Souls Like the Wheels 1/2
Title: Souls Like the Wheels
Author: ivesia19
Rating: R
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
POV: 3rd limited (Ryan)
Summary: Amnesia fic! When Brendon loses his memory, Ryan clings to what’s left of him.
Disclaimer: The boys belong to themselves (and possibly each other)
Author Notes: Inspired by the relationship of Illyria and Wesley on Angel and this song - download it here!
Dedication: To those who love people who don’t remember (especially you, Becca) and those who can’t remember how to love.
---
Brendon always has a tendency to be late. He gets caught up in what he’s doing, oblivious to anything else but the moment, so often, time slips by him.
Ryan, on the other hand, Ryan always tries to be on time. Early even. If he has someplace to be: an appointment, a meeting, hell, even a showtime for a movie, he gets anxious as the clock ticks closer and closer to the time, always fearing that he won’t make it. Ryan hates being late, but it’s something that he has started to expect. After two years of dating Brendon, even if most of that time was under the radar, he has learned to calm down a little bit when they show up somewhere five minutes late.
Still, when he looks at the clock and its fifteen minutes past the time that Brendon promised that he would come pick him up, Ryan gets a little annoyed.
He dials Brendon’s number again quickly, the digits seamlessly flowing as he types them in and groans when it goes straight to voicemail. Again. Ryan thinks about leaving a message, but he hangs up instead angrily when Brendon’s stupid voicemail comes on: the one where he talks in a ridiculous voice that when Ryan isn’t so upset is yeah, maybe a little bit adorable.
They’re supposed to go to dinner at a restaurant that actually requires reservations, and even though Ryan told Brendon to come pick him up a half hour before their seating time, he knows that they won’t make it now and sighs, wondering if he should call the restaurant and see if they’ll push back the reservation.
Ryan walks across the room and settles down into his comfortable couch, grabbing the remote and turning the television on to some stupid sitcom that he doesn’t really pay attention to. He doesn’t want to appear like he’s waiting for Brendon when his boyfriend finally barges through the door, breathless, wheezing to catch his breath and explain why he was late, so Ryan turns the sound up and brings his feet up on the couch to relax.
Hobo jumps up and curls her body around Ryan’s leg, and he absentmindedly pets her head, irritation still flowing through him, spiking up every time his eyes meet the clock and another minute has passed by.
When the clock passes by the half hour mark, Ryan just shakes his head and mentally says goodbye to the romantic dinner that he had planned with Brendon. Even if, by some miracle, Brendon shows up in time for them to still get a table, now Ryan’s romantic notions are all but squashed. The key in his pocket suddenly feels heavy, and Ryan lifts up his hips to pull it out, along with the note attached, before he puts it in the drawer of the side table. He won’t give it to Brendon tonight, not when he’s aggravated at him. Ryan knows it’s a big step, and he won’t have Brendon’s inconsiderate ways or his own irritation spoil the moment.
Hobo is warm against Ryan’s leg, her breathing evened out, and Ryan knows the she has fallen asleep. He wonders if maybe he should just retire to his room. Lock the door and ignore the thudding knock when Brendon actually shows up. He won’t even have to put on the deadbolt if he doesn’t want to. It’s not like Brendon has a key to his apartment.
Ryan sighs and stretches out a little bit, and Hobo stirs. He hates that he’s sitting in front of his television watching some stupid show from the 90s where the clothing choices are always fluorescent. He hates that Brendon does this to him - hates that he loves Brendon so much that he’ll sit there on the couch like a sixteen year old girl who got stood up. He briefly wonders if he should break out the ice cream.
When Ryan looks at the clock again, now forty five minutes past the time that Brendon had promised that he would come by, Ryan’s fingers inch towards his sidekick, and he doesn’t care if he seems wound up - he dials Brendon’s number again. As he listens to Brendon’s cheery message, Ryan tries to calm himself down. He knows that it’ll do no good leaving Brendon a screaming rant. That’ll only send the other boy into a pathetically sad kind of funk.
The message beeps and Ryan takes a deep breath before telling Brendon in his usual monotone to call him back. “I’m just wondering where you are,” Ryan says, just a little passive-aggressively. “We’ve missed our reservations,” he reminds, and then, because he can’t help it, he adds, “I guess I’ll see you soon. Love you, Bren.”
Ryan sets the phone down next to him, hands scratching at Hobo’s ears, and he’s not watching the television, not really, so it doesn’t make any sense that it’s on, so he shuts it off and leans his head back against the cool leather of the sofa, letting his breath out in one quick burst and his bangs flutter up before they drift back down, tickling his forehead. From this angle, he can’t see the clock, and even though he’s angry at Brendon for being so late, for being so inconsiderate, it’s really not that unusual, so it’s not like Ryan is surprised. Despite all of Brendon’s little quirks, his less attractive qualities, Ryan loves him.
Next to him on the arm of the couch, his sidekick goes off, and the vibrations resonate through the couch before Ryan snatches his phone up. He doesn’t even check the screen, assuming it’s Brendon, and he can’t help how instantly his anger melts away.
“I thought you were standing me up, asshole,” he says, smiling just a little just for the sheer fact that Brendon is on the other line.
But then there’s a cough, a clearing of a throat, one that isn’t Brendon. “Mr. Ross?” a voice asks.
Ryan flips his phone over and looks at the foreign number, his stomach sinking for a reason that he doesn’t quite know why yet. Panic is coursing through him strangely and he tenses up. Maybe it’s the way the voice sounds, a little crackly and rough. Maybe it was the way he coughed, or the way that he said Ryan’s name, but Ryan knows that something is wrong.
“Mr. Ross?” the voice repeats again, and Ryan can hardly focus, but he takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes, hoping that the words floating around in his head are wrong.
He doesn’t know how to verbalize what he’s thinking, what he’s fearing, so all that comes out is a choked and quiet “Brendon?”
---
Brendon’s coma lasts for seventy one hours and Ryan’s not exaggerating when he says that it’s the longest seventy one hours of his life.
By the time that Brendon finally wakes, groggy and disoriented, Ryan is a mess, curled up in one of the deceivingly stiff chairs up against the wall of the room. He’s been there since the call - unyielding when the hospital staff tried to convince him to leave. Legally, he didn’t have a right to be there, not really, but Ryan didn’t care and ignored the harsh words reminding him of visiting hours. The only thing that mattered was that he was with Brendon.
It is the grumbled groan that wakes Ryan from his restless slumber, and while Ryan had been waking up on and off for the last several hours, each tiny noise bringing him back from the brink of sleep, the second Ryan snaps back into consciousness, he knows that this is different.
Brendon is sitting up in the hospital bed, looking around blearily. Considering that he was in a car accident, one serious enough to land him in a coma, there are few scars marring his face. His hair is a little matted: messy and dirty, but he’s awake and Ryan hurriedly scurries out of the chair because Brendon is awake and beautiful, and while he had tried to keep hope, in the past couple days, the past endless hours, Ryan couldn’t stop the terrible thoughts from sinking in. The what ifs.
It doesn’t take Ryan long to make it across the tiny room, and in no time he’s kneeling next to Brendon’s bed, legs unable to hold himself up, and he leans against his boyfriend. “Thank God,” he all but sobs, his head burrowing against Brendon's chest. “Thank God you woke up.”
He isn’t one for over exaggerated emotions. In fact, usually Ryan keeps what he is feeling in check, but just then, he can’t help it as his breath comes out in happy stutters.
Ryan’s arms come up around Brendon to hold him tight, to pull him close, but he notices that something is off. Brendon isn’t leaning back into him like usual. He isn’t surging up to meet Ryan and he isn’t wrapping himself around him. Brendon’s body is tense and firm, and when Ryan pulls Brendon forward, he leans back.
“Bren?” Ryan questions, long fingers swiping up to brush some of Brendon’s unruly hair out of his face. “Bren, are you okay?”
Brendon’s eyes are so wide as he darts around the room and he’s clumsy as he untangles his hands from Ryan’s clasp.
“Brendon?” Ryan asks again, and that sinking feeling is back, that same feeling that Ryan got just before he got the call telling him about the accident. “Do you want me to get a nurse?”
