Fic: Chicago
Title: Chicago
Rating: PG
Fandom: P!atd (Jon/Ryan-implied)
For:
beccaforever
“It’s only been, like, three weeks or something,” Jon starts, and he wraps his fingers a little tighter around the middle of the glass bottle. “That’s nothing, right?”
The other man shrugs a little, rubs at the bridge of his nose, “Can’t say I know much about it.”
“Yeah,” Jon says, “yeah, I guess it’s a band thing or, like, whatever.” He takes a long, draining gulp of the liquor, slams it back down maybe a little too hard.
“And to be honest I was getting a little sick of them all anyway. I mean, Brendon’s too loud and Spencer’s too bitchy and Ryan’s too…Ryan’s too, like, quiet. I dunno. They’re all too full-on maybe, in their own ways. Maybe I am too.”
The man behind the bar, he nods a little, rubs the counter down with a dirty dishrag.
“I don’t know,” Jon says, “I don’t know anymore.”
*
“Jon,” she starts, hands on hips, lips pursed, shoulders thrust backwards, “what I want to know is whether or not you’ve left this apartment at all this week.”
“Jesus, Mum,” Jon says, and it’s kinda bad, the way she stands there in front of the television. “I went out last night.”
“To the bar? Because that’s not going out, Jonathan Walker, that’s getting drunk.”
“I wasn’t getting drunk at home though, so technically I went out.”
She sighs, puffs out her chest, her lungs, expands her ribcage in an act of annoyance. Jon Walker’s mother is a 5’6, round little thing, with more attitude than intelligence, more pent up anger than comfort, maybe the after-effect of a messy divorce, and a son that never listened.
“Don’t talk back to me, Jon. I did not spend thirteen years waitressing to feed a son that gives me attitude.”
Jon rolls his eyes, collapses back onto his brand new cotton sofa. “I’m not trying to give you attitude, Mum.”
“I know you’re not,” she sighs though, and reaches fingers back to switch off the television. “I know you’re not trying, but you’re giving it anyway.”
She’s not a big woman at all really, and Jon could probably push her out of the way, could probably break her, as she reaches over to grab his arm, and drag him into the petite kitchen.
“You’ve never really tried to give me attitude, Jon,” she says, and she grabs her bag on the way through to the other room, “apart from maybe that time when you were fifteen. God, you gave me the shits that year.”
“Thanks, mum.”
“No problem, babe. My point is though, and I do have a point, is that despite never trying to give me attitude, you have the tendency to succeed in doing so, and Christ, if you weren’t all I had, I’d have tossed you out on your ass years ago.”
“Thanks, mum,” Jon says, and she’s let go of his arm now, has dumped her bag onto the kitchen counter, along with a mountain of grocery bags that she’d tossed in here the minute she’d arrived. Dylan’s asleep in a basket by the stove; he likes the heat, but as Jon’s mother storms passed, his two eyes open wide, and his pupils reduce to slits, despite the fact that he’s always liked her.
“I’ve brought you food, you might not have seen it in a while, after all, it’s not take-out. It’s your generic food stuffs that you will actually have to cook to try and make look like something on the pretty box.”
“So, real food?”
“Real food, baby.” She grins, thrusts tired hands into bag after bag, pulls out broccoli, carrots, onion, apples. “I brought you up on this shit, y’know.”
Jon smiles at her, he’s missed her too much, missed her when touring and travelling and starting that new family, gaining brothers and sisters and fathers and friends. Never mothers though; the spot will always be reserved just for her, even when she’s out to piss him off.
“Cat food too, plethora’s of cat food.” Dylan’s wandered across the counter now, body rubbing up against her waist, her chest. “Like that, huh, kitty?” She’s always liked Dylan back.
“Thanks, mum.”
“Welcome, love, now.” She stares him dead in the eye now, one hand at Dylan’s head, strokingstrokingstroking. “What’s with all the liquor? You want alcohol poisoning? Liver failure? Coz, baby, there are better ways to go.”
