Fic: 'Better Than Your Worst Day' (RPS)
Slightly depressing Christmas fic! Woo. This is the second gen fic I've written in as many days. Gross.
Title: Better Than Your Worst Day
Author: Nicola
Fandom: RPS: Panic! At the Disco
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon (friendship or pre-slash)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,792
Summary: Christmas is just another day.
Note: I mishear All-American Rejects song lyrics and use them for my fic titles. Good times!
Written for _lolapalooza as part of the damnyouwentz Secret Santa thingamajig.
-----
Better Than Your Worst Day
Las Vegas, NV
Christmas is just another day.
Ryan figured he should be used to those words by now. He'd said them a lot over the past month. Well, typed them, mostly. That sad little sentence glaring at him from his Sidekick screen just before he pressed send. Sad? Sure. Fucking depressing? That too. "But true. I'm fine, Pete," he tersely told his empty apartment as his fingers skimmed across the keys. He wrote, I'll see you in New York for New Year's, and then tossed his Sidekick away.
He had been invited all over the country for the holidays and he had-with thinning graciousness-refused every invitation. He didn't want to go through all the rituals (strained gift-giving, It's A Wonderful Life, tipsy arguments smoothed over by more alcohol) this year, and least of all in someone else's home.
Ryan sank back into the couch cushions and exhaled. As the air left his lungs, he listened. Silence, finally. After the circus (haha) of the tour, all he really wanted for Christmas (hahaha) was… quiet. A comforter over his head; the world blocked out for a while.
There was a loud knocking on his door. Ryan breathed in. This time when he exhaled, it was unsteady-frustrated. "Go away," he muttered. He breathed in. More knocking. Out.
"Hey, Ryan!" a voice yelled. "Let me in!" Knock, knock. "I'm gonna drop this stuff. If you end up with coleslaw all over your step, it's not my fault!"
With all the calmness he could muster, Ryan walked to the door. He opened it an inch.
"Brendon," he said in a low voice, "I thought I said-"
"Yeah, yeah." Brendon pushed at the door with his shoulder and bustled-actually bustled-past Ryan and into the apartment. "Christmas is just another day. Whatever. Today is Christmas Eve. And my mom made all this stuff for you."
With a flourish, Brendon emptied his arms of half-a-dozen Tupperware containers and foil-wrapped packages. They tumbled onto table and-true to form-one of the containers bounced onto the floor, cracked open and spilled a cheerful sludge of vomit-like coleslaw onto the expensive hardwood floor.
"Oops," Brendon said, remorselessly.
Ryan crossed his arms across his chest. "What are you doing here?" he asked shortly. "I'm kinda busy," he added, despite the fact that he was, like, the least busy person in the history of not being busy.
"Yeah, right. You're, like, the least busy-"
"Brendon," Ryan said sharply. "What d'you want?"
"My mom made all this food." Brendon shrugged and began attacking a package of cookies. "These are made with tofu," he said between mouthfuls. "They're pretty good."
For a moment, Ryan's confusion overcame his annoyance. "Why did she make me tofu cookies?"
"I think"-Brendon swallowed hard, licking extravagantly at his bottom lip-"she thinks you're vegan or something."
"Why does she think that?"
"Well." Brendon considered. "She asked what you were doing for Christmas and, you know, I told her the party line." He rolled his eyes and adopted a sarcastic sing-song voice. "Christmas is just another day." He paused for breath. "Anyway! She was pretty horrified, so I had to do some damage control."
Ryan was growing increasingly exasperated. "How does that involve me being vegan?"
"Well," Brendon began again. "I was trying to skim over the whole"-he dropped his voice-"atheist thing. Because, I mean, she probably wouldn't come round here and set you on fire. Although, jeez, Christmas makes her kinda crazy so"-he made a face-"can't be too careful. Anyway! I told her you were doing your own thing. Finding your own spiritual path." He grinned. "She liked that one a lot. But I think I went a bit far and made it sound like you'd joined some kind of hippyish cult. And to her that means… veganism."
