you're my human holiday | ryan ross/brendon urie | part 1 of 3

[whisperdlullaby]

you're my human holiday
ryan ross/brendon urie (brief mentions of brendon urie/shane valdes) | nc-17 | 24,000 words
in which brendon wants babies and weddings, and ryan's not so sure.

established relationship, about four years from now. it's mostly fluff, but with a dash of angst (i mean, it is me, after all). but besides that all you really need to know is, ryden! engagements! babies! i should probably also mention that this is NOT an M-PREG.

thanks to the usual, lovely panic_smile and ssuukkii for reading this over and assuring me it doesn't suck. *tackles with love*


part one | part two | part three

At first, I was able to ignore it. Push it away, and pretend it wasn’t right there in front of my face. But, then there comes a time, when there are only so many wedding catalogues and baby booties before any man, no matter how dense or thick-headed they may be, begins to take the hint. When that thick-headed, I’m-never-going-to-get-married idiot looks through the phonebook, wedding planner numbers dog-tagged and highlighted, and thinks, shit.

*

“I think Brendon wants to get married.”

“Well, no shit.” Spencer snorts, pinching the half-finished joint between his fingers. “You have been together for four years. What did you expect?”

“Three,” I correct. Spencer shoots me a disbelieving look, and I sigh, rolling my eyes. “And eleven months,” I grumble in defeat.

“And don’t forget the three years you were fucking before then,” he reminds, smiling complacently. He reaches over the patio table to hand me the joint, blowing a stream of smoke from his mouth. I watch as it drifts into the night, creating swirls of grey smoke before vanishing completely.

I don’t reply, sucking the sweet smoke back into my lungs. I’m too stubborn and proud to admit being wrong to Spencer - even if it is three-quarters of the time.

Inside, Bryan Adam’s or something equally as excruciating is playing from Spencer’s state of the art speakers. Even through the screen door, I can hear the faint sound of Brendon and Haley giggling. “He wants a baby,” I say softly, hoping that if I say it quiet enough, it’ll stop being frighteningly real.

“And you’re just figuring this out now?” Spencer asks. “He fondles and coos to Haley’s baby bump every chance he gets. He’s already calling himself Uncle Bden, and I’m pretty sure he’s masterminding a plan to steal her before she even makes it out of the hospital.”

I groan, pressing the pads of my fingers to my temples. I know he’s right, but god, how I wish he wasn’t. “Yeah,” I reply after a moment, “I know.”

“And you love him.” I’m not sure it was intended to be a question, but I nod anyway. Spencer sighs, taking the joint back. “You’re almost twenty-eight, Ryan. You can’t be a rockstar forever.”

“I know that,” I say, more strained than I had intended. I still cringe at the mention of my age, and Spencer sees it every time. He’s a whole twelve months and four days younger than me. He doesn’t understand the monstrosity that is twenty-eight. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to be a measly two years from the life-ending three-oh.

A little ways down the beach, illuminated by the row of large houses behind them, a couple sits with a loose dog circling around them. It’s a nice night, the late summer air warm and tide calm. If I squint hard enough, that’s Brendon and I, watching our dogs playing along the surf, like we have many nights before. Dogs I can handle; kids are an entirely different story.

Spencer takes one last hit on the joint before snubbing it out on the weed-shaped ashtray I remember using back on the Honda Civic Tour. Back when getting high was our main concern. “You love him,” he repeats once more, as if I need reminding.

I don’t.

Spencer stands up, stretching his arms over his head. Even through the dim porch light I can see his eyes, shot and rimmed in a vibrant red. “You know,” I comment, reflectively, standing with him, “once you’re a dad you won’t be able to sneak out on the back porch for a quick toke. There will be screaming and babies and formulas - ”

“You too,” Spencer returns, grinning wickedly as he approaches the door.

“Shut the fuck up.” I knock my hip into his with as much force as I can manage, but as I expected, he hardly seems fazed as he peers through the screen door, the corner of his lips turned up in amusement. I peek over his shoulder. It’s nothing new, just Brendon with his ear glued along Haley’s swollen belly.

I reach past Spencer, pushing him aside to open the door myself, but it’s that moment that Brendon lifts his head, pouting as he smoothes a hand along the bump. “You’re so lucky.”

She laughs, and pets the top of his head, affectionately. “It’ll happen eventually.”

“Unless men will magically be able to have babies sometime in the near future, I’m kind of doubting it.”

She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Shrugging, he falls back into the couch, sighing woefully. “Even so, I’m still doubting it. I mean, you do know my boyfriend, right?”

“You should ask,” she suggests.

“Maybe.” He shrugs once more, seemingly unenthused over the idea.

I swallow, feeling mildly relieved. There’s three ways I can picture that conversation going, and none of them turn out well.

Haley grins, reaching forward to ruffle his hair. “If you were a girl you would’ve stopped taking birth control a long time ago,” she teases.

Brendon cracks a grin, sour mood suddenly evaporating. “Probably, yeah.” He laughs, and outside, I feel my stomach drop.

Not wanting to hear anymore, I move to the side, pressing my back to the brick and groan. It’s something I’ve known for awhile, no matter how well I was at ignoring it, but hearing it out loud doesn’t make it any easier to process.

“You’re fucked,” Spencer says lowly into my ear. He gives me one last look, grinning as he slides open the door and steps inside.

*

“Don’t you ever wish you could get pregnant?”

I choke back a breath, lucky and pregnancy and you’re fucked sounding like an alarm inside my mind. I didn’t prepare myself for this when I woke up this morning. “What? No.” I laugh, leaning against our dresser, but the nervous struggle comes through clear.

