[Fandom] 33 Vertebrae And A Spinal Chord
Pairing: RyDen (Ryan and Brendon)
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst, angst, and more angst with a side of angst
Word Count: 4,515
You don’t remember him being that skinny when you first met him. He had always been slender, sure, but you couldn’t remember noticing just how drastically his spine pushed up against his skin or how you could almost - almost - count his ribs through his shirt, if you were looking hard enough.
But at that time he had just been the quiet kid in the corner scribbling things down in his notebook and avoiding your eye even when Brent had introduced the two of you. His handshake had been warm and inviting, but soft - like his eyes when you’d caught a glimpse of them - and his voice had been so quiet you’d hardly heard it.
“Ryan, this is Brendon. He goes to school with me and I thought we could try him out on backup vocals.”
Only then did he look up at you and you could get a real look at those eyes peaking through soft brown bangs. Something in your chest stirred and you felt weird all over, not nervous really, but just strange - like he was really seeing you with just that simple glance. And then his lips pulled back to reveal a warm, soft smile.
It was then that you started attributing both of those words to Ryan Ross -- warm and soft.
“Let’s give it a go then.”
When Brent had mentioned that he played bass in a band, you hadn’t been sure what you were expecting. But it definitely wasn’t being in a dank basement with the most timid ‘vocalist’ you’d ever met, his best friend on drums, his other best friend on bass, and rehearsing overplayed Blink-182 songs. Didn’t bands like this usually play in a garage? And they at least had their own songs to practice, right?
Before you could say anything Ryan had stepped up to the mic, his guitar resting against his narrow hips, and his mouth had opened to spout out the first few lyrics. His voice wasn’t very strong, or really all that good, but it was both those adjectives again - warm and soft.
It took you a second to realize Brent was looking at you and wondering when in the hell you were going to start doing your part and match Ryan’s voice. And you didn’t mean to - really you didn’t - overpower him, but suddenly the music stopped and everyone stared at you. Realizing exactly what you had just done, you looked down at your feet and felt like the biggest jerk.
But then that hand was on your shoulder and you were looking up to meet those eyes again.
“You’re pretty good.”
Then that smile followed and you decided you could deal with more practices like these.
---
It wasn’t until a year or so later that Ryan seemed to stop eating completely. You were worried, but afraid to bring up the subject. Spencer always hinted at ‘family problems’ and Ryan ‘going through a lot right now’ when you attempted to ask in that round-a-bout, nonchalant way that an outsider should ask.
So you thought it best to just avoid the subject and try your hardest to ignore the older boy’s once-tight jeans sliding off already narrow hips.
Until the day you came to practice earlier than usual, backpack slung over your shoulder so you could work on some homework before the others arrived, and stumbled in upon Ryan curled up in the corner of Spencer’s basement with his notebook open and his eyes staring blankly down at the page. It had never been just you and him before; and there had never been tell-tale streaks down his cheeks before; and god you just didn’t know what to do.
You took the temporary option of standing frozen in the doorway, hoping he hadn’t noticed you there yet -- because what would you do then? But you couldn’t make yourself pull away, especially when his shoulders started shaking slightly and the slightest of sobs hitched in his throat.
Staring was wrong. Watching like this was wrong. But what could you say? A cheerful, casual hello was definitely not an option.
“… Ryan?” Your voice had sounded so alien, even to you.
Then he looked up at you, eyes wide and wet and still soft, but so full of emotions you had never seen in them before. He was trying to keep his bottom lip from trembling, trying to pull in on himself; and it was then that you decided it was the most heartbreaking image you had seen in your entire life.
Your backpack was forgotten on the floor then and your legs were making their way towards the broken boy in quick, long strides. You still had no idea what to say or what to do, but you knew you had to do something other than stand there. And then you were kneeling in front of him and looking up into that tear-stained face, your heart stirring and twisting in on itself.
“What’s wrong?”
Probably the stupidest and most pointless question to ask in these situations, but it was all that would come from your lips. And it was exactly what Ryan needed to trigger the complete breakdown.
