the music, but he’s found his niche in producing and studio musician work, and when they have all have a spare moment, he calls for a tour. He usually gets what he wants. Pete’s always been that way about Patrick.
+
Brendon, it turns out, has left him maybe sixteen texts since he sent out the email. Ryan isn’t sure whether to be surprised or impressed, so he settles on neither.
The first just says, dude, i bet your book is so cool.
The second says, can i read it please?
The third continues in this trend, saying, please pretty please?
And then, the fourth, if i ever write a book i promise i will let you read it first.
Ryan reads all sixteen, about half of which are just please? or seriously, you’re avoiding me, aren’t you?
Ryan sends one in return, walking to subway. It says, shortly, no, purposefully obscure.
+
Jon’s new band is something, in that way that means really fucking great and complicated to explain - according to Spencer, anyway, and years and years of experience have taught Ryan to trust Spencer’s word on things. Spencer calls him from Chicago, and says,
“Hey, so, Jon’s band.” Ryan is sitting at the table in his kitchen nook, the only real table in his entire apartment, and he’s got notebook ten spread out in front of him, almost halfway through. His ball-point pen is sticking out of his mouth, clenched between his teeth. Spencer’s voice is that half-excited, half-expressionless lilt that means he’s trying too hard not to hope - that something’s gone right and he doesn’t want to jinx it.
“Mm?” Ryan says around the pen. His walls are suspiciously blank. He thinks that he’s been here long enough that he should remedy that.
“I told you about it, right? Jon’s on bass, obviously, and he conned Tom into playing guitar. They picked up this total kid to play drums - his name’s Dave, he’s like, twenty, or something - and he’s pretty good. Like, you know. He’s pretty good.”
“Yeah?” Ryan says, pulling the pen out of his mouth. “Not you on drums?”
“Uh-uh,” Spencer says. “Jon asked me to manage.” Spencer says this like it’s something reverent, like it’s surprising that someone would leave organizational details up to him, surprising that they’d trust him with booking gigs and signings and keeping the accounts straight. Ryan’s just surprised it’s taken them this long.
“Really? That’s awesome, Spencer.” He means it, he does. “Who’s the vocalist?”
Spencer is silent for too long. Ryan doesn’t want to know, so he doesn’t think about it.
“Um,” Spencer says, “Tom and Jon are splitting back vocal duties, but. Well. Brendon’s singing.” Ryan holds in a breath until he’s counted to one, two, three, ten, seventeen, twenty, and then he lets it out. He’s not allowed to feel abandoned - he’s the one that left them. Jon asked, Jon asked. They are all there, and he’s here, and that was his choice. It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t know they’re all there, working on that band, without him.
“Do you have a name?”
“Well, normally, people call me Spencer,” Spencer says. Ryan just sighs.
“Okay, seriously. No.”
“Jon’s insisting the name be Honesty Unlimited.” Spencer’s voice has just that tentative edge he’d had when he’d said to Ryan, however many year ago, “do you think the drums would be fun?”
“Do it,” Ryan says.
+
Ryan, if asked, would say that the third album is his favorite. A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out is too much of his own pain for him to handle in large doses - it’s hard remembering how vicious, how barbed every word is and how much he meant it.
Like to Like is the only time Ryan can remember being hated for being happy. He remembers Keltie’s head on his shoulder, her hair curved under his jaw, and finally being able to smile in public and how he expected them to want him to laugh, how he’d thought happiness was the goal. Apparently not. Ryan doesn’t really like thinking about it much.
Spencer’s always told him he cares too much what other people think, and Ryan knows that it’s probably true, but he’s no worse than Brendon, and less in the forefront. fourteen songs to use you by was his fuck you, his musical suck my cock to the rest of the world, and so this is the album he listens to when he feels nostalgic, slumped in his chair in the living room, his eyes closed, hands clasped together. fourteen songs is the only time he’s ever said to himself, it’s done, you’re done, and actually meant it in a satisfactory way. He suspects that it will never happen again.