"Right." Ryan let out a sigh. "Makes perfect sense."
There was a long silence. Brendon continued to eat the tofu cookies. Ryan toed at the puddle of coleslaw, swirling it into a circle using the tip of his Converse.
Brendon's cookie-eating slowed. "You know," he said carefully, "you could still come over for dinner. I can almost guarantee you won't have any fun! It'll suck. It'll be a totally and completely sucky Christmas. Except… you won't have to be alone."
Ryan stared blankly at him.
Brendon hurried on, "It wouldn't really be celebrating. It would just be… eating! It wouldn't mean any disrespect to your dad's memory, if that's what you think, Ry."
"You think I want this?" Ryan exploded. "You think I want to stay holed up like this? I would rather be anywhere else! But I have to…" He was aware of himself running out of steam, the anger draining from his body. "I need to…" He mouthed the word fuck and turned away.
It was almost a full minute before he managed to say, "Just leave me alone, Brendon. I'm fine."
Ryan heard the hollow ring to his voice, but he didn't care. He just wanted the warmth of his bed; heavy silence like a blanket.
*
Ryan's apartment was blank-stylishly so. He had bought it using his first royalties check. The realtor had advised him to keep it neutrally decorated, uncluttered, minimize wear and tear. That way he could flip it for a nice profit in a few years' time. It was a pretty good excuse-to not paint the walls; to not buy anything except IKEA furniture. Part of him was just waiting for Tyler Durden to show up and blow it all to hell, but even if he didn't, Ryan would be able to sell his apartment, make a profit, and all without developing any emotional connection to the place. It was fine.
His bed was like a island in the middle of his empty bedroom. He'd deliberately pushed it away from the walls; he enjoyed the incongruity, the way it dominated the space. He had been dating Jac at the time he'd bought the apartment and she had helped him move in-if sneeringly second-guessing every decision he made counted as helping.
"You're not gonna buy a wardrobe even? Where are you gonna put your clothes?" she'd asked, meaning, where am I gonna put my clothes?
"'s why they call it living out of a suitcase," he had mumbled.
Also on the list of things he'd rejected: curtains, cushions, striped teddy bear, bedside table, lamp.
(For the record, top of the list of things she had rejected: him.)
Ryan woke up in his big island-bed on Christmas morning and felt… alone. It was a precise, irrefutable feeling, like the beginnings of the flu. Because he had no curtains, a bright shaft of sunshine entered his room, blinding him, and sending him burrowing back under the covers. Sleep came easily, even though he was no longer tired. When he awoke a second time, it was to the sound of his front door banging open.
Also on the list of things he'd rejected for his bedroom: anything that could be used to defend himself against a home invader.
…shit. He sat up in bed. As far as lame ways to die went, being killed in his bed by an intruder on the first Christmas after his father died was very possibly something that even the CSI writers would reject.
"There's nothing to steal!" he yelled, entirely truthfully. He sank back into bed with a defeated sigh.
Brendon poked his head around the bedroom door. "Sure there is! Your soul. Your virtue." Brendon shot him a filthy look and then continued, "And my mom's food. Which, by the way, you should probably call and thank her for. Otherwise she'll ask God to smite you-and just between you and me, I think he's kind of in her pocket."
Ryan squinted up at Brendon. "How did you get in here?"
"I stole your key yesterday," Brendon said cheerfully. He added, "And the fact that you never even noticed means that you haven't left your apartment in, like, 24 hours." He gave Ryan a disapproving look.
"That's, like, a massive invasion of privacy," Ryan said faintly.
"Oh, whatever. What's a little B an' E between friends?" Brendon sat down on Ryan's bed and bounced lightly. "I knew you'd just stay indoors and cry all day if I didn't come over."
"I'm not crying." Ryan frowned. "I was trying to sleep."