His arms wrapped around himself and he was sobbing, and shaking, and babbling about something that had to do with his dad, and words that were said, and things that hurt and how he didn’t want to go home. And your arms wrapped around him, and you held him, and you murmured things about how it was going to be okay even though you knew he didn’t believe them and you knew you didn’t understand or know anything about what he was saying. All you knew was that you had to hold him, because no one else was there to do it and Ryan couldn’t cry by himself because that thought alone was just so wrong.
The sobs and the babbling both stopped eventually and you pulled away. Practice went on as normal despite Ryan’s ruined liner and the streaks on his cheeks, because everyone else already knew. Ryan stayed the night at Spencer’s and you went home.
The two of you never talked about it.
---
He was eating even less a few weeks later and that smile you had just grown used to had faded away into merely a shadow. Practices were shorter even though he hardly ever went home afterwards. Christmas was coming but you’d never be able to tell it from the look in his now dull brown eyes. You still didn’t have the heart to ask, so you remained silent and on the sidelines as Spencer led him up to his room while you and Brent packed up to leave.
The night before Christmas Eve marked a drastic shift in the tide. Your phone rang and you picked it up with confusion, knowing that there no practice since both Spencer and Brent were out of town, and also knowing that Ryan never called you. And, not that you were a total loser or anything, but they were really the only people in your phonebook that ever called you. When you saw Ryan’s name come up something dropped into the pit of your stomach and started swimming around.
Your ringtone was almost finished when you finally picked up the call, your voice feeling thick in your throat as you mumbled out something that resembled a greeting. There was a moment of silence and you could’ve sworn you heard a soft sniff before Ryan replied.
“Can I come over?” His voice was the softest you’d ever heard it and whatever had been swimming in your stomach did a back flip and landed in your throat. You figure you must have agreed because within what felt like seconds your doorbell was ringing and you were opening the door.
Ryan had never looked so small in your eyes before. His eyes remained stuck on the ground, his bottom lip hiding behind his straight white teeth, and his feet shifting on the cold concrete doorstep. Just like the day in the basement, you found yourself frozen.
What could you do to help when you didn’t have the slightest clue what was wrong? When you didn’t understand and could never understand?
But he made it much easier for you this time as he folded into you, shoulders shaking and tears falling quietly from his eyes.
---
From that night on the two of you started to talk. It began with simple things, like which stores you liked to shop in or what you thought about someone in the neighborhood; and gradually evolved into discussions about your favorite harmonies and how you liked the cold wind on your face while he longed for the warm, salty air of the ocean.
Pulling Ryan out of his shell turned out to be the most incredible experience you had ever encountered. He transformed from the quiet kid in the corner with his notebook and soft smile into an endless pit of unspoken emotions and uncountable changing moods. To say that Ryan was fascinating was an understatement.
It was the third night in a row that he had spent the night at your place when you asked if you’d ever get to see his house. The sudden appearance of the serious expression on his face wiped the grin right off yours. That was the night that you discovered why Ryan had stopped eating, why he had been crying in the basement that day; the answer to every question you had never allowed yourself to ask.
Ryan’s father was an alcoholic. After he had assured you that his father never hit him and your heart had stopped racing so fast, he confessed that he and his father didn’t get along. That there were many endless fights, and angry words and raised voices; and that was when you understood why he never wanted to be home.
You held him that night; that delicate, frail body of his encircled by your arms as he slept near you and his soft breaths warmed your skin through your t-shirt.
---
You’re not sure who’s idea it was, or who bought the software, but you do remember Ryan’s eyes lighting up at the idea of finally recording and not just practicing in that dank cellar. His eyes had lit up for the first time in months and his fingers were moving a mile a minute as he tried to figure out how to get it to work.
It had been awkward at first, and it took more than just a few attempts to get it right, but the four of you eventually put together a decently mixed track. You remember listening to it every day, driving your family wild with that ‘racket,’ and grinning from ear-to-ear because you were just so proud of yourself and of them. This was yours. That was really your voice coming through the speakers, and while it was far from flawless to you it sounded perfect.
Sometime over those weeks of your voice on repeat in your head, Ryan had put it up online somewhere -- you could care less where as long as people could hear. You had this undying urge for people to hear you, to hear this music, this thing that had been created between the four of you.