“Come on,” Brendon persists, running a hand along his belly. It’s dark in our room, the only light coming from the lamp switched on beside our bed, and it casts a perfect silhouette across his features - the soft curve of his lips, the dark eyelashes against pale skin, and the perfectly flat line that makes up his stomach. “You’d have this thing you made, growing inside you. And you know it’d never love anyone more than it loves you.” For a brief moment his eyes slip shut, imagining.

I run a hand over my forehead, feeling a sweat break on. Outside, I hear the waves crash against the sand. I figure if I’m lucky and I think about it hard enough, I’ll be able to open my eyes and suddenly be there instead.

No such luck.

“I - ” I stop short, swallowing. There used to be a day when all I wanted was for Brendon to be a girl. I figured that if he was, I could finally feel normal. We could be normal. But now I’m at the point where I don’t know if I’d want that even if it was attainable.

Brendon turns to look at me, catching my gaze. As if the spell is suddenly broken, he turns back to his shirt, popping open the buttons. When I catch his eyes again, they look a bit duller, a tad sadder, and I hate this.

Moving over to the bed next to him, I reach for his hips, pulling him in for a soft kiss. He seems to stiffen at first, almost resistant, but the moment passes and he sinks into it, kissing me back. I know Brendon’s upset, I know he’s let down, and I know what he wants, how to make it better, but I’m just not sure that I can.

“I love you, you know,” I murmur as I help slide his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a heap.

All my life I’ve found difficulty in saying those three words. With friends, with girlfriends, with anyone, but when it came to telling Brendon, the one to who I actually meant it and who knew I meant it, I could never seem to get the words from my tongue and into the air. I took me a year and three months into our relationship - the second time around - until I had finally gotten up enough courage to whisper it into his skin, late at night when I had thought he was asleep. It’s easier now, after years and years of practice, and while I mean it with everything in me, there’s still something that makes it more difficult than it should be.

“I know,” he replies, softly. He knew it even when I couldn’t say it.

I kiss along his neck, hands dropping to his belt. It’s not until my fingers sneak past the waistband of his underwear before he’s tilting his head away, shrugging me off. “Not tonight,” he says. “I’m tired. Plus, you’re high.” It’s a valuable excuse, after all, because unless Brendon is high himself - which has become less and less frequent over the years - more times than none, he’ll stop any insinuations to sex before they get anywhere close. It’s a known fact that when I’m high, I get lazy and sloppy, and it becomes less sex and more about me trying to stick my dick in something to get off - and it just happens to be Brendon. I don’t mean for it, I just can’t help it. I’m selfish by default, but put a little weed in me and it becomes so much worse.

However, the joint I shared with Spencer was over an hour ago. There’s more to it than he lets on, I can tell by the look in his eyes and the tone in his voice, but I have no choice but to let it go.

Pulling back, he says, “Let’s just go to bed.” Without another word, he disappears into the washroom, pulling the door shut.

I stare after him and think, babies, weddings, for life. I think, you’re screwed.

I listen to the sound of the tap running behind the closed door, and think, fuck.

*

When I get home from Spencer’s, I find Brendon in the studio. He doesn’t notice me at first, expression pulled into careful concentration as he bangs away on the drums. It’s not often that he plays them, but over the years I’ve come to the realization that there’s usually only two reasons why he does; he’s upset, or he’s angry. Most of the time, it’s because of me.

I have to open the door and walk into the recording area, stopping only feet in front of the drum kit before he notices me, jerking in his seat in surprise. His hands come to an immediate stop, and I lean against the wall, biting my lip. “Hi,” I say, awkwardly.

Brendon wipes some sweat from his brow with his sleeve, the dark fringes of his hair sticking against his skin. “Hi.” He sets the drumsticks down, but doesn’t make a move to get up as he runs a finger along the cymbal, a long silence falling between us. The soundproof walls surrounding us block off any noise coming from upstairs; the dogs, the ocean, the traffic. It’s only the two of us, the soft echoes of our breathing as our eyes catch. I try to read what his say, even though I don’t have to. I already know what they say.

“Do you think,” Brendon starts eventually, “that we could ever be in a band together again?”

I’ve thought about many times before, just as I’m sure Brendon has. It’s not something we’ve discussed seriously, but the question hangs so thick and heavy over us that it would be a lie to say neither of us have noticed it before. “No,” I reply, the words feeling rough and foreign on my tongue.

To this day, I’m still not sure which break-up resulted from which. Whether the conflicts from the band was brought into our relationship (or fucking. I refused to believe it was anything other than fucking back then) or if it was the other way around. Either way, both blurred together until one day I woke up, and neither of them were there anymore.

It had been a horrible time for me, drugs and alcohol and bad decisions. It wasn’t until a year later when Brendon and Spencer had shown up at a Young Veins show, Brendon fidgeting and smiling in a way that wasn’t him, a subtle but noticeable difference in him that I realized, shit, what the hell am I doing?

I couldn’t deny it anymore after that.

Our relationship is different now. Stronger. And I’m done denying like I used to, but I know what it’s like when we’re together, making music. We’re both too stubborn, too touchy, and known to snap sharp, cutting things when pushed. While the ending project can be fantastic, mind-blowing even, it’s the getting there that’s too risky, too disastrous. I can’t take that chance again.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He sighs. “I guess I just miss it sometimes. I mean, the good times. I miss singing your words.”