“I dunno,” Jon starts, and he runs a closed fist across his hair line, spreads the fingers over his eyes, “I’m just…”
“Yeah?” she says, and she moves a little closer to him, rubs at her collarbone.
“Nothing’s the same,” he finishes lamely, lets loose a wayward grin, and fists the back of the chair. “It’s all different, and it wasn’t supposed to be.”
“What wasn’t supposed to be different?”
“Chicago.”
“Ah,” she says, and casts him a half-grin.
“Ah,” Jon repeats, and as Dylan wanders over, wraps his tail around the man’s chest, Jon loosens his fingers enough to scratch the cat behind the ears.
“Jon, you can’t be away for the better half of two years, strut back into your old life, and expect everything to be the same. It’s a fool’s hope, hun.”
“I know, but, it was, it was what I was hoping.”
She smiles a little, but it’s sombre, it’s slow, and maybe a little sadder than she’ll admit to later. “You know, your Dad, he came back from Vietnam and he just…”
“Wasn’t the same,” Jon says, seeks out her dark eyes, “wasn’t all there.”
“Yeah, we tried to work it out, we had you, we just, we tried everything, but sometimes you just need to let go. People grow up, people change, and you’re not gonna be the same person forever either, not gonna have the same friends forever.”
“I’m lonely,” Jon says, and she smiles back at him, rubs an arm over his.
“I know, sweetie.”
*
“Hello?”
“Uh, hi,” he says, and he runs fingers through his hair, shoves his bangs off his face, “is…is Brendon Urie there?”
There’s silence over the other end of the phone line, long and drawn, before a very sharp intake of breath. “Look, if this is another fucking fan girl, I swear to God, I’ll-“
“No!” he says. “No, no, it’s, I’m Jon, Jon Walker, I’m a friend of Brendon’s, I’m in the band.”
“Right,” she says, and Jon’s never met any of Brendon’s sisters, but he’s pretty sure he’s talking to one right now, “prove it.”
“Well-“
“Fuck off, Brendon.”
“Is that for me?” It’s Brendon’s voice, but it isn’t on the other end of the phone yet, it’s somewhere in the background, he’s always been too loud.
There’s a scuffle, and the phone must be a handheld, must fall to the floor with a clatter. It’s a few minutes before Brendon’s on the other end of the line, puffed, and out of breath; Jon can feel the sweat drip through the phone line.
“Hi,” Jon says, and he grins a little too much, a little too hard, “thought you lived on your own now?”
“I do.” And Brendon groans, long and deep. “Sadly, this does not stop the Swiss Family Mormon.”
“Oh, to be an only child.”
“My hate for you is strong, Jon Walker,” Brendon says, and something falls, something smashes in the background.
“For fuck’s sake, Mia!” Brendon calls. “Go break your own shit!”
“This a bad time?”
“Nah,” Brendon says, “well, yes. Just, Mia and Cathy are over, and Simon, oh! Did I tell you Simon’s engaged? I’m totally gonna have a sister-in-law, her name’s Judy and she makes cheese, like, seriously, I shall never run out of dairy products again.”
Jon laughs. “You hate cheese.”
“Yeah, but Judy’s really fucking nice, and she gave me all these free samples of cheese, and so now my fridge is like, stocked with stuff that I’m never gonna eat. Do you like cheese, Jon Walker? Coz I can totally send you some like, right now. Well, not right now, coz she’s still here, and I don’t want to be an asshole.”
“You are an asshole, Brendon Urie, and Spencer likes blue cheese, send all the blue cheese you own to him. I like cheddar though, and brie, so send me some of that.”
“Consider it sent, Jon Walker.” And he can sorta hear another voice across the line, a female one that must be one of the sisters Brendon starts to laugh, cackle. “Mia’s like, on crack today, I swear to God.”
“Mia your older sister?”
“One of them, she turns twenty-three next week, and we’re throwing her a surprise party, it’ll be funny, coz she hates surprise parties.”
“Sounds like fun,” Jon says, and maybe he wishes he wasn’t an only child, maybe this transition from tourtourtour would’ve been easier with real brothers and sisters waiting at home for him.