When Ryan called you up one day, nearly screaming, to let you know that Pete Wentz had heard you and wanted to fly in and hear you play, you didn’t believe him at first. “C’mon, Ry, it’s not April Fools.” You had said. But the silence on the other end of the line and the obvious attempts you heard of the older boy calming himself down let you know that he wasn’t kidding you.
You don’t remember what you did after that - but Ryan always swears you screamed.
---
The only time Ryan’s dad ever hit him was the night he told his father that the band had been signed, and that he was quitting college to pursue this career. You know this because you were the first one he called, because he didn’t even try to hide the fear in his sobs and shaking voice, because he was at your doorstep once more and you were holding him and telling him it would be okay.
You’ll never forget the way he shook that night and the way the bruise tarnished the softness of his face.
“I’m sorry, Ry.” And you had meant it, the guilt seeping in through every one of your pores and leaving you miserable as he rested his head in your lap and stared out at nothing. But he had said it was worth it.
The two of you fell asleep like that, with your hand resting protectively on his boney shoulder and his slender one resting on your knee.
---
You’re not sure what gave you the sudden inspiration to put moves on Ryan onstage. It had come to you almost like breathing. Initially you blamed the adrenaline when Ryan scowled at you after the first occurrence and asked why the hell you had touched him like that.
The second time he asked, you claimed that the fangirls liked it and that it wasn’t a crime to do something to make the girls scream louder. Sex sold after all, right? He had rolled his eyes, but he hadn’t told you to stop and so you hadn’t.
Eventually he just stopped asking and the two of you never talked about what occurred between the two of you on stage. Because it was just a show after all and talking about it might bring up how sometimes you really did wonder what it would feel like to slip and let your lips press to his for just one second.
Or that sometimes you lay awake at night and replayed everything from the concert in slow motion as the adrenaline pumped through your system at a speed too quick to be healthy. You would close your eyes and take a deep breath, the images forcefully fading to the background before you could fall asleep.
Because you totally didn’t want to kiss another boy; and you definitely didn’t want to kiss your best friend.
---
Ryan hated parties. He didn’t like having to meet new people and he hated the stench of alcohol; not to mention the drunken idiots hitting on him (it was even worse when they mistook him for a girl). But when you’re a rock star, you have to party and so for a year you ended up playing chaperone after most of the shows.
Not that you minded. It wasn’t like you drank anyway, which made Ryan all the happier to cling onto your arm and use you to talk through whenever people came over to introduce themselves.
As time moved on though, he began to learn how to grow comfortable in the environment. And what that meant for you was that you got to spend the latter end of the party nursing your juice and watching him flirt with some skinny chick in tight jeans and too much makeup; something that left you more than tense and uneasy.
More often then not your arm was still cold when you left the party and you went home without him. You would lie awake trying desperately not to wait and listen for when he would tiptoe in through the door. Despite your efforts, you would still be sitting at the table with bloodshot eyes the next morning and endure the teasing about the Mormon boy having a rough night.
That’s how the rumors about you not being a virgin anymore got started. The irony made you sick to your stomach.
---
And there you lay, your head still throbbing and your eyes squeezed tightly closed to keep yourself from glancing over at the clock again. You were in a hotel this time, the foreign room feeling large and empty in its silence.
It was three a.m. and there was still no sign of Ryan - he never came back this late.
Something was settling rock hard in your stomach and you were trying so hard to ignore it. All you wanted to do was sleep; the last thing you wanted was for images of Ryan’s shy smile and his hand on some girl’s hip flashing through your mind.
Time felt hazy as you fought for sleep; the click of the door feeling far away as Ryan stumbled his way into the room. You weren’t going to open your eyes - but somehow they opened and you noticed the tear streaks on his cheeks and your heart stopped cold in your chest.
“Ryan?” Your voice was soft, thick, and strained.
You could see him jump at the sound of your voice through your lashes; a bit more of a twitch than a jump, really. It was hard to tell if he was ignoring you or not as you watched him strip out of his shirt and pants and slide under the covers.