There’s no response, just those wide eyes glazing over Ryan. Wide and searching.
---
It’s called Retrograde Amnesia.
“I don’t understand,” Spencer says from Ryan’s left, his body close enough to Ryan’s on the couch in the doctor’s office that Ryan can feel how tense his best friend is. “What does that mean exactly?”
And Ryan tries to pay attention, he really does, but he can’t help but let his mind wander, a low buzzing filling his ears almost like if he doesn’t hear it, doesn’t hear the doctor explain everything that went wrong, the problem won’t exist. Still, despite his best efforts, a few phrases slip in.
“…an almost complete loss of memory…”
“…like a slate that’s been wiped clean…”
“…it’d doubtful that he’d remember that: remember people, places, or events, no…”
The office isn’t that ornately decorated and Ryan can’t think of anywhere to look other than the carpet, but with his head bowed down, eyes cast to the dark blue rug, he can’t help but feel worse, like maybe the doctor thinks that he doesn’t care about Brendon.
“Will he ever get better?” Ryan asks, the words coming out rough. He hasn’t spoken much lately. “Will he remember me?” he questions, still unable to get Brendon’s look out of his mind, the way that those brown eyes, those eyes that Ryan knows so well, didn’t know him. His words feel heavy and thick in his mouth, and Ryan can almost hear the pathetically sad amount of hope drenching each syllable.
Spencer’s hand finds his own and feels warm, but not quite comforting. His boyfriend doesn’t remember him, doesn’t remember his life. What could possibly be comforting?
“There’s a chance, a small chance mind you, but there are some records of partial memory recovery. And he didn’t lose everything. Just a small area of his brain suffered the damage. He can still talk. He has motor skills and will be able to remember simple things.” The doctor’s voice is smooth and even. Ryan hates it. Hates how calm he is being. “The mind is fascinating. There’s no telling what he’ll remember, what he won’t.”
Ryan frowns. “That doesn’t really answer my question.”
---
Spencer makes the decision and cancels the upcoming tour. Ryan doesn’t argue.
---
When Ryan opens the door to the hospital room, Brendon immediately turns towards the noise of the swinging hinge, and it pains Ryan when there’s no subtle change there, no little flicker or small smile, just a curious stare. Spencer is waiting outside in the waiting room, no doubt a little bit moody because Ryan wouldn’t allow him to come with, but Ryan is glad that it’s just him and Brendon. He doesn’t want the pity of others. He doesn’t want people feeling bad for him because his boyfriend of two years, the man he loves, doesn’t remember him. Couldn’t pick him out of a crowd.
“Hey,” Ryan says quietly, closing the door carefully behind him as he composes himself. He doesn’t run towards the bed like before, doesn’t collapse down next to Brendon, but from where the chair is set against the wall, it’s too far away from the bed for Ryan’s liking, so he goes over and picks the chair up, moving it closer to the bed. Close enough that Ryan feels that thrill of being near to Brendon, that thrill that never really went away, but also close enough for him to feel the pang of loss that is now becoming all too familiar to Ryan each time Brendon blankly looks at him.
“Hi,” Brendon responds, and Ryan breathes out an audible breath because that voice is so familiar. It’s one he knows almost better than he knows his own. He knows just how to read it, what every little inflection means, and he hates what Brendon’s voice is telling him now. He can almost hear the invisible question mark at the end of his greeting.
It’s hard, it really is, but he does it anyway. “My name is Ryan,” he says. “Ryan Ross.”
Brendon nods. “I’m Brendon Urie,” he says, hesitating a little over the name, and Ryan almost wants to laugh, a sad, choking laugh, because he isn’t the one who lost his memory, and even if he was, Ryan doesn’t think he could ever forget Brendon. And maybe that’s what’s hurting Ryan the most - the fact that even though Brendon’s memory is altered, changed, some part of Ryan was pathetically hoping that maybe he had somehow stayed in there. That maybe he had meant that much.
“I know,” Ryan responds, his hand twitching as he looks at Brendon’s open hand, the one that he wants to hold but knows that he shouldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Brendon says. “They haven’t told me much about anything. I know my name and my birthday, my age, but that’s about it.” He pauses and bites his lower lip, that full lower lip that Ryan knows so well. “But you were the one that was here earlier, right? When I woke up?”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, voice cracking a little because he really thought that he would be able to handle this but now he’s not so sure. “I was here,” he confirms and then, even though the doctor told Ryan to start things out slow, even though he was told not to rush things, Ryan tells Brendon, “I’m your boyfriend,” because he’s maybe just a little bit selfish, but he wants some of Brendon back, even if it’s just a little bit of recognition.
“Okay,” Brendon says without much feeling, like he’s storing that information away more than anything else. “What else can you tell me?”
---
Ryan let’s Spencer deal with the press. Spencer and Jon both handle it all. He doesn’t know what they say. He doesn’t really care.
He has more important things to worry about.
---
It’s too hard for Ryan to really talk about them as a couple. About the complexities and the years of circling around each other, so when he visits Brendon, he talks about other things. About that time that Brendon and Jon had a contest to see who could drink a gallon of milk faster and how much Zack had yelled when Brendon threw up all over the kitchenette. Or when Spencer left his favorite pair of shoes in a hotel somewhere along highway 81 and how he had made the driver turn around to find them.
Everyday, Ryan visits and tells Brendon stories. Things that are unimportant to everyone but the people involved. Brendon always listens, and each day when Ryan comes in, Brendon’s eyes are always a little brighter, a little more sure, but every day it grows harder and harder for Ryan. Still, it is Brendon. Somewhere in there is the man he loves, and he can’t tear himself away from that.
---
“I want to take him home,” Ryan tells the doctor, his voice firm and steady. He’s been thinking about it for awhile. Ever since Brendon woke up, ever since he opened up his eyes. Ryan needs him close, and Brendon, Brendon can’t stay here. “It’ll be good for him,” Ryan asserts, “being around things from his life, talking to people that know him.”
“He could benefit from more time here,” the doctor insists. “I don’t know if it’s the best move to take him back to his old life. To the things he used to do, it could be too much.”
Ryan hates how the doctor doesn’t speak in the present tense. He hates how the doctor talks like Brendon is two different people. Ryan knows that it’s only a matter of time before Brendon snaps out of it. One day, Ryan knows that Brendon is going to look over at him with that stupid large grin, and everything will be back to normal.
“I want to take him home,” Ryan repeats.
---
Ryan sets up the guest room in his house and moves stuff over from Brendon’s, using the key that his boyfriend had given him when he had moved in.
Even since the beginning, Brendon had always welcomed Ryan in.
Jon flies down from Chicago, and together with Spencer, he and Ryan move all of Brendon’s stuff into Ryan’s apartment. It doesn’t take too long. Spencer is efficient and quick to pull Ryan away whenever he fingers at one of Brendon’s favorite shirts or peeks through a photo album.
When they finally bring Brendon back, after a couple of tedious hours of paperwork, he just looks around the apartment, taking everything in before sighing deep, his shoulders slumping.
“I don’t remember this,” he says quietly, turning apologetically to Ryan, and then, more to himself, he whispers, “I don’t remember my own home.”
“Well,” Jon says, swooping in, “this is actually Ryan’s place, but we all thought it would be better if you had someone with you. If you didn’t live alone.”
Ryan doesn’t say anything, he can’t make himself form any words, but Spencer helps out when he says, “You and Ryan were planning on living together anyways,” and while it’s not exactly true, because Ryan never got to ask Brendon, he doesn’t disagree and Brendon nods.
“We were committed then,” he states, nodding, filing it away with the other miniscule facts that he knows about his life.
“Yeah,” Jon says, and Ryan can feel Jon’s stare on him, but he doesn’t look up. “You are,” he adds, “or were.”
That switch in tenses, every time someone does it, something twists deep within Ryan.
Spencer coughs. “But this is where you’ll be living.” He beckons Brendon forward and leads him into the back guestroom. Jon follows, but Ryan lingers there by the door, watches Brendon walk into his apartment and turn into a room that isn’t the one that Ryan had imagined only a few weeks ago.
