Fic: Romantic Rights
Title: Romantic Rights
Raing: PG
Fandom: P!atd (Brendon/Ryan)
Dedication: To mandy_croyance who is a million types of lovely. (and of whom requested it.)
Ryan Ross is thirteen years old when he starts to write.
“We’ve got another question there for you, right there on the blue mic.”
Ryan Ross is thirteen years old, and he writes songs about skipping school, being famous and snorting cocaine. He writes about girls that he’s never met, and parties that he’s never been to, and about a popularity that he’s never really had. He writes about bullshit until he’s sixteen, and has a fuckload of new experiences, new bullshit, real bullshit to write about.
“Hi, uhm, I was just wondering, like…” And she’s quite nervous really, can’t be much older than seventeen. “…a lot of bands lately have a message in most of their music, and I was just wondering if you have a message, what is it?”
Ryan Ross is eighteen years old when he writes the album that’ll make him (and Brendon and Spencer and Brent and Jon) famous. It’s an album that doesn’t really make sense when all aligned, all put together, because it’s full of anger and grief and arrogance, it’s full of stuff that isn’t real, and stuff that’s too real for Ryan to enjoy playing at concerts every night.
There’s an intake of breath, (too sharp and coarse to be natural) from one of the boys. No one in the crowd of squealing girls notices, acknowledges it as anything more than thought, the start of some meaningful speech, the cold.
Ryan Ross will never write about George Bush, or government, or poverty, or genocide. He tried once or twice, twice, he’s pretty sure, and none of it was very good. It was a Blink-182 cover band attempting songs that maybe U2 would’ve written if they’d been a helluva lot less talented.
“Uhm,” Ryan says, and he taps the base of the microphone against his bony leg, “uh…”
The night Ryan Ross’s dad collapses (not dead, not yet), Ryan will write until his fingers bleed. He will not write ’Tacks for Snacks’, and he will not write ‘Camisado’, but he will write ‘Thank God for Esteban’ and he will write ‘But it’s Better if you Do’. This is just the way Ryan Ross’s head works.
“We’re…” Brendon starts, and he’s leaning into the mic in Ryan’s spidery fingers, “we’re not political. So, I just want to put that out there.”
Ryan Ross is eighteen years old when he writes ‘A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out’, and between a cheating girlfriend, an asshole dad, living in a one-bedroom flat with a boy he hardly knows, the album was always going to be a little too raw for comfort.
“Besides that,” he starts, “-I don’t know if we have a message.”
Then again, Ryan’s imagination will always be too vivid, too prone for elaborate scenarios, too inspired, too much, the raw gashes of exposed flesh and bone and soul will always be covered in plasters and bandages of fairytale and make-believe.
*
The clock doesn’t chime midnight for another six minutes, and Ryan worries that reality will come crashing back down with the weight and consistency of gravity. Pete Wentz has starred as the fairy godmother, and his spell will wear off, leaving Ryan in old band t-shirts, worn sneakers and a home that has always been more of a house.
He worries that Prince Charming will miss the glass slipper on the step of the tour bus, step over it, and instead of hunting down happily ever after (instead of hunting down Ryan), he will go hook up with one of the women, one of the other boys at the party.
One that is a better dancer.
Ryan’s not a good dancer.
His bunk is dipping rather dramatically though, and in slips the Prince (the spell isn’t over yet), in slips Brendon Urie.
Brendon kisses a trail up the back of Ryan’s neck, murmurs wet words and giggles like he always does. Only it’s a little more forced than normal, a little less natural.
Brendon’s come to talk.
“Ryan,” he starts, and Ryan has his back to Brendon, but he can still picture his face, paint a portrait behind his eyelids. “I want things that I don’t have.”
“You have a lot, Brendon.”
“I want more.”
Ryan has to let loose a wayward sigh, a rather big, dramatic thing that fills the silence like the first sobs at a funeral.
“Are you going to make me ask what?”
“I want…” Brendon starts, and his arms have curled around Ryan’s waist, fingers cool against the bare skin of the other boy’s stomach. “…I want to hold your hand.”
“You already hold my hand.”
“Not in front of people.”
“Yes, you-“
“I want to kiss you.”
Ryan sighs again, his fingers clenching over Brendon’s. “Then kiss me, Brendon.”
Brendon presses his lips against the back of Ryan’s neck again, breathes in the sweat and the hair. “It’s not what I mean.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.” Brendon’s breath is heavy in his hair, heavy against the back of his neck, down his shoulder blades.
“You ask too much of me, Brendon.”
