Rock-a-Bye Baby part 1/4
Title: Rock-a-Bye Baby part 1/4
Type: Bandom, MPreg
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon, bonus side Jon/Spencer
Word Count: ~29000
Time: three months
Rating: NC-17
Author's Note: This. Is pretty much completely self-indulgent. I have no excuse for myself. Be warned that there is indeed mpreg so if you really can't handle that, then you must turn away. Oh, god, if you found this by googling yourself and don't know what mpreg even is. Please leave. Please. hopefulgenius is the person I worship for her mad beta skill. Adore her. She is forever my favorite.
ETA: It has come to my attention that Rock-a-Bye Baby has been plagiarized twice now. I'd just like to encourage everyone to please notify the author any time you believe their work has been plagiarized. I also want to say thank you to the people who have notified me about these instances. It means a lot to us. Stay awesome, guys :)
Summary: "It’s a normal day in the House of Urie-Ross-Smith-Walker, more commonly known as The Bus."
Prologue.
It’s a normal day in the House of Urie-Ross-Smith-Walker, more commonly known as The Bus. Completely normal. Brendon wakes up first and makes a mad dash for the coffee pot only to find a note in its place (Not on your life, Urie. Go the fuck back to sleep. -S.S.). He goes on his routine hunt for it and fails. Then, with nothing else to do (and with a death threat from one very non-morning person Spencer Smith in mind) he grabs his iPod and crawls into Ryan’s bunk.
“Ryan,” he whispers loudly at Ryan’s sleeping face. “Ryan Ross, are you sleeping?”
“Mrf,” Ryan replies, which means, “Yes,” in pre-dawn Ryan language, so Brendon scrambles under the covers (a remarkable feat, mind you - the bunks are teeny tiny!). It’s a tight fit, but he manages to tuck himself next to Ryan. And on top of him. And under him. And everywhere else around him, like a squirming blanket. He tucks his head beneath Ryan’s chin and presses his freezing feet under Ryan’s calves. Ryan will deny it if ever asked, but he’s a fantastic pre-dawn snuggler.
Then Brendon puts his earbuds in and cranks up the playlist he entitled “Ryan Ross and Other Things That Go Bump in the Night.” Mostly, it’s just a bunch of songs that Ryan sang without knowing he was being recorded.
He curls up next to (on top of) Ryan and closes his eyes for about an hour until Ryan stirs, tells him to fucking find his own bunk, and pushes him out. Ryan tumbles out right after and, apparently, he knows where the coffee pot is hidden. Jon’s camera bag.
“Damn,” Brendon mutters, “should’ve checked the camera bag. Jon Walker, you traitor.”
He follows Ryan to the kitchen-ish corner of the bus and makes himself fruity pebbles and Ryan French toast and Jon a microwavable sausage-egg burrito and Spencer nothing because Spencer threatened his life and he feels the need for revenge. His plan is foiled, however, when Ryan makes Spencer a cup of coffee.
“My life, Ryan Ross. He threatened my life.”
“When doesn’t he?”
Spencer comes out later with Jon, looking like he wants to snap a Brendon-sized object in half and only appearing pleasant for the briefest moment when Ryan hands him his coffee. Jon thanks Brendon for his food and Ryan does too and they all sit on the couch and eat breakfast.
Eventually, Spencer says, “Why the hell did you wake up at fuck-o’clock and bang around like an elephant, dumbass?” and half-heartedly kicks Brendon’s shin.
Brendon grins and babbles about bubble dreams and birds and sleepy worms and something like green people. Jon nods like he understands and Ryan picks up yesterday’s newspaper, determined to finish the crossword, sipping on his coffee and nibbling at his toast.
Brendon makes eyes at Ryan’s coffee and Ryan interchangeably until Ryan sighs and hands him the cup. Spencer squawks and dives for the mug, but Jon hugs him and the fight dissipates soon after that.
Eventually they leave the couch one by one to do various things, namely watching television on the floor in front of the couch. Ryan’s the only one to remain in his original place, ignoring the riveting documentary on Birds of Paradise and Brendon’s observation that, “Hey, they look like you, Ryan!”
So it’s been a perfectly normal morning in the House of Urie-Ross-Smith-Walker. Except that somewhere during the Bird of Paradise’s weirdly awesome (awesomely weird?) mating dance, Brendon’s mind makes life altering connections and he jumps up, blinking widely at Ryan. “I love you.”
Ryan doesn’t even look up from his newspaper, barely lifting his mouth from gnawing at the pencil in his hand to speak. “I know.”
Brendon huffs and sets his hands at his hips, cocking them to the side. “No. Ryan Ross, I love you.”
“I know, Brendon,” he sighs, filling in several boxes and erasing them immediately afterwards.
“No, no. Ryan.” Brendon crawls up on the couch next to him, still staring at his face. “Ryan, I’m in love with you. Like. Creepy in love.”
Ryan rolls his eyes and drops the newspaper in his lap, finally looking up at Brendon. “I know, Brendon.”
“Oh.” Well. Brendon stares at Ryan until Ryan picks his newspaper back up and goes back to the crossword. “Oh.”
“A little slow on the uptake, Bden?” Jon asks, grinning at him from his place next to Spencer on the floor.
“Shut up,” Spencer hisses, “the baby caribou just died.”
Brendon usually feels very sad for the baby caribou. It never stood a chance against the starving wolves. In his opinion, it’s the most poignant moment in the Planet Earth series. But now all he can think is, “Oh,” and, “Wow,” and, “Cool.”
He curls up next to Ryan and points to the one Ryan’s pencil is hovering over. “Parsimonious.”
Everyone stares at him and Ryan carefully counts out the boxes. He seems surprised when they fit, and he fills in the word. “Wow.”
“Holy shit,” Spencer says.
“I’m getting the video camera.” Jon stands, heading for the back of the bus. “Next thing you know the kid’ll be spouting the secret to world peace.”
“Or realizing that he does, in fact, have on unhealthy addiction to Disney movies,” Spencer sniffs.
“It is not an addiction. It is a hobby.” Brendon tucks his face into Ryan’s shoulder. “Asshole.”
“Damn. I thought he was on a roll for a second.”
“Ass. Hole.”
***
Not much changes after Brendon’s abrupt love confession. He still wakes up first, searches for coffee, and then snuggles with Ryan. He still gets shoved out of Ryan’s bunk and makes breakfast for everyone in the microwave. He, uh, doesn’t help Ryan with the crossword though. Apparently, ‘parsimonious’ pretty much drained him of every long word he knew that Ryan couldn’t think of before him.
So, not much changes.
But some things do.
For instance, Ryan doesn’t skillfully maneuver away from Brendon’s kisses anymore (unless it’s for a show; there’s nothing an audience likes more than sexual tension and making that tension disappear probably wouldn’t be a great career move).
Brendon uses this newfound privilege to its full potential. He kisses Ryan when they get food at Wendy’s. He kisses Ryan awake in the mornings. He kisses Ryan at the gas station when they stop to restock their supply of Red Bull and gummy bears. He kisses Ryan backstage, right after performances - and before them too.
He’s found that kissing Ryan in general is really sort of awesome. He thinks he should try to do it more, except that after four or five kisses in a thirty minute time period, Spencer scoffs and says, “God, how gay for one person can you be?”
“Pretty gay, apparently,” Jon laughs.
Brendon sulks after that and curls up into the crook of Ryan’s arm. Ryan tends to ignore everyone and read a book or something. Brendon is starting to wonder how many books he could possibly have to read on their tiny little tour bus. A lot, he guesses, because Ryan reads fast and Brendon has never seen him read the same book twice.
Another thing that changes is that sometimes Ryan lets him sleep with him. Before, Ryan had always said that the bunks were too cramped and to just go the hell to sleep in his own; now, Brendon occasionally gets to crawl into his rightful place beside Ryan, pressing his head to Ryan’s shoulder and draping himself over as much of him as possible.
He thinks that maybe it’s all too easy and that nothing ever works out that well without any repercussions whatsoever, but he’s not going to ask. Even if Brendon’s not Mormon anymore, he’s not going to fuck with Fate or The Powers That Be or whatever. So he’s content just to lay back and enjoy the ride.
***
“Thank you, everybody, goodnight!” A bead of sweat slides along Brendon’s cheekbone as he thrusts his mic in the air. He swipes it away against his shoulder. It’s blisteringly hot on stage, in this huge enclosed space, but even with all the heat and the consequence of sweating, Brendon is grinning like crazy.
His fans, their fans, they all yell back at him and he internalizes every shriek, eats up every last ‘I love you, Brendon Urie!’ and ‘Oh my fucking god, awesome!’. He can’t hear himself breathe or even think above the roar of his insane audience.
Ryan comes up on one side of him and Jon takes his other side while Spencer quickly moves from his drum set, still tightly clutching his drum sticks. Brendon grabs Ryan’s hand and then Jon’s too, waits for Jon to grab Spencer’s, drumsticks and all, and they take a sweeping bow, connected in a more literal form of the way they’re linked on stage.
He can’t help it anymore, can’t hold it in, and he laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs and someone is probably watching, some reporter or something, and thinking ‘That kid has lost his mind,’ but he doesn’t care. Brendon fucking loves his job. Briefly, he considers walking out to the barrier and touching some hands, but he knows that Zack is watching him like a hawk from the sidelines and will probably tackle him if he even looks like he’s going to do that.
Besides, Jon threw his flip flops toward some girls holding up a sign proclaiming, “WE ♥ JWALK,” earlier and no matter how many people Brendon touches, he can’t compete with Jon’s flip flops.
After several more bows and without Brendon’s laughter subsiding in the least, Ryan tugs on his hand. Brendon laces their fingers together and releases Jon’s hand to wave at the still cheering fans as he’s pulled backstage. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Jon pick Spencer up by the waist and follow Brendon back. Spencer laughs, loud and sunshine-like.
“We fucking rocked, you guys!” Jon says, almost a yell to be heard over the audience.
“That was insane,” Spencer adds once he’s back on his own two feet. “Did you feel that energy? I was all the way back there with my kit and it still got me.”
“Dude, it was awesome!” Brendon bounces on the balls of his feet as Ryan pulls him along into their dressing room. “Did you guys see all those chicks with the t-shirts that spelled out ‘Panic’? Did you see the last one with the exclamation point in parentheses?”
Jon laughs. “Some people just can’t let it go.”
“Next interview, I’m making tearful commentary about our lost little punctuation mark, for sure.” Then, he squeezes Ryan’s hand and asks, “You okay, Ross? You’re quiet.”
Ryan looks over his shoulder at Brendon and sends him a smoldering smirk that makes every part of Brendon’s body throb.
His mouth falls open and he has enough time to say, “Oh,” and, “but Jon and Spencer-” before his back is pressed flat to the wall. There’s a loud click from the door, announcing Jon and Spencer’s hasty departure. Brendon barely notices.
He can feel Ryan trembling with the heat and ecstasy of the show above him and that’s okay because he’s shaking with that same heat. Ryan’s kissing him with his eyes half-lidded and completely blown and all Brendon can do is watch and shiver and feel.
“Brendon,” Ryan mumbles against his mouth, “Brendon, do you even realize how you look right now? Fuck, Brendon.”
Brendon didn’t, but he’s got a pretty good idea at this point. He gasps desperately for breath and Ryan takes the opportunity to dart his tongue into Brendon’s mouth. Brendon groans, his chest burning for air. His lungs are tightening hard now. The smallest flash of a thought flickers through his brain in which he wonders when the hell Ryan got so good at breath control. It’s gone quickly though and he doesn’t care. Later he’ll doubt he wants to know anyway.
Finally, finally, Ryan slides his lips down and along the line of Brendon’s jaw to kiss his neck. Brendon gulps in huge mouthfuls of air and - oh, God, is he sobbing?
Ryan’s laugh hums against his throat. “You okay?”
Brendon can’t even answer, just breathe. The room’s lights are incredibly bright now and he knows that his eyes are dilated so he just nods blindly, keeps nodding, and he can’t stop.
Ryan laughs again. “You’ll get better at holding your breath, trust me.”