“I miss it too.” Sometimes, I wonder if we knew each other in a different situation, a different universe where Brendon wasn’t my voice, if we would have wound up together the way we are. There was a trust embedded between us from the second Brendon opened his mouth to sing my words, something much stronger than most couples can hope for. In a way, our relationship started before it ever really began.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Brendon looks at me, almost unsure. It takes a moment, but then he’s nodding, standing up from behind the drum kit, and I hold my hand out for him to take. He pauses again, appearing hesitant, and for a second, I think he might not. However, with one last look, he slides his hand into mind, and together, our fingers intertwine one by one.

*

The first time Brendon and I fucked, I had locked myself in my bunk for precisely twenty-three hours, vowing I’d never let it happen again. The next night, when we were left alone in the dressing room, Brendon had taken on look at me before sinking to his knees. I didn’t have the heart to tell him no.

For months - years even - I told myself it was just this thing. Brendon and me, we got each other, we trusted each other. It was an easy, accessible way to get off on tour. Except, after awhile it would drag on until we were no longer on tour, and I had a girlfriend waiting for me. As it became harder and harder for me to convince myself, the more I would push away and the more Brendon would push forward. It was a viscous game of tug-o-war until the invisible rope between us had finally snapped, and we were both left as losers in a game we never wanted to play.

The second time around, it was if something had finally clicked inside my brain. Apparently, all we needed was a year apart, and I was no longer able to deny all those feelings that I had done so well at suppressing.

Now, I can appreciate every inch, every molecule of his body, instead of condemning myself, telling myself how wrong it is that I do. Sometimes, I wish I could’ve realized this all along. It would’ve saved us a lot of hurt and anger and regrets, but then again, I figure it’s something I had to get through, like the trials and errors of your childhood.

Brendon’s making the noises I love, the low moans he keeps strangled in the back of his throat as he rocks against me. He has no reason to be quiet, there’s no one else in the house but the dogs, but it’s a habit he’s picked up over the years of being stuck on a tour bus with two other guys that he still hasn’t quite shook.

I run my hands along his hips, sliding up the curve of his waist before coming to circle around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. It’s off-centered and messy with Brendon on top, but my cock manages to jerk inside of him as he pushes his tongue inside my mouth. There’s always been a power struggle between the two of us, both in a constant fight for control. It used to lead to a lot of intense but aggravating sex, but over the years we’ve more or less learned to compromise.

I buck against him, causing Brendon to roll his head back and moan without constraint this time. Fingers at his hip, I mumble breathily, “Switch now?”

He nods, allowing me to grab a hold of him and flip us over without pulling out - a trick I mastered after many of years of persistent practice and determination. Now that Brendon is no longer a hormone-riddled teenager that could go for hours without showing even the slightest bit of strain, he has the tendency to put all his energy into the beginning of sex, draining himself out by the end. It works for us though, because it gives me control without having to fight for it.

Tightening Brendon’s legs around my waist, I push in until I can’t go any further. “Mmph, Ry,” he mumbles, cheeks pink and eyes black. Years later, and I’m still amazed by how gorgeous he is.

Brendon rests a hand on my face, stroking along my jaw, and he leans up for another kiss, deep but gentle. I can feel myself begin to wear thin, the release building in my gut, and I’ve learned enough signs over the years to know Brendon is too. Sometimes, I can tell he’s close before even he can.

He comes first, tightening his fingers around my neck, digging into the flesh while he curses into my mouth. I let go a moment later, filling him, and push my tongue into his. Once I pull out, I drop onto the mattress next to him and press my head against his beating chest, feeling boneless. Eyes slipping shut, I count every steady beat as if it were my own.

Brendon cards a hand through my hair, smoothing out the matted locks before sliding it down my chest and taking a hold of mine. He ghosts a finger over each of my knuckles, rubbing along the skin, and I yawn against his collar. Pausing on one, he wraps his own fingers around it, circling loosely. “Goodnight,” he murmurs into my hair.

“Night, B.”

It’s not until I begin to drift off that I realize it was my ring finger he was holding.

*

There are aisles upon aisles of display cases and glass shelves, all lined together, and filled with more rings than I can handle. Different shapes and styles and colors and sizes, and suddenly I wish I had brought Spencer along with me, after all.

The ring I had stolen from the jewellery drawer inside our closet - made up of fan-made bracelets, mostly - is from high school, and I’m hoping it’s good enough. Brendon hasn’t grown much since he was eighteen, anyway.

I’m not broke; I’m still getting royalties from the two albums I made with Panic, and a minimal flow of cash from The Young Veins, but I don’t have a third and fourth successful album under my belt like Brendon does. While Brendon continually insists that it doesn’t matter, it’s not a question who’s bringing home most of the money to support our three-story house complete with a swimming pool and a top-knotch recording studio. And, well, I’ve always been too proud to rely on someone else to support me. Since Panic has been on hiatus ever since Haley and Spencer got married last Spring, I was sick of living off Brendon, and did the first thing I could think of: beg a job off Pete. It’s not much, just a few A&R jobs every once and awhile, and that one time he conned me into babysitting, but it’s something, at least.

The point is, this is Brendon, and I’m not going to settle for second best. He’s always been one for extravagance, subtle or not, and I’m going to make sure he gets it, even if I spend all my money in the process. I can always beg more jobs off Pete, and it looks like I may need the experience with kids, after all.

I spend almost two hours before finally settling on one. It’s beautiful; a thin, white eighteen karat gold band with a small diamond embedded in the center. Even as the woman swipes my credit card, thousands of dollars spent in a matter of seconds, I’m still wondering if it’s good enough. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she says, flashing a bleached white grin, “he’ll love it. He’s one lucky man.”