---
It’s difficult. It’s been a couple of weeks, and still, Brendon’s memory hasn’t seemed to have suddenly come back. There hasn’t been that moment of epiphany, and every day that Ryan talks to Brendon and Brendon talks back to him like Ryan is some new friend, some acquaintance, he can’t help but think that maybe this is the way that it’ll always be. He can’t help but think that he has lost Brendon forever.
---
“I brought your piano over,” Ryan says to Brendon after Jon and Spencer say goodbye, leaving the two of them alone in the suddenly overwhelmingly quiet apartment.
Brendon is sitting down at the couch, watching the news - bringing himself up to date with what has gone on since he’s been in the hospital, or actually, just with everything in general considering he remembers nothing, but when Ryan talks, he turns towards him and cocks his head. “I played piano?”
Ryan nods. “You do,” he asserts. “You’re amazing. When you play…” he starts, but for some reason, it’s hard to talk. “When you play, people listen. They really listen because you’re something special.” Ryan looks away from Brendon, and starts to walk towards the piano, almost subconsciously. “I can play a little,” he says. “You were teaching me to be better.”
He sits down at the bench, hard and unrelenting underneath him, and his fingers splay out across the cool ivory keys. His pointer finger presses down lightly on the middle C key, a vibrating note barely ringing out, and he plays it again, a constant low thrumming, as if it’ll stop the awkwardness of condemning himself to live with someone he doesn’t know masquerading around as someone he knew more than anyone.
Ryan closes his eyes, fingers still sliding across the keys, and he starts to play a simple melody, something that Brendon had taught him - an old Mormon hymn or something, just the barest of melodies, but one that is infectious and always seems to be stuck in his head.
He feels Brendon sit down beside him, the heat of their bodies next to each other so familiar, yet it’s just a constant and is unlike how it would be in the time before. Brendon doesn’t venture to move even closer to Ryan, maybe straddle Ryan’s lap, maybe haul him up on the piano, keys clanking together, notes coming together until their bodies fused too. Instead, Brendon just sits down next to him, a steady presence, just being there.
“I know this song,” Brendon breathes disbelievingly, his words coming out low but sure, more sure than anything Ryan has heard from him in awhile. Ryan turns, but Brendon’s eyes are closed and his fingers slide up to the keys, an octave below Ryan’s, their fingers gliding past each other briefly on the octave jumps, Brendon’s fingers mimicking Ryan’s perfectly. “I remember this.”
A shock runs through Ryan, one that is at the same time hopeful but irritated as he watches Brendon’s hands as he now adds the bass line, strong chords breaking through, and then, as if to make everything more real, Brendon begins to sing the words.
“I remember this,” Brendon yelps triumphantly when the song ends, Ryan’s hands long since retired into his lap with only Brendon’s fingers calling out the final notes. “The notes, the words - - everything! I remember this.”
Ryan smiles back painfully at Brendon when the other boy turns and grins at him before pulling him into a hug. He’s happy, he really is, but underneath the small victory, he can’t help but wonder why Brendon can remember a simple church hymn, something that should be blurred in an undamaged mind, yet doesn’t remember him or Spencer or Jon. Doesn’t remember the band. Doesn’t remember himself.
Brendon’s arms are wrapped tightly around him, his breath hot against Ryan’s neck, and Ryan feels it immediately, reacts to it immediately even though he doesn’t want to. He can’t help it because it’s him. Because it’s Brendon, so he pulls away. “I’m proud of you, B,” Ryan says, the single initial somehow easier for him to manage. “That’s great.”
---
Somewhere along the line, Ryan notices that he starts to talk about Brendon more and more in the past tense. He notices that he makes a distinction between who Brendon was before the accident and the man who is staying with him now.
When Ryan looks at Brendon, he still feels the pangs of lust, the overwhelming sharp jolt of what he knows is still love, but he also can see the differences. He can see that this guy, this guy in Brendon’s clothes, with Brendon’s smile and his voice and his laugh isn’t really his boyfriend.
And even though Brendon is in front of him, right in front of him, Ryan misses him. Misses the man he was. It’s not like this Brendon isn’t great, because he is, he has so much in him that Brendon was, but he isn’t the full man.
He isn’t really Brendon.
---
“How are you holding up, Ryan?” Spencer asks, and even though it’s over the phone, Ryan can picture him perfectly, can practically see the look of concern on his best friend’s face. “You know you don’t have to do this,” he reminds him. “What you’re doing is more than anyone would ask of you, Ry.”
Ryan looks over to where Brendon is stirring something on the stove. He’s cooking some sauce that he saw on the food channel, and even though the Brendon that Ryan knew didn’t even know how to make toast, the smell from the kitchen is mouthwatering. “I’m fine,” he assures Spencer.
“You don’t have to be,” Spencer says. “You lost the man you love.” He pauses, his words full of so much sympathy that Ryan can barely stand it. “You don’t have to be okay. This can’t be easy for you.”
“I haven’t lost him, Spencer,” Ryan shoots back, watching as Brendon dips a finger into the sauce and licks it off the pad of his fingertip, smiling a little, tiny crinkles lining his eyes. “I haven’t lost him.”
---
Sometimes, Ryan has moments where he thinks that Brendon is coming back to him. They’re always stupid, silly things that wouldn’t mean anything to anybody else, like when Brendon chooses mint chocolate chip over all the other flavors or like when he stutters over a word that he never did know how to pronounce. It’s times like these that Ryan feels a little twinge of something that feels very much like hope.
Ryan notices the things that are the same. Like how Brendon bites his lower lip when he’s nervous or how he always eats the crust of the pizza first. But more than anything, Ryan notices the differences. He notices when Brendon drinks his coffee black now without its usual dumping of sugar. He notices when Brendon doesn’t smile ridiculously when Aladdin and Jasmine kiss on the magic carpet.
It’s hard to admit, but the differences far outweigh the similarities.
---
More and more, Ryan retreats into himself. He spends hours in his room, takes walks by himself down the strip. He feels a little guilty about how he’s not spending that much time with Brendon, but really, it’s too hard for him sometime and he just has to escape. Plus, Spencer and Jon are always around. Shane too. It’s rare that Brendon is alone.
Yet, despite the hurt, the aching pain that is always around whenever Brendon is around, Ryan is still drawn to him, and there are times when he searches him out.
Sometimes, Ryan will stumble upon Brendon sleeping on the couch, rolled up into himself and it’s almost like nothing ever changed.
---
When Ryan gets back from his walk, Brendon is sitting in the living room on the couch, burrowed in amongst the pillows, and on the large plasma screen, Ryan looks up to see his own face staring back down at him, mouth open wide, singing.
Ryan sits down next to Brendon, not right next to him like he would have done weeks ago, but not that far away, and when he sits down, Brendon shifts just a little, as if by instinct, until their skin touches.
“I didn’t know that you sang,” Brendon says. “Jon told me that I was the singer.”
“You are,” Ryan affirms, “but sometimes I would sing too. I started out as the lead singer, actually, but once I heard you-” He takes a deep breath. “The first time I heard you sing was the first time that I knew that we were going to make it,” he admits.
Brendon doesn’t respond, but a small smile plays at his lips and he turns his attention back to the screen, watches as Ryan on the television crosses over across the stage and shares a microphone with Brendon, kissing his cheek quickly before hurrying back to the right of the stage. And Ryan remembers that. He remembers the exhilaration of each show. He remembers the excitement of being with Brendon when no one knew.
“We really loved each other,” Brendon says, watching himself on stage follow Ryan, hand grazing his cheek. “I mean, people have told me. And I know that things haven’t been easy for you so it must-” He breaks off. “But we really did love each other.”
“You can tell that?” Ryan asks, throat constricting as he says the words. “You can tell that just from this concert video?”
Brendon shakes his head. “Not just that,” he says, “but I can tell. We really did love each other.”
And Ryan wants to say that they still do, wants to say that he still does, but he doesn’t know what good that would do, so he just sits there and lets Brendon lean a little bit against him, and together they watch the screen and listen to their voices blend together seamlessly.