Brendon certainly hopes so. His already flushed cheeks turn redder at the thought and he closes his eyes.
He feels one of Ryan’s hands slide into his hair, the pads of his fingertips working little circles into his scalp. It feels so nice, gentle; then, Ryan grips a handful of his hair and yanks his head back.
Fuck, that hurt. And Brendon would have maybe been out for blood if Ryan hadn’t licked a hot stripe up his neck and softly sucked at his pulse point.
Brendon can’t help it, he really can’t, and his hips jerk up into Ryan’s. Their hipbones hit and that hurts, but their cocks grind against one another too, through their jeans and, “Oh, God; oh, fuck; oh, God.”
Ryan moans at the sudden contact and pushes harder against Brendon to maintain it, shifting down and over and Brendon is going to come in his pants if Ryan doesn’t stop that soon.
“Ryan, fuck,” his hand comes up from Ryan’s shoulders and clasps the back of Ryan’s neck. “Fuck, Ryan. I-I need…”
“What, Brendon?” Ryan’s hand curls around Brendon’s hip where his shirt is riding up and his pants are riding low. “What do you need?”
“I… I…” Brendon can’t think with Ryan’s mouth on his neck and Ryan’s hand in his hair and Ryan’s thumb stroking his hip bone and he finally chokes out, “fuck, I don’t know.”
Ryan hums against his skin and Brendon wants to cry, but, seriously, how girly would that be? Finally, Ryan says, “Fair enough,” and grabs his hand.
Brendon nearly falls at the sudden loss of Ryan’s weight when he moves away, and he stumbles as Ryan leads him to the couch.
Ryan pulls Brendon into him and kisses him softly, whispering, “Lay down.” Ryan’s breath puffs against his cheek warmly and his hands grip Brendon’s hips as he carefully helps him down. He makes an embarrassing noise when Ryan’s fingers lift away briefly.
Ryan laughs. “I’m coming, calm down.” He starts unbuttoning his shirt and Brendon sits up quickly, grabbing his wrist.
Ryan gives him a startled look. Brendon shakes his head. “I want to… let me just…” He curls a finger into Ryan’s belt loop and smiles. “C’mere.”
Ryan complies, moving over Brendon on the couch, his knees touching either side of Brendon’s hips. Brendon’s hand skirts up Ryan’s shirt and he grabs his collar, dragging him down into a harsh, open-mouthed kiss. He feels Ryan’s hand move down, down, and with one quick movement he flicks open the fly of Brendon’s jeans, and Brendon moans.
Ryan laughs. Again.
“You know,” Brendon mutters, “if you keep laughing at me, I’m going to dump you on the floor.”
Ryan makes a sound of protest and smirks again, his fingers hovering over Brendon’s erection. “You’re so stupid-funny, though. Do you seriously moan this much all the time, or am I just special?”
Brendon sees the flicker in Ryan’s eyes and knows that he’s already aware that he’s special. “God, Ryan,” he rolls his hips up into Ryan’s hand, “have you ever fucking seen your hands? They’re sort of amazing.”
“Yeah?” He pushes the heel of his palm into Brendon’s crotch.
“Y-Yeah,” Brendon pants, partly because it’s true, Ryan has gorgeous hands, but mostly because those hands are touching him, and he frantically wants to get laid.
Ryan kisses him again, and Brendon knows his lips are bruised; they ache and burn a little under the ruthless treatment, but it’s okay. Brendon would probably have jumped out of his skin with restrained energy if Ryan had made him hold everything in. Brendon smiles because, really, he’s a lucky little bastard sometimes.
He makes short work of unbuttoning Ryan’s vest and shirt, pushing them off of Ryan’s shoulders. He’s not sure how, but during that one stay at the cabin, Ryan’s shoulders filled out and weren’t really bony anymore. They’re kind of awesome. Brendon scrambles down Ryan’s body from beneath him and kisses Ryan’s shoulder, grazing his teeth along his collarbone.
Then, suddenly both of Brendon’s shirts are being yanked over his head at once and then they’re chest to chest, skin flush against skin. Brendon likes being this close to Ryan. He would love to get much, much closer.
With this thought in mind, he slides a jean-clad leg up along Ryan’s thigh and sucks hard at Ryan’s skin.
“Mmn, Brendon.” Ryan closes his eyes and fists a hand into Brendon’s hair. His other hand presses against Brendon’s boxer-briefs.
Brendon is starting to see stars and his hips crush against Ryan. If he doesn’t come soon, he’s pretty sure he’s going to implode.
His hands fly down to Ryan’s pants and he quickly unbuttons them, shoving them down.
Brendon had been almost positive that Ryan would make some snarky, smart-assed comment about being eager, but he just kicks off his boots, socks and jeans in a movement that should not be graceful but somehow is. Brendon is a lucky, lucky boy.
***
May: Month One
“All right! Take seven! Action!”
Brendon bites his lip and prays that he doesn’t do it again. He’s pretty sure the director is going to blow a gasket any time now.
The camera’s rolling and Brendon is trying not to burst out in a fit of giggles for the seventh time while maintaining eye contact with the camera.
“Hi, I’m Ryan,” Ryan says from beside him, his face smiling politely. Brendon can feel that he’s tense though, probably getting more pissed than the director. Ryan gets on the bitchy side sometimes.
Okay, deep, even breath. Smile. “I’m Brendon.” One part down. He can do this, he totally can.
“I’m Jon.”
“And I’m Spencer.”
Another breath. “And we’re Panic,” Brendon thrusts the paper exclamation point he’s holding in the camera’s lens; oh, God, he can’t do it, “at the-“
He collapses against Ryan’s shoulder in a fit of giggles, his face hurting and his entire body shaking with it. He’s pretty sure he can hear the director throw something in the background.
“Sorry,” he rasps out, biting his lip to at least stop laughing a little, “sorry, just.” He looks up, his face bright, and is surprised to find the camera still rolling. He clears his throat. “Right. Panic at the Disco.”
The interviewer in the chair next to their couch is smiling forcefully, looking like she’s trying to suppress a scream or something. “Right. I’m glad you could make it here, guys. We were scared you were going to cancel on us for a minute there.”
“Yeah, sorry we were so late.” Spencer shoots Brendon and Ryan a look between a grimace and amusement. Mostly a grimace though.
“Band stuff,” Jon chimes in, grinning like he knows a secret.
“Oh?”
Brendon wants to laugh again. The reporter seems nice enough, as nice as reporters come anyway, but she’s got this look on her face that screams, “I want to know everything you do - everything - and I’ll do anything to know it.”
Ryan nods. “Also translated as: Brendon couldn’t find his favorite pair of socks this morning.”
Wait, what?
“And he apologizes for making us late,” Spencer adds, jabbing Brendon’s side a little for extra effect. Spencer gives him a look that says, “If you don’t play along, I’ll kill you painfully,” and.
Oh. Okay, cool, whatever.
“Yeah,” Brendon shrugs, wincing at the dull throb of a bite mark on his shoulder. Ryan biting him a little is always great in the passion of the moment, but the marks are always a bitch later. They really need to start thinking about what they have to do after sex and plan ahead or something.
Aha, a sexual day planner, what?
He snorts a little at that thought, waving his hand and covering his mouth. Everyone looks at him (in different ways; the reporter and Ryan with raised eyebrows, Spencer with a ‘death will be drawn out’ look, and Jon with a shit eating grin that told Brendon that they are on the exact same wavelength somehow [Jon is sort of psychic sometimes, Brendon thinks]).
He clears his throat again. “Sorry.”
The reporter’s eyebrow remains raised, but she keeps her smile and goes on smoothly. “I guess it’s easy to lose things on the bus, huh?”
They all nod because they all know it’s beyond true. It’s the gospel truth of touring.
“Particularly when you have certain people on the bus with an affinity for bright, sparkly things,” Jon laughs. Yes, Brendon did see Jon tapping absently at Spencer’s thigh. He and Ryan were so not the gayest people on their bus.
So not.
Okay, maybe they are the gayest, but they aren’t the only gay, at least.
Brendon reaches over Spencer to shove at Jon. “If someone didn’t leave their crap everywhere maybe certain people wouldn’t find said shiny things to play with.”
The reporter laughs. It’s a nice laugh. Brendon wishes he could remember her name. “Am I going to have to separate you two?”
“Yes, please,” Spencer says from between them, groaning.
“We’ll be good,” Jon swears, patting Spencer’s knee comfortingly. “We promise.”
Brendon sticks his tongue out at Jon and Ryan shoves his shoulder. Brendon is pretty sure he’s going to kill the next person that touches his injured shoulder. “Be good.”
He sighs and nods, leaning more heavily against Ryan.
The reporter smiles at Ryan. “I’m guessing this happens a lot on the bus.”
Ryan laughs, but not like he’s spectacularly happy. “You have no idea. When you put four energetic, creative types in something as contained as the bus always is, it’s pretty much asking for an explosion of some sort.”
She nods and never looks away from them. “So. We need to get some obligatory, everyone’s-already-asked questions out of the way for all of your fans who don’t know how to work YouTube. How’s the tour going? Tired of all of your third album’s songs yet?”
“We have, like, fifty songs we can sing now without doing any covers,” Ryan answers, eyeing Brendon like he’s expecting the explosion he’d just talked about to happen at any moment. “And we change chords all the time, beginnings, the show itself. Plus, the fans are always really energetic. It’s pretty hard to get tired of anything anymore.”
“Except the traveling itself,” Spencer interjects. “We hate being away from home.”
“Which brings us to an interesting topic.” The reporter’s mouth quirks a little. It’s a look that everyone in the band glances at each other over. “Jon, you’ve just opened up about moving to Las Vegas. What went into that major life change?”
Everyone settles down considerably, with the exception of Spencer. Brendon thinks Spencer is a little paranoid sometimes. Jon shrugs. “It’s just easier to be a musician when you aren’t states away from your band mates. Plus, have you ever been to Vegas? It’s amazing, even with the gambling and drinking and stuff.”
The reporter’s eyebrows raise like she knows something. “Or because of the drinking and gambling?”
Jon grins, still tapping a steady beat on Spencer’s thigh. They’re so transparent. Why is it that all the rumors are about him and Ryan and not Jon and Spencer? “That too.”
He looks at Spencer and Spencer glances up at him and, God, so fucking transparent.
Brendon makes a face and Ryan subtly elbows him.
She nods. “I’ve only been once; it was fun and I’m not even a drinker. You’re staying with Spencer while you house search, right?”
“And he won’t divide his laundry for anything.” Ugh, Spencer’s bitch voice with blatant marital bliss undertones. Ughhh, dangerous combo. “I had to pay him just to separate his whites and darks. Twenty dollars.”
“Per week,” Jon adds. “Spencer just hates the planet’s greenness and wants to waste water on one white shirt that could go with ten pairs of jeans but doesn’t because Spencer has a master plan to kill all trees.”
Brendon laughs so hard he thinks he’s going to cry. “Why do you hate trees, Spencer, why?”
He and Jon high-five over Spencer’s lap.
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Someone found the sugar this morning, I think.”
Brendon slides his hand into Ryan’s and laces their fingers. “Whatever, you love us this way.”
“Yeah,” Ryan deadpans, “like I love bullets to the brain.” But he lets Brendon hold his hand.
Brendon loves the fact that the reporter notices their intertwined fingers and wants to tell her and the camera that, “Ha, we’re dating and you can’t make us tell you.” Except that would be telling them, so. He pouts a little at foiling his own plan.
Still, being Brendon Urie is totally awesome, particularly later in the interview when Ryan takes his hand. Dude, Brendon could totally get used to this boyfriend thing. Definitely.
***
Brendon loves sex. Really loves it, probably for the same reason any teenager or twenty-something does. It feels awesome. And sex with Ryan feels really good.
What makes it better is that it happens everywhere. Against walls, in dressing rooms, backstage in remote corners, one time at Wal-Mart when Spencer was off bitching about the price of socks rising. If Brendon can convince Ryan that, “No, we’re fine, no one will catch us,” then they’re messing around.
It’s easy to excuse. They’re both boys. Crazy sex drives come with the territory. Crazy, fast and wild is the language they were born knowing.