"It's four in the afternoon! I've been up since six, fucker. My little cousin invited all her friends round and they used me as jukebox and pulled my hair when I tried to leave the room!"
Ryan smiled in spite of himself. "You loved it," he said.
Brendon grinned. "Whatever."
They lapsed into silence, until Brendon began untying his shoes. He shrugged out of his jacket and began burrowing under the comforter. "Scoot over," he muttered, and when Ryan didn't move, he swatted at him. "Move."
Warily, Ryan rolled over, onto the left side of the bed. He closed his eyes, feeling the soft bounce of the mattress as Brendon fitted himself into place behind Ryan. Brendon accidentally kicked him and Ryan retaliated, making a face. Finally, the mattress stilled, and Ryan felt the warm, solid weight of Brendon behind him; the warm pool of breath on his neck as Brendon adjusted his voice to a whisper.
"You sure you're okay, man?"
Ryan smiled absently. Only Brendon was capable of snuggling next to him and then calling him man as some misplaced assertion of masculinity. "Yeah, man," he said, only lightly mocking, "I'm fine."
Brendon's voice in his ear was serious. "Yeah, but really. You're not fine, you're not fine at all."
Ryan was glad he didn't have to look at Brendon. He sighed. "I just wanna sleep. I just wanna sleep and feel better."
"You know, there are other ways-more fun ways to feel better," Brendon said suggestively. Ryan felt a light snap at the waistband of his sweatpants.
"Shut up," Ryan mumbled, trying unsuccessfully to keep the smile out of his voice.
"Okay, okay. We'll sleep. You and me. World-class sleeping. Sleeping for America."
"I usually see sleeping as kind of a solitary activity," Ryan said, even as he leaned into the slight nuzzle of Brendon's cheek against his neck.
"Nope," Brendon said resolutely, "not anymore. It's you and me, buddy. We'll visit each other in our dreams. Go dream kayaking, play dream volleyball, go see the dream Beatles reunion tour. It'll be awesome."
Ryan felt the heavy promise of sleep seeping through his limbs; the warmth of Brendon's words filling his head. He smiled and murmured, "Okay."
-----
Title: Better Than Your Worst Day
Author: Nicola
Fandom: RPS: Panic! At the Disco
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon (friendship or pre-slash)
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,792
Summary: Christmas is just another day.
Note: I mishear All-American Rejects song lyrics and use them for my fic titles. Good times!
Written for _lolapalooza as part of the damnyouwentz Secret Santa thingamajig.
-----
Better Than Your Worst Day
Las Vegas, NV
Christmas is just another day.
Ryan figured he should be used to those words by now. He'd said them a lot over the past month. Well, typed them, mostly. That sad little sentence glaring at him from his Sidekick screen just before he pressed send. Sad? Sure. Fucking depressing? That too. "But true. I'm fine, Pete," he tersely told his empty apartment as his fingers skimmed across the keys. He wrote, I'll see you in New York for New Year's, and then tossed his Sidekick away.
He had been invited all over the country for the holidays and he had-with thinning graciousness-refused every invitation. He didn't want to go through all the rituals (strained gift-giving, It's A Wonderful Life, tipsy arguments smoothed over by more alcohol) this year, and least of all in someone else's home.
Ryan sank back into the couch cushions and exhaled. As the air left his lungs, he listened. Silence, finally. After the circus (haha) of the tour, all he really wanted for Christmas (hahaha) was… quiet. A comforter over his head; the world blocked out for a while.
There was a loud knocking on his door. Ryan breathed in. This time when he exhaled, it was unsteady-frustrated. "Go away," he muttered. He breathed in. More knocking. Out.
"Hey, Ryan!" a voice yelled. "Let me in!" Knock, knock. "I'm gonna drop this stuff. If you end up with coleslaw all over your step, it's not my fault!"
With all the calmness he could muster, Ryan walked to the door. He opened it an inch.