---
There are a lot of things that Ryan misses about Brendon. He misses the way that Brendon would take any chance he could to snuggle up next to him. He misses how Brendon would pick up stupid little toys that he thought would amuse Ryan. And yeah, he misses the kisses. He misses the touching and the feel of Brendon inside of him, the feel of Brendon surrounding him, but it’s more than that.
He misses Brendon.
---
Brendon leans against the handle of the shopping cart, pushing it with his ass sticking up in the air, arms crossed over themselves as he leans his head down as they make their way down another aisle. “Ryan, I’m so bored,” Brendon says, huffing a little as the words come out.
It’s been over a month now, and most of the awkwardness is gone. It’s still hard, of course it is, but each day, it’s getting a little bit easier for Ryan to see Brendon as separate from the one who he had loved.
“We’re almost done,” Ryan says, good-natured irritation coming through a little. “Jesus, you’ve got the attention span of a five year old.” He laughs. “I remember this one time when we had to wait in line for a movie and Bre-you were so antsy that you flashed a smile at some fangirls just to get ahead in the line.” Ryan catches himself, tries to keep his voice light and flippant even though he almost made that mistake, almost talked about Brendon as if he were really gone.
“Oh!” Brendon exclaims, apparently unaware of Ryan’s slipup. “We should go see a movie. Something funny.”
“Sure,” Ryan agrees, taking the end of the cart and pulling them down another aisle. “That sounds great, B.”
---
Sometimes, Ryan finds little notes that Brendon had left him. Just simple post it notes reminding Ryan to get more milk or a reminder that Brendon loved him. Whenever Ryan finds one of these notes, he puts them in a box under his bed.
No one knows it’s there. Not even Spencer.
Ryan knows that it probably isn’t healthy, isn’t helping him move on, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to move on. He wants to remember.
---
“Ryan,” Brendon voices, his words coming out loud in the quiet room where both he and Ryan are reading.
When Ryan looks over, the book, one that Brendon had loved years ago when they first got signed, is set open on his lap. “Yeah?”
Brendon looks down and marks his book before setting it down on the coffee table and making his way over to the couch from his armchair, settling down next to Ryan.
“I know that the doctors told you not to tell me everything, but you used to tell me little stories. You used to try and…” He stops off for a second, searching for a word. “You used to try and make something spark, and I know that you’ve probably given up hope by now,” he says, and Ryan doesn’t disagree even though he really really hasn’t, “but I think it might be good for me if you told me more about myself. I think I’d like to know about my life.”
Ryan almost wants to laugh in some pathetic way because yes, he probably is the one who knows Brendon the best, the one who knows his past so well because he clings to it, but it’s strange because he almost doesn’t want to share that part of Brendon’s life, that part of his own life with this new Brendon.
He knows that Brendon has read past interviews of himself - - Ryan’s caught him at it a couple of times, and often times, Brendon will throw in one of their old concert DVDs as if that’ll spark everything. All it seems to do is help Brendon learn the words to all their old songs, and sometimes, hearing Brendon singing Ryan’s words again is too much.
“What do you want to know?” Ryan finally asks because as selfish as he wants to be, it’s unfair for Brendon to be denied his own life, and maybe, just maybe, this will help.
“Everything,” Brendon says, scooting closer to Ryan now. “What was my childhood like? My family? My friends?” His voice is all unbridled excitement, but when he speaks next, he’s quieter, almost a whisper. “I want to know about us too.”
Ryan nods and takes a deep breath. “It’s a long story,” he says. “All of it is. It might take awhile.”
And Brendon moves even closer still, and they’re so close, sitting almost like they used to, but that easy comfort is replaced with something much more complicated, something that reminds Ryan of the early days when every touch from Brendon meant a second guessing.
“I don’t know where to start,” Ryan admits.
“Just start when we met,” Brendon suggests and Ryan nods because of course that’s where he should start. After all, that’s when it did all start.
Ryan is thankful for the dim light of the room, but even so, he knows that Brendon can probably see how he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as he prepares himself. “When Brent first brought you to practice - you remember Brent, right?”
Brendon smiles wryly, visible even through the dim light. “Spencer has told me about him. Apparently, he doesn’t like me too much anymore.”
“He dislikes me more if that helps,” Ryan says, scoffing. “But anyways, when Brent first brought you to practice, you amazed me.”
“I was that good, huh?” Brendon asks, voice light and joking.
Ryan laughs, the tiny bit of humor making this whole thing just a little easier for him. “I didn’t even hear you play yet, didn’t even hear you sing, but you were so full of energy.” Ryan shakes his head at the memory. “You did a Gollum impression. All creepy and on pitch - - just perfect.”
“You let me into the band because I did a good impersonation?” Brendon asks disbelievingly.
“Well, we did have you play after that, but the Gollum thing sealed the deal.” Ryan smiles, thinking of that day, thinking of how nervous Brendon had seemed, how nervous Ryan was, but he doesn’t tell Brendon that. He doesn’t tell Brendon how the first time their eyes locked he had felt something or how when Brendon had played, Ryan had been jealous, envious even, but over everything else, he had known that he wanted, no, needed Brendon with them.
Brendon nods. “And what about us? How did we start dating?” He frowns, the small movement in his jaw visible to Ryan in the darkness. “I saw some things, read some things in magazines, online, things like that.” Ryan can tell just by the way that Brendon is leaning, the way that he is holding himself, that he’s embarrassed. “I read a primer,” he admits, and Ryan chokes back a bark of laughter.
“And what did they say?” he questions.
Brendon sits up a little bit straighter. “It was very informative,” he says. “If it’s true,” he rectifies.
“I see,” Ryan replies, but he doesn’t say much more. It’s still too hard to talk to Brendon about what they once had, what they should still have.
“Can you tell me?” Brendon asks, his voice almost pleading, and it pains Ryan that he’s not stronger, that he can’t handle it all like he thought he could.
“I’m sorry,” he manages. “I want to, but right now I just can’t.”
There’s a moment of silence, a long quiet pause where Ryan can hear Hobo sniffle from the other room, but finally Brendon speaks up. “Sometimes when I dream, I can’t help but wonder if they’re not really just memories,” he all but whispers.
Ryan’s breath catches, that tiny welling of hope starting up again. “What are they of?”
“Most nights I dream about you. About you and me together,” he admits, voice shaking just a little, and it’s strangely comforting to Ryan to know that he’s not the only person who is having trouble dealing with this. Of course, he knows it’s hard for Brendon, but at least he doesn’t have to know the pain of losing someone and still remembering them. All that he lost remains forgotten to him.
Ryan wants to ask what Brendon means by together, because yeah, he’s had dreams like that too. He’s had dreams where it’s all skin and lips and hands and moans, but he doesn’t think that if those are the kind of dreams that Brendon is talking about that they mean the same thing to them both.
Before Ryan can muster up the courage to ask, Brendon continues. “And I don’t really know you. Well, I do, but not really.” His words are coming out jumbled, sporadic, as if he’s still in a daze, still in that dream. “I don’t know you like I used to, but at night, when I dream, I do. I feel like I must have felt then. I feel like I know you. When I dream, it’s all about you and me, and I feel safe, and I know where I’m supposed to be.”
“Oh,” is all Ryan manages to get out, unsure of how to deal with everything that Brendon is saying, unsure of what all this means.
“And even when I wake - even now - I feel like wherever you are is where I’m supposed to be.”
“Brendon,” Ryan breathes, warns, calls out. He doesn’t know how he says it, but he doesn’t know if he can handle Brendon going on.
“You really loved him, didn’t you?” Brendon asks, voice raw now, full of so much emotion. “You loved me. Who I was.”
“We loved each other,” Ryan finally stutters out, the words painful though true, still so true. “I still love him.”
There’s a long pause, an endless stretch of silence, and then Brendon’s voice comes, meek and questioning. “And me? What does this mean for me?”
By this time, Brendon is leaning up against Ryan, and before he can stop himself, Ryan finds himself wrapping an arm around the other boy, comforting him. And the way that Brendon feels against him isn’t any different. The pattern of Brendon’s breath on his chest isn’t any different. But it is different. It is.
“I don’t know,” Ryan admits.