But Brendon’s got a secret. A really embarrassing secret.
Even though he loves the hotsweatymindless sex, and up to this point has only liked that kind of sex, he’s starting to get addicted to going slow.
He can’t help it.
He loves moments like that, like this, like right now when he’s letting Ryan set the pace completely, when Ryan’s strategically placing soft and deliberate kisses on his lips, face, neck, when Ryan’s light touches feel more like a soft breeze on Brendon’s skin or maybe more like butterfly wings.
When they’re both content and an orgasm doesn’t even matter.
“Ryan,” he breathes into his mouth, his fingers tracing delicate patterns across Ryan’s shoulder blades. He whimpers quietly, not for climax, but for Ryan, to be closer to him, to be part of him even when Ryan’s not as far inside of him as he can go. “Ryan.”
Ryan’s body slides up against his, slick skin on skin, and kisses his forehead, his eyelids, his nose. Then he kisses Brendon’s mouth and says, “Brendon,” and Brendon tilts his head back and comes.
***
One thing that Ryan’s always hated about touring is going to sleep alone and waking up the same way. It’s lonely and there’s always a cold spot to his right. Since he and Brendon started dating, he never has to sleep by himself.
But one morning he wakes up and his right side is freezing. His arm searches for a warm body beside him and only comes up with air.
He lifts his head and rubs at his eyes to make sure that Brendon really is gone. He doesn’t know why, but his stomach drops and he quickly sits up, glancing at the clock. Five thirty in the morning. Even Brendon doesn’t get up at five thirty unless they have an early interview.
Ryan’s throat feels scratchy so he clears it and says, “Brendon?” His voice doesn’t echo, the bus is too small for that, but his words are swallowed into the silence and that somehow feels so much lonelier. Brendon doesn’t respond.
Ryan pushes himself out of bed. He’s just in his bunk for once, Ryan assures himself, or the bathroom.
Brendon’s bunk is empty, aside from a huge stuffed tiger that Ryan had denied entry into his bunk when Brendon had made the transition. Brendon had made puppy eyes and they’d met halfway. Brendon could have two smaller stuffed animals, but not the tiger. Ryan’s heart flutters at the memory, then aches suspiciously.
Ryan tells himself to calm down. Brendon’s just in the bathroom, then. He treks over clothes, bags of gummy bears and at least four electronic devices as he makes his way across the bus. He bites his lip to keep from cussing out everything he trips on and finally knocks on the closed door. “Brendon,” he mutters, half growls, “you in there?”
There’s a cough and shuffling before a quiet, “Yeah,” comes through the door.
Ryan’s eyebrows draw together. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
Ryan tries the knob to find it unlocked and pushes the door open. When Brendon comes into view, he’s on the floor in front of the toilet, head in his hands. Ryan wrinkles his nose as an acidic smell washes over him. “Whoa. Are you okay?”
Brendon looks up at him slowly. His face is ghastly white and there are dark circles around his eyes. “I think I ate something bad.”
Brendon sounds tired, weak and Ryan immediately drops to his knees and crawls close, curling around him from behind. Brendon leans back against him and closes his eyes. Ryan smoothes his hair down. “I told you those California rolls looked weird.”
Brendon smiles a little. “Yeah. Good thing today is a free day. It’d suck if I threw up on the crowd.”
Ryan snorts. “Someone would catch it and sell it on EBay, I bet.”
“Ew,” Brendon shudders.
Ryan nods. “Yeah. You know you’re a big fucking rock star when someone can sell your throw up.”
Brendon coughs again. “Big fucking rock star.” Then his eyes get wide and he surges forward, back in front of the toilet.
Ryan can’t bear to watch Brendon’s dinner come back up, but he rubs Brendon’s back and mumbles assurances. “You’re grounded to your bunk tomorrow. No prancing around the city this time.”
Brendon’s reply echoes in the toilet bowl. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
***
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ryan delicately draws a kohl line beneath Brendon’s eye but watches Brendon’s face instead of what he’s doing. Ryan knows the plains of Brendon’s face well enough now that he doesn’t have to pay attention.
Brendon smiles. “I told you. I’m fine now. It was just something I ate.”
Ryan purses his lips and smudges Brendon’s eyeliner. “If you still don’t feel well, we can cancel the show.”
“And disappoint all our fans?” Brendon’s hands rest on Ryan’s hips and he runs his thumbs along the seam of his jeans. “Ryan, I’m fine now. Chill.”
Ryan sighs and leans down, kissing him. “Don’t run yourself down, Brendon.”
Brendon pushes himself up to steal another kiss. “Stop worrying and put your face on. The crowd loves it when you’re all painted with glitter, Ryro.”
Ryan pushes him away, annoyed. He started hating that nickname forever ago and Brendon knows it. “Don’t think I won’t take you off stage in the middle of the show if things look bad.”
Brendon stands and grabs his costume’s pants, shimmying expertly out of his jeans. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Ryro.”
Ryan throws his eyeliner at him.
***
June: Month Two
Brendon’s been fine as far as anyone can tell. Ryan is really worried at first and almost goes as far as pressing his ear to the door when Brendon went to the bathroom in case he was acting. (“Dude, what the hell? How am I supposed to pee if I know you’re listening? Also, weird.”)
After a day or two, though, Ryan is satisfied that Brendon isn’t faking.
Besides, there is too much to do, as each of his band mates remind him, to worry so much about something that was just a fluke.
Still, Ryan is relieved when they finally have several days off. That means a hotel. Thank God, because Ryan almost can’t remember how a real mattress feels.
Brendon too, apparently, because he bounds into the room as soon as Ryan slides the keycard into the slot. He leaps onto the huge bed, curling into the pillows, and purrs. “Mm, Ryan.” He stretches out his arms and legs. “It’s a bed.”
Ryan smiles as he shuts the door behind himself. “Glad you remember what those look like.”
“I almost forgot, I’m telling you.” Brendon grins into the pillow and flips onto his back, keeping his arms stretched out. “Now, come take advantage of me. This bed is in need of christening, I can feel it.”
Ryan drops his bag and toes off his socks and shoes, placing them neatly by the door. “You do realize that this is a hotel room, right? I’m sure that bed has been christened more times than you’ve been at this point.”
Brendon makes a face. “Bad visual. Get over here and fuck me before you shatter the mood, Ryan Ross.”
Ryan laughs and pulls his shirt over his head before crawling over Brendon. “I never pegged you for a closet germophobe.”
“Oh, the things you don’t know.” Brendon waggles his eyebrows and then wraps around him, all clumsy arms and legs. “Also, fuck you, I’m not. People having sex all over our bed just doesn’t do it for me.” He smirks. “You?”
Ryan’s fingers skim over the exposed strip of skin on Brendon’s stomach, soaking in the way Brendon’s muscles quiver involuntarily at the contact. “Not so much.”
Brendon leans up and catches the corner of his mouth, mumbling, “Whatever.”
Ryan pushes his hips down against Brendon’s and darts his tongue into Brendon’s mouth on a resulting hitched breath. He makes short work of Brendon’s shirt (thank God for button downs) and slides his mouth down to Brendon’s chin and jaw line. Then he stops.
“Ryan,” Brendon hisses at first, assuming it’s a little bit of teasing. Ryan loves teasing. But when Ryan doesn’t chuckle at his squirming or start again or anything, he blinks his eyes open. “Ryan?”
“Are you wearing foundation?” Ryan questions, stunned. He can’t really believe it, but Brendon’s skin tastes off and now that he’s looking, he’s noticing a line of discoloration between Brendon’s jaw and neck.
“Oh.” Brendon rubs his cheek and looks at his fingers. “Yeah. I guess I forgot.”
Ryan stares at him. “What the hell?”
“Yeah, I’m thinking of cross-dressing full time. I’m kidding, Ryan,” he quickly adds, seeing Ryan’s slightly horrified expression. “My skin’s just been uneven lately. Splotchy. So I started wearing foundation so the tabloids don’t start freaking out or anything.”
Ryan can’t process this so he just blinks and says, “What?”
Brendon sighs and untangles himself from Ryan, pushing him gently back against the mattress. “Chill.” Ryan stares as Brendon unfastens his jeans and shifts down, pressing his cheek over Ryan’s open fly. “I’m going to blow you and then you’re going to fuck me and after that we’re ordering room service. Then round two will commence and you will forget all about me wearing foundation.”
Ryan doubts it, but he actually does.
***
They’re playing a venue in Chicago. The energy is fantastic like it always is in huge cities.
Brendon feels off.
He’s been light-headed lately, nauseous too, and he feels worse today. He doesn’t tell anyone though. They’d be too worried, especially Ryan, and they all need to concentrate on the tour at hand.
Something’s wrong though, different. Brendon feels off and he prays it doesn’t show in his voice.
In the second stanza of Northern Downpour, he collapses. His last thought is, “Shit, Ryan’s gonna kill me,” and then nothing.
***
The first time Brendon passed out on stage, when that bottle hit him in the head, Ryan had frozen. His mind couldn’t function past, “This isn’t happening.”
This time isn’t much different except that, “I knew it,” is tacked onto the end.
***
Brendon sleeps a long time and has a nightmare that he can’t remember before he slides back into reality, hearing first.
There’s a high pitched beep to his left that he knows is a heart monitor from watching too many ER reruns. He can dully hear movement and his head throbs with every clatter he hears in the distance. There’s a baby crying somewhere that he wishes someone would pick up and pay attention to so it would stop.
Brendon winces at a particularly piercing wail and finally forces himself to open his eyes.
He’s laying on a stark white bed in a stark white room. Hospital. He hates hospitals. They smell too clean, like the bathroom used to when his mom went on a cleaning rampage and scrubbed it down with rubbing alcohol. He’s always wondered what the point of making a hospital white was. It had to be a bitch getting blood stains out of the sheets.
Brendon’s gaze promptly lands on Ryan. His head is down on the bed beside Brendon’s hand (which has an IV in it, he just now notices) and his eyes are closed. He doesn’t look calm at all though and Brendon watches him for a while, expecting his eyes to open into a glare. Ryan doesn’t wake up, and finally Brendon raises his hand, slowly lowering it to run his knuckles over Ryan’s forehead and cheek.
“You woke up.” Brendon looks up into the smiling face of a young woman in a lab coat. “I swear your fiancé thought you never would.”
Fiancé? He blinks, then smiles at Ryan. “Ryan’s an extremist. He either under reacts to everything or overreacts to everything.”
The woman laughs and picks up the chart hanging at the end of his bed. She reads it quickly. “Okay, Mr. Urie, I’m Dr. Helen Shelley. You came in severely dehydrated and were out for,” she checks he watch, “around thirteen hours. We tried to revive you but you remained unresponsive. In the mean time, we performed a CAT scan and began running blood tests. So far all I’ve got on you is severe dehydration and-”
Ryan groans then, cutting her off as he heavily lifts his head. He looks up at Brendon, smiles, then frowns. “You’re awake.”
Brendon can’t look him in the eye. “Yeah.”
The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife. After a long moment, Dr. Shelley looks back down at her chart. “You’re suffering from severe dehydration and probably exhaustion.”
Ryan looks up at her solemnly. “Did you find out anything new in the blood tests?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. Mr. Urie, I was wondering if you could shed some light on the situation for us. You obviously knew something was wrong to be wearing make up.”
Brendon’s ears turn red with embarrassment. “Yeah. It’s been three or four weeks now.”
“A month?” Brendon wishes Ryan would talk with some sort of inflection. Right now, the monotony hurts. Brendon still can’t look at him.
Dr. Shelley takes a pen from behind her ear and makes a note on the chart. “Mmhm. And in this month, what’s been going on?”
Confession time. Brendon stares down at his hands and fiddles with the sheets of the bed. “I’ve been tired all the time, nauseated, and shaky. It’s hard to stand sometimes it gets so bad.” He bit his lip. “I’ve been throwing up almost every night or early in the morning.”
Dr. Shelley’s eyebrows draw together. “Huh. Anything else?”
Brendon shakes his head. “Not really.”
She tucks her pen back behind her ear. “Well, press that red button to your right if you need anything. Don’t hesitate. I’ll be back to check up on you later and I’ll keep you,” she looks at Ryan, “updated.”