"Brendon," he said in a low voice, "I thought I said-"
"Yeah, yeah." Brendon pushed at the door with his shoulder and bustled-actually bustled-past Ryan and into the apartment. "Christmas is just another day. Whatever. Today is Christmas Eve. And my mom made all this stuff for you."
With a flourish, Brendon emptied his arms of half-a-dozen Tupperware containers and foil-wrapped packages. They tumbled onto table and-true to form-one of the containers bounced onto the floor, cracked open and spilled a cheerful sludge of vomit-like coleslaw onto the expensive hardwood floor.
"Oops," Brendon said, remorselessly.
Ryan crossed his arms across his chest. "What are you doing here?" he asked shortly. "I'm kinda busy," he added, despite the fact that he was, like, the least busy person in the history of not being busy.
"Yeah, right. You're, like, the least busy-"
"Brendon," Ryan said sharply. "What d'you want?"
"My mom made all this food." Brendon shrugged and began attacking a package of cookies. "These are made with tofu," he said between mouthfuls. "They're pretty good."
For a moment, Ryan's confusion overcame his annoyance. "Why did she make me tofu cookies?"
"I think"-Brendon swallowed hard, licking extravagantly at his bottom lip-"she thinks you're vegan or something."
"Why does she think that?"
"Well." Brendon considered. "She asked what you were doing for Christmas and, you know, I told her the party line." He rolled his eyes and adopted a sarcastic sing-song voice. "Christmas is just another day." He paused for breath. "Anyway! She was pretty horrified, so I had to do some damage control."
Ryan was growing increasingly exasperated. "How does that involve me being vegan?"
"Well," Brendon began again. "I was trying to skim over the whole"-he dropped his voice-"atheist thing. Because, I mean, she probably wouldn't come round here and set you on fire. Although, jeez, Christmas makes her kinda crazy so"-he made a face-"can't be too careful. Anyway! I told her you were doing your own thing. Finding your own spiritual path." He grinned. "She liked that one a lot. But I think I went a bit far and made it sound like you'd joined some kind of hippyish cult. And to her that means… veganism."
"Right." Ryan let out a sigh. "Makes perfect sense."
There was a long silence. Brendon continued to eat the tofu cookies. Ryan toed at the puddle of coleslaw, swirling it into a circle using the tip of his Converse.
Brendon's cookie-eating slowed. "You know," he said carefully, "you could still come over for dinner. I can almost guarantee you won't have any fun! It'll suck. It'll be a totally and completely sucky Christmas. Except… you won't have to be alone."
Ryan stared blankly at him.
Brendon hurried on, "It wouldn't really be celebrating. It would just be… eating! It wouldn't mean any disrespect to your dad's memory, if that's what you think, Ry."
"You think I want this?" Ryan exploded. "You think I want to stay holed up like this? I would rather be anywhere else! But I have to…" He was aware of himself running out of steam, the anger draining from his body. "I need to…" He mouthed the word fuck and turned away.
It was almost a full minute before he managed to say, "Just leave me alone, Brendon. I'm fine."
Ryan heard the hollow ring to his voice, but he didn't care. He just wanted the warmth of his bed; heavy silence like a blanket.
*
Ryan's apartment was blank-stylishly so. He had bought it using his first royalties check. The realtor had advised him to keep it neutrally decorated, uncluttered, minimize wear and tear. That way he could flip it for a nice profit in a few years' time. It was a pretty good excuse-to not paint the walls; to not buy anything except IKEA furniture. Part of him was just waiting for Tyler Durden to show up and blow it all to hell, but even if he didn't, Ryan would be able to sell his apartment, make a profit, and all without developing any emotional connection to the place. It was fine.
His bed was like a island in the middle of his empty bedroom. He'd deliberately pushed it away from the walls; he enjoyed the incongruity, the way it dominated the space. He had been dating Jac at the time he'd bought the apartment and she had helped him move in-if sneeringly second-guessing every decision he made counted as helping.
"You're not gonna buy a wardrobe even? Where are you gonna put your clothes?" she'd asked, meaning, where am I gonna put my clothes?