Part Two
Author: ivesia19
Rating: R
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
POV: 3rd limited (Ryan)
Summary: Amnesia fic! When Brendon loses his memory, Ryan clings to what’s left of him.
Disclaimer: The boys belong to themselves (and possibly each other)
Author Notes: Inspired by the relationship of Illyria and Wesley on Angel and this song - download it here!
Dedication: To those who love people who don’t remember (especially you, Becca) and those who can’t remember how to love.
---
Brendon always has a tendency to be late. He gets caught up in what he’s doing, oblivious to anything else but the moment, so often, time slips by him.
Ryan, on the other hand, Ryan always tries to be on time. Early even. If he has someplace to be: an appointment, a meeting, hell, even a showtime for a movie, he gets anxious as the clock ticks closer and closer to the time, always fearing that he won’t make it. Ryan hates being late, but it’s something that he has started to expect. After two years of dating Brendon, even if most of that time was under the radar, he has learned to calm down a little bit when they show up somewhere five minutes late.
Still, when he looks at the clock and its fifteen minutes past the time that Brendon promised that he would come pick him up, Ryan gets a little annoyed.
He dials Brendon’s number again quickly, the digits seamlessly flowing as he types them in and groans when it goes straight to voicemail. Again. Ryan thinks about leaving a message, but he hangs up instead angrily when Brendon’s stupid voicemail comes on: the one where he talks in a ridiculous voice that when Ryan isn’t so upset is yeah, maybe a little bit adorable.
They’re supposed to go to dinner at a restaurant that actually requires reservations, and even though Ryan told Brendon to come pick him up a half hour before their seating time, he knows that they won’t make it now and sighs, wondering if he should call the restaurant and see if they’ll push back the reservation.
Ryan walks across the room and settles down into his comfortable couch, grabbing the remote and turning the television on to some stupid sitcom that he doesn’t really pay attention to. He doesn’t want to appear like he’s waiting for Brendon when his boyfriend finally barges through the door, breathless, wheezing to catch his breath and explain why he was late, so Ryan turns the sound up and brings his feet up on the couch to relax.
Hobo jumps up and curls her body around Ryan’s leg, and he absentmindedly pets her head, irritation still flowing through him, spiking up every time his eyes meet the clock and another minute has passed by.
When the clock passes by the half hour mark, Ryan just shakes his head and mentally says goodbye to the romantic dinner that he had planned with Brendon. Even if, by some miracle, Brendon shows up in time for them to still get a table, now Ryan’s romantic notions are all but squashed. The key in his pocket suddenly feels heavy, and Ryan lifts up his hips to pull it out, along with the note attached, before he puts it in the drawer of the side table. He won’t give it to Brendon tonight, not when he’s aggravated at him. Ryan knows it’s a big step, and he won’t have Brendon’s inconsiderate ways or his own irritation spoil the moment.
Hobo is warm against Ryan’s leg, her breathing evened out, and Ryan knows the she has fallen asleep. He wonders if maybe he should just retire to his room. Lock the door and ignore the thudding knock when Brendon actually shows up. He won’t even have to put on the deadbolt if he doesn’t want to. It’s not like Brendon has a key to his apartment.
Ryan sighs and stretches out a little bit, and Hobo stirs. He hates that he’s sitting in front of his television watching some stupid show from the 90s where the clothing choices are always fluorescent. He hates that Brendon does this to him - hates that he loves Brendon so much that he’ll sit there on the couch like a sixteen year old girl who got stood up. He briefly wonders if he should break out the ice cream.
When Ryan looks at the clock again, now forty five minutes past the time that Brendon had promised that he would come by, Ryan’s fingers inch towards his sidekick, and he doesn’t care if he seems wound up - he dials Brendon’s number again. As he listens to Brendon’s cheery message, Ryan tries to calm himself down. He knows that it’ll do no good leaving Brendon a screaming rant. That’ll only send the other boy into a pathetically sad kind of funk.
The message beeps and Ryan takes a deep breath before telling Brendon in his usual monotone to call him back. “I’m just wondering where you are,” Ryan says, just a little passive-aggressively. “We’ve missed our reservations,” he reminds, and then, because he can’t help it, he adds, “I guess I’ll see you soon. Love you, Bren.”
Ryan sets the phone down next to him, hands scratching at Hobo’s ears, and he’s not watching the television, not really, so it doesn’t make any sense that it’s on, so he shuts it off and leans his head back against the cool leather of the sofa, letting his breath out in one quick burst and his bangs flutter up before they drift back down, tickling his forehead. From this angle, he can’t see the clock, and even though he’s angry at Brendon for being so late, for being so inconsiderate, it’s really not that unusual, so it’s not like Ryan is surprised. Despite all of Brendon’s little quirks, his less attractive qualities, Ryan loves him.
Next to him on the arm of the couch, his sidekick goes off, and the vibrations resonate through the couch before Ryan snatches his phone up. He doesn’t even check the screen, assuming it’s Brendon, and he can’t help how instantly his anger melts away.
“I thought you were standing me up, asshole,” he says, smiling just a little just for the sheer fact that Brendon is on the other line.
But then there’s a cough, a clearing of a throat, one that isn’t Brendon. “Mr. Ross?” a voice asks.
Ryan flips his phone over and looks at the foreign number, his stomach sinking for a reason that he doesn’t quite know why yet. Panic is coursing through him strangely and he tenses up. Maybe it’s the way the voice sounds, a little crackly and rough. Maybe it was the way he coughed, or the way that he said Ryan’s name, but Ryan knows that something is wrong.
“Mr. Ross?” the voice repeats again, and Ryan can hardly focus, but he takes a shuddering breath and closes his eyes, hoping that the words floating around in his head are wrong.
He doesn’t know how to verbalize what he’s thinking, what he’s fearing, so all that comes out is a choked and quiet “Brendon?”
---
Brendon’s coma lasts for seventy one hours and Ryan’s not exaggerating when he says that it’s the longest seventy one hours of his life.
By the time that Brendon finally wakes, groggy and disoriented, Ryan is a mess, curled up in one of the deceivingly stiff chairs up against the wall of the room. He’s been there since the call - unyielding when the hospital staff tried to convince him to leave. Legally, he didn’t have a right to be there, not really, but Ryan didn’t care and ignored the harsh words reminding him of visiting hours. The only thing that mattered was that he was with Brendon.
It is the grumbled groan that wakes Ryan from his restless slumber, and while Ryan had been waking up on and off for the last several hours, each tiny noise bringing him back from the brink of sleep, the second Ryan snaps back into consciousness, he knows that this is different.
Brendon is sitting up in the hospital bed, looking around blearily. Considering that he was in a car accident, one serious enough to land him in a coma, there are few scars marring his face. His hair is a little matted: messy and dirty, but he’s awake and Ryan hurriedly scurries out of the chair because Brendon is awake and beautiful, and while he had tried to keep hope, in the past couple days, the past endless hours, Ryan couldn’t stop the terrible thoughts from sinking in. The what ifs.
It doesn’t take Ryan long to make it across the tiny room, and in no time he’s kneeling next to Brendon’s bed, legs unable to hold himself up, and he leans against his boyfriend. “Thank God,” he all but sobs, his head burrowing against Brendon's chest. “Thank God you woke up.”
He isn’t one for over exaggerated emotions. In fact, usually Ryan keeps what he is feeling in check, but just then, he can’t help it as his breath comes out in happy stutters.
Ryan’s arms come up around Brendon to hold him tight, to pull him close, but he notices that something is off. Brendon isn’t leaning back into him like usual. He isn’t surging up to meet Ryan and he isn’t wrapping himself around him. Brendon’s body is tense and firm, and when Ryan pulls Brendon forward, he leans back.
“Bren?” Ryan questions, long fingers swiping up to brush some of Brendon’s unruly hair out of his face. “Bren, are you okay?”
Brendon’s eyes are so wide as he darts around the room and he’s clumsy as he untangles his hands from Ryan’s clasp.
“Brendon?” Ryan asks again, and that sinking feeling is back, that same feeling that Ryan got just before he got the call telling him about the accident. “Do you want me to get a nurse?”