Ryan nods at her. “Thank you.”
She smiles and leaves and the tension is back. Brendon forces himself to look up at Ryan and wishes Ryan would talk first so he doesn’t have to.
“I said we were engaged to stay in here with you,” Ryan says quietly. “They made Jon and Spencer leave after visiting hours.”
“Oh.” Then it’s quiet again. Brendon can’t stand it; he takes a deep breath. “Don’t be mad, Ryan.”
“I’m not.” Brendon looks at him skeptically, so he says, “Really.”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“You didn’t want me to worry.” Ryan pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes tight. “And I suppose this was this part of your brilliant plan, Brendon? Ending up in a hospital bed?”
Actually, the whole thing sounds strangely like it came from one of their first songs. Brendon doesn’t appreciate the irony. “No. I didn’t think about that.”
“You didn’t…” He trails off and closes his eyes tighter.
“I’m not a little kid, Ryan. Stop trying to make me feel guiltier than I already do.” Brendon would glare if he could, but he’s still so tired and he doesn’t have the energy to fight, especially not with Ryan. “I’m fine.”
Ryan drops his hand from his face and opens his eyes. They’re beautiful as ever, honey-brown, but they’re usually steady with dreamy undertones. Now they’re shaky. Lost. Brendon shivers a little and Ryan says, “What if you’re not?”
***
Ryan, Brendon finds out, is not technically allowed in his room outside visiting hours, despite his assumed status as fiancé. He has to fight the nurses tooth and nail so they won’t throw him out, and those women are vicious about their patients getting rest.
Ryan, however, is ten times as vicious as any nurse and, though he has to bribe guards with autographs for their teenagers when the nurses finally call security, he wins out in the end.
Brendon is touched, but wishes Ryan would go home to sleep at least, instead of sleeping in a chair with an extra sheet around his shoulders.
“Ryan,” he calls to him and is shocked by how weak his own voice sounds amongst the clamor of a hospital, muffled by the thick wooden door. He shakes it off and repeats himself. “Ryan, you really should go back home.”
Ryan looks up at him from some magazine he hasn’t actually been reading. There are smudges under his sunken eyes and his irises are dull. His hair is in utter disarray and pieces of it are sticking up everywhere, combed through with fingers too many times in the past twenty-four hours. “We’re in Chicago.”
Brendon rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. Go back to the bus. Or get a hotel room or something.” He tries to sit up, but he feels heavy all over and he finally just sinks back into his pillow. “You look like hell.”
Ryan stares blankly at him and slowly straightens, standing up and placing the magazine in his seat. He stretches his arms over his head and then reaches into his back pocket. He produces a small black compact that Brendon assumes is for emergency eyeliner situations and flips it open. He stares at himself for a second, and then walks over to Brendon, sitting on his bed. “You think I look like hell?”
Brendon doesn’t nod, doesn’t so much as move, because he knows that isn’t really a question. He just waits for the point.
Ryan shifts and leans back. Brendon has to shuffle to the right to make room and it still isn’t enough. The bed was obviously not made for two twenty-somethings to share. Ryan rests his head next to Brendon’s and holds the compact above them. “Who do you think looks worse?”
Brendon glances up into the mirror and sees a tired Ryan and. Someone that looks like a ghost of what Brendon used to be. He winces and looks away.
Ryan snaps the compact shut. “You look like you got punched in the eyes. Your skin is whiter than anything I’ve ever seen. You’re tiny, scary tiny. I can’t believe you got away with looking like this for so long without any of us noticing.”
Brendon carefully turns onto his side toward Ryan, making sure that the IV line is long enough for the transition, and gazes up at Ryan. “You were busy. We’ve all been busy. Touring is crazy. That’s why I didn’t go get a check up myself.” He raises his hand and tries to fix Ryan’s bangs a little. “There just wasn’t time.”
“We should’ve noticed.”
Ryan doesn’t say it, but Brendon knows that “We” is actually “I” and Ryan is blaming himself for this. He’d rather feel guilty for the rest of his life for being this stupid than have Ryan take the blame.
“Hey.” Brendon’s fingers curl around the back of Ryan’s neck, skimming the fine hairs at the base of his hairline. “This. This is just me being an idiot, okay? This is me reverting back to my teenage-imagined invincibility. You guys were all so busy you couldn’t think past ‘Is this the right chord?’ and ‘Damn, another mob of girls I have to avoid.’ It’s not your fault.”
Ryan’s eyes wander over Brendon’s face, searching, and Brendon wishes he knew what Ryan was searching for so he could give it to him. He tries for a smile. Ryan doesn’t respond, doesn’t even smile back, and moves to get up.
Brendon grabs the edge of Ryan’s shirt in his desperation. “Don’t.” Ryan looks back down at him, and he looks so tired. Brendon has a strong urge to cry. Or yell. Or something. He doesn’t know; he just wants to make Ryan okay. “Don’t get up. Stay.”
Ryan watches him again and Brendon can’t think of what Ryan could want him to do. So he does what he would do if they were at home and not in a stupid hospital room. His eyes get big and he sticks out his lower lip. “Please?”
Ryan watches. And then cracks a small smile. He lowers himself back down onto his side, facing Brendon. “Whatever.”
Brendon grins and presses flush against Ryan, tucking his face into Ryan’s neck, just below his ear. “Thanks,” he breathes against his skin.
Ryan nods and wraps an arm around his waist. “The nurses are going to kill me now.”
Brendon laughs softly, his breath puffing along Ryan’s neck. “Yeah. Maybe you can sign some more autographs or something.”
“Ugh, God no.” Ryan sniffs. “I’ll get Jon and Spencer to do it when they come in. The guards probably want a full set of signatures for their daughters anyway.”
“I’m sure.” Brendon shakes his head and tries not to laugh too hard and spoil the quiet moment. He presses his lips to Ryan’s skin. “Go to sleep, Ryan. Spencer will kill me if he sees you like this by visiting hours.”
“Mm.” And it’s all of five minutes before Ryan’s breath levels out.
It’s all of ten before Brendon’s follows suite.
***
“Kid.” A voice invades Brendon’s dream about music and Ryan and something about Serta sheep. “Hey, Brendon, wake up.”
“Spencer is coming and he’s going to chew you up and spit you out again. I’m trying to save your life, kiddo.”
Brendon jerks up, his hair swooshing back with the speed of the movement. Unfortunately, he is taped to an IV line and accidentally moves his hand too far. He yelps and curls in on himself.
Jon and Ryan, who had woken up only a few minutes before Brendon, both panic. “Are you all right? Brendon, Brendon, are you okay? Jesus Christ, Brendon.”
Jon gently coaxes Brendon’s hand away from his chest and inspects the still taped IV. “It looks okay, I think.”
Brendon sniffles and takes his hand back, holding it gingerly. “I think I’m dying.”
“If you aren’t now, you will be soon.”
Everyone looks up and Brendon tries to shrink into something smaller than a germ when he sees Spencer Smith looming in the doorway. He settles for half-hiding behind Ryan. Ryan, to his credit, lets him. Brendon makes a mental note that Ryan deserves some amazing head later for being that brave. Way later, though. Like, when Brendon isn’t scared for his life.
Spencer finally enters the room fully, shutting the door behind him. It closes with a snap of finality that makes Brendon jump. “Did you two just wake up?”
Ryan nods. “Yeah. Sleeping in the chair sucked so I forced Brendon to share the bed.”
“Good.” The reply is razor-sharp and obviously aimed at Brendon. Brendon tries to tuck his face into Ryan’s shoulder. “You both look like shit.”
Brendon snorts. Ryan smiles. “Yeah, we know.”
“Which brings me to something else.” Blue eyes pierce straight through Brendon’s forehead. “Brendon, what the fuck was that?”
“Should I… Do you want me to answer that or..?” Brendon mutters haplessly into Ryan’s shirt.
“Go for it.” Spencer cocks a hip and crosses his arms. “I’d like to see you try and make this situation better. Dig that hole as deep as possible, Brendon.”
Brendon is silent for a second, contemplative. Slowly, he begins his explanation. “Well, I started feeling bad, but we were all too busy with shows and stuff to really do anything about it so I just ignored it.”
Spencer nods. “Mmhm.”
Brendon continues, “And then it got worse and the vomiting didn’t stop. But we were still busy. I didn’t want to bother everyone with it so I just shut up and kept singing and playing whatever instrument people put in my hands. Afterwards, I would go home and sleep as much as I could before I started throwing up again. So I didn’t eat a lot. I wasn’t hungry anyway, but I guess I lost some weight.”
“A lot of weight, according to the doctors.” Spencer’s gaze is steady and cold. “Keep going.”
“Okay, I lost a lot of weight. But no one said anything so I figured it wasn’t that bad. Then I woke up one morning to puke again and looked in the mirror and saw,” he waves his hand at his face, “this. And I knew someone would notice soon if I didn’t do something about it, so I bought some foundation the next day.”
“And you began actively hiding something so important that your life literally depended on it from us.” Spencer purses his lips. “Nice.”
Brendon’s eyes fall to the bed’s sheets. “Look, can we not do this? I was wrong, I get it.”
“You were an idiot. And an asshole.” Spencer’s hands flail out a little. “Do you even get that they don’t know what’s wrong with you yet, that you could be dying and no one would’ve known until you dropped dead if you hadn’t passed out first? Do you even care about what that would do to us?”
“I’m sorry, okay? I screwed up. The band-”
“Fuck the band, Brendon,” Spencer yells and everyone backs away a little. Spencer never yells. He never has to. His quiet fury is always enough to inspire fear and quick correction in whomever it’s aimed at. “We’re your best friends, you ass.”
Spencer goes quiet then, and Brendon has never felt more like a jerk in his entire life.
Jon goes to stand beside Spencer and puts an arm around his shoulders. Spencer stiffly leans against him, like he’s trying to be strong but just can’t manage by himself at this point. “You scared us, man.”
Brendon nods. “Yeah, I know.”
“Do you?” Jon asks, rubbing Spencer’s shoulder comfortingly.
Brendon looks around at everyone in the room.
First at Jon. His big brother-slash-hug buddy-slash-most awesome dude ever. Jon was there to fill the gaping hole that Brent left behind, both musically and in their hearts. Jon watches hours of Disney movies with him, takes him to the coolest small town bands in every city they pass through, got him so drunk on his twenty-first birthday that he slept inside a bathtub to drain whatever bodily fluid happened to come up next.
Jon is staring at him with dark eyes and no smile and is holding Spencer tight, tighter and Brendon suspects a large part of holding Spencer together is to hold Jon together too.
Then, Spencer. Spencer is his other big brother-slash-sometimes mom or dad-slash-other most awesome dude ever. He’s so cool, way cooler than Brendon can ever hope to be. He’s a sarcastic bastard sometimes and he has this way with words that makes you feel like an idiot and completely unworthy of his presence, but, aside from Ryan, there’s no one he’d rather cuddle with. Spencer is squishy in all the right places and he has the best smile Brendon has ever seen, hands down. Spencer is basically the band’s manager; he tells everyone what to do, how to do it, and, almost always, that they’re doing it wrong. He’s amazing and Brendon sort of reveres him.
Now, Spencer is looking between Brendon and Jon, his eyes hard but hurting, his lips curling and uncurling with biting words left unsaid, his main defense mechanism.
And then. Then there’s Ryan. Ryan who stayed up with him when he got his first hangover, despite his past experiences with alcohol. Ryan who first truly accepted him into the original Panic! at the Disco. Ryan who caught Brendon that first night of throwing up and knew that Brendon was lying when he said he was okay. Ryan who feels like this is his fault because Brendon is stupid and didn’t say anything. Ryan, his boyfriend, who deserves better than to be lied to for an entire month.
Brendon opens his arms and makes grabby hands at Spencer and Jon, slipping one arm around Ryan’s waist. Jon ushers Spencer in front of him and, though Spencer seems reluctant, he enters the circle of Brendon’s embrace with Jon close behind him. They all hug Brendon tightly, and he clings to them in return. His reply is muffled between Spencer’s shirt and Ryan’s hair. “Yeah, I know.”