By the time colorburn and lightsoft came out he knew that he was almost through. Spencer knew, but then again, Spencer always knows. Maybe even before Ryan is aware, Spencer knows. Ryan thinks, though, that even Brendon saw it this time - he can still hear it in the tenor of his voice, and even if it’s Ryan fault, listening to it still makes him want to walk away.
+
Ryan calls Frank’s cell phone on Friday morning, November 18th, three days before he’s scheduled to have his first meeting with the publisher. Frank picks up mid-yawn.
“Can I talk to Gerard?” Ryan says, and Frank sighs. Ryan can’t exactly tell if he’s faking or not, but he’s done this enough to make assumptions, and he figures that Frank actually doesn’t mind. He’s never gotten around to getting Gerard’s cell phone number, and this method works often enough that he hasn’t bothered. He knows that he should, it just. It would seem too personal.
“What, I don’t even get a hello?” Frank asks. “I swear, you get ruder every time.”
“Hi, Frank,” he says. Frank laughs, and says, “See, now, was that so hard?”
“I guess not,” Ryan says. He pauses as he hears muttering in the background, shades of Gerard’s voice saying, “dude, Frank, give me the phone.”
“Yeah, yeah, Gerard, whatever,” Frank says, voice muffled and farther away.
“Hey, Ryan.” Gerard’s voice is all smile, like the wide exposure of white teeth.
“Hi, Gerard.” Ryan’s not sure exactly what to say next, but, thankfully, Gerard decides to help him out.
“So, what’s up? I haven’t talked to you in, what, two months?”
“Um,” Ryan says, and he thinks that, maybe, he should have found time to learn normal social skills - to stay in contact and reciprocate. He wonders if it’s too late. “I didn’t mean -”
“No, no, seriously. I like hearing from you, Ryan. You should maybe do it more often, even.” Gerard says it like Ryan needs to be reminded, and. Maybe he does. Sometimes. Ryan bites his lips, sitting on the edge of his bed wearing jeans he’s had since that one semester of college and a shirt he stole from Spencer sometime during touring. It might have, at one point, belonged to Brendon or Jon.
“Okay,” Ryan says, curling his toes up in the hem of his pants and pulling his legs up until he’s sitting cross-legged. “Are you free sometime - I mean - if you wanted to -” Ryan takes a deep breath, makes an effort to stop, slow down, start over. “I mean. I know you guys are recording now, but if you wanted to, I have some free time, and human contact might be nice. Spencer’s always telling me that actual physical contact does wonders.”
“Spencer’s probably right. Want to come out to my house tomorrow? I can show you the new costume designs for the concept album.”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, staring out the window to the street. My Chem is on album number eight. Somehow, Ryan’s not at all surprised that they’ve made it this far. “That would be really nice.”
+
The Gerard thing happened unexpectedly, maybe six months before the end, and Ryan still doesn’t quite know what to make of it.
“Hi,” Gerard had said, stopping next to Ryan. Ryan was sitting half offstage on one of the amps. Two hours until show time, and nowhere else to be.
“Hi,” Ryan had said, squinting up at Gerard, who wasn’t actually that much taller than him, and wasn’t that much wider, either. Slim and white, both of them. Gerard had smiled down at him, arms crossed over his chest, fingers tapping a rhythm against his own skin.
“Should I leave you alone?” Gerard has asked, and his grin had been mostly it’s okay, you can tell me the truth and partially do you know how hard it was for me to come over here?, and so Ryan had just said,
“Oh! No, don’t.” He’d scrubbed a hand through his sweaty hair, and Gerard had sat on the dirty stage, legs crossed beneath him.
And that had sort of been that.
+
Ryan’s never been up to see Jon and Brendon play - he knows it makes him a bad friend, but. There are some things he doesn’t really want to see, yet. He’ll get there, he’s sure. Probably.
“You should come out sometime,” Jon had said, the month before, “I haven’t actually seen you in six months, dude. Not since my housewarming party thing in March, and that hardly even counts.”
Ryan had winced. He’d spent half of the party avoiding people, and ended up hiding out in Jon’s new bedroom until the guests had left. Jon had let him stay in the bed, and they’d watched Moulin Rouge for old time’s sake. Spencer had joined them about halfway through, pulling Brendon behind him, the two of them piling up, and sneaking under the covers.