I flip the small, velvet box open and closed in my hand, the gold catching the department store light above. I look at it, butterflies dancing in my stomach, and say, “I hope so.”

*

When I show Spencer the ring, he laughs.

“What, you asshole?” I demand, gut sinking as I shove the box back into my pocket. “Is it ugly? Do you think he won’t like it?”

Spencer shakes his head, taking a deep breath as his laughter dies down. It’s quiet at his house, Haley out for lunch with her friend before she gets so huge she can’t move. I’m grateful because the last thing I need is her overhearing. Not that I think she’d tell Brendon, except. Okay, she probably would. I know how those two work. “No. No, he’ll love it.”

“Then what’s so fucking funny?”

“It’s just you, Ryan, proposing.” He swallows back a laugh. “The guy who couldn’t even say ‘I love you’ for six years.”

My cheeks heat. “Shut - ”

“Oh shit, I wish I could see this,” he goes on, interrupting me as he slides his feet onto the couch, tucking them underneath himself. “He’s not going to see this coming at all. He’ll probably think you’re playing a cruel joke on him.”

“Come on,” I defend. “It’s not that far-fetched that I’d propose.”

“It kind of is.”

I sigh, knowing he’s right.

When I was seventeen I vowed to myself I would never get married or have children. I’d look at my dad, thinking I’d turn out just like him. I’m sure Spencer was just as convinced as me that I’d never get married; that the only chance I’d ever have at a kid would be accidentally knocking up some girl after being drunk and careless. Now it’s here and it’s real, and I’ve got an engagement ring in my pocket to prove it.

I already hurt Brendon once, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did it again.

“How are you going to do it?”

I blink. I had been so caught up with this whole ring ordeal that the thought of actually proposing hadn’t occurred to me yet.

“Do you have any ideas?”

I shake my head. I’d seen a commercial where a guy stuck the ring in the fortune cookie, and I thought that was pretty cool. Although, Brendon had seen it too, and I somehow suspect that he wouldn’t be so appreciative over a recycled proposal idea from an advertisement for salad dressing.

Spencer groans, as if pained, and I fold my arms over my chest, defensive. “Sorry we’re not all oozing with romantic gestures.” Spencer had perfectly planned out six proposal scenarios before finally sticking with Proposal Option #2. It involved sprinkling rose petals from the bed all the way to their deck overlooking the water, where a gourmet breakfast sat and Spencer on one knee, holding a rock that could probably be seen from space. Even if Haley had wanted to say no, Spencer made it pretty impossible to refuse.

However, I’m not Spencer. I think I might’ve had the beginning of a romantic thought once, but it died before it got anywhere.

Spencer rolls his eyes, and says, “You can use one of mine.”

“Brendon knows all of them,” I point out.

“Not all.”

I look at him unsurely, contemplating. “I don’t know,” I say. “Don’t you think he’ll put two and two together, and realize it was you who came up with it? Isn’t that kind of tacky?”

“Ryan,” Spencer deadpans. “It’s either you take my idea, or you propose to him over pizza and beer. See how tacky he thinks it is then.”

I turn to him, and scowl. The sad thing is, is that he’s right. “Fine, whatever.” I groan in defeat.

Spencer grins, suddenly sprouting up off the couch. I shoot him a questioning glance as he heads out of his living room, towards the spiraling stairs leading to the third floor. “I’m getting my binder,” he explains easily, like it’s completely normal for an almost thirty year-old man to be cataloguing romantic gestures inside a three-ringed binder.

My best friend is fucking weird.

*

It takes two days to plan out the details, and another five for me to get up the courage to go through with it. There’s been a permanent set of butterflies hanging around in the bottom of my gut for over a week now, ever since I bought the ring, and they’re not showing sign of leaving anytime soon. I haven’t been this nervous around Brendon since I was seventeen.

On Sunday evening, once Brendon disappears into the studio, I sneak into the kitchen to prepare. My romantic meal consists of peanut butter and jam sandwiches, grapes and fudge brownies, that I pack into a picnic basket Brendon had bought earlier this year. It had been another compulsive buy of his, one that we had never gotten around to using and thought we never would.

On the beach I lay out a blanket, leaving another in case it gets chilly. The sun is beginning to lower, moving behind a thin layer of clouds, and in my mind, Spencer’s voice is screaming, make sure you propose at sunset. Sunset, Ryan!

When I make it to the studio, Brendon is fiddling with controls, oversized headphones on his ears. I slide up behind him, smoothing my palms over his shoulders and he lets out a yelp in surprise, yanking the headphones from his ears. I laugh, and bend down to wrap my arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “What are you doing?” I ask next to his ear.

“Just messing around.” He shrugs, and then gives me a sidelong glance. “What are you doing?”

“Are you hungry?”

“I guess so. Why?” he asks. “Did you want to order pizza?”

I duck my face into his neck, smiling against his skin. Suddenly, I feel shy and bashful and ridiculous. I feel like Spencer. “I was actually thinking we could maybe have like, a picnic,” I mumble.

“A picnic?” Brendon echoes, incredulous. “Seriously?”

“Mm. Yeah.” I lift myself from Brendon’s shoulders, and stand up straight, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels. “I already got it ready, and put a blanket out on the beach, so.” I shrug, motioning my arm loosely towards the door.