“I know,” he says, “I’m sorry.”
*
Ryan Ross is not a lot of things.
Ryan Ross is not good at mathematics. He is not particularly intelligent, not all that interested in the happenings of the wide world.
Ryan Ross is not as pretty as everyone thinks he is (at least not beneath the skin. He doesn’t have diamonds on the inside; there are no rubies in his veins, no sapphires between his ribs, no gold inside his bone marrow. All there is, all that’s there is blood. Red and blue, oxygenated, deoxygenated. Cells. Water. Glucose. Waste.)
Ryan Ross is not happy, he is not angry, and he is not sad. Ryan Ross maintains a level of indifference that is really quite admirable.
But above all, Ryan Ross is not a gay rights activist, in fact, he’s not really an activist at all, and this completely justifies as to why, Ryan Ross, is not coming out of the closet.
*
When Ryan says that he is not happy or angry or sad, he doesn’t mean that this is all the time. Ryan’s indifference is constant around everyone that isn’t Brendon.
This is probably because where Ryan is refined, Brendon is flamboyant, where Ryan keeps his emotions under lock and key, Brendon’s overflow, leak out his eyelids, his nostrils, his mouth, his arse.
Brendon is so contradictory to Ryan, that he almost feels obliged to hate him. Hate his confidence and his happiness and the way that he’s pretty from the inside out.
“Ryan.”
“What?” Snapsnapsnap out of the daydream.
“I’ve been calling you for like, the last five hours.”
Ryan scoffs, pulls the scarf a little tighter around his neck.
“We were at an interview five hours ago.”
“Duh,” Brendon states, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, before slinging an arm around Ryan’s bony shoulders. “And I was like, totally calling you then, with my eyes.”
Said eyes bulge a little, stop blinking, and Brendon tilts his head in an attempt to look like something from, Ryan doesn’t know, he doesn’t really watch horror films.
“Your eyes aren’t loud enough then.”
And Brendon just laughs, pulls Ryan so close that they’re breathing the same air. Neither of them say anything, but both of their breaths come out more laboured, slower, there’s a tension that neither is willing to admit exists. It’s just the distance, just the cold.
It has absolutely, positively nothing to do with the fact that Ryan Ross might very well be in love with Brendon Urie.
*
When Ryan says that he is not happy or angry or sad, he doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel.
Spencer is Ryan’s best friend since forever.
With that comes a certain degree of emotional baggage. A certain number of battered suitcases that trail after each of them on strong, wire cords.
“So,” Spencer starts, and he’s kinda opening a suitcase, a rather new one, and Ryan figured it’d be red. “So,” Spencer says, and he pushes a hand into the suitcase, and pulls out a brand new issue. A brand new reason Ryan probably needs therapy.
“So, Brendon.”
“We’re not…” Ryan can’t take his eyes off the suitcase, it’s full of photographs that were never taken, of Brendon and of recording and of Brendon’s flat and of concerts and of…of two people that gaze at each other with something a little stronger than simple friendship.
RyanBrendon.
Spencer lays his head on Ryan’s shoulder, wraps his fingers around the bird-bones of Ryan’s wrists.
“Brendon,” he says.
And all Ryan can say is, “Yeah.”
*
Ryan Ross is not beautiful.
“Ross! We need ice-cream, disgusting amounts of triple-choc-fudge ice-cream.”
Brendon is bouncing off the walls, off the sofa, off the coffee table, off the ugly minibar in the hotel suite.
“I don’t think you need sugar, like, ever again.”
“But,” Brendon starts, and he kneels next to where Ryan sits on the bed, notebook open in his lap, “but, ice-cream isn’t sugar.”
“Ice-cream’s made of pig fat, you know.” Ryan says it all matter of fact, runs fingers through his hair. “Pig fat and sugar.”
Brendon pulls a face. “No sugar.”
“I’d be more worried about the pig fat.”
“You need the fat,” he replies, a grin that’s all dimples as he pulls himself onto the bed, collapses on top of Ryan. “No ice-cream then.”
“No ice-cream.”
Brendon just seems to sprawl a bit more, melt over (into) Ryan, crinkles the pages of the older boy’s notebook. He pulls off his glasses (a beautiful ruby red), and holds Ryan’s fingers in his own, runs stumped nails across his knuckles.
Ryan Ross is not beautiful, but maybe, with Brendon here with him, sometimes he feels as though he could be.
*
“So,” she starts, and she talks through her teeth, teeth so white that Ryan can almost see the toothpaste still lathered on the enamel, “so, do any of you boys have girlfriends?”