“I’m sorry,” he’d said.
“Don’t feel guilty, Ryan,” Jon had said, in that way that meant I know how you think, dude. “There’s no point.”
“I know,” Ryan said. “Can’t help it.”
“Just - visit us, okay? Sometime soon.” There wasn’t any reproach in Jon’s voice, no you’re a bad friend, Ryan. It’s not that Ryan believes Jon would think it; it’s that he’s afraid it’s true anyway.
+
Ryan remembers the performance after he finally decided he had to quit, it’s just that he remembers the sound check better. He’d been sitting on the edge of the stage, waiting for Jon and Brendon to catch up, and Spencer had sat next to him, nudging him with one shoulder. Ryan hadn’t said anything yet, but in his mind he was screaming it, and not sure how he could bear to do it, and terrified that they’d hate him when he told them. Not that they would, he knew, he did, even if he also knew that they kind of should. That they really should.
“Ryan,” Spencer had said, his voice the same quiet Ryan still hears in his head when he’s overwhelmed, calm water around the edges and steel in the center. Ryan leaned his head against Spencer’s shoulder, letting his hair, too-long and unwashed, fall over his forehead and into his eyes. He knew that Spencer wanted the answer, already knew the question, and was waiting for him.
“I - Spencer,” he’d started. “I’m sorry.” Spencer hadn’t needed him to say it, but Ryan had, and then, and then he’d said, “It’s just not right anymore. It’s not - I’m not unhappy, just - this isn’t. What I need.” He doesn’t say even if I’ll always need you, and them, even if, I don’t need this band, because those are the kinds of words his throat closes around, and those are the words Spencer can read in his silences.
“Okay,” Spencer had said. Ryan had burrowed his nose into the crook of Spencer’s neck, and breathed out.
+
Gerard still lives out in Jersey, in a big house by himself. Half of Mikey’s stuff is there, and technically, Mikey’s name is also on the lease, but Mikey lives mostly at Frank’s anyway, so the house is almost completely filled with cats, overstuffed chairs, and near-finished paintings. Ryan isn’t sure who takes care of the cats while Gerard is touring - he’s not even sure if half of them have names.
“Hi,” Gerard says, opening the door. His smile is the same as his greeting, welcoming, and Ryan can feel his shoulders relax just slightly. It’s a Gerard thing, he thinks. Gerard understands him, his long silences and wandering glances, in a way that even Spencer possibly doesn’t.
“Um,” he says, sketching a wave. “Hi.”
“Come on in,” Gerard says, stepping back. Ryan toes off his shoes and leaves them in the front hallway - Gerard’s house rules - and follows Gerard into the kitchen, where there’s still the remains of a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the island in the center. Gerard picks it up, looks at it, shrugs, and takes a bite. “Mmm,” he says, “melty peanut butter.” A grey cat butts at his legs, and Gerard just pushes at it with his foot, petting it as best he can with his toes.
“Why do I hang out with you again?” Ryan asks, both hands deep in the back pockets of his pants.
“Because your real friends live across the country,” Gerard replies, voice slightly muffled as he chews. “And I’m the best you could find on short notice.” Ryan can’t tell if he’s being serious, but it ends up not mattering, because Gerard winks at him and puts the sandwich back down on the counter. “Anyway, c’mon, I’ve got those designs to show you in the upstairs studio.”
+
Ryan leaves the house with a stern reminder from Gerard not to be a stranger, and a small painting of a girl in a green dress, her hands and face pressed to a pane of glass, looking out from the canvas. Her dark hair falls over one eye and the bridge of her nose, her expression wistful. Ryan walked by it four or five times before Gerard just turned to him, and said,
“Look, just take it. It’s not like I have much room for it in here anyway.”
“Really?” Ryan had asked - insecurity again, not that he could help it. Gerard had grinned at him.
“Yeah, sure. Go ahead. Just send me your novel when it comes out. I want to read it.”
+
Ryan hangs the painting on the blank wall across from his bed. He wakes up in the morning to the girl looking at him, and he finds it strangely comforting.
