I'm A Scar Away From Falling Apart (11)
Title: I’m A Scar Away From Falling Apart (11)
Author: longerthanwedo
Beta: melody_so_sweet
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Rydon
POV: 1st, Brendon’s
Summary: How the hell do you lose a grown man in a wheelchair?
Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters, but the beginning of this plot is based off of a true story. Title belongs to Fall Out Boy.
Author’s Notes: School is done, tests are done, and now hopefully these will come faster. Feedback is awesome; it keeps me wanting to write. :)
Prologue I Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4 I Chapter 5 I Chapter 6 I Chapter 7 I Chapter 8 I Chapter 9 I Chapter 10
I’m worried.
Worried about Ryan, worried about the fact that he seems to be far from okay. And yes, I’m aware that physically he’s not okay (of course I know that, I did that). But mentally, emotionally, psychologically, he’s not fine. He’s not at all himself, not smiling or blushing of laughing. Instead he’s sprawled out across his couch, frowning at reruns of America’s Funniest Home Videos.
Ryan’s depressed.
He spends all of his time lately in his room or on the couch; reading or writing or listening to music. And, sure, that’s pretty normal behavior usually, but it’s just the way he does it. When he reads he flips the pages, looking bored and occasionally sad, and the covers of his books are always dark and ominous. I can’t imagine they’re doing anything to improve his mood. He writes in a battered notebook and the angry sounds of scratching out words come every minute or so. He never leaves the house, except for appointments.
I hardly ever leave his house. Only when shopping calls or my own house is in dire need of attention. I can tell he gets worse when I’m gone.
It’s like I’ve made it my life’s goal (for the moment) to cheer him up and turn him back in to the Ryan I know. The Ryan that makes me happy; my friend.
Which is why I’ve devised a plan. My Make-Ryan-Normal-Again-As-Soon-As-Possible plan.
I stand behind him on the couch, wait politely for the next commercial, and then I plant myself cleverly in front of the screen so he’ll have no choice but to look at me.
Once I have his attention, I work up my best stern face and say in a strong and commanding voice, “Ryan, I’m taking you on a picnic?” Damn. Why’d I have to make that a question?
He shakes his head predictably and tries to glance around me at the screen. I move again to block his sight. I can be stubborn, too. “Hey, no, you’re coming. I’m taking you out. We’re going on a picnic. Come on.”
Ryan seems to get that he’s not getting out of this with a shake of the head, so he turns his big brown, oh god, wet, eyes on mine. Oh no. he pouts, “I just wanna stay here. Can we just eat here?”
“Okay,” my mouth says without permission. Damn it. I can’t say no to that face, it’s not fair. But Ryan’s lips turn up for just a second, and it’s worth the failure of my plan to see him almost-smile. I made him almost-smile. It’s better than nothing, and I might as well start small.
I head into the kitchen to prepare our “picnic”. I open up the fridge and-
“Ryan, you have no food!”
A noncommittal grunt from the other room.
“Get up, we’re going shopping!”
An indignant grunt this time.
I grab his wheelchair from the corner (I still make him use it even though he insists he doesn’t need-slash-want it), and stop in front of him once again, hands on my hips after clicking the TV off.
He sighs and tries to pout again, but I turn my head away from his face until he sighs again, this time sounding resigned. I grin in triumph, and proceed to half-lift him off the couch. He’s so light, Jesus. We’re going to be buying a lot of food.
Eventually we make it out to my car, I stuff Ryan and his chair inside, and five minutes later we’re parking again and wrestling the chair right back out. Ryan sits, bearing resemblance to a very grumpy child, and I cheerfully push him into the building. Ryan takes control of his own wheels after a bit, and I stroll about, stuffing junk food, soda, and a little bit of fruit into the cart.
“Hey, Ry, cherries or strawberries?”
No answer. He can’t be that mad at me…
“Ryan?” I turn around. No Ryan. Shit.
I make a full 360, and another. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. I run down the floor, poking my head into each isle in hope of a glimpse of my friend. None. Fuck. I lost him. How the hell do you lose a grown man in a wheelchair? Just leave it to me to find out, I guess.
I’m on the verge of a panic attack, or something, when I remember that place where parents go to page their lost kids, or whatever. I start running in the opposite direction, my shoes sliding a ridiculous amount on the shiny linoleum.
I skid up to the lady at the desk, and she looks at my oddly, but I just open my mouth, breaths short and fast. “Hi. I lost someone. A guy. 22 years old, brown hair, brown eyes,” I pause, frowning for a second when I realize that could be just about anyone. “About this high,” I put my hand level to the floor at around hip level.
She looks at me even more suspiciously. “Do you know his name?”
I feel heat rising into my cheeks. “Oh, yeah. Ryan Ross.”
She nods and picks up the phone, paging Ryan Ross to the playroom. The playroom. Perfect. He’s just gonna want to come running when he hears he’s being called to the playroom.
I tap my fingers on my arm and my toes against the floor for three agonizingly slow minutes, until -
“Brendon!”
Ryan comes rolling out of the bathroom hallway. The bathrooms that are right next to the playroom.
Oh god, I just paged my friend out of the bathroom. But whatever, I can’t really take that back now, and I’m pretty much just relieved that he wasn’t kidnapped or eaten or anything.
I bound over to him and hug him tightly, bent over his bulky cast, my arms between his back and the back of the chair, his head squished awkwardly under my neck.
“You scared me,” I murmur.
I pull back and he rolls his eyes but he says, “Sorry. I won’t do that again,” and I can tell he means it because his eyes aren’t blank, not at all.
I decide that that’s enough shopping for one day, and we pay for our picnic quickly.
I plop the grocery bags down on Ryan’s lap and push him towards the door. I’m half expecting him to grumble at me and insist that he do it himself, but he doesn’t, and when I look down his head is ducked under his hair, but I can tell he’s smiling.
My plan worked, after all.