The next few minutes were spent counting the vertebrae in his spine as they curved down into the sheets, your fingers twitching and playing with the soft, crisp fabric of the hotel sheets. Next was the curve of one shoulder blade, followed by the cut angles of his shoulder and all you could do was wonder if you should go to him. Your arms and heart were aching more than you thought they could and yet your voice stayed trapped beneath a lump in your throat and your lips felt chapped and stuck together with glue.
The next time you glanced at the clock it was nearly four a.m. and you hadn’t closed your eyes once. But you knew he wasn’t sleeping either because his shoulders were shaking just slightly and you couldn’t hear his heavy breathing.
“Ryan?” You couldn’t help but try again. Your voice sounded a little rougher this time but a little more natural.
There was a hitch then and a quiver that went all the way down the curve of his spine. And then he became the small boy in your doorway again and he was too far away, and your fingers were itching, and your arms were aching. You’re not sure how it happened, but suddenly you were next to him and your fingers were just barely brushing over his arm.
And then he started trembling all over and your arms were around him. He just shook and you just held him and neither of you said anything.
---
The next morning you woke up and you were on top of the sheets and he was beneath them, but his head was on your chest and he wasn’t shaking anymore. You ran your fingers through his silky hair and watched him sleep, reveling in the feeling of his soft breaths hitting against your partially exposed skin.
Your fingers moved then to feel along the cut features of his face, taking in the softness of his skin and the firmness of his jaw and cheekbone. Just before they brushed over his lips, he stirred and your hand pulled away with a slight jerk. Your heart hammered in your chest and all you could do was hope he couldn’t feel it as those soft, doe eyes looked up at you.
His smile was slow and possibly one of the shyest ones you’ve seen in your entire life - and it’s safe to say it made your heart skip a beat.
“Good morning.” God it felt awkward, but what else could it feel like really? So you just smiled and mumbled out an equally awkward reply before scooting away from him and sitting up. You hoped you didn’t have morning breath.
---
It was days before he approached you about it. His skinny legs a bit stiff as they stopped in front of you, silently begging you to look up from your Sunday comics. So you did, only to find his bottom lip caught between his teeth and his eyes anywhere but on your face.
“Wanna sit?” You asked and swung your long legs off the couch to give him room, which he gladly took.
There was a long silence then and your eyes moved back to the word bubbles before he spoke. It came out awkward and choppy and anything but as graceful as his lyrics.
“I’m sorry.” He finally managed, his slender fingers gripping at tight jeans. “For the other night.”
You took a breath and you nodded, because you knew exactly what he was talking about. “Don’t worry about it.” And for some reason your voice sounded dry again; your eyes glued to those damn word bubbles and practically anything that kept you from noticing the grip on his jeans tightening.
Something just let you know that he wanted to talk about that night, but he just couldn’t. It took all you had to move your eyes away and to let your hand slip over his, but somehow you managed that and a smile. “Really.”
He just squeezed your hand and leaned against you, his eyes glancing over at the comics. “Anything good?”
---
From that day on you became his chaperone again. His hand never left your arm the entire night and his smiles were only for you; and you were not about to complain. Occasionally his fingers would brush against you or he would whisper in your ear and you would feel like you were flying.
One night he stuck like glue. You could feel his pin-striped thighs lining up against yours and those graceful fingertips tracing half moons along the back of your neck as the two of you talked.
“You wanna get out of here?” He finally whispered hotly against your ear after the fourth drunk guy that had stumbled over to feel him up. You nodded, and gripped his hand and tugged him out of that stuffy apartment and into the fresh, cool air of the night.
Ryan’s hand instantly pulled out of yours to wrap his arms around himself in protest of the cold and his lips formed a thin line. Your hand felt cold and empty, and so you shoved it in your pocket to try and forget about it.
“I told you to bring a jacket.” You grumbled, watching your breath pour out into the night like cigarette smoke.
He just shrugged a boney shoulder and shivered stubbornly. All you could do was grin and wrap an arm around him to pull him close against you, thankful for the chill as he leaned into your warmth and sighed softly.