“Eh,” Brendon says, “I hope Mum gets us a piñata, I could really go for a piñata right now.”
“Have you hung out with Ryan and Spencer at all?”
“A bit. We’ve been having like, smoothies and ice-cream and shit every few days. Next Tuesday we’re having a horror film marathon, mostly because Spencer feels like watching a shit load of them, and then watching the Scary Movie flicks.”
“Yeah,” Jon says, and why the fuck does he live in Chicago, what the fuck is he doing here> He should be over there maybe, with them. “Sounds cool.”
“We should totally have you on speaker phone for the night, you can listen to Ryan squeal like a pussy.”
Something else breaks over the line, and Brendon starts to laugh again. “Simon, can you, like, restrain Cath? I think she’s going to kill something.”
There’s more talking over the line, and Brendon’s still laughing, and Jon’s feeling more and more out of place.
“Look, if this is a bad time-“
“Nah,” Brendon says, but he’s still laughing, still half talking to his brother.
“Yeah,” Jon finishes, “look, I’ll talk to you later, not that long till studio-time now, anyway.”
“Nah,” Brendon says, “I’ll see you later, Jon.”
*
“Brendon’s just, he’s got millions of brothers and sisters, like, a fucking, fucking chain of them,” Jon slurs, breathes in the scent of liquor from the bottle in front of him, “a necklace of family.”
The bartender doesn’t say anything this time, nods a little, wipes the counter hard with an old t-shirt.
“I want family, I want people that I like, people that I can hang out with, everyone in Chicago’s scared of me now, too famous, can’t trust them.”
Jon Walker’s getting too drunk again. “Can’t call, Ryan, you know? He’d freak out if he knew I was drinking.” Jon wiggles a finger at the bartender, asking him to lean in close. “His dad died, like, collapsed, too much beer.”
The bartender nods again, leans backwards, it’s very early now, the wee hours of the morning, and the flood of customers from earlier has turned into a trickle, a drought.
“I want to talk to someone I like.”
Jon Walker’s getting drunk again, spillspillspill your guts, and maybe spill the bottle of beer when your gestures become too lazy.
*
“Hello?” Spencer answers the phone on the first ring. He sounds tired, lethargic maybe, Jon can’t see him being too busy.
“Hey, Spence, how’s life treating you?”
“Guh,” Spencer says, and Jon can see him rolling his eyes, half-lying down on the sofa in his parents’ house. “Basically, I have gone from rockstar to chaperoning my baby sisters around. My life is hell.”
Jon laughs aloud at that, and Spencer groans. “Laugh it up, Jon Walker, your time will come.”
“Or not,” Jon says, “no sisters, no brothers.”
“Fuck you,” Spencer sighs, “you can have mine.”
“I’m okay, I have Dylan.”
“Cats are better than sisters.”
“Maybe. Can’t talk back.”
“Yeah, whilst touring, I remembered them being cuter.”
Jon laughs again. “Have you been keeping yourself busy?”
“Yeah, actually,” Spencer says, “catching up with family, with friends, avoiding Brent like the fucking plague. I’ve actually been talking to my old drum teacher a bit, she’s been coming over and we’ve been brainstorming, she’s pretty awesome for a fifty-year-old chick.”
“That’s awesome,” Jon starts, “hey-“
“I’m coming, Dad,” Spencer calls. “Sorry, I have to pick Lucy and Carmen up from school.”
“Uh, yeah, of course.” Jon nods, but his face falls a little, falls hard. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Spencer says, and the phone line goes dead before Jon gets a chance to say goodbye properly.
*
“I accept the fact that I’m lonely,” Jon says, “it’s accepted, it’s driven its point home. I get it, y’know, I just…” And he pauses, scratches the hair at the base of his neck, “…I just didn’t think I’d resort to having a serious conversation with you.”
“Meow,” says Dylan, and he wanders in a circle, rubs his side against Jon’s legs. Jon picks the cat up, holds him to his face.
“That’s not much help. If you’d said something like me-ow-row, now that, that woulda been a comfort.”