Jon laughs at what is probably the most over-used question in the history of over-used questions. “Yeah, I have a girlfriend. We all…” and he looks quickly and deliberately at Brendon, at Ryan, “…have girlfriends.”
She laughs a little, says some bullshit ‘sorry’ to the camera, ‘sorry, teenies, the boys you’ll never meet are taken. Good luck, though.’
“What are the most out there rumours that you’ve heard about yourselves so far?” The woman’s moved on, is shoving an ugly microphone under their noses, into their mouths.
Brendon takes the lead with another deliberate look, eyes as dark as burnt coffee. “That Ryan and I are fucking.”
The interviewer laughs a little (forced). “Are you?”
And Brendon, for once, for maybe the first time ever, is lost for words. Maybe, maybe this is the first time they’ve been asked this so outright.
Ryan jumps in though, quickly and so solemn that he almost sounds honest. “No.”
Brendon won’t speak to him for the rest of the day.
*
When Jon finds out about Brendon and Ryan, and that whole awkward mess that is BrendonRyan, he laughs for the better half of an hour. Seriously. Whenever anyone brings it up after, whenever he catches them asleep on the couch, sweaty and warm and half-naked, he’ll still let loose a face-splitting grin.
This can pretty much be pinned down to the fact that it’s Jon.
“So, when are you gonna like, come out?” he asks, camera snapsnapsnapping at the sun, the bus, Ryan.
“What do you mean?” Ryan asks. Why are you asking this now?
“Y’know, come out to the press.”
“Why would I need to come out to the press?”
“Well,” Jon starts, adjusting the zoom on the digital camera so much that it close-ups on Ryan’s bottom lip, “the press is like, every rockstar’s slightly retarded, gossiping mother. You can’t not tell her, or she’s gonna go through your bedroom and find your gay porn.”
“I don’t have any gay porn.”
Jon shoots a look.
“Not in my bedroom,” Ryan amends, and he sits down on the picnic bench, rubs his thighs in a vain attempt at restoring warmth.
The older boy takes a picture of the grass peaking out from beneath the table leg. Snap. “Brendon wants people to know.”
Ryan doesn’t say anything, watches the trail of ants that scavenge the breadcrumbs.
“Fuck, Ryan, I want people to know.”
“Well, I don’t, Jon,” Ryan explodes, the top ripped off the bubbling iron pot, only, it’s Ryan, and these reactions never last long. He puts his head down, rests it on the table.
“Why not?”
There’s a silence too thick, before Ryan let’s loose a wayward laugh. “Jon, we are like, officially the gayest band in music, and this is before anyone knows that two of the members are actually queer.”
“Yeah,” Jon says, laughs, “knew that before I’d signed on.”
“As soon as Brendon and I come out…” He’s still not actually looking at Jon, head still tucked between his arms on the table, “…we’ll be, like, fucking recruited. Y’know, like, PETA goes after all the vegetarians and shit, we’ll have fucking, fucking, I dunno, fucking Pride coming after us.”
Jon doesn’t say anything, at least not for thirty seconds, but he does eventually let loose a tiny, “Is Pride even an actual organization?”
“We’ll be some fucking novelty, that band with the queer writer, and the queer lead singer. A bunch of fucking fags.”
“I think,” Jon starts, and he stares long and hard at the back of Ryan’s neck, snaps a photo of him, here, like this, “I think I’m missing the point.”
“We’ll lose fans.”
Jon laughs outright at that. “Doubt it.”
Ryan lifts his head, unfolds himself from where he’d been pinned by gravity and too little indifference. “I just want to be me, and I just want to write music and play concerts without people criticising the way I look, or the way I live.”
“Ryan,” Jon sighs, turns off the camera, “Ryan, get serious, I mean, it doesn’t, it doesn’t matter what they say, people are gonna criticize you no matter what you do, no matter whether you’re in a band or a homeless person, or, I dunno, a fucking vet. People are always gonna be critical, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be who you are. Doesn’t mean you should give a shit.”
Ryan doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at him, looks at his hands.
“I don’t,” Jon tries again, “I don’t pretend to understand your relationship with Brendon, but, but things have been, I dunno, stressed the last few weeks, and something tells me that the press and ‘coming out’” he air quotes, “plays a huge role, y’know?”
Ryan shrugs.