The two of you walked in silence, the smoke from your breathing mixing with his and disappearing into the night. Leaves crackled under your feet and branches rustled around you, but you hardly heard them - completely content to just listen to his breathing.
“I wish you had stayed that night.”
You paused in mid-step and turned to look at him. You were off guard and speechless, but you couldn’t just sit there breathing so you managed a half-mumbled ‘um’ and something that sounds like a question while staying rooted to the spot.
“Why did you leave?”
And how do you answer that? Do you say you were jealous watching him flirt with some overdressed scene girl? Or do you lie to your own best friend? You opted for just a shrug and let your eyes drop to the leaf-ridden sidewalk.
There was a long moment of silence and when he spoke again; his voice had dropped an octave. “I didn’t sleep with the girl, Bren.” You could tell his voice was shaking, even though he was trying desperately to hide it. But all you could manage was an abrupt ‘oh’ and a shuffle of your feet. “I...” His voice faded out in the most beautiful decrescendo you’d ever heard.
Then you knew. And you knew he couldn’t say it and he wouldn’t, because he had his pride and his dignity to uphold. But your arms were instantly around him and you were burrowing into his boney shoulder.
“I’ll never leave you again.” He had no idea how strongly you meant that as you held him and fought back tears of guilt.
---
From that moment on the fleeting touches last longer and you find his eyes meeting yours more often than before. Ryan sits just a little bit closer, just enough for you to feel the heat coming from him, and he leans in so that you can just catch the scent of his shampoo.
Somehow it ends up being just the two of you on the tour bus one night; Jon had mentioned meeting up with his girlfriend somewhere and Spencer was out doing god knows what. Ryan had suggested renting a movie and so there the two of you sat, him practically in your lap with his head resting lightly against your shoulder.
You can’t even remember the title of the movie or what the name of the actress in the scene was anymore and all you can concentrate on is where to put you arm. Your heart skips a beat each time your fingers accidentally brush over an arm, a hip, a thigh, and you hope the hitching in your throat isn’t noticeable because that would be when you would kill yourself.
Something must be scary on the screen because Ryan is tensing and he’s leaning into you, his skeleton fingers clenching into the fabric of your shirt and his head burrowing into your shoulder. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest and you feel as if a whole zoo of butterflies just erupted under his touch, so you close your eyes and you take a deep breath that you hope you can attribute to the scary scene supposedly playing out in front of you.
The scene ends and Ryan relaxes, but his hand doesn’t move. It flattens out against your stomach and then you figure he must be able to feel the butterflies flapping against the inside because he’s smiling up at you in an almost teasing way.
“Ryan?” You mean to ask what he’s smiling about but somehow his lips brush up against yours and you forget completely.
Ryan tastes like fruit juice and peppermint, you decide, and his lips are softer than any girls’ you’ve ever kissed. His stubble feels rough under your fingertips as you trace his jaw, and it feels so nice and so perfect that you don’t even mind the feeling of his cut, slender hipbones digging into you as he moves in closer. Your fingers grip at his back to hold him in place, to cement this moment and never let it go.
And you don’t remember him being that skinny when you first met him, but you don’t care because it just shows how much time has passed and you wouldn’t trade that in for the world, because it led you to this. To fruit juice and peppermint, and stubble beneath your touch, and slender hips pressing against your own; simply perfection.
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst, angst, and more angst with a side of angst
Word Count: 4,515
You don’t remember him being that skinny when you first met him. He had always been slender, sure, but you couldn’t remember noticing just how drastically his spine pushed up against his skin or how you could almost - almost - count his ribs through his shirt, if you were looking hard enough.
But at that time he had just been the quiet kid in the corner scribbling things down in his notebook and avoiding your eye even when Brent had introduced the two of you. His handshake had been warm and inviting, but soft - like his eyes when you’d caught a glimpse of them - and his voice had been so quiet you’d hardly heard it.
“Ryan, this is Brendon. He goes to school with me and I thought we could try him out on backup vocals.”
Only then did he look up at you and you could get a real look at those eyes peaking through soft brown bangs. Something in your chest stirred and you felt weird all over, not nervous really, but just strange - like he was really seeing you with just that simple glance. And then his lips pulled back to reveal a warm, soft smile.