There’s no response, just those wide eyes glazing over Ryan. Wide and searching.
---
It’s called Retrograde Amnesia.
“I don’t understand,” Spencer says from Ryan’s left, his body close enough to Ryan’s on the couch in the doctor’s office that Ryan can feel how tense his best friend is. “What does that mean exactly?”
And Ryan tries to pay attention, he really does, but he can’t help but let his mind wander, a low buzzing filling his ears almost like if he doesn’t hear it, doesn’t hear the doctor explain everything that went wrong, the problem won’t exist. Still, despite his best efforts, a few phrases slip in.
“…an almost complete loss of memory…”
“…like a slate that’s been wiped clean…”
“…it’d doubtful that he’d remember that: remember people, places, or events, no…”
The office isn’t that ornately decorated and Ryan can’t think of anywhere to look other than the carpet, but with his head bowed down, eyes cast to the dark blue rug, he can’t help but feel worse, like maybe the doctor thinks that he doesn’t care about Brendon.
“Will he ever get better?” Ryan asks, the words coming out rough. He hasn’t spoken much lately. “Will he remember me?” he questions, still unable to get Brendon’s look out of his mind, the way that those brown eyes, those eyes that Ryan knows so well, didn’t know him. His words feel heavy and thick in his mouth, and Ryan can almost hear the pathetically sad amount of hope drenching each syllable.
Spencer’s hand finds his own and feels warm, but not quite comforting. His boyfriend doesn’t remember him, doesn’t remember his life. What could possibly be comforting?
“There’s a chance, a small chance mind you, but there are some records of partial memory recovery. And he didn’t lose everything. Just a small area of his brain suffered the damage. He can still talk. He has motor skills and will be able to remember simple things.” The doctor’s voice is smooth and even. Ryan hates it. Hates how calm he is being. “The mind is fascinating. There’s no telling what he’ll remember, what he won’t.”
Ryan frowns. “That doesn’t really answer my question.”
---
Spencer makes the decision and cancels the upcoming tour. Ryan doesn’t argue.
---
When Ryan opens the door to the hospital room, Brendon immediately turns towards the noise of the swinging hinge, and it pains Ryan when there’s no subtle change there, no little flicker or small smile, just a curious stare. Spencer is waiting outside in the waiting room, no doubt a little bit moody because Ryan wouldn’t allow him to come with, but Ryan is glad that it’s just him and Brendon. He doesn’t want the pity of others. He doesn’t want people feeling bad for him because his boyfriend of two years, the man he loves, doesn’t remember him. Couldn’t pick him out of a crowd.
“Hey,” Ryan says quietly, closing the door carefully behind him as he composes himself. He doesn’t run towards the bed like before, doesn’t collapse down next to Brendon, but from where the chair is set against the wall, it’s too far away from the bed for Ryan’s liking, so he goes over and picks the chair up, moving it closer to the bed. Close enough that Ryan feels that thrill of being near to Brendon, that thrill that never really went away, but also close enough for him to feel the pang of loss that is now becoming all too familiar to Ryan each time Brendon blankly looks at him.
“Hi,” Brendon responds, and Ryan breathes out an audible breath because that voice is so familiar. It’s one he knows almost better than he knows his own. He knows just how to read it, what every little inflection means, and he hates what Brendon’s voice is telling him now. He can almost hear the invisible question mark at the end of his greeting.
It’s hard, it really is, but he does it anyway. “My name is Ryan,” he says. “Ryan Ross.”
Brendon nods. “I’m Brendon Urie,” he says, hesitating a little over the name, and Ryan almost wants to laugh, a sad, choking laugh, because he isn’t the one who lost his memory, and even if he was, Ryan doesn’t think he could ever forget Brendon. And maybe that’s what’s hurting Ryan the most - the fact that even though Brendon’s memory is altered, changed, some part of Ryan was pathetically hoping that maybe he had somehow stayed in there. That maybe he had meant that much.
“I know,” Ryan responds, his hand twitching as he looks at Brendon’s open hand, the one that he wants to hold but knows that he shouldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Brendon says. “They haven’t told me much about anything. I know my name and my birthday, my age, but that’s about it.” He pauses and bites his lower lip, that full lower lip that Ryan knows so well. “But you were the one that was here earlier, right? When I woke up?”
“Yeah,” Ryan says, voice cracking a little because he really thought that he would be able to handle this but now he’s not so sure. “I was here,” he confirms and then, even though the doctor told Ryan to start things out slow, even though he was told not to rush things, Ryan tells Brendon, “I’m your boyfriend,” because he’s maybe just a little bit selfish, but he wants some of Brendon back, even if it’s just a little bit of recognition.
“Okay,” Brendon says without much feeling, like he’s storing that information away more than anything else. “What else can you tell me?”
---
Ryan let’s Spencer deal with the press. Spencer and Jon both handle it all. He doesn’t know what they say. He doesn’t really care.
He has more important things to worry about.
---
It’s too hard for Ryan to really talk about them as a couple. About the complexities and the years of circling around each other, so when he visits Brendon, he talks about other things. About that time that Brendon and Jon had a contest to see who could drink a gallon of milk faster and how much Zack had yelled when Brendon threw up all over the kitchenette. Or when Spencer left his favorite pair of shoes in a hotel somewhere along highway 81 and how he had made the driver turn around to find them.
Everyday, Ryan visits and tells Brendon stories. Things that are unimportant to everyone but the people involved. Brendon always listens, and each day when Ryan comes in, Brendon’s eyes are always a little brighter, a little more sure, but every day it grows harder and harder for Ryan. Still, it is Brendon. Somewhere in there is the man he loves, and he can’t tear himself away from that.
---
“I want to take him home,” Ryan tells the doctor, his voice firm and steady. He’s been thinking about it for awhile. Ever since Brendon woke up, ever since he opened up his eyes. Ryan needs him close, and Brendon, Brendon can’t stay here. “It’ll be good for him,” Ryan asserts, “being around things from his life, talking to people that know him.”
“He could benefit from more time here,” the doctor insists. “I don’t know if it’s the best move to take him back to his old life. To the things he used to do, it could be too much.”
Ryan hates how the doctor doesn’t speak in the present tense. He hates how the doctor talks like Brendon is two different people. Ryan knows that it’s only a matter of time before Brendon snaps out of it. One day, Ryan knows that Brendon is going to look over at him with that stupid large grin, and everything will be back to normal.
“I want to take him home,” Ryan repeats.
---
Ryan sets up the guest room in his house and moves stuff over from Brendon’s, using the key that his boyfriend had given him when he had moved in.
Even since the beginning, Brendon had always welcomed Ryan in.
Jon flies down from Chicago, and together with Spencer, he and Ryan move all of Brendon’s stuff into Ryan’s apartment. It doesn’t take too long. Spencer is efficient and quick to pull Ryan away whenever he fingers at one of Brendon’s favorite shirts or peeks through a photo album.
When they finally bring Brendon back, after a couple of tedious hours of paperwork, he just looks around the apartment, taking everything in before sighing deep, his shoulders slumping.
“I don’t remember this,” he says quietly, turning apologetically to Ryan, and then, more to himself, he whispers, “I don’t remember my own home.”
“Well,” Jon says, swooping in, “this is actually Ryan’s place, but we all thought it would be better if you had someone with you. If you didn’t live alone.”
Ryan doesn’t say anything, he can’t make himself form any words, but Spencer helps out when he says, “You and Ryan were planning on living together anyways,” and while it’s not exactly true, because Ryan never got to ask Brendon, he doesn’t disagree and Brendon nods.
“We were committed then,” he states, nodding, filing it away with the other miniscule facts that he knows about his life.
“Yeah,” Jon says, and Ryan can feel Jon’s stare on him, but he doesn’t look up. “You are,” he adds, “or were.”
That switch in tenses, every time someone does it, something twists deep within Ryan.
Spencer coughs. “But this is where you’ll be living.” He beckons Brendon forward and leads him into the back guestroom. Jon follows, but Ryan lingers there by the door, watches Brendon walk into his apartment and turn into a room that isn’t the one that Ryan had imagined only a few weeks ago.