“Seriously though, if you’re worried about losing fans, the ones who are in it for the music won’t give a fuck, and the ones who practically orgasm when Brendon swaggers over to you on stage are gonna be pretty happy, and….” Jon trails off, as Ryan’s fingers rub furiously at his eyes, as his feet kick at the dirt beneath him.
“…and this would be working if any of this was what you were worried about, huh?”
Ryan still doesn’t say anything, just stands up properly and heads back to the bus.
*
That night, Brendon doesn’t crawl into Ryan’s bunk.
When morning rolls around, Ryan wonders if the clock really did strike midnight, if the ball is over, and the wicked stepmother (his dad) is waiting to lock him up.
Ryan wakes up in an old My Chemical Romance t-shirt that he doesn’t remember putting on. He spends the better half of an hour in the shower, before he puts so much make up on that he doesn’t recognise himself.
*
“Lets try this again, yeah?” Jon asks, and Ryan has fingers crawling over the corners of his mouth, a window painted over his eye, his cheekbone, has painted black stripes across the width of his face.
“When people look at me,” Ryan says, “when people look at me they don’t see what I want them to see.”
“What do you want them to see?”
Ryan doesn’t answer, not because he’s choosing not to, but because he can’t quite think of what to say. “Maybe, I’m lying,” he states instead.
“About what?”
“When I look at me,” Ryan says, “when I look at me, I don’t see what I want to see.”
“What do you want to see then?”
Ryan looks at him now, dead in the eye. “I want to see what Brendon sees.”
*
The problem with interviewers is none of them ever know what they’re talking about.
“So, Brendon, what’s your process when writing songs?”
He twitches rather blatantly, paints on a picture-perfect smile. “Uh, actually, it’s Ryan who writes the lyrics.”
“Oh,” she says, face drops a little, “well, same question to you, I guess.”
“Uh,” Ryan coughs, runs fingers up the back of his hair. “Well, I always write the lyrics first, have them perfected before trying out a bit of music and, y’know, showing them to the others so that we can finish off the scores and stuff.”
“Awesome,” she says, flashing what is probably meant to be a sultry grin. “Did you write songs that never made it onto the record?”
The lie is on the tip of his tongue, burning bright and fierce, only, Brendon’s sitting next to him here, and now, in front of this idiot-reporter is probably as good a time as any.
“Yes,” he says, and it’s too late to take it back now, however much he wants to when three sets of familiar eyes are suddenly all over him. Ryan never wrote a song that wasn’t on the record, he didn’t have time - and he didn’t, just he wrote songs anyway.
“What about?” she asks, grins a little wider, oblivious to the bit of gossip that she will be first to be privy too.
“Brendon,” Ryan answers, and that’s really all there is to be said.
*
Ryan is eighteen years old, and meets Brendon outside Spencer’s garage at four o’clock on a Friday. Brendon is loud and obnoxious and rude and wonderful and beautiful and all these things that Ryan will never really be able to say.
“So,” Brendon starts, and he rocks on his heels, “soo…”
“So,” Ryan replies.
Brendon doesn’t even notice Ryan for the first three practices, which is kinda hugely bizarre, since Ryan is the one singing. But Ryan notices Brendon, and then suddenly, almost out of the blue, Brendon starts to notice Ryan.
“I didn’t realise we were boyfriends,” Brendon says, and he’s grinning like a lunatic.
“Aren’t we?” Ryan replies, looking down at Brendon’s brand new checkered converse.
Ryan writes three songs about Brendon, one about how even the most loud, obnoxious person in the world can be good looking. He covers it up though, with religious metaphors and prostitute characters. If anyone ever reads it, they’ll never know what it’s about.
“I dunno, I mean, you never asked me to go steady,” Brendon says, grins, “just kinda assumed.”
The second song is actually about Brendon’s shoes, but that’s another story.
“Did I assume wrong?”
Brendon’s still grinning, laughing now, and suddenly he’s wrapped his arms around Ryan’s tiny waist, has pressed his forehead against Ryan’s, is swaying and giggling and being happy.
The last song Ryan writes about Brendon is one about a lost, scared, little boy, who is very, very afraid to fall in love with the other lost, not-so-scared, little boy. The story about the boy who is terrified of glass slippers and clocks and running out of time, the one who wants to be loved, but can never really let anyone close enough to be loved properly, the one…the one that’s probably more about Ryan then it is about Brendon.
“I’m pretty in love with you,” Brendon says, kisses the space next to Ryan’s ear.
“I’m pretty in love with you, too,” Ryan answers, running his fingers through Brendon’s hair. And he is, and he’s known this for a while.
He still doesn’t know what Brendon sees in him.