I'm A Scar Away From Falling Apart (12)
Title: I’m A Scar Away From Falling Apart (12)
Author: longerthanwedo
Beta: melody_so_sweet
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Rydon
POV: 1st, Ryan’s
Summary: “And we’ll return shortly with your live ESPN coverage of the 2010 US Figure Skating Championship Men’s Freestyle competition.”
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: This is kind of really short, sorry :/ 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 Chapter 11
I’m pathetic, and I know it.
Every day’s the same thing. Every hour’s the same thing, even. Every hour I’m stuck here, glued unwillingly to my own couch, but not motivated enough to pry myself off because moving my body anywhere takes too much effort. My foot is almost constantly asleep because I can’t lift it myself without messing up the bandages, not when I’m lying down.
Even my book is inaccessible at the moment, sitting open on the coffee table, just out of reach. I haven’t even felt like reading these past couple of days. My books are starting to annoy me. I’d much rather go on adventures across foreign seas, I’d rather fight villains myself, than have to read about other people’s activities while I’m still. Stuck. Here.
The only thing within my reach is the TV remote, so I pick that up and, sighing, click on the set. I flip through the channels quickly, thinking idly about how bad TV is these days. Cooking shows? No. Weight loss competitions? No. Hannah Montana? Hell no. ESPN? N-wait. Oh. Oh.
I know that voice. Well.
“And we’ll return shortly with your live ESPN coverage of the 2010 US Figure Skating Championship Men’s Freestyle competition.”
I swallow, hard, and my finger hovers over the “off” button on the remote.
But I apparently had some dormant masochistic qualities, so instead I leave the channel on. And I throw the remote onto the coffee table, far enough away so that I wouldn’t be able to turn it off, no matter how much I might want to.
And that’s where I sit for the next who-knows-how-long. I sit in front of that screen, watch skater after skater, thinking “that could have been me”. A guy comes on who I recognize from my warm-up group at Regionals. I try not to think “that would have been me”, and I swallow the reoccurring lump in my throat.
Even with the noise coming from the speakers, and even from all the way in the living room, I can hear a car pull up the driveway, the key in the lock, and the shoes on the steps.
That’s where I am when Brendon comes back from wherever he was.
“I’m home!”
Brendon’s home.
His footsteps come into the living room.
“Hey, Ry - " he stops when he sees the TV. The commercial’s over, and Scott Hamilton is presenting the next skater.
“Ry…” Brendon’s voice is soft now, and he comes around to sit next to me.
I don’t look at him, but instead stare steadfastly at the screen as the music starts and the skater launches into his routine. He falls. Brendon tries to get my attention, but I don’t turn at him. I’m not mad at him, I’m not.
I just don’t think I can talk to him right now. I don’t think I can talk right now, period.
“Hey.” His voice is almost a whisper, now, and I don’t even realize I’m crying until his thumb swipes across my cheek and he catches a tear that escaped from my eye.
Brendon’s hand moves to my shoulder, and he gently pulls me forward until I’m leaning against his side. His arms are wrapped loosely around me, and I bury my face in his shoulder, eyes shut tight, nose pressed into his shirt. I try to take deep breaths as the tears flow down my face.
His hand finds my hair and he runs his fingers through it, soothingly, breathing reassuring words into my ear.
He holds me until I stop shaking and my eyes finally run dry.
I pull away to dry my face with my sleeve. Brendon’s eyes are warm and sad, his arm still around my shoulder, and his shirt wet from my tears.
“You’ll skate again,” he says in a low voice.
I look down. Taking time off is one thing. Being forced to take time off, six months of time, is completely different. I know that I’ll get back on the ice, eventually, but who knows if I’ll ever be able to skate the same? That “it could be me” out on the rink might change into “it never will be me.”
“Hey, I promise.” Brendon puts his hand under my chin and guides my face up so I have no choice but to meet his eyes. “I’ll help you. I’ll…do anything, Ryan. Just. You will be better, you will. You’ll be just the same as before, you’ll go to Regionals, and you’ll get all the way to fucking Nationals, Ryan. I promise.”
I believe him, I really do. I nod slowly, and sighing, lean back against his shoulder, suddenly exhausted, eyes closed. His arm is around my waist, and I begin to think, “It will be me.”