---
It’s difficult. It’s been a couple of weeks, and still, Brendon’s memory hasn’t seemed to have suddenly come back. There hasn’t been that moment of epiphany, and every day that Ryan talks to Brendon and Brendon talks back to him like Ryan is some new friend, some acquaintance, he can’t help but think that maybe this is the way that it’ll always be. He can’t help but think that he has lost Brendon forever.
---
“I brought your piano over,” Ryan says to Brendon after Jon and Spencer say goodbye, leaving the two of them alone in the suddenly overwhelmingly quiet apartment.
Brendon is sitting down at the couch, watching the news - bringing himself up to date with what has gone on since he’s been in the hospital, or actually, just with everything in general considering he remembers nothing, but when Ryan talks, he turns towards him and cocks his head. “I played piano?”
Ryan nods. “You do,” he asserts. “You’re amazing. When you play…” he starts, but for some reason, it’s hard to talk. “When you play, people listen. They really listen because you’re something special.” Ryan looks away from Brendon, and starts to walk towards the piano, almost subconsciously. “I can play a little,” he says. “You were teaching me to be better.”
He sits down at the bench, hard and unrelenting underneath him, and his fingers splay out across the cool ivory keys. His pointer finger presses down lightly on the middle C key, a vibrating note barely ringing out, and he plays it again, a constant low thrumming, as if it’ll stop the awkwardness of condemning himself to live with someone he doesn’t know masquerading around as someone he knew more than anyone.
Ryan closes his eyes, fingers still sliding across the keys, and he starts to play a simple melody, something that Brendon had taught him - an old Mormon hymn or something, just the barest of melodies, but one that is infectious and always seems to be stuck in his head.
He feels Brendon sit down beside him, the heat of their bodies next to each other so familiar, yet it’s just a constant and is unlike how it would be in the time before. Brendon doesn’t venture to move even closer to Ryan, maybe straddle Ryan’s lap, maybe haul him up on the piano, keys clanking together, notes coming together until their bodies fused too. Instead, Brendon just sits down next to him, a steady presence, just being there.
“I know this song,” Brendon breathes disbelievingly, his words coming out low but sure, more sure than anything Ryan has heard from him in awhile. Ryan turns, but Brendon’s eyes are closed and his fingers slide up to the keys, an octave below Ryan’s, their fingers gliding past each other briefly on the octave jumps, Brendon’s fingers mimicking Ryan’s perfectly. “I remember this.”
A shock runs through Ryan, one that is at the same time hopeful but irritated as he watches Brendon’s hands as he now adds the bass line, strong chords breaking through, and then, as if to make everything more real, Brendon begins to sing the words.
“I remember this,” Brendon yelps triumphantly when the song ends, Ryan’s hands long since retired into his lap with only Brendon’s fingers calling out the final notes. “The notes, the words - - everything! I remember this.”
Ryan smiles back painfully at Brendon when the other boy turns and grins at him before pulling him into a hug. He’s happy, he really is, but underneath the small victory, he can’t help but wonder why Brendon can remember a simple church hymn, something that should be blurred in an undamaged mind, yet doesn’t remember him or Spencer or Jon. Doesn’t remember the band. Doesn’t remember himself.
Brendon’s arms are wrapped tightly around him, his breath hot against Ryan’s neck, and Ryan feels it immediately, reacts to it immediately even though he doesn’t want to. He can’t help it because it’s him. Because it’s Brendon, so he pulls away. “I’m proud of you, B,” Ryan says, the single initial somehow easier for him to manage. “That’s great.”
---
Somewhere along the line, Ryan notices that he starts to talk about Brendon more and more in the past tense. He notices that he makes a distinction between who Brendon was before the accident and the man who is staying with him now.
When Ryan looks at Brendon, he still feels the pangs of lust, the overwhelming sharp jolt of what he knows is still love, but he also can see the differences. He can see that this guy, this guy in Brendon’s clothes, with Brendon’s smile and his voice and his laugh isn’t really his boyfriend.
And even though Brendon is in front of him, right in front of him, Ryan misses him. Misses the man he was. It’s not like this Brendon isn’t great, because he is, he has so much in him that Brendon was, but he isn’t the full man.
He isn’t really Brendon.
---
“How are you holding up, Ryan?” Spencer asks, and even though it’s over the phone, Ryan can picture him perfectly, can practically see the look of concern on his best friend’s face. “You know you don’t have to do this,” he reminds him. “What you’re doing is more than anyone would ask of you, Ry.”
Ryan looks over to where Brendon is stirring something on the stove. He’s cooking some sauce that he saw on the food channel, and even though the Brendon that Ryan knew didn’t even know how to make toast, the smell from the kitchen is mouthwatering. “I’m fine,” he assures Spencer.
“You don’t have to be,” Spencer says. “You lost the man you love.” He pauses, his words full of so much sympathy that Ryan can barely stand it. “You don’t have to be okay. This can’t be easy for you.”
“I haven’t lost him, Spencer,” Ryan shoots back, watching as Brendon dips a finger into the sauce and licks it off the pad of his fingertip, smiling a little, tiny crinkles lining his eyes. “I haven’t lost him.”
---
Sometimes, Ryan has moments where he thinks that Brendon is coming back to him. They’re always stupid, silly things that wouldn’t mean anything to anybody else, like when Brendon chooses mint chocolate chip over all the other flavors or like when he stutters over a word that he never did know how to pronounce. It’s times like these that Ryan feels a little twinge of something that feels very much like hope.
Ryan notices the things that are the same. Like how Brendon bites his lower lip when he’s nervous or how he always eats the crust of the pizza first. But more than anything, Ryan notices the differences. He notices when Brendon drinks his coffee black now without its usual dumping of sugar. He notices when Brendon doesn’t smile ridiculously when Aladdin and Jasmine kiss on the magic carpet.
It’s hard to admit, but the differences far outweigh the similarities.
---
More and more, Ryan retreats into himself. He spends hours in his room, takes walks by himself down the strip. He feels a little guilty about how he’s not spending that much time with Brendon, but really, it’s too hard for him sometime and he just has to escape. Plus, Spencer and Jon are always around. Shane too. It’s rare that Brendon is alone.
Yet, despite the hurt, the aching pain that is always around whenever Brendon is around, Ryan is still drawn to him, and there are times when he searches him out.
Sometimes, Ryan will stumble upon Brendon sleeping on the couch, rolled up into himself and it’s almost like nothing ever changed.
---
When Ryan gets back from his walk, Brendon is sitting in the living room on the couch, burrowed in amongst the pillows, and on the large plasma screen, Ryan looks up to see his own face staring back down at him, mouth open wide, singing.
Ryan sits down next to Brendon, not right next to him like he would have done weeks ago, but not that far away, and when he sits down, Brendon shifts just a little, as if by instinct, until their skin touches.
“I didn’t know that you sang,” Brendon says. “Jon told me that I was the singer.”
“You are,” Ryan affirms, “but sometimes I would sing too. I started out as the lead singer, actually, but once I heard you-” He takes a deep breath. “The first time I heard you sing was the first time that I knew that we were going to make it,” he admits.
Brendon doesn’t respond, but a small smile plays at his lips and he turns his attention back to the screen, watches as Ryan on the television crosses over across the stage and shares a microphone with Brendon, kissing his cheek quickly before hurrying back to the right of the stage. And Ryan remembers that. He remembers the exhilaration of each show. He remembers the excitement of being with Brendon when no one knew.
“We really loved each other,” Brendon says, watching himself on stage follow Ryan, hand grazing his cheek. “I mean, people have told me. And I know that things haven’t been easy for you so it must-” He breaks off. “But we really did love each other.”
“You can tell that?” Ryan asks, throat constricting as he says the words. “You can tell that just from this concert video?”
Brendon shakes his head. “Not just that,” he says, “but I can tell. We really did love each other.”
And Ryan wants to say that they still do, wants to say that he still does, but he doesn’t know what good that would do, so he just sits there and lets Brendon lean a little bit against him, and together they watch the screen and listen to their voices blend together seamlessly.