+
When he’d told them he was leaving, he’d said,
“You can replace me, I don’t mind,” and tried to keep his voice even. Brendon’s eyes had widened, and Jon had shook his head, and Spencer had said,
“I’m sorry; I don’t think we can do that.”
+
Ryan spends Tuesday in his bed, with papers spread all across the bedspread, rereading and editing, his purple editing pen hanging from his lips at a jaunty angle.
The meeting with Jeanne had gone better than he’d thought it was going to. He’d walked in the door, and pulled his hat farther down over his forehead, nodded at the receptionist, who told him to go right in, and shuffled awkwardly into her office.
It had taken her fifteen minutes to go,
“Wait, aren’t you that guy?” and he’d said, politely, that yes, he was, and that he really hoped that it wouldn’t matter, and she’d just said, “I won’t tell if you won’t,” with a smile on her face.
Ryan sort of wished that was everyone else’s reaction.
+
It’s Pete’s fault, ultimately.
He’s actually slightly apologetic afterward, which is pretty unusual. Ryan still can’t help but be angry.
It’s an easy mistake to make - the interviewer asks, “So, have you been keeping in touch with the former members of Panic?”
And Pete, Pete talks for fifteen minutes about Jon and Brendon, Spencer’s new career, and then. And then, he says,
“Oh, and Rossy’s writing a book. He’s a weird one - not even publishing it under his own name. Won’t tell me the pseudonym, either. But, well, he said it would be out sometime next year, definitely, so keep a lookout. Maybe you’ll find it.” And then he smiles that Pete smile, like he hasn’t said anything that Ryan would mind.
“Seriously, Pete, what the fuck,” Ryan says to him on the phone - he’d followed the link Spencer sent him, watched the clip, and almost slid down the stairs in his haste to call Pete fucking Wentz.
“What did I do?”
“Oh, I don’t know, talk about me and my fucking book on national television?” Ryan is seething, which, of course, means that any expression in his voice has drained away, down the back of his throat, and settled in the pit of his stomach.
“Dude, no one’s going to know which is yours,” Pete’s voice is uncomprehending, and Ryan knows he’s being unreasonable, he just doesn’t really care.
“It doesn’t really matter, now they’re going to ask fucking questions about it. Oh, I am so happy I remembered not to tell you anything.” It’s not that he doesn’t want everyone to know, eventually. But he’s not ready yet, not yet.
“I’m sorry, dude; I didn’t realize it was that big a deal.” The thing is, this is Ryan. Everything is kind of a big deal.
This novel maybe more than anything else.
“It’s - okay,” Ryan says, “don’t worry about it.
+
Ryan doesn’t talk to anyone except Jeanne and the publishers for eight weeks and three days. He doesn’t actually realize it’s that long until later, when he sits at the kitchen table with his calendar and plots out the time he’s missed. He eats spaghetti-os and steamed broccoli about twice a day, sits on his bed with his computer open, drinking cup after cup of over-steeped tea, and editing. Sometimes, he sleeps.
On the fourth day, Ryan is woken up when someone knocks on his door. He’s fallen asleep on top of his covers, his laptop still open about six inches in front of his face. The screen saver is a slideshow of all his pictures - Spencer with his arm around Brendon and Ryan’s shoulders, the late Hemmy licking Pete’s face, Jon and Tom completely shitfaced outside some parking lot in south Chicago.
The knock comes again, and Ryan rolls out of bed, stumbling down the hall in his pajama pants and oversized t-shirt. He scrubs a hand through his hair, yawns, and pulls open the door.
“Dude,” Gerard says, eyebrows arched in away that clearly broadcasts I am not amused, “do you know how hard it is to find your fucking address? I had to get call Frank to get Mikey, ask Mikey to call Pete, and then ask Pete to give me Spencer’s number. Why is Spencer the only person on the planet who knows your street address? Also, he’s afraid that you died.”
“Spencer is my secret keeper,” Ryan says, “and he’s not actually afraid I died, he’s just mad I haven’t talked to him in however long it’s been.” Ryan pauses for a second. “What day is today?”