Part 2
Type: Bandom, MPreg
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon, bonus side Jon/Spencer
Word Count: ~29000
Time: three months
Rating: NC-17
Author's Note: This. Is pretty much completely self-indulgent. I have no excuse for myself. Be warned that there is indeed mpreg so if you really can't handle that, then you must turn away. Oh, god, if you found this by googling yourself and don't know what mpreg even is. Please leave. Please. hopefulgenius is the person I worship for her mad beta skill. Adore her. She is forever my favorite.
ETA: It has come to my attention that Rock-a-Bye Baby has been plagiarized twice now. I'd just like to encourage everyone to please notify the author any time you believe their work has been plagiarized. I also want to say thank you to the people who have notified me about these instances. It means a lot to us. Stay awesome, guys :)
Summary: "It’s a normal day in the House of Urie-Ross-Smith-Walker, more commonly known as The Bus."
Prologue.
It’s a normal day in the House of Urie-Ross-Smith-Walker, more commonly known as The Bus. Completely normal. Brendon wakes up first and makes a mad dash for the coffee pot only to find a note in its place (Not on your life, Urie. Go the fuck back to sleep. -S.S.). He goes on his routine hunt for it and fails. Then, with nothing else to do (and with a death threat from one very non-morning person Spencer Smith in mind) he grabs his iPod and crawls into Ryan’s bunk.
“Ryan,” he whispers loudly at Ryan’s sleeping face. “Ryan Ross, are you sleeping?”
“Mrf,” Ryan replies, which means, “Yes,” in pre-dawn Ryan language, so Brendon scrambles under the covers (a remarkable feat, mind you - the bunks are teeny tiny!). It’s a tight fit, but he manages to tuck himself next to Ryan. And on top of him. And under him. And everywhere else around him, like a squirming blanket. He tucks his head beneath Ryan’s chin and presses his freezing feet under Ryan’s calves. Ryan will deny it if ever asked, but he’s a fantastic pre-dawn snuggler.
Then Brendon puts his earbuds in and cranks up the playlist he entitled “Ryan Ross and Other Things That Go Bump in the Night.” Mostly, it’s just a bunch of songs that Ryan sang without knowing he was being recorded.
He curls up next to (on top of) Ryan and closes his eyes for about an hour until Ryan stirs, tells him to fucking find his own bunk, and pushes him out. Ryan tumbles out right after and, apparently, he knows where the coffee pot is hidden. Jon’s camera bag.
“Damn,” Brendon mutters, “should’ve checked the camera bag. Jon Walker, you traitor.”
He follows Ryan to the kitchen-ish corner of the bus and makes himself fruity pebbles and Ryan French toast and Jon a microwavable sausage-egg burrito and Spencer nothing because Spencer threatened his life and he feels the need for revenge. His plan is foiled, however, when Ryan makes Spencer a cup of coffee.
“My life, Ryan Ross. He threatened my life.”
“When doesn’t he?”
Spencer comes out later with Jon, looking like he wants to snap a Brendon-sized object in half and only appearing pleasant for the briefest moment when Ryan hands him his coffee. Jon thanks Brendon for his food and Ryan does too and they all sit on the couch and eat breakfast.
Eventually, Spencer says, “Why the hell did you wake up at fuck-o’clock and bang around like an elephant, dumbass?” and half-heartedly kicks Brendon’s shin.
Brendon grins and babbles about bubble dreams and birds and sleepy worms and something like green people. Jon nods like he understands and Ryan picks up yesterday’s newspaper, determined to finish the crossword, sipping on his coffee and nibbling at his toast.
Brendon makes eyes at Ryan’s coffee and Ryan interchangeably until Ryan sighs and hands him the cup. Spencer squawks and dives for the mug, but Jon hugs him and the fight dissipates soon after that.
Eventually they leave the couch one by one to do various things, namely watching television on the floor in front of the couch. Ryan’s the only one to remain in his original place, ignoring the riveting documentary on Birds of Paradise and Brendon’s observation that, “Hey, they look like you, Ryan!”
So it’s been a perfectly normal morning in the House of Urie-Ross-Smith-Walker. Except that somewhere during the Bird of Paradise’s weirdly awesome (awesomely weird?) mating dance, Brendon’s mind makes life altering connections and he jumps up, blinking widely at Ryan. “I love you.”
Ryan doesn’t even look up from his newspaper, barely lifting his mouth from gnawing at the pencil in his hand to speak. “I know.”
Brendon huffs and sets his hands at his hips, cocking them to the side. “No. Ryan Ross, I love you.”
“I know, Brendon,” he sighs, filling in several boxes and erasing them immediately afterwards.
“No, no. Ryan.” Brendon crawls up on the couch next to him, still staring at his face. “Ryan, I’m in love with you. Like. Creepy in love.”
Ryan rolls his eyes and drops the newspaper in his lap, finally looking up at Brendon. “I know, Brendon.”
“Oh.” Well. Brendon stares at Ryan until Ryan picks his newspaper back up and goes back to the crossword. “Oh.”
“A little slow on the uptake, Bden?” Jon asks, grinning at him from his place next to Spencer on the floor.
“Shut up,” Spencer hisses, “the baby caribou just died.”
Brendon usually feels very sad for the baby caribou. It never stood a chance against the starving wolves. In his opinion, it’s the most poignant moment in the Planet Earth series. But now all he can think is, “Oh,” and, “Wow,” and, “Cool.”
He curls up next to Ryan and points to the one Ryan’s pencil is hovering over. “Parsimonious.”
Everyone stares at him and Ryan carefully counts out the boxes. He seems surprised when they fit, and he fills in the word. “Wow.”
“Holy shit,” Spencer says.
“I’m getting the video camera.” Jon stands, heading for the back of the bus. “Next thing you know the kid’ll be spouting the secret to world peace.”
“Or realizing that he does, in fact, have on unhealthy addiction to Disney movies,” Spencer sniffs.
“It is not an addiction. It is a hobby.” Brendon tucks his face into Ryan’s shoulder. “Asshole.”
“Damn. I thought he was on a roll for a second.”
“Ass. Hole.”
***
Not much changes after Brendon’s abrupt love confession. He still wakes up first, searches for coffee, and then snuggles with Ryan. He still gets shoved out of Ryan’s bunk and makes breakfast for everyone in the microwave. He, uh, doesn’t help Ryan with the crossword though. Apparently, ‘parsimonious’ pretty much drained him of every long word he knew that Ryan couldn’t think of before him.
So, not much changes.
But some things do.
For instance, Ryan doesn’t skillfully maneuver away from Brendon’s kisses anymore (unless it’s for a show; there’s nothing an audience likes more than sexual tension and making that tension disappear probably wouldn’t be a great career move).
Brendon uses this newfound privilege to its full potential. He kisses Ryan when they get food at Wendy’s. He kisses Ryan awake in the mornings. He kisses Ryan at the gas station when they stop to restock their supply of Red Bull and gummy bears. He kisses Ryan backstage, right after performances - and before them too.
He’s found that kissing Ryan in general is really sort of awesome. He thinks he should try to do it more, except that after four or five kisses in a thirty minute time period, Spencer scoffs and says, “God, how gay for one person can you be?”
“Pretty gay, apparently,” Jon laughs.
Brendon sulks after that and curls up into the crook of Ryan’s arm. Ryan tends to ignore everyone and read a book or something. Brendon is starting to wonder how many books he could possibly have to read on their tiny little tour bus. A lot, he guesses, because Ryan reads fast and Brendon has never seen him read the same book twice.
Another thing that changes is that sometimes Ryan lets him sleep with him. Before, Ryan had always said that the bunks were too cramped and to just go the hell to sleep in his own; now, Brendon occasionally gets to crawl into his rightful place beside Ryan, pressing his head to Ryan’s shoulder and draping himself over as much of him as possible.
He thinks that maybe it’s all too easy and that nothing ever works out that well without any repercussions whatsoever, but he’s not going to ask. Even if Brendon’s not Mormon anymore, he’s not going to fuck with Fate or The Powers That Be or whatever. So he’s content just to lay back and enjoy the ride.
***
“Thank you, everybody, goodnight!” A bead of sweat slides along Brendon’s cheekbone as he thrusts his mic in the air. He swipes it away against his shoulder. It’s blisteringly hot on stage, in this huge enclosed space, but even with all the heat and the consequence of sweating, Brendon is grinning like crazy.
His fans, their fans, they all yell back at him and he internalizes every shriek, eats up every last ‘I love you, Brendon Urie!’ and ‘Oh my fucking god, awesome!’. He can’t hear himself breathe or even think above the roar of his insane audience.
Ryan comes up on one side of him and Jon takes his other side while Spencer quickly moves from his drum set, still tightly clutching his drum sticks. Brendon grabs Ryan’s hand and then Jon’s too, waits for Jon to grab Spencer’s, drumsticks and all, and they take a sweeping bow, connected in a more literal form of the way they’re linked on stage.
He can’t help it anymore, can’t hold it in, and he laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs and someone is probably watching, some reporter or something, and thinking ‘That kid has lost his mind,’ but he doesn’t care. Brendon fucking loves his job. Briefly, he considers walking out to the barrier and touching some hands, but he knows that Zack is watching him like a hawk from the sidelines and will probably tackle him if he even looks like he’s going to do that.
Besides, Jon threw his flip flops toward some girls holding up a sign proclaiming, “WE ♥ JWALK,” earlier and no matter how many people Brendon touches, he can’t compete with Jon’s flip flops.
After several more bows and without Brendon’s laughter subsiding in the least, Ryan tugs on his hand. Brendon laces their fingers together and releases Jon’s hand to wave at the still cheering fans as he’s pulled backstage. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Jon pick Spencer up by the waist and follow Brendon back. Spencer laughs, loud and sunshine-like.
“We fucking rocked, you guys!” Jon says, almost a yell to be heard over the audience.
“That was insane,” Spencer adds once he’s back on his own two feet. “Did you feel that energy? I was all the way back there with my kit and it still got me.”
“Dude, it was awesome!” Brendon bounces on the balls of his feet as Ryan pulls him along into their dressing room. “Did you guys see all those chicks with the t-shirts that spelled out ‘Panic’? Did you see the last one with the exclamation point in parentheses?”
Jon laughs. “Some people just can’t let it go.”
“Next interview, I’m making tearful commentary about our lost little punctuation mark, for sure.” Then, he squeezes Ryan’s hand and asks, “You okay, Ross? You’re quiet.”
Ryan looks over his shoulder at Brendon and sends him a smoldering smirk that makes every part of Brendon’s body throb.
His mouth falls open and he has enough time to say, “Oh,” and, “but Jon and Spencer-” before his back is pressed flat to the wall. There’s a loud click from the door, announcing Jon and Spencer’s hasty departure. Brendon barely notices.
He can feel Ryan trembling with the heat and ecstasy of the show above him and that’s okay because he’s shaking with that same heat. Ryan’s kissing him with his eyes half-lidded and completely blown and all Brendon can do is watch and shiver and feel.
“Brendon,” Ryan mumbles against his mouth, “Brendon, do you even realize how you look right now? Fuck, Brendon.”
Brendon didn’t, but he’s got a pretty good idea at this point. He gasps desperately for breath and Ryan takes the opportunity to dart his tongue into Brendon’s mouth. Brendon groans, his chest burning for air. His lungs are tightening hard now. The smallest flash of a thought flickers through his brain in which he wonders when the hell Ryan got so good at breath control. It’s gone quickly though and he doesn’t care. Later he’ll doubt he wants to know anyway.
Finally, finally, Ryan slides his lips down and along the line of Brendon’s jaw to kiss his neck. Brendon gulps in huge mouthfuls of air and - oh, God, is he sobbing?
Ryan’s laugh hums against his throat. “You okay?”
Brendon can’t even answer, just breathe. The room’s lights are incredibly bright now and he knows that his eyes are dilated so he just nods blindly, keeps nodding, and he can’t stop.
Ryan laughs again. “You’ll get better at holding your breath, trust me.”
Brendon certainly hopes so. His already flushed cheeks turn redder at the thought and he closes his eyes.