Brendon looks at me, a slightly bemused expression on his face, before he’s breaking out into a grin. “Okay,” he says, excitedly, shooting up from his seat. He’s already beaming, eyes wide and feet jittery. He doesn’t even know the half of it yet. Spencer was right, he’s not going to believe it.

We leave the dogs inside, much to their disappointment as they claw and whine at the back door after us. I carry the basket down to the beach as Brendon bounces ahead of me, feet bare and jeans rolled up mid-calf. He looks beautiful like this, dressed casual in a black t-shirt and hair tousled, blowing in the salty air. The sun is just beginning to set, and the array of colours look stunning against his face. I wasn’t sure it was possible, but I feel like I’m falling even more in love with him.

I can still feel the butterflies, but there’s something in it that puts me at ease. Suddenly, the ring in my pocket doesn’t feel quite so terrifying.

“Ryan Ross,” Brendon says, leaning over to kiss me once I sit next to him on the blanket, “sunset? Picnic on the beach? Should I be worried?”

I smile against his mouth, kissing him again, and then once more. “No,” I murmur, squeezing his waist, “I don’t think so.”

Brendon’s mouth lingers against mine a moment longer, eyes twinkling before he pulls apart. “So,” he grins, eyes sweeping over the picnic basket, “what did you pack?”

I take out the sandwiches, feeling mildly embarrassed as I hand one to Brendon. Spencer made Haley a gourmet breakfast. I made Brendon two pieces of bread with peanut butter and jam spread on it. “It’s not much. Just peanut butter and jam.”

He laughs, unwrapping his from the saran wrap. “I love you,” he says fondly, reaching over to brush some loose curls from my face.

I laugh, ducking my head. The ring is lying loose in my pocket, since I figured a giant box poking out of my pocket might ruin the element of surprise. Plus, there’s something a little cheesy about getting on one knee and opening a velvet box. But, maybe that’s my lack of romanticism.

By the time we finish our sandwiches, Brendon leaning over every few bites to exchange PB&J kisses, the sun is already half set, the golden circle peaking out from the water. I know that if I want Brendon to actually be able to see the ring, I have to do it now.

Oh god, I have to propose now.

On second thought, maybe I can postpone this whole proposal thing. Think it over some more, save it for a different day, use yet another of Spencer’s long list of options. Maybe I don’t even have to propose. It’s not like we have to get married. Sure, Brendon might be a little upset, but he’ll get over it, right?

“I knew I should’ve been worried,” Brendon says, interrupting my internal battle.

I turn to him, and blink.

“You look like you’re going to puke.” He looks me over calculatingly, and then nibbles on his bottom lip, nervous. “What is it? You didn’t - ” He swallows, eyes falling as he meekly asks, “You didn’t cheat on me, did you?”

“What? No! Brendon.” I send him a heavy look, one that resembles a mother to her misbehaving child. I feel hurt that he’d even ask that. I thought we had come a long way from there.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, cheeks burning red. “Sorry. I didn’t - I’m sorry. I just -” He shakes his head, looking up at me with round, apologetic eyes. “You’re freaking me out.”

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and count three waves crashing against the shore. My heart is pounding wildly against my ribcage, but I have no choice anymore. I push away any bad thoughts. I push away my dad. He’s been gone for years now, isn’t it about time he stops controlling my life?

With one final breath I reach inside my pocket, and pull out the band. Brendon’s still looking at me, appearing even more worried as I turn to face him. “Ry - ” His eyes drop down to my hand, bewildered.

“Brendon,” I say, voice coming out too high and too squeaky despite my efforts to keep calm. This is it, there’s no turning back. As soon as I open my palm, say those four words, that’s it. I close my eyes, count to two, and when I open my eyes again I blurt out in one breath, ring revealed, “Will you marry me?” There’s only a sliver of sun left, leaving only the dimmest light cast over us, and I hope it hides how red my face is.

Brendon stares down at the ring, then back at me, then the ring again, mouth open and closing like a fish out of water. It drags on for hours it seems, Brendon too shocked to speak, when finally he splutters, “You’re kidding, right?”

At least I knew this was going to happen.

“No,” I reply, evenly.

“You’re honest to god proposing to me right now?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

“You’re asking me to marry you?” he clarifies.

“That is what I said,” I reply, jaw set, feeling annoyance set in my gut. Even though there was never any question that Brendon would say yes, there’s something about being in the moment, waiting for the answer with a ring in my hand, that is the most nerve-wracking, most terrifying experience I’ve ever been put through in my life.

“Oh my god.” Slapping a hand over his mouth, Brendon stares at me with exceedingly large eyes, tears brimming. “Oh my god. You’re being serious.”

I’m not sure what else to say, so I sit there and blink stupidly, waiting for it to sink in. After a few more oh my god’s from Brendon, I clear my throat, and say, “So, uh. You really know how to leave a guy hanging here.”

Brendon forehead wrinkles, as if confused to what I’m referring to before it occurs to him and he launches himself on me, wrapping his arms around my neck. “Of fucking course I’ll marry you. Oh my god.” He pulls back to kiss me, and kiss me, and kiss me again, until I’m almost entirely sure that I’ll never take a breath again. I’m not that sure I mind. “As fucking if,” he mumbles between brushes of our lips. “Oh my god.”

I grin against his mouth, and I feel - happy? Delirious? Giddy? Absolutely fantastic? “Um,” I start, pulling back slightly, “are you going to let me put the ring on you, or…?”

“Right. Right.” Brendon sits back on his haunches, and holds out his left hand. Between him bouncing and me shaking, I’m sure we look like a bunch of vibrating, grinning idiots.