“January twenty second,” Gerard says. “It’s next year, in case you didn’t notice. You fucking missed Christmas. And New Years!” Gerard sounds angry and also partially amused - Ryan thinks he might understand the loss of time to art, but Ryan wonders if Gerard ever forgot to wish his band a happy new year. A mixture of something like guilt and dread settles in the pit of his stomach, churning in his stomach like nausea. There’s nothing he can do about it now, though. “Are you going to let me into your apartment?” Gerard asks, and, yes, definitely amusement in his voice, and maybe even a little worry.
“Oh, yeah,” Ryan says, and steps back enough that Gerard can come in. He shuts the door behind him. “I haven’t seen you since, what, the beginning of November?” Ryan actually does think that this is a long time. If he’d actually been completely aware of the passing of days, he might have actually called someone. One never knew.
“Um, Ryan? You haven’t picked up your phone or checked your email since, like, November twentieth. And why don’t you have a landline?”
“I don’t really like the phone that much,” Ryan says with a shrug. “It’s very distracting.
“Oh,” Gerard says, rolling his eyes. “So, basically, if you die in the shower one day, you don’t want anyone to know until they open the door and find your corpse rotting on the bathroom floor. Very dramatic, I’ll give you that.” Gerard says it with some admiration, and Ryan thinks it’s Gerard’s morbid sensibility getting in the way. Finally, Gerard sighs. “Why do you only have cans of spaghetti-os in your kitchen?”
Ryan rubs one hand over his face. “They’re easy to cook.”
“Okay, just checking,” Gerard says. “Now get dressed; we’re going food shopping.”
+
Brendon gave up on texting halfway through December. He’d managed to send eighty six texts during that space of time, but Ryan doesn’t bother to read them all. The last is on December thirteenth, which happened to be a Friday, at 5:06 AM. It says,
Jesus fuck, Ryan
and that’s it. Ryan thinks that Brendon may have been angry with him.
+
It takes Gerard forty five minutes in the grocery store to be satisfied that Ryan a. is not going to die of malnourishment, b. has all the major food groups, and c. knows that he is a big asshole. Ryan already knows that part. He follows behind Gerard and tries to keep quiet.
“How Spencer let this go on as long as it did I’ll never know,” Gerard says.
“Spencer’s in Chicago dealing with managing Jon and Brendon’s new band,” Ryan says. “He’s busy.” It’s the first thing he’s said since they left the apartment.
“Oh, I know,” Gerard says, pushing the shopping cart with one hand and grabbing a can of pineapples with the other, “Spencer made friends with Brian - I think they bond over dealing with crazy people on a regular basis. I just wanted to see if I could get you to talk. Insulting your best friend seemed like the easiest way.”
“And you say I’m a big asshole.”
“Hey, at least when I was a recluse from the world, my brother knew I was alive, and maybe even eating.”
Ryan does think that he has kind of a point.
+
Gerard pushes Ryan through the kitchen doorway, out into the hallway, his hands solid and warm on Ryan’s shoulder blades. Ryan has to consciously remember not to lean into it - it’s been more than two months since anyone touched him, and maybe that’s part of it, but part of it is also Gerard. The thought doesn’t disconcert him as much as it probably should. Gerard says,
“Go, call your band. I’ll put away your groceries.”
Ryan doesn’t say that maybe Gerard won’t know where to put everything, and he doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t say that maybe he’s grateful. He doesn’t say anything, just looks over his shoulder. Gerard pulls his hands away and smiles, heading toward the kitchen.
“I promise you that I don’t mind.”
Downstairs and outside, Ryan looks at the display of his cell phone. He’s forgotten his jacket, and the wind brushes against his bare arms, chilling his skin. Obviously, he has to call Spencer first. Spencer hasn’t been actively mad at Ryan in a long time and - Ryan doesn’t want him to be now. It’s probably too late for that.
Spencer picks up halfway through the second ring.
“You asshole,” Spencer says, traces of resentment and anger and a shade of awe in his voice. Only hints, just tinges of emotion around the edges of his words, but Ryan has made an art of Spencer translation. He tries not to feel the vague relief that floods through him - Spencer misses him, Spencer needs him, and he knows he shouldn’t doubt it after so many years. Sometimes he can’t help it.