He feels one of Ryan’s hands slide into his hair, the pads of his fingertips working little circles into his scalp. It feels so nice, gentle; then, Ryan grips a handful of his hair and yanks his head back.
Fuck, that hurt. And Brendon would have maybe been out for blood if Ryan hadn’t licked a hot stripe up his neck and softly sucked at his pulse point.
Brendon can’t help it, he really can’t, and his hips jerk up into Ryan’s. Their hipbones hit and that hurts, but their cocks grind against one another too, through their jeans and, “Oh, God; oh, fuck; oh, God.”
Ryan moans at the sudden contact and pushes harder against Brendon to maintain it, shifting down and over and Brendon is going to come in his pants if Ryan doesn’t stop that soon.
“Ryan, fuck,” his hand comes up from Ryan’s shoulders and clasps the back of Ryan’s neck. “Fuck, Ryan. I-I need…”
“What, Brendon?” Ryan’s hand curls around Brendon’s hip where his shirt is riding up and his pants are riding low. “What do you need?”
“I… I…” Brendon can’t think with Ryan’s mouth on his neck and Ryan’s hand in his hair and Ryan’s thumb stroking his hip bone and he finally chokes out, “fuck, I don’t know.”
Ryan hums against his skin and Brendon wants to cry, but, seriously, how girly would that be? Finally, Ryan says, “Fair enough,” and grabs his hand.
Brendon nearly falls at the sudden loss of Ryan’s weight when he moves away, and he stumbles as Ryan leads him to the couch.
Ryan pulls Brendon into him and kisses him softly, whispering, “Lay down.” Ryan’s breath puffs against his cheek warmly and his hands grip Brendon’s hips as he carefully helps him down. He makes an embarrassing noise when Ryan’s fingers lift away briefly.
Ryan laughs. “I’m coming, calm down.” He starts unbuttoning his shirt and Brendon sits up quickly, grabbing his wrist.
Ryan gives him a startled look. Brendon shakes his head. “I want to… let me just…” He curls a finger into Ryan’s belt loop and smiles. “C’mere.”
Ryan complies, moving over Brendon on the couch, his knees touching either side of Brendon’s hips. Brendon’s hand skirts up Ryan’s shirt and he grabs his collar, dragging him down into a harsh, open-mouthed kiss. He feels Ryan’s hand move down, down, and with one quick movement he flicks open the fly of Brendon’s jeans, and Brendon moans.
Ryan laughs. Again.
“You know,” Brendon mutters, “if you keep laughing at me, I’m going to dump you on the floor.”
Ryan makes a sound of protest and smirks again, his fingers hovering over Brendon’s erection. “You’re so stupid-funny, though. Do you seriously moan this much all the time, or am I just special?”
Brendon sees the flicker in Ryan’s eyes and knows that he’s already aware that he’s special. “God, Ryan,” he rolls his hips up into Ryan’s hand, “have you ever fucking seen your hands? They’re sort of amazing.”
“Yeah?” He pushes the heel of his palm into Brendon’s crotch.
“Y-Yeah,” Brendon pants, partly because it’s true, Ryan has gorgeous hands, but mostly because those hands are touching him, and he frantically wants to get laid.
Ryan kisses him again, and Brendon knows his lips are bruised; they ache and burn a little under the ruthless treatment, but it’s okay. Brendon would probably have jumped out of his skin with restrained energy if Ryan had made him hold everything in. Brendon smiles because, really, he’s a lucky little bastard sometimes.
He makes short work of unbuttoning Ryan’s vest and shirt, pushing them off of Ryan’s shoulders. He’s not sure how, but during that one stay at the cabin, Ryan’s shoulders filled out and weren’t really bony anymore. They’re kind of awesome. Brendon scrambles down Ryan’s body from beneath him and kisses Ryan’s shoulder, grazing his teeth along his collarbone.
Then, suddenly both of Brendon’s shirts are being yanked over his head at once and then they’re chest to chest, skin flush against skin. Brendon likes being this close to Ryan. He would love to get much, much closer.
With this thought in mind, he slides a jean-clad leg up along Ryan’s thigh and sucks hard at Ryan’s skin.
“Mmn, Brendon.” Ryan closes his eyes and fists a hand into Brendon’s hair. His other hand presses against Brendon’s boxer-briefs.
Brendon is starting to see stars and his hips crush against Ryan. If he doesn’t come soon, he’s pretty sure he’s going to implode.
His hands fly down to Ryan’s pants and he quickly unbuttons them, shoving them down.
Brendon had been almost positive that Ryan would make some snarky, smart-assed comment about being eager, but he just kicks off his boots, socks and jeans in a movement that should not be graceful but somehow is. Brendon is a lucky, lucky boy.
***
May: Month One
“All right! Take seven! Action!”
Brendon bites his lip and prays that he doesn’t do it again. He’s pretty sure the director is going to blow a gasket any time now.
The camera’s rolling and Brendon is trying not to burst out in a fit of giggles for the seventh time while maintaining eye contact with the camera.
“Hi, I’m Ryan,” Ryan says from beside him, his face smiling politely. Brendon can feel that he’s tense though, probably getting more pissed than the director. Ryan gets on the bitchy side sometimes.
Okay, deep, even breath. Smile. “I’m Brendon.” One part down. He can do this, he totally can.
“I’m Jon.”
“And I’m Spencer.”
Another breath. “And we’re Panic,” Brendon thrusts the paper exclamation point he’s holding in the camera’s lens; oh, God, he can’t do it, “at the-“
He collapses against Ryan’s shoulder in a fit of giggles, his face hurting and his entire body shaking with it. He’s pretty sure he can hear the director throw something in the background.
“Sorry,” he rasps out, biting his lip to at least stop laughing a little, “sorry, just.” He looks up, his face bright, and is surprised to find the camera still rolling. He clears his throat. “Right. Panic at the Disco.”
The interviewer in the chair next to their couch is smiling forcefully, looking like she’s trying to suppress a scream or something. “Right. I’m glad you could make it here, guys. We were scared you were going to cancel on us for a minute there.”
“Yeah, sorry we were so late.” Spencer shoots Brendon and Ryan a look between a grimace and amusement. Mostly a grimace though.
“Band stuff,” Jon chimes in, grinning like he knows a secret.
“Oh?”
Brendon wants to laugh again. The reporter seems nice enough, as nice as reporters come anyway, but she’s got this look on her face that screams, “I want to know everything you do - everything - and I’ll do anything to know it.”
Ryan nods. “Also translated as: Brendon couldn’t find his favorite pair of socks this morning.”
Wait, what?
“And he apologizes for making us late,” Spencer adds, jabbing Brendon’s side a little for extra effect. Spencer gives him a look that says, “If you don’t play along, I’ll kill you painfully,” and.
Oh. Okay, cool, whatever.
“Yeah,” Brendon shrugs, wincing at the dull throb of a bite mark on his shoulder. Ryan biting him a little is always great in the passion of the moment, but the marks are always a bitch later. They really need to start thinking about what they have to do after sex and plan ahead or something.
Aha, a sexual day planner, what?
He snorts a little at that thought, waving his hand and covering his mouth. Everyone looks at him (in different ways; the reporter and Ryan with raised eyebrows, Spencer with a ‘death will be drawn out’ look, and Jon with a shit eating grin that told Brendon that they are on the exact same wavelength somehow [Jon is sort of psychic sometimes, Brendon thinks]).
He clears his throat again. “Sorry.”
The reporter’s eyebrow remains raised, but she keeps her smile and goes on smoothly. “I guess it’s easy to lose things on the bus, huh?”
They all nod because they all know it’s beyond true. It’s the gospel truth of touring.
“Particularly when you have certain people on the bus with an affinity for bright, sparkly things,” Jon laughs. Yes, Brendon did see Jon tapping absently at Spencer’s thigh. He and Ryan were so not the gayest people on their bus.
So not.
Okay, maybe they are the gayest, but they aren’t the only gay, at least.
Brendon reaches over Spencer to shove at Jon. “If someone didn’t leave their crap everywhere maybe certain people wouldn’t find said shiny things to play with.”
The reporter laughs. It’s a nice laugh. Brendon wishes he could remember her name. “Am I going to have to separate you two?”
“Yes, please,” Spencer says from between them, groaning.
“We’ll be good,” Jon swears, patting Spencer’s knee comfortingly. “We promise.”
Brendon sticks his tongue out at Jon and Ryan shoves his shoulder. Brendon is pretty sure he’s going to kill the next person that touches his injured shoulder. “Be good.”
He sighs and nods, leaning more heavily against Ryan.
The reporter smiles at Ryan. “I’m guessing this happens a lot on the bus.”
Ryan laughs, but not like he’s spectacularly happy. “You have no idea. When you put four energetic, creative types in something as contained as the bus always is, it’s pretty much asking for an explosion of some sort.”
She nods and never looks away from them. “So. We need to get some obligatory, everyone’s-already-asked questions out of the way for all of your fans who don’t know how to work YouTube. How’s the tour going? Tired of all of your third album’s songs yet?”
“We have, like, fifty songs we can sing now without doing any covers,” Ryan answers, eyeing Brendon like he’s expecting the explosion he’d just talked about to happen at any moment. “And we change chords all the time, beginnings, the show itself. Plus, the fans are always really energetic. It’s pretty hard to get tired of anything anymore.”
“Except the traveling itself,” Spencer interjects. “We hate being away from home.”
“Which brings us to an interesting topic.” The reporter’s mouth quirks a little. It’s a look that everyone in the band glances at each other over. “Jon, you’ve just opened up about moving to Las Vegas. What went into that major life change?”
Everyone settles down considerably, with the exception of Spencer. Brendon thinks Spencer is a little paranoid sometimes. Jon shrugs. “It’s just easier to be a musician when you aren’t states away from your band mates. Plus, have you ever been to Vegas? It’s amazing, even with the gambling and drinking and stuff.”
The reporter’s eyebrows raise like she knows something. “Or because of the drinking and gambling?”
Jon grins, still tapping a steady beat on Spencer’s thigh. They’re so transparent. Why is it that all the rumors are about him and Ryan and not Jon and Spencer? “That too.”
He looks at Spencer and Spencer glances up at him and, God, so fucking transparent.
Brendon makes a face and Ryan subtly elbows him.
She nods. “I’ve only been once; it was fun and I’m not even a drinker. You’re staying with Spencer while you house search, right?”
“And he won’t divide his laundry for anything.” Ugh, Spencer’s bitch voice with blatant marital bliss undertones. Ughhh, dangerous combo. “I had to pay him just to separate his whites and darks. Twenty dollars.”
“Per week,” Jon adds. “Spencer just hates the planet’s greenness and wants to waste water on one white shirt that could go with ten pairs of jeans but doesn’t because Spencer has a master plan to kill all trees.”
Brendon laughs so hard he thinks he’s going to cry. “Why do you hate trees, Spencer, why?”
He and Jon high-five over Spencer’s lap.
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Someone found the sugar this morning, I think.”
Brendon slides his hand into Ryan’s and laces their fingers. “Whatever, you love us this way.”
“Yeah,” Ryan deadpans, “like I love bullets to the brain.” But he lets Brendon hold his hand.
Brendon loves the fact that the reporter notices their intertwined fingers and wants to tell her and the camera that, “Ha, we’re dating and you can’t make us tell you.” Except that would be telling them, so. He pouts a little at foiling his own plan.
Still, being Brendon Urie is totally awesome, particularly later in the interview when Ryan takes his hand. Dude, Brendon could totally get used to this boyfriend thing. Definitely.
***
Brendon loves sex. Really loves it, probably for the same reason any teenager or twenty-something does. It feels awesome. And sex with Ryan feels really good.
What makes it better is that it happens everywhere. Against walls, in dressing rooms, backstage in remote corners, one time at Wal-Mart when Spencer was off bitching about the price of socks rising. If Brendon can convince Ryan that, “No, we’re fine, no one will catch us,” then they’re messing around.
It’s easy to excuse. They’re both boys. Crazy sex drives come with the territory. Crazy, fast and wild is the language they were born knowing.
But Brendon’s got a secret. A really embarrassing secret.