Taking a hold of his hand, I carefully slide the ring onto his finger, feeling a rush of relief when it goes on smoothly. Just like that, he’s no longer my boyfriend. He’s my fiancé. If there’s a single word in the English vocabulary to describe how I feel, I don’t know it.

“We’re engaged,” I state, feeling a little stupid.

Brendon grins, leaning forward to kiss me warm and deliberate. He curls his fingers around mine, and says, “I know.”

*

Brendon doesn’t waste any time. By the time I wake up in the morning he’s already hired a wedding planner, and purchased an entire library worth of wedding magazines that cover the entire surface of the dining room table in front of Haley and him. It’s barely noon and there’s already talk of vows and flower arrangements and center pieces.

Maybe it’s my lack of brain capacity to process one large event at a time, but besides the brief acknowledgment that there would eventually be a wedding, I’ve been far too preoccupied by trying to fight off the anxiety of proposing to consider it much further.

“Good morning, my gorgeous fiancé.” Brendon winks over a spread of china patterns.

Considering half my brain is still sound asleep in our bed upstairs, there’s not much else I can do but stare down at the glossy pages in awe. I probably shouldn’t be surprised, but I am anyway. I was hoping we’d spend the day in bed today, just sleeping and fucking - and fucking and sleeping. It’s been awhile since we’ve done that, and what a better day to than the first day of our engagement? Unfortunately, it’s becoming quite apparent that it’s not going to be the case.

“Morning,” I smile, a nervous edge to it that I hopes comes off as fatigue. I had thought the scary part was over now, but the butterflies are still there and just as lively as ever.

But, Brendon loves me. He loves me enough to marry me, and there’s something in that soothes me, filling me with pride and joy and everything that comes with it. For the longest time I never thought I’d get that, and from someone like Brendon.

Funny how your life can turn into something you never once expected.

“Morning, Haley,” I say, and bend down to peck Brendon a kiss, my eye catching the ring as I pull away. It’s going to be a wedding ring some day, and I’m surprised to see that there’s a certain comfort in that.

“Hey, Ryan. Congrats. I didn’t think you had it in you,” she teases.

“I didn’t either,” I admit, giving Brendon’s shoulder a squeeze before heading into the kitchen. He catch him roll his eyes, but there’s a smile to it.

“Neither did I,” he says. “He’s a changed man.”

There’s coffee already made in the pot, and I pour myself a cup before reheating it in the microwave. I keep it black and return to the dining room, pulling up a seat next to Brendon where they’re now discussing the prospect of a beach wedding. This is way too much to take in first thing in the morning.

“We need to get you a ring,” Brendon says after a moment, squeezing onto my knee in acknowledgement. “It’s only fair.”

I didn’t even think about that. Apparently, I didn’t think about much at all. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Can I pick it out?”

“Yeah.” I gulp down a mouthful of coffee, and Brendon grins, kissing the side of my mouth.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Brendon this excited for as long as I’ve known him. I feel slightly pleased knowing it’s all because of me.

“Were you thinking a traditional wedding?” Haley asks from across the table, flipping through a catalogue of bridesmaid dresses. “Like groomsmen and bridesmaids?” She looks up at us, batting her eyelashes. “I mean, after all, you were both in my wedding.”

“Yeah, as Spencer’s groomsmen,” Brendon points out.

She gives a flick of her wrist. “Whatever. That’s irrelevant.”

Brendon laughs. “I don’t know,” he says, and looks at me questioningly like he actually expects some input. I shrug, burying myself in my cup. “I guess we’ll see.”

I last ten minutes before excusing myself, and sit out on the deck. There’s a pack of surfers out, their stuff scattered along the sand where Brendon and I were sitting the night before. From the looks of it, they’re not very good, spending more time falling into the water than actually riding it, and it reminds me of myself. Brendon and Spencer were always more skilled when it came to the sport, spending hours out on the water until Haley got pregnant and Brendon started spending more time in the studio. Some mornings I’ll still wake up to an empty bed, and look out the window to see Brendon carving through the waves.

I fiddle with the ashtray in front of me, the remnants of a joint Brendon and I shared the only inhabitant. I listen to the sound of their laughter from inside, and dial Spencer’s number.

*

The ring feels weird - heavy and smooth on my finger. It’s not the first time I’ve worn a ring, but it’s the first time it’s meant something.

Brendon slides our palms together, his smaller than mine, but the bands line together perfectly. Smiling, he kisses me, fingers knotting.

It means something.

*

Haley goes into labour at four in the morning the following Friday, two weeks before her due date. I’ve barely got the phone to my ear before Brendon’s jumping out of bed, pulling on his clothes and throwing mine at me.

The entire ride to the hospital, awake on only a couple hours of sleep and three mugs of chugged coffee, all I can think is, oh my god, Spencer’s going to be a dad. Fuck, Spencer’s going to be a dad. The five year-old kid I used to play knock-knock-ginger and talk about kissing girls with is going to have a kid himself.

“I wonder what she’s going to look like,” Brendon muses from the driver’s seat. You’d never guess he’s running on the same amount of hours as me. He can be a pure mutant that way. “What do you think they’ll name her?”

“I don’t know.”

“When I have a kid I want it to be a surprise. You know, whether it’s a boy or a girl.”

When. I swallow, and don’t comment. Brendon would throw this at me at ass o’clock in the morning, and brush it off as a casual, nothing statement.