“Hi,” Ryan says. He means I’m sorry, but he can’t make himself say it. He hopes that Spencer knows anyway.
“You’re emotionally retarded, you know that?” Spencer is angry with him, but it’s battling with relief, and Ryan doesn’t think he’ll last long against it.
“I know.” He means the problem is, I need you too much, but he doesn’t say it. He’s never said it. He’s pretty sure that Spencer knows, almost positive that Jon does, and it’s not that he thinks they’ll mind, that he thinks they do mind, it’s that it’s wrong of him to need in the first place.
They shouldn’t have to take care of him.
“Just don’t do it again,” Spencer says.
“I’ll try.” Ryan’s making no promises.
+
When he gets off the phone with Brendon (“Sometimes - God, sometimes I hate you, Ryan Ross”), and Jon (“If I don’t see you, in person, before the release of your fucking book, I’m coming up there and kidnapping you.”), he texts Pete. Pete doesn’t actually like talking on the phone that much, just texting. He says that writing the words is easier than saying them. Ryan tends to agree with him. Sometimes, when he’s writing, he can say all the things he’s unable to say out loud.
i’m not dead, he sends, still sitting on the steps outside his apartment building. It’s still cold and getting colder, but he still doesn’t get cell reception in his building, and this is more important than the cold, so he shivers, waiting for Pete’s response.
u done bein mad at me then, Pete asks, two minutes later. Despite the lack of punctuation, Ryan knows that it is, actually, a serious question - he’s good enough at Pete-speak to know - he just doesn’t understand why Pete is asking at all. He stares at the letters, confused, like they’ll suddenly reveal themselves to him.
mad? he asks back, figuring that if Pete’s been with Patrick anytime in the past twelve hours, he might actually get a straight answer.
the interview thing, is Pete’s response. Oh, Ryan thinks, oh. He is a really, really bad friend.
no, no, pete, i wasn’t mad. just reclusive, he says. When Pete doesn’t respond in the first six minutes, Ryan sends off another text, his fingers starting to hurt from the cold, freezing up at the joints. He wishes that he hadn’t forgotten a coat. i’m a really bad person, he sends, and he believes that, in some ways at least, it’s mostly true.
not any worse than me, Pete sends. Ryan doubts that, but knows better than to say so to Pete, who will actually argue about it with him.
sorry, Ryan says instead, and somehow it’s easier to type than it ever is to say aloud.
i should probably have listened to spence when he said u were just dumb, is Pete’s only response.
Ryan will be better, he will.
+
Ryan’s shivering when he closes the door to his apartment, fingers pushed deep into the pockets of his jeans, his arms bare against the cold.
Gerard looks over his shoulder from the kitchen, cooking something on the stove, and does a double take.
“Jesus Christ, Ryan, are you completely mentally deficient? Or do you just care that little about your health?” Ryan shrugs. Neither, actually, he just hasn’t talked to anyone important in over two months, and that, apparently, makes people angry with him. “Okay, this is not Vegas, dumbass, it’s New York in January.”
“I know,” Ryan says, the words shaking slightly with the vibrations from his chattering teeth. “Just didn’t think about it. Had to call Spencer.”
Gerard rolls his eyes. “Like he’d be happy if you froze to death trying to apologize to him.”
“Maybe,” is all Ryan says.
“Okay, definitely mentally deficient,” Gerard says, decisively, turning off the stove and grabbing Ryan by the shoulders, steering him into the kitchen.
“Pete thought I was mad at him,” Ryan confesses, drinking in the warmth from Gerard’s hands as he pushes Ryan into one of the chairs in the kitchen nook.
“Only because he’s almost as dumb as you are,” Gerard says. Gerard would probably know - the first few months after Mikey’s divorce from Alicia, Pete was in New Jersey on and off every few weeks. Pete’s a good friend, Ryan knows, just a little much to handle, sometimes. Gerard pulls away, and Ryan holds in a protesting noise in the back of his throat, half-formed, and swallows it back down - he can feel the residual warmth across his shoulders, the dip of his collarbones where Gerard’s thumbs were. Gerard spoons what appears to be macaroni and cheese into one of Ryan’s miscellaneous, miss-matched bowls, and doesn’t seem to notice.