Even though he loves the hotsweatymindless sex, and up to this point has only liked that kind of sex, he’s starting to get addicted to going slow.
He can’t help it.
He loves moments like that, like this, like right now when he’s letting Ryan set the pace completely, when Ryan’s strategically placing soft and deliberate kisses on his lips, face, neck, when Ryan’s light touches feel more like a soft breeze on Brendon’s skin or maybe more like butterfly wings.
When they’re both content and an orgasm doesn’t even matter.
“Ryan,” he breathes into his mouth, his fingers tracing delicate patterns across Ryan’s shoulder blades. He whimpers quietly, not for climax, but for Ryan, to be closer to him, to be part of him even when Ryan’s not as far inside of him as he can go. “Ryan.”
Ryan’s body slides up against his, slick skin on skin, and kisses his forehead, his eyelids, his nose. Then he kisses Brendon’s mouth and says, “Brendon,” and Brendon tilts his head back and comes.
***
One thing that Ryan’s always hated about touring is going to sleep alone and waking up the same way. It’s lonely and there’s always a cold spot to his right. Since he and Brendon started dating, he never has to sleep by himself.
But one morning he wakes up and his right side is freezing. His arm searches for a warm body beside him and only comes up with air.
He lifts his head and rubs at his eyes to make sure that Brendon really is gone. He doesn’t know why, but his stomach drops and he quickly sits up, glancing at the clock. Five thirty in the morning. Even Brendon doesn’t get up at five thirty unless they have an early interview.
Ryan’s throat feels scratchy so he clears it and says, “Brendon?” His voice doesn’t echo, the bus is too small for that, but his words are swallowed into the silence and that somehow feels so much lonelier. Brendon doesn’t respond.
Ryan pushes himself out of bed. He’s just in his bunk for once, Ryan assures himself, or the bathroom.
Brendon’s bunk is empty, aside from a huge stuffed tiger that Ryan had denied entry into his bunk when Brendon had made the transition. Brendon had made puppy eyes and they’d met halfway. Brendon could have two smaller stuffed animals, but not the tiger. Ryan’s heart flutters at the memory, then aches suspiciously.
Ryan tells himself to calm down. Brendon’s just in the bathroom, then. He treks over clothes, bags of gummy bears and at least four electronic devices as he makes his way across the bus. He bites his lip to keep from cussing out everything he trips on and finally knocks on the closed door. “Brendon,” he mutters, half growls, “you in there?”
There’s a cough and shuffling before a quiet, “Yeah,” comes through the door.
Ryan’s eyebrows draw together. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.”
Ryan tries the knob to find it unlocked and pushes the door open. When Brendon comes into view, he’s on the floor in front of the toilet, head in his hands. Ryan wrinkles his nose as an acidic smell washes over him. “Whoa. Are you okay?”
Brendon looks up at him slowly. His face is ghastly white and there are dark circles around his eyes. “I think I ate something bad.”
Brendon sounds tired, weak and Ryan immediately drops to his knees and crawls close, curling around him from behind. Brendon leans back against him and closes his eyes. Ryan smoothes his hair down. “I told you those California rolls looked weird.”
Brendon smiles a little. “Yeah. Good thing today is a free day. It’d suck if I threw up on the crowd.”
Ryan snorts. “Someone would catch it and sell it on EBay, I bet.”
“Ew,” Brendon shudders.
Ryan nods. “Yeah. You know you’re a big fucking rock star when someone can sell your throw up.”
Brendon coughs again. “Big fucking rock star.” Then his eyes get wide and he surges forward, back in front of the toilet.
Ryan can’t bear to watch Brendon’s dinner come back up, but he rubs Brendon’s back and mumbles assurances. “You’re grounded to your bunk tomorrow. No prancing around the city this time.”
Brendon’s reply echoes in the toilet bowl. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
***
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ryan delicately draws a kohl line beneath Brendon’s eye but watches Brendon’s face instead of what he’s doing. Ryan knows the plains of Brendon’s face well enough now that he doesn’t have to pay attention.
Brendon smiles. “I told you. I’m fine now. It was just something I ate.”
Ryan purses his lips and smudges Brendon’s eyeliner. “If you still don’t feel well, we can cancel the show.”
“And disappoint all our fans?” Brendon’s hands rest on Ryan’s hips and he runs his thumbs along the seam of his jeans. “Ryan, I’m fine now. Chill.”
Ryan sighs and leans down, kissing him. “Don’t run yourself down, Brendon.”
Brendon pushes himself up to steal another kiss. “Stop worrying and put your face on. The crowd loves it when you’re all painted with glitter, Ryro.”
Ryan pushes him away, annoyed. He started hating that nickname forever ago and Brendon knows it. “Don’t think I won’t take you off stage in the middle of the show if things look bad.”
Brendon stands and grabs his costume’s pants, shimmying expertly out of his jeans. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Ryro.”
Ryan throws his eyeliner at him.
***
June: Month Two
Brendon’s been fine as far as anyone can tell. Ryan is really worried at first and almost goes as far as pressing his ear to the door when Brendon went to the bathroom in case he was acting. (“Dude, what the hell? How am I supposed to pee if I know you’re listening? Also, weird.”)
After a day or two, though, Ryan is satisfied that Brendon isn’t faking.
Besides, there is too much to do, as each of his band mates remind him, to worry so much about something that was just a fluke.
Still, Ryan is relieved when they finally have several days off. That means a hotel. Thank God, because Ryan almost can’t remember how a real mattress feels.
Brendon too, apparently, because he bounds into the room as soon as Ryan slides the keycard into the slot. He leaps onto the huge bed, curling into the pillows, and purrs. “Mm, Ryan.” He stretches out his arms and legs. “It’s a bed.”
Ryan smiles as he shuts the door behind himself. “Glad you remember what those look like.”
“I almost forgot, I’m telling you.” Brendon grins into the pillow and flips onto his back, keeping his arms stretched out. “Now, come take advantage of me. This bed is in need of christening, I can feel it.”
Ryan drops his bag and toes off his socks and shoes, placing them neatly by the door. “You do realize that this is a hotel room, right? I’m sure that bed has been christened more times than you’ve been at this point.”
Brendon makes a face. “Bad visual. Get over here and fuck me before you shatter the mood, Ryan Ross.”
Ryan laughs and pulls his shirt over his head before crawling over Brendon. “I never pegged you for a closet germophobe.”
“Oh, the things you don’t know.” Brendon waggles his eyebrows and then wraps around him, all clumsy arms and legs. “Also, fuck you, I’m not. People having sex all over our bed just doesn’t do it for me.” He smirks. “You?”
Ryan’s fingers skim over the exposed strip of skin on Brendon’s stomach, soaking in the way Brendon’s muscles quiver involuntarily at the contact. “Not so much.”
Brendon leans up and catches the corner of his mouth, mumbling, “Whatever.”
Ryan pushes his hips down against Brendon’s and darts his tongue into Brendon’s mouth on a resulting hitched breath. He makes short work of Brendon’s shirt (thank God for button downs) and slides his mouth down to Brendon’s chin and jaw line. Then he stops.
“Ryan,” Brendon hisses at first, assuming it’s a little bit of teasing. Ryan loves teasing. But when Ryan doesn’t chuckle at his squirming or start again or anything, he blinks his eyes open. “Ryan?”
“Are you wearing foundation?” Ryan questions, stunned. He can’t really believe it, but Brendon’s skin tastes off and now that he’s looking, he’s noticing a line of discoloration between Brendon’s jaw and neck.
“Oh.” Brendon rubs his cheek and looks at his fingers. “Yeah. I guess I forgot.”
Ryan stares at him. “What the hell?”
“Yeah, I’m thinking of cross-dressing full time. I’m kidding, Ryan,” he quickly adds, seeing Ryan’s slightly horrified expression. “My skin’s just been uneven lately. Splotchy. So I started wearing foundation so the tabloids don’t start freaking out or anything.”
Ryan can’t process this so he just blinks and says, “What?”
Brendon sighs and untangles himself from Ryan, pushing him gently back against the mattress. “Chill.” Ryan stares as Brendon unfastens his jeans and shifts down, pressing his cheek over Ryan’s open fly. “I’m going to blow you and then you’re going to fuck me and after that we’re ordering room service. Then round two will commence and you will forget all about me wearing foundation.”
Ryan doubts it, but he actually does.
***
They’re playing a venue in Chicago. The energy is fantastic like it always is in huge cities.
Brendon feels off.
He’s been light-headed lately, nauseous too, and he feels worse today. He doesn’t tell anyone though. They’d be too worried, especially Ryan, and they all need to concentrate on the tour at hand.
Something’s wrong though, different. Brendon feels off and he prays it doesn’t show in his voice.
In the second stanza of Northern Downpour, he collapses. His last thought is, “Shit, Ryan’s gonna kill me,” and then nothing.
***
The first time Brendon passed out on stage, when that bottle hit him in the head, Ryan had frozen. His mind couldn’t function past, “This isn’t happening.”
This time isn’t much different except that, “I knew it,” is tacked onto the end.
***
Brendon sleeps a long time and has a nightmare that he can’t remember before he slides back into reality, hearing first.
There’s a high pitched beep to his left that he knows is a heart monitor from watching too many ER reruns. He can dully hear movement and his head throbs with every clatter he hears in the distance. There’s a baby crying somewhere that he wishes someone would pick up and pay attention to so it would stop.
Brendon winces at a particularly piercing wail and finally forces himself to open his eyes.
He’s laying on a stark white bed in a stark white room. Hospital. He hates hospitals. They smell too clean, like the bathroom used to when his mom went on a cleaning rampage and scrubbed it down with rubbing alcohol. He’s always wondered what the point of making a hospital white was. It had to be a bitch getting blood stains out of the sheets.
Brendon’s gaze promptly lands on Ryan. His head is down on the bed beside Brendon’s hand (which has an IV in it, he just now notices) and his eyes are closed. He doesn’t look calm at all though and Brendon watches him for a while, expecting his eyes to open into a glare. Ryan doesn’t wake up, and finally Brendon raises his hand, slowly lowering it to run his knuckles over Ryan’s forehead and cheek.
“You woke up.” Brendon looks up into the smiling face of a young woman in a lab coat. “I swear your fiancé thought you never would.”
Fiancé? He blinks, then smiles at Ryan. “Ryan’s an extremist. He either under reacts to everything or overreacts to everything.”
The woman laughs and picks up the chart hanging at the end of his bed. She reads it quickly. “Okay, Mr. Urie, I’m Dr. Helen Shelley. You came in severely dehydrated and were out for,” she checks he watch, “around thirteen hours. We tried to revive you but you remained unresponsive. In the mean time, we performed a CAT scan and began running blood tests. So far all I’ve got on you is severe dehydration and-”
Ryan groans then, cutting her off as he heavily lifts his head. He looks up at Brendon, smiles, then frowns. “You’re awake.”
Brendon can’t look him in the eye. “Yeah.”
The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife. After a long moment, Dr. Shelley looks back down at her chart. “You’re suffering from severe dehydration and probably exhaustion.”
Ryan looks up at her solemnly. “Did you find out anything new in the blood tests?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. Mr. Urie, I was wondering if you could shed some light on the situation for us. You obviously knew something was wrong to be wearing make up.”
Brendon’s ears turn red with embarrassment. “Yeah. It’s been three or four weeks now.”
“A month?” Brendon wishes Ryan would talk with some sort of inflection. Right now, the monotony hurts. Brendon still can’t look at him.
Dr. Shelley takes a pen from behind her ear and makes a note on the chart. “Mmhm. And in this month, what’s been going on?”
Confession time. Brendon stares down at his hands and fiddles with the sheets of the bed. “I’ve been tired all the time, nauseated, and shaky. It’s hard to stand sometimes it gets so bad.” He bit his lip. “I’ve been throwing up almost every night or early in the morning.”
Dr. Shelley’s eyebrows draw together. “Huh. Anything else?”
Brendon shakes his head. “Not really.”
She tucks her pen back behind her ear. “Well, press that red button to your right if you need anything. Don’t hesitate. I’ll be back to check up on you later and I’ll keep you,” she looks at Ryan, “updated.”