It was then that you started attributing both of those words to Ryan Ross -- warm and soft.
“Let’s give it a go then.”
When Brent had mentioned that he played bass in a band, you hadn’t been sure what you were expecting. But it definitely wasn’t being in a dank basement with the most timid ‘vocalist’ you’d ever met, his best friend on drums, his other best friend on bass, and rehearsing overplayed Blink-182 songs. Didn’t bands like this usually play in a garage? And they at least had their own songs to practice, right?
Before you could say anything Ryan had stepped up to the mic, his guitar resting against his narrow hips, and his mouth had opened to spout out the first few lyrics. His voice wasn’t very strong, or really all that good, but it was both those adjectives again - warm and soft.
It took you a second to realize Brent was looking at you and wondering when in the hell you were going to start doing your part and match Ryan’s voice. And you didn’t mean to - really you didn’t - overpower him, but suddenly the music stopped and everyone stared at you. Realizing exactly what you had just done, you looked down at your feet and felt like the biggest jerk.
But then that hand was on your shoulder and you were looking up to meet those eyes again.
“You’re pretty good.”
Then that smile followed and you decided you could deal with more practices like these.
---
It wasn’t until a year or so later that Ryan seemed to stop eating completely. You were worried, but afraid to bring up the subject. Spencer always hinted at ‘family problems’ and Ryan ‘going through a lot right now’ when you attempted to ask in that round-a-bout, nonchalant way that an outsider should ask.
So you thought it best to just avoid the subject and try your hardest to ignore the older boy’s once-tight jeans sliding off already narrow hips.
Until the day you came to practice earlier than usual, backpack slung over your shoulder so you could work on some homework before the others arrived, and stumbled in upon Ryan curled up in the corner of Spencer’s basement with his notebook open and his eyes staring blankly down at the page. It had never been just you and him before; and there had never been tell-tale streaks down his cheeks before; and god you just didn’t know what to do.
You took the temporary option of standing frozen in the doorway, hoping he hadn’t noticed you there yet -- because what would you do then? But you couldn’t make yourself pull away, especially when his shoulders started shaking slightly and the slightest of sobs hitched in his throat.
Staring was wrong. Watching like this was wrong. But what could you say? A cheerful, casual hello was definitely not an option.
“… Ryan?” Your voice had sounded so alien, even to you.
Then he looked up at you, eyes wide and wet and still soft, but so full of emotions you had never seen in them before. He was trying to keep his bottom lip from trembling, trying to pull in on himself; and it was then that you decided it was the most heartbreaking image you had seen in your entire life.
Your backpack was forgotten on the floor then and your legs were making their way towards the broken boy in quick, long strides. You still had no idea what to say or what to do, but you knew you had to do something other than stand there. And then you were kneeling in front of him and looking up into that tear-stained face, your heart stirring and twisting in on itself.
“What’s wrong?”
Probably the stupidest and most pointless question to ask in these situations, but it was all that would come from your lips. And it was exactly what Ryan needed to trigger the complete breakdown.
His arms wrapped around himself and he was sobbing, and shaking, and babbling about something that had to do with his dad, and words that were said, and things that hurt and how he didn’t want to go home. And your arms wrapped around him, and you held him, and you murmured things about how it was going to be okay even though you knew he didn’t believe them and you knew you didn’t understand or know anything about what he was saying. All you knew was that you had to hold him, because no one else was there to do it and Ryan couldn’t cry by himself because that thought alone was just so wrong.
The sobs and the babbling both stopped eventually and you pulled away. Practice went on as normal despite Ryan’s ruined liner and the streaks on his cheeks, because everyone else already knew. Ryan stayed the night at Spencer’s and you went home.
The two of you never talked about it.
---
He was eating even less a few weeks later and that smile you had just grown used to had faded away into merely a shadow. Practices were shorter even though he hardly ever went home afterwards. Christmas was coming but you’d never be able to tell it from the look in his now dull brown eyes. You still didn’t have the heart to ask, so you remained silent and on the sidelines as Spencer led him up to his room while you and Brent packed up to leave.