“Not that dumb,” Ryan says eventually, still shivering slightly, “and thanks for cooking.” Gerard sets the bowl in front of Ryan, and then sits across from him at the table, his smile almost rueful.
“This is about the extent of my cooking abilities, I assure you.”
Ryan doesn’t say anything, just sticks a spoonful of macaroni into his mouth.
+
Ryan wakes up on the couch sometime after eleven the next morning with a blanket spread across his legs, wearing Gerard’s grayish-black hoodie. There’s a yellow post-it on the coffee table in Gerard’s tiny, spiky handwriting, proclaiming,
ryan -
sorry, had to take off - recording in about an hour. please give me my sweatshirt back at some point not in two months. sooner would be better.
no falling of the face of the earth.
- gee
There’s another post-it stuck next to the first, just a small pen sketch of his face, the hood of Gerard’s sweatshirt pulled up around his ears, hair falling across his forehead. It’s possibly Ryan’s favorite picture of himself - he looks vulnerable, maybe even delicate, and younger than he has in seven or eight years - maybe he should ask Gerard to design the cover of his book.
+
Sometimes, when Ryan looks at himself in the mirror, it’s like nothing has changed. They were so young in the beginning that even after ten years there are no wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and mouth, and his hair is thick and brown and maybe a little cleaner under his fingers. His collarbones and shoulder blades and hip bones still jut just a little too much, and he still doesn’t smile enough. Sometimes when he looks in the mirror, Ryan wonders if he’s made up all the intervening years, and that maybe in two weeks he has to go back on tour, or back to the studio.
Luckily, the illusion doesn’t last long.
+
Ryan finally gets around to visiting Chicago after another three weeks, when Jeanne tells him,
“Ryan, seriously, we have it under control. Go do non-book things for a while, okay?” leaving Ryan at a loss.
“Dude,” Jon says, when Ryan calls him, “I was totally serious. You’re not getting out of it.” Ryan’s been in close contact with all of them, checking in every few days, but Jon still sounds determined.
“Okay,” Ryan says. “I’ll come up on Tuesday.”
“And stay until at least Thursday,” Jon pushes, a raised eyebrow in his voice.
“Until Friday,” Ryan says. Jon makes a satisfied noise, and Ryan tries not to feel too proud of himself, too much of I did that, I did something right.
Ryan doesn’t call the airport, just books his reservations online. He pauses, and then decides to stay until Saturday morning.
+
Ryan still hasn’t given back Gerard’s sweatshirt. He’s actually been wearing it more and more often, around the house, to the Starbucks, and once, even, to his publisher’s office. He should really give it back, he knows that he should, but he likes it. It’s comfortable. Comforting, maybe.
He wears it on the plane to Chicago, pulling the brim of his hat down over his forehead and tugging the hood more firmly around his ears. It’s been almost three years since Panic broke up, but that doesn’t stop Ryan from being recognized every once in awhile. He’d rather not have to deal with it in the airport, where he’s also trying not to freak out about the close quarters and leaving the book up to the publishers and seeing his band. It shouldn’t make him nervous but - there’s a reason he hasn’t seen them in over six months. He’s afraid that he’s going to be put in a room with them and not have the strength to leave again.
He puts his bag on the conveyor belt and steps through the metal detectors (he refuses to check his baggage, would rather have control over it at all times than not have to schlep it around with him), and waits for the attendant to give him the go ahead.
“Boarding pass, sir,” the woman says in a bored voice, raising her eyebrows at him, eyes half-lidded in disdain. Ryan holds out his e-ticket for her to see, and with a quirk of her lips, she motions him past.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, snagging his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He stuffs his fingers into the pocket of the hoodie, reminding himself through touch where he’s from and why he should go back.
Three hundred feet and seven gates past the security checkpoint, and he’s on his way.
continued in part two