Ryan nods at her. “Thank you.”
She smiles and leaves and the tension is back. Brendon forces himself to look up at Ryan and wishes Ryan would talk first so he doesn’t have to.
“I said we were engaged to stay in here with you,” Ryan says quietly. “They made Jon and Spencer leave after visiting hours.”
“Oh.” Then it’s quiet again. Brendon can’t stand it; he takes a deep breath. “Don’t be mad, Ryan.”
“I’m not.” Brendon looks at him skeptically, so he says, “Really.”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“You didn’t want me to worry.” Ryan pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes tight. “And I suppose this was this part of your brilliant plan, Brendon? Ending up in a hospital bed?”
Actually, the whole thing sounds strangely like it came from one of their first songs. Brendon doesn’t appreciate the irony. “No. I didn’t think about that.”
“You didn’t…” He trails off and closes his eyes tighter.
“I’m not a little kid, Ryan. Stop trying to make me feel guiltier than I already do.” Brendon would glare if he could, but he’s still so tired and he doesn’t have the energy to fight, especially not with Ryan. “I’m fine.”
Ryan drops his hand from his face and opens his eyes. They’re beautiful as ever, honey-brown, but they’re usually steady with dreamy undertones. Now they’re shaky. Lost. Brendon shivers a little and Ryan says, “What if you’re not?”
***
Ryan, Brendon finds out, is not technically allowed in his room outside visiting hours, despite his assumed status as fiancé. He has to fight the nurses tooth and nail so they won’t throw him out, and those women are vicious about their patients getting rest.
Ryan, however, is ten times as vicious as any nurse and, though he has to bribe guards with autographs for their teenagers when the nurses finally call security, he wins out in the end.
Brendon is touched, but wishes Ryan would go home to sleep at least, instead of sleeping in a chair with an extra sheet around his shoulders.
“Ryan,” he calls to him and is shocked by how weak his own voice sounds amongst the clamor of a hospital, muffled by the thick wooden door. He shakes it off and repeats himself. “Ryan, you really should go back home.”
Ryan looks up at him from some magazine he hasn’t actually been reading. There are smudges under his sunken eyes and his irises are dull. His hair is in utter disarray and pieces of it are sticking up everywhere, combed through with fingers too many times in the past twenty-four hours. “We’re in Chicago.”
Brendon rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. Go back to the bus. Or get a hotel room or something.” He tries to sit up, but he feels heavy all over and he finally just sinks back into his pillow. “You look like hell.”
Ryan stares blankly at him and slowly straightens, standing up and placing the magazine in his seat. He stretches his arms over his head and then reaches into his back pocket. He produces a small black compact that Brendon assumes is for emergency eyeliner situations and flips it open. He stares at himself for a second, and then walks over to Brendon, sitting on his bed. “You think I look like hell?”
Brendon doesn’t nod, doesn’t so much as move, because he knows that isn’t really a question. He just waits for the point.
Ryan shifts and leans back. Brendon has to shuffle to the right to make room and it still isn’t enough. The bed was obviously not made for two twenty-somethings to share. Ryan rests his head next to Brendon’s and holds the compact above them. “Who do you think looks worse?”
Brendon glances up into the mirror and sees a tired Ryan and. Someone that looks like a ghost of what Brendon used to be. He winces and looks away.
Ryan snaps the compact shut. “You look like you got punched in the eyes. Your skin is whiter than anything I’ve ever seen. You’re tiny, scary tiny. I can’t believe you got away with looking like this for so long without any of us noticing.”
Brendon carefully turns onto his side toward Ryan, making sure that the IV line is long enough for the transition, and gazes up at Ryan. “You were busy. We’ve all been busy. Touring is crazy. That’s why I didn’t go get a check up myself.” He raises his hand and tries to fix Ryan’s bangs a little. “There just wasn’t time.”
“We should’ve noticed.”
Ryan doesn’t say it, but Brendon knows that “We” is actually “I” and Ryan is blaming himself for this. He’d rather feel guilty for the rest of his life for being this stupid than have Ryan take the blame.
“Hey.” Brendon’s fingers curl around the back of Ryan’s neck, skimming the fine hairs at the base of his hairline. “This. This is just me being an idiot, okay? This is me reverting back to my teenage-imagined invincibility. You guys were all so busy you couldn’t think past ‘Is this the right chord?’ and ‘Damn, another mob of girls I have to avoid.’ It’s not your fault.”
Ryan’s eyes wander over Brendon’s face, searching, and Brendon wishes he knew what Ryan was searching for so he could give it to him. He tries for a smile. Ryan doesn’t respond, doesn’t even smile back, and moves to get up.
Brendon grabs the edge of Ryan’s shirt in his desperation. “Don’t.” Ryan looks back down at him, and he looks so tired. Brendon has a strong urge to cry. Or yell. Or something. He doesn’t know; he just wants to make Ryan okay. “Don’t get up. Stay.”
Ryan watches him again and Brendon can’t think of what Ryan could want him to do. So he does what he would do if they were at home and not in a stupid hospital room. His eyes get big and he sticks out his lower lip. “Please?”
Ryan watches. And then cracks a small smile. He lowers himself back down onto his side, facing Brendon. “Whatever.”
Brendon grins and presses flush against Ryan, tucking his face into Ryan’s neck, just below his ear. “Thanks,” he breathes against his skin.
Ryan nods and wraps an arm around his waist. “The nurses are going to kill me now.”
Brendon laughs softly, his breath puffing along Ryan’s neck. “Yeah. Maybe you can sign some more autographs or something.”
“Ugh, God no.” Ryan sniffs. “I’ll get Jon and Spencer to do it when they come in. The guards probably want a full set of signatures for their daughters anyway.”
“I’m sure.” Brendon shakes his head and tries not to laugh too hard and spoil the quiet moment. He presses his lips to Ryan’s skin. “Go to sleep, Ryan. Spencer will kill me if he sees you like this by visiting hours.”
“Mm.” And it’s all of five minutes before Ryan’s breath levels out.
It’s all of ten before Brendon’s follows suite.
***
“Kid.” A voice invades Brendon’s dream about music and Ryan and something about Serta sheep. “Hey, Brendon, wake up.”
“Spencer is coming and he’s going to chew you up and spit you out again. I’m trying to save your life, kiddo.”
Brendon jerks up, his hair swooshing back with the speed of the movement. Unfortunately, he is taped to an IV line and accidentally moves his hand too far. He yelps and curls in on himself.
Jon and Ryan, who had woken up only a few minutes before Brendon, both panic. “Are you all right? Brendon, Brendon, are you okay? Jesus Christ, Brendon.”
Jon gently coaxes Brendon’s hand away from his chest and inspects the still taped IV. “It looks okay, I think.”
Brendon sniffles and takes his hand back, holding it gingerly. “I think I’m dying.”
“If you aren’t now, you will be soon.”
Everyone looks up and Brendon tries to shrink into something smaller than a germ when he sees Spencer Smith looming in the doorway. He settles for half-hiding behind Ryan. Ryan, to his credit, lets him. Brendon makes a mental note that Ryan deserves some amazing head later for being that brave. Way later, though. Like, when Brendon isn’t scared for his life.
Spencer finally enters the room fully, shutting the door behind him. It closes with a snap of finality that makes Brendon jump. “Did you two just wake up?”
Ryan nods. “Yeah. Sleeping in the chair sucked so I forced Brendon to share the bed.”
“Good.” The reply is razor-sharp and obviously aimed at Brendon. Brendon tries to tuck his face into Ryan’s shoulder. “You both look like shit.”
Brendon snorts. Ryan smiles. “Yeah, we know.”
“Which brings me to something else.” Blue eyes pierce straight through Brendon’s forehead. “Brendon, what the fuck was that?”
“Should I… Do you want me to answer that or..?” Brendon mutters haplessly into Ryan’s shirt.
“Go for it.” Spencer cocks a hip and crosses his arms. “I’d like to see you try and make this situation better. Dig that hole as deep as possible, Brendon.”
Brendon is silent for a second, contemplative. Slowly, he begins his explanation. “Well, I started feeling bad, but we were all too busy with shows and stuff to really do anything about it so I just ignored it.”
Spencer nods. “Mmhm.”
Brendon continues, “And then it got worse and the vomiting didn’t stop. But we were still busy. I didn’t want to bother everyone with it so I just shut up and kept singing and playing whatever instrument people put in my hands. Afterwards, I would go home and sleep as much as I could before I started throwing up again. So I didn’t eat a lot. I wasn’t hungry anyway, but I guess I lost some weight.”
“A lot of weight, according to the doctors.” Spencer’s gaze is steady and cold. “Keep going.”
“Okay, I lost a lot of weight. But no one said anything so I figured it wasn’t that bad. Then I woke up one morning to puke again and looked in the mirror and saw,” he waves his hand at his face, “this. And I knew someone would notice soon if I didn’t do something about it, so I bought some foundation the next day.”
“And you began actively hiding something so important that your life literally depended on it from us.” Spencer purses his lips. “Nice.”
Brendon’s eyes fall to the bed’s sheets. “Look, can we not do this? I was wrong, I get it.”
“You were an idiot. And an asshole.” Spencer’s hands flail out a little. “Do you even get that they don’t know what’s wrong with you yet, that you could be dying and no one would’ve known until you dropped dead if you hadn’t passed out first? Do you even care about what that would do to us?”
“I’m sorry, okay? I screwed up. The band-”
“Fuck the band, Brendon,” Spencer yells and everyone backs away a little. Spencer never yells. He never has to. His quiet fury is always enough to inspire fear and quick correction in whomever it’s aimed at. “We’re your best friends, you ass.”
Spencer goes quiet then, and Brendon has never felt more like a jerk in his entire life.
Jon goes to stand beside Spencer and puts an arm around his shoulders. Spencer stiffly leans against him, like he’s trying to be strong but just can’t manage by himself at this point. “You scared us, man.”
Brendon nods. “Yeah, I know.”
“Do you?” Jon asks, rubbing Spencer’s shoulder comfortingly.
Brendon looks around at everyone in the room.
First at Jon. His big brother-slash-hug buddy-slash-most awesome dude ever. Jon was there to fill the gaping hole that Brent left behind, both musically and in their hearts. Jon watches hours of Disney movies with him, takes him to the coolest small town bands in every city they pass through, got him so drunk on his twenty-first birthday that he slept inside a bathtub to drain whatever bodily fluid happened to come up next.
Jon is staring at him with dark eyes and no smile and is holding Spencer tight, tighter and Brendon suspects a large part of holding Spencer together is to hold Jon together too.
Then, Spencer. Spencer is his other big brother-slash-sometimes mom or dad-slash-other most awesome dude ever. He’s so cool, way cooler than Brendon can ever hope to be. He’s a sarcastic bastard sometimes and he has this way with words that makes you feel like an idiot and completely unworthy of his presence, but, aside from Ryan, there’s no one he’d rather cuddle with. Spencer is squishy in all the right places and he has the best smile Brendon has ever seen, hands down. Spencer is basically the band’s manager; he tells everyone what to do, how to do it, and, almost always, that they’re doing it wrong. He’s amazing and Brendon sort of reveres him.
Now, Spencer is looking between Brendon and Jon, his eyes hard but hurting, his lips curling and uncurling with biting words left unsaid, his main defense mechanism.
And then. Then there’s Ryan. Ryan who stayed up with him when he got his first hangover, despite his past experiences with alcohol. Ryan who first truly accepted him into the original Panic! at the Disco. Ryan who caught Brendon that first night of throwing up and knew that Brendon was lying when he said he was okay. Ryan who feels like this is his fault because Brendon is stupid and didn’t say anything. Ryan, his boyfriend, who deserves better than to be lied to for an entire month.
Brendon opens his arms and makes grabby hands at Spencer and Jon, slipping one arm around Ryan’s waist. Jon ushers Spencer in front of him and, though Spencer seems reluctant, he enters the circle of Brendon’s embrace with Jon close behind him. They all hug Brendon tightly, and he clings to them in return. His reply is muffled between Spencer’s shirt and Ryan’s hair. “Yeah, I know.”
Part 2