The night before Christmas Eve marked a drastic shift in the tide. Your phone rang and you picked it up with confusion, knowing that there no practice since both Spencer and Brent were out of town, and also knowing that Ryan never called you. And, not that you were a total loser or anything, but they were really the only people in your phonebook that ever called you. When you saw Ryan’s name come up something dropped into the pit of your stomach and started swimming around.
Your ringtone was almost finished when you finally picked up the call, your voice feeling thick in your throat as you mumbled out something that resembled a greeting. There was a moment of silence and you could’ve sworn you heard a soft sniff before Ryan replied.
“Can I come over?” His voice was the softest you’d ever heard it and whatever had been swimming in your stomach did a back flip and landed in your throat. You figure you must have agreed because within what felt like seconds your doorbell was ringing and you were opening the door.
Ryan had never looked so small in your eyes before. His eyes remained stuck on the ground, his bottom lip hiding behind his straight white teeth, and his feet shifting on the cold concrete doorstep. Just like the day in the basement, you found yourself frozen.
What could you do to help when you didn’t have the slightest clue what was wrong? When you didn’t understand and could never understand?
But he made it much easier for you this time as he folded into you, shoulders shaking and tears falling quietly from his eyes.
---
From that night on the two of you started to talk. It began with simple things, like which stores you liked to shop in or what you thought about someone in the neighborhood; and gradually evolved into discussions about your favorite harmonies and how you liked the cold wind on your face while he longed for the warm, salty air of the ocean.
Pulling Ryan out of his shell turned out to be the most incredible experience you had ever encountered. He transformed from the quiet kid in the corner with his notebook and soft smile into an endless pit of unspoken emotions and uncountable changing moods. To say that Ryan was fascinating was an understatement.
It was the third night in a row that he had spent the night at your place when you asked if you’d ever get to see his house. The sudden appearance of the serious expression on his face wiped the grin right off yours. That was the night that you discovered why Ryan had stopped eating, why he had been crying in the basement that day; the answer to every question you had never allowed yourself to ask.
Ryan’s father was an alcoholic. After he had assured you that his father never hit him and your heart had stopped racing so fast, he confessed that he and his father didn’t get along. That there were many endless fights, and angry words and raised voices; and that was when you understood why he never wanted to be home.
You held him that night; that delicate, frail body of his encircled by your arms as he slept near you and his soft breaths warmed your skin through your t-shirt.
---
You’re not sure who’s idea it was, or who bought the software, but you do remember Ryan’s eyes lighting up at the idea of finally recording and not just practicing in that dank cellar. His eyes had lit up for the first time in months and his fingers were moving a mile a minute as he tried to figure out how to get it to work.
It had been awkward at first, and it took more than just a few attempts to get it right, but the four of you eventually put together a decently mixed track. You remember listening to it every day, driving your family wild with that ‘racket,’ and grinning from ear-to-ear because you were just so proud of yourself and of them. This was yours. That was really your voice coming through the speakers, and while it was far from flawless to you it sounded perfect.
Sometime over those weeks of your voice on repeat in your head, Ryan had put it up online somewhere -- you could care less where as long as people could hear. You had this undying urge for people to hear you, to hear this music, this thing that had been created between the four of you.
When Ryan called you up one day, nearly screaming, to let you know that Pete Wentz had heard you and wanted to fly in and hear you play, you didn’t believe him at first. “C’mon, Ry, it’s not April Fools.” You had said. But the silence on the other end of the line and the obvious attempts you heard of the older boy calming himself down let you know that he wasn’t kidding you.
You don’t remember what you did after that - but Ryan always swears you screamed.
---
The only time Ryan’s dad ever hit him was the night he told his father that the band had been signed, and that he was quitting college to pursue this career. You know this because you were the first one he called, because he didn’t even try to hide the fear in his sobs and shaking voice, because he was at your doorstep once more and you were holding him and telling him it would be okay.
You’ll never forget the way he shook that night and the way the bruise tarnished the softness of his face.
“I’m sorry, Ry.” And you had