---
There are a lot of things that Ryan misses about Brendon. He misses the way that Brendon would take any chance he could to snuggle up next to him. He misses how Brendon would pick up stupid little toys that he thought would amuse Ryan. And yeah, he misses the kisses. He misses the touching and the feel of Brendon inside of him, the feel of Brendon surrounding him, but it’s more than that.
He misses Brendon.
---
Brendon leans against the handle of the shopping cart, pushing it with his ass sticking up in the air, arms crossed over themselves as he leans his head down as they make their way down another aisle. “Ryan, I’m so bored,” Brendon says, huffing a little as the words come out.
It’s been over a month now, and most of the awkwardness is gone. It’s still hard, of course it is, but each day, it’s getting a little bit easier for Ryan to see Brendon as separate from the one who he had loved.
“We’re almost done,” Ryan says, good-natured irritation coming through a little. “Jesus, you’ve got the attention span of a five year old.” He laughs. “I remember this one time when we had to wait in line for a movie and Bre-you were so antsy that you flashed a smile at some fangirls just to get ahead in the line.” Ryan catches himself, tries to keep his voice light and flippant even though he almost made that mistake, almost talked about Brendon as if he were really gone.
“Oh!” Brendon exclaims, apparently unaware of Ryan’s slipup. “We should go see a movie. Something funny.”
“Sure,” Ryan agrees, taking the end of the cart and pulling them down another aisle. “That sounds great, B.”
---
Sometimes, Ryan finds little notes that Brendon had left him. Just simple post it notes reminding Ryan to get more milk or a reminder that Brendon loved him. Whenever Ryan finds one of these notes, he puts them in a box under his bed.
No one knows it’s there. Not even Spencer.
Ryan knows that it probably isn’t healthy, isn’t helping him move on, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to move on. He wants to remember.
---
“Ryan,” Brendon voices, his words coming out loud in the quiet room where both he and Ryan are reading.
When Ryan looks over, the book, one that Brendon had loved years ago when they first got signed, is set open on his lap. “Yeah?”
Brendon looks down and marks his book before setting it down on the coffee table and making his way over to the couch from his armchair, settling down next to Ryan.
“I know that the doctors told you not to tell me everything, but you used to tell me little stories. You used to try and…” He stops off for a second, searching for a word. “You used to try and make something spark, and I know that you’ve probably given up hope by now,” he says, and Ryan doesn’t disagree even though he really really hasn’t, “but I think it might be good for me if you told me more about myself. I think I’d like to know about my life.”
Ryan almost wants to laugh in some pathetic way because yes, he probably is the one who knows Brendon the best, the one who knows his past so well because he clings to it, but it’s strange because he almost doesn’t want to share that part of Brendon’s life, that part of his own life with this new Brendon.
He knows that Brendon has read past interviews of himself - - Ryan’s caught him at it a couple of times, and often times, Brendon will throw in one of their old concert DVDs as if that’ll spark everything. All it seems to do is help Brendon learn the words to all their old songs, and sometimes, hearing Brendon singing Ryan’s words again is too much.
“What do you want to know?” Ryan finally asks because as selfish as he wants to be, it’s unfair for Brendon to be denied his own life, and maybe, just maybe, this will help.
“Everything,” Brendon says, scooting closer to Ryan now. “What was my childhood like? My family? My friends?” His voice is all unbridled excitement, but when he speaks next, he’s quieter, almost a whisper. “I want to know about us too.”
Ryan nods and takes a deep breath. “It’s a long story,” he says. “All of it is. It might take awhile.”
And Brendon moves even closer still, and they’re so close, sitting almost like they used to, but that easy comfort is replaced with something much more complicated, something that reminds Ryan of the early days when every touch from Brendon meant a second guessing.
“I don’t know where to start,” Ryan admits.
“Just start when we met,” Brendon suggests and Ryan nods because of course that’s where he should start. After all, that’s when it did all start.
Ryan is thankful for the dim light of the room, but even so, he knows that Brendon can probably see how he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as he prepares himself. “When Brent first brought you to practice - you remember Brent, right?”
Brendon smiles wryly, visible even through the dim light. “Spencer has told me about him. Apparently, he doesn’t like me too much anymore.”
“He dislikes me more if that helps,” Ryan says, scoffing. “But anyways, when Brent first brought you to practice, you amazed me.”
“I was that good, huh?” Brendon asks, voice light and joking.
Ryan laughs, the tiny bit of humor making this whole thing just a little easier for him. “I didn’t even hear you play yet, didn’t even hear you sing, but you were so full of energy.” Ryan shakes his head at the memory. “You did a Gollum impression. All creepy and on pitch - - just perfect.”
“You let me into the band because I did a good impersonation?” Brendon asks disbelievingly.
“Well, we did have you play after that, but the Gollum thing sealed the deal.” Ryan smiles, thinking of that day, thinking of how nervous Brendon had seemed, how nervous Ryan was, but he doesn’t tell Brendon that. He doesn’t tell Brendon how the first time their eyes locked he had felt something or how when Brendon had played, Ryan had been jealous, envious even, but over everything else, he had known that he wanted, no, needed Brendon with them.
Brendon nods. “And what about us? How did we start dating?” He frowns, the small movement in his jaw visible to Ryan in the darkness. “I saw some things, read some things in magazines, online, things like that.” Ryan can tell just by the way that Brendon is leaning, the way that he is holding himself, that he’s embarrassed. “I read a primer,” he admits, and Ryan chokes back a bark of laughter.
“And what did they say?” he questions.
Brendon sits up a little bit straighter. “It was very informative,” he says. “If it’s true,” he rectifies.
“I see,” Ryan replies, but he doesn’t say much more. It’s still too hard to talk to Brendon about what they once had, what they should still have.
“Can you tell me?” Brendon asks, his voice almost pleading, and it pains Ryan that he’s not stronger, that he can’t handle it all like he thought he could.
“I’m sorry,” he manages. “I want to, but right now I just can’t.”
There’s a moment of silence, a long quiet pause where Ryan can hear Hobo sniffle from the other room, but finally Brendon speaks up. “Sometimes when I dream, I can’t help but wonder if they’re not really just memories,” he all but whispers.
Ryan’s breath catches, that tiny welling of hope starting up again. “What are they of?”
“Most nights I dream about you. About you and me together,” he admits, voice shaking just a little, and it’s strangely comforting to Ryan to know that he’s not the only person who is having trouble dealing with this. Of course, he knows it’s hard for Brendon, but at least he doesn’t have to know the pain of losing someone and still remembering them. All that he lost remains forgotten to him.
Ryan wants to ask what Brendon means by together, because yeah, he’s had dreams like that too. He’s had dreams where it’s all skin and lips and hands and moans, but he doesn’t think that if those are the kind of dreams that Brendon is talking about that they mean the same thing to them both.
Before Ryan can muster up the courage to ask, Brendon continues. “And I don’t really know you. Well, I do, but not really.” His words are coming out jumbled, sporadic, as if he’s still in a daze, still in that dream. “I don’t know you like I used to, but at night, when I dream, I do. I feel like I must have felt then. I feel like I know you. When I dream, it’s all about you and me, and I feel safe, and I know where I’m supposed to be.”
“Oh,” is all Ryan manages to get out, unsure of how to deal with everything that Brendon is saying, unsure of what all this means.
“And even when I wake - even now - I feel like wherever you are is where I’m supposed to be.”
“Brendon,” Ryan breathes, warns, calls out. He doesn’t know how he says it, but he doesn’t know if he can handle Brendon going on.
“You really loved him, didn’t you?” Brendon asks, voice raw now, full of so much emotion. “You loved me. Who I was.”
“We loved each other,” Ryan finally stutters out, the words painful though true, still so true. “I still love him.”
There’s a long pause, an endless stretch of silence, and then Brendon’s voice comes, meek and questioning. “And me? What does this mean for me?”
By this time, Brendon is leaning up against Ryan, and before he can stop himself, Ryan finds himself wrapping an arm around the other boy, comforting him. And the way that Brendon feels against him isn’t any different. The pattern of Brendon’s breath on his chest isn’t any different. But it is different. It is.
“I don’t know,” Ryan admits.
Part Two