"'s why they call it living out of a suitcase," he had mumbled.
Also on the list of things he'd rejected: curtains, cushions, striped teddy bear, bedside table, lamp.
(For the record, top of the list of things she had rejected: him.)
Ryan woke up in his big island-bed on Christmas morning and felt… alone. It was a precise, irrefutable feeling, like the beginnings of the flu. Because he had no curtains, a bright shaft of sunshine entered his room, blinding him, and sending him burrowing back under the covers. Sleep came easily, even though he was no longer tired. When he awoke a second time, it was to the sound of his front door banging open.
Also on the list of things he'd rejected for his bedroom: anything that could be used to defend himself against a home invader.
…shit. He sat up in bed. As far as lame ways to die went, being killed in his bed by an intruder on the first Christmas after his father died was very possibly something that even the CSI writers would reject.
"There's nothing to steal!" he yelled, entirely truthfully. He sank back into bed with a defeated sigh.
Brendon poked his head around the bedroom door. "Sure there is! Your soul. Your virtue." Brendon shot him a filthy look and then continued, "And my mom's food. Which, by the way, you should probably call and thank her for. Otherwise she'll ask God to smite you-and just between you and me, I think he's kind of in her pocket."
Ryan squinted up at Brendon. "How did you get in here?"
"I stole your key yesterday," Brendon said cheerfully. He added, "And the fact that you never even noticed means that you haven't left your apartment in, like, 24 hours." He gave Ryan a disapproving look.
"That's, like, a massive invasion of privacy," Ryan said faintly.
"Oh, whatever. What's a little B an' E between friends?" Brendon sat down on Ryan's bed and bounced lightly. "I knew you'd just stay indoors and cry all day if I didn't come over."
"I'm not crying." Ryan frowned. "I was trying to sleep."
"It's four in the afternoon! I've been up since six, fucker. My little cousin invited all her friends round and they used me as jukebox and pulled my hair when I tried to leave the room!"
Ryan smiled in spite of himself. "You loved it," he said.
Brendon grinned. "Whatever."
They lapsed into silence, until Brendon began untying his shoes. He shrugged out of his jacket and began burrowing under the comforter. "Scoot over," he muttered, and when Ryan didn't move, he swatted at him. "Move."
Warily, Ryan rolled over, onto the left side of the bed. He closed his eyes, feeling the soft bounce of the mattress as Brendon fitted himself into place behind Ryan. Brendon accidentally kicked him and Ryan retaliated, making a face. Finally, the mattress stilled, and Ryan felt the warm, solid weight of Brendon behind him; the warm pool of breath on his neck as Brendon adjusted his voice to a whisper.
"You sure you're okay, man?"
Ryan smiled absently. Only Brendon was capable of snuggling next to him and then calling him man as some misplaced assertion of masculinity. "Yeah, man," he said, only lightly mocking, "I'm fine."
Brendon's voice in his ear was serious. "Yeah, but really. You're not fine, you're not fine at all."
Ryan was glad he didn't have to look at Brendon. He sighed. "I just wanna sleep. I just wanna sleep and feel better."
"You know, there are other ways-more fun ways to feel better," Brendon said suggestively. Ryan felt a light snap at the waistband of his sweatpants.
"Shut up," Ryan mumbled, trying unsuccessfully to keep the smile out of his voice.
"Okay, okay. We'll sleep. You and me. World-class sleeping. Sleeping for America."
"I usually see sleeping as kind of a solitary activity," Ryan said, even as he leaned into the slight nuzzle of Brendon's cheek against his neck.
"Nope," Brendon said resolutely, "not anymore. It's you and me, buddy. We'll visit each other in our dreams. Go dream kayaking, play dream volleyball, go see the dream Beatles reunion tour. It'll be awesome."
Ryan felt the heavy promise of sleep seeping through his limbs; the warmth of Brendon's words filling his head. He smiled and murmured, "Okay."
-----