At the hospital, we’re not able to see Haley, and Brendon seems shocked over this, like he was expecting to be there for every step of the delivery. “You do realize,” I say, falling back on the waiting room chair, “that it’ll probably be hours before she actually gives birth, right? This shit can take like, twenty four hours.”

Brendon shrugs, unfazed.

The waiting room is empty for this time of hour, all except for an older couple sitting on the other end, most likely expecting a grandchild. Hospital’s still give me that uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, churning and squeezing, the anxiety wondering if this will be the last time. If this time the doctor will come out, head hung low, and tell me that my dad took it one step too far. Brendon slips an arm around my waist, head falling on my shoulder, and I’m not sure if he knows what’s running through my mind, but it soothes me, any way. This isn’t my dad a room away, one too many drinks inside him; this is Spencer and Haley, and their baby waiting to be born.

A half an hour after arriving, with me practically passed out on the chair, Spencer comes out into the waiting room. He’s shaking, bouncing on the balls of his feet with wide eyes, a manic grin and messy hair. He looks delirious, to say the least. “You’re here,” he says. “Oh my god, you guys. I’m going to be a dad. A fucking dad.”

Brendon bounces up from his seat, and wraps Spencer into a hug. “I’m going to be an uncle!” he chirps excitedly, making Spencer laugh.

I peel myself from the chair, holding the now cool cup of coffee we had picked up along the way and hold it out for Spencer to take. “Coffee?”

His eyes widen significantly, practically watering from the mouth as he takes it, chugging back half of it in one gulp. “Thank you. I love you guys.” He looks at me almost expectantly, and I roll my eyes, pulling him in for my own hug.

Burying myself into his neck, I mumble, “Congrats, man.”

“Thanks,” he returns in a murmur, and I can hear the grin.

Giving him a firm pat on the back, I pull away and suggest, “Shouldn’t you like, I don’t know, be in the room with your expecting wife, right now?”

“Haley’s mom is in there right now. There’s only one person at a time allowed in,” he explains. “You guys didn’t have to come, you know. The doctors said it’ll probably be awhile. They said that’s usually how it is with your firstborn.”

“That’s what I tried to tell him.” I roll my eyes, jerking a thumb in Brendon’s direction. “He wouldn’t listen.”

“Whatever,” he says, stubborn. “I want to be here.”

Spencer spends another ten minutes with us, conversation not stretching much further than, oh my god, oh my god, I’m going to be a dad. I’m just trying to stay awake and conjure up enough energy to show at least some enthusiasm for my best friend. I am excited for him, after all, but Brendon and I had ourselves a few rounds of intense sex last night, lasting us until at least one in the morning, and it seems almost impossible to show much emotion at all.

Two hours later I’m awoken from my half-sleep to Spencer returning, telling us that not much progress has been made and that, no, really, you should just go home and sleep. It’ll be a few hours yet. After twenty more minutes of persuasion from me, Brendon’s reluctantly agreeing, his own eyelids beginning to droop.

“Just a few hours though,” he says, trailing down the hall behind me. “And I swear to God, Ryan, if she has her while we’re gone - ”

“She won’t,” I insist, pressing the down button for the elevator.

Brendon eyes me warily, like he’s not sure whether to believe me or not. A moment later the elevator doors slide open, and I step inside, looking at Brendon expectantly.

He sighs in defeat, and steps in behind me.

*

“She’s here! She’s here!” Spencer cries the second I click on my phone, brain still hazy with sleep. “She’s beautiful, and she’s here!”

I sit up, alarmed, just as Brendon begins to stir next to me. “What? What do you mean? You said it’d be awhile.”

“It has been.”

I glance at the alarm clock sitting on our nightstand, and sure enough, it reads five after one. If I had known we would’ve slept that long, I would’ve set it. “Shit,” I curse as Brendon’s eyes slide open. “Okay, we’ll be right there.”

Brendon’s already up before I even have a chance to end the call. He pulls a hoody on, jaw clenched as he says, “We missed it, didn’t we?”

I toss the phone onto the bed, and scramble up after him. “Yeah, but Spencer said it doesn’t matter anyway, because they’re not letting anyone see her yet.”

Brendon rolls his eyes, heading towards the door. “Figures,” he mutters, not impressed. “I’ll be in the car.”

I sigh, and pull on my clothes before racing after him.

*

Arianna Haley Smith is six pounds and three ounces. Born on the twelfth of August, she’s a healthy baby girl with pink skin and tiny fluffs of golden blonde hair on her head.

Brendon sits on the end of the hospital bed, the tiny bundle wrapped in his arms as he coos and beams at her, telling her she’s the most cutest, most best baby he’s ever seen. Haley smiles from where she’s propped against the pillows. There are purple bags underneath her eyes, but she still has that new mother glow to her, regardless.

I watch from the doorway as Brendon runs a hand through her thin, threads of hair. I’ve always known he loves kids. The way he spends half the family get-togethers playing games with the kids, and how our entire fridge is covered in picture after picture of his thousands of nieces and nephews. There’s never been a doubt in my mind that Brendon would make an excellent father.

Spencer comes up from behind me, two Styrofoam cups in both hands. He watches over my shoulder at Brendon cuddling and talking to his daughter like she’s his own, and I know what he’s thinking before he even opens his mouth. “You know what you need to do,” he says softly into my ear.

I look down at the tiled floor, and swallow. I do, but. But I’m just not sure if I can do that for him, and this visit to the hospital is reminding me exactly why. Brendon would probably end up thanking me in the long run, anyway.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Spencer says, “and stop. You’re not him.”