Dylan tilts his head, stares a little deeper with big, yellow eyes. “Mow,” he says, flashes sharp teeth and cocks his ears.
“Ryan, you say? Why do you think I should call him?”
“Rowr,” says Dylan, and he struggles a little, till Jon puts him back on the floor.
“No, you wouldn’t care all that much, would you?” Jon sighs. “For a cat, you’re pretty smart, Dylan Walker. Any gal would be lucky to have you.”
“Mwo nyaoh,” Dylan purrs out, wraps his tail around the curve of Jon’s calf.
“Bella? She lives down the road,” Jon says. “You like them black and white, huh? With their blingbling collars? Well, she’s a good looking cat, I’ll give you that.”
“Row,” Dylan wanders off a little, looks back in something akin to contempt.
“You want your food, huh? Come on then, I think Mum left some sardines, if not, I picked up tuna the other day.”
*
When Jon was very small, his mother would always take him to the park on weekends since they didn’t have enough money to do much else.
He’d sit on the swings for hours, back and forth and back and forth, and maybe, maybe he felt he could fly away, you know, if he tried hard enough. Maybe he’d go over the handlebars, launch off the rubber swing seat, and fly as hard and as far away as possible, live a life on the moon or on the stars, somewhere away from his mother and his father and school and just, and life.
Then again, the moon and the stars, they must be pretty lonely too, but here, on this swing right now, Jon figures it’d be better to be there, to be lonely with no one else, than to be back on Earth, surrounded by people, but still all alone.
Life is piling up, loading itself into that place between his shoulders, reducing itself to that pain, that familiar throb that resounded, that was most there in his lowest times, in break-ups and final exams, when his Mum was sick or sore or sad, or when he’d seen his Dad again.
It’s loneliness now though, being here in Chicago with millions of people, with friends and family he can’t quite figure out anymore, but really, really just being here on his own.
“All by myself,” Jon sings, and when a nine-year-old girl walks passed, stares at him with wide eyes and open mouth, he figures he’s probably just about cracked.
*
Ryan’s fingers are too long and too spidery to belong to him, to belong to any human, and when he writes, it’s always awkward; it’s always too gentle on the paper. The letters are too soft, just shadows on the paper, and his scrawl is always too lopsided, too uneven, just messy.
Ryan’s phone number, his home number, he wrote it down just after he’d come back from his Dad’s funeral, had written down three copies, for Jon and Brendon and Spencer. He said he didn’t want anyone calling his old number, the one that didn’t exist anymore.
When Jon pulls out the piece of paper from his address book, Ryan’s writing is hardly there, it’s something impermanent, and Jon almost wants to get it laminated or something, so that the numbers don’t fade.
He picks up the phone, and dials anyway.
Ryan picks up on the third ring.
“Hey,” Ryan says, and his voice is heavy with sleep, laced with exhaustion and something akin to relief, “what’s up?”
“Hey,” Jon says, “not a lot, most of it, it’s pretty down.”
“Ah,” Ryan says, and something shuffles in the background, something drips, and something barks.
“Ah,” Jon states, “I’m pretty lonely.”
This is met with silence, and Ryan, he’s still too quiet, he’s still a ghost over the phone line, he’s still too not there.
“Loneliness is a bitch from hell, Jon Walker.”
“Yeah,” Jon breathes, and Ryan, his own breathing is coming out too laboured, too un-content.
“Why are you lonely?” Ryan asks, and Jon’s words halt in his throat.
“Because everything’s different.”
“Yeah,” Ryan answers. “Yeah, it is.”
“Yeah,” Jon says, and he draws patterns on his thigh with his fingers, his bed, sitting here in his bed, he’s still too lonely, even with this Ryan-ghost on the other end.
“Jon?” Ryan says, and it sounds like a question, coz neither of them have spoken in too long. “Jon, I think I’m lonely too.”
“Yeah?” Jon asks, and for some reason he feels lighter, like there’s an unseen weight gone from his chest.
“Yeah,” Ryan says, and really, that’s all that there is to it.