I lift my eyes to look at him, slightly startled by the accusation, and he stares back at me, evenly. He caught me, as he always does, and I have nothing to say, cheeks heating.

He says, “Stop punishing yourself for what he did,” and pushes past me into the room. He sits in the chair next to the bed, and Haley takes the second cup of coffee graciously.

I look at him, and then Brendon with Arianna. Sometimes, I wish he wasn’t always right.

*

All wedding planning goes on hiatus for a week, while Brendon spends every waking moment at Spencer’s and Haley’s. I’m almost positive it’s pity that keeps them from telling him to stop coddling their newborn and go home.

Every night, I have to practically force Brendon from their home while he kicks and pouts like a child, whining, “Just five more minutes.”

Every night, Spencer will catch my gaze, the same words from the hospital flashing through his eyes. [You know what you have to do. You’re not him. Stop punishing yourself. Except what Spencer doesn’t get is that it’s not that simple. Spencer, with his loving mother and protective father. The picket fence and the cookie-cutter childhood. What Spencer doesn’t get is that life isn’t that easy for all of us.

I’ve already proposed, something I told myself I’d never do. Isn’t that enough?

In bed later that night, Brendon says, “In the book that Haley gave me it says that before you get married you have to discuss things like your future goals and whether you want kids. It says waiting until marriage to find out your on different pages is the worst mistake you can make.”

He says, “Maybe it’s something we should think about.”

Rolling onto his side, the long jagged line of his spine facing me, he says, “Goodnight, Ry.”

It’s not that simple, but maybe it has to be.

*

“You know who loves you the most in the whole entire world?” Brendon gushes down at Arianna, wrapped up snugly on his folded legs. A line of drool runs down from her upper lip, and she curls her tiny hand around one of Brendon’s fingers.

“Her parents?” Spencer calls from the kitchen.

“No,” Brendon whispers, bending down to kiss her forehead. “I do.”

Resting my chin against his shoulder, I reach over, taking her tiny foot into my hand. It’s barely half the size of my palm. She’s been in this world for close to three weeks now, and yet I’m still in awe over how something can be so tiny. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, and say, as softly as I can, “Maybe we should have one of these.”

Brendon turns to face me, eyes wide and imploring. “Have what?”

I bury my face into his neck, his skin cool against my burning cheeks. “You know,” I murmur, “a baby.” There’s still a doubt in my mind whether this is a good idea or not, even after weeks of internal questioning, but I realized that if this is what Brendon wants than I have to make it. It’s not going to magically go away if I ignore it for long enough, just like Brendon isn’t going to stop wanting it.

Brendon says nothing at first, and squeeze my eyes shut, feeling my heart palpitate throughout my bones. Below us, Arianna makes a gurgling sound from inside her throat.

With his free hand, Brendon lifts my chin and surges forward, kissing me with such force that it nearly knocks me over. That’s more than enough of an answer for me. “Are you serious?” he asks quietly, pulling back to meet my eyes.

“Yeah,” I manage, voice caught in my throat.

He says nothing, the same expression on his face from when I proposed, eyes lining with tears. Moving to cup the back of my neck, he pulls me in once more, forehead resting against mine. Maybe it’s not the best idea, but if it can make Brendon this happy, it just might be enough.

“Why are you doing all of this?” he whispers, imploring, warm eyes blinking back at me.

“Because it makes you happy.”

“What happened to you, Ryan Ross?” He kisses me, laugh muffled against my lips. “You’re growing up.”

“I guess I am.”

He smiles, lips brushing. I’ve experienced an array of Brendon kisses over the years; happy, sad, turned-on, angry. I don’t think even the make-up kisses after a year apart amount to this. I should propose and offer him babies more often.

“How about you not do that in front of my poor, innocent daughter?” Spencer accuses, entering the living room with a bowl of chips in one hand and bottle juggled in the other. “She’s barely a month old, I don’t need her permanently scarred by watching you two swap spit.”

The kiss comes to a stop, but Brendon lingers, smiling against my lips. When he pulls away, he looks at Spencer, batting his eyelashes in innocence. “I guess we can scar our own, huh?”

Spencer blinks, bewildered, and looks from him to me. I stare back, trying to appear aloof, even though the knotting inside my stomach is enough to make me feel nauseous.

He looks back to Brendon, and says, “Seriously?”

Brendon grins. “Seriously.” He sneaks a look at me, raising a low eyebrow as if searching for further confirmation.

“Yup,” I reply, weakly. “What he said.”

Spencer grins, placing the chips on the table and makes grabby hands for Arianna. “Shit,” he whistles as Brendon takes the hint and scoops her from his lap surprisingly easy, depositing her into Spencer’s outstretched arms. He looks at me, shocked, like he hasn’t been pressuring me into this for the past month, and says, “I think I like this Ryan.”

I pull my I’m-not-amused face, and Brendon grins, leaning into my shoulder. “Me too. We should keep him.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” he agrees. Cradling Arianna on his lap, he holds the bottle towards her which she hungrily takes between her pink lips. It’s still surreal seeing Spencer like this; a dad to this tiny, little creature. I can remember when Spencer was a kid himself, scraping his knee from failed skateboard tricks and blowing up power boxes with homemade bombs. This is going to be me someday, with my own little creature with tiny toes and fingers and a head full of fluffy hair. One that poops and cries and spits up.

One that is going to grow up and resent me just like I did to my own father.

Brendon looks at me, and grins, leaning in for another kiss.

I gulp, and think, what have I gotten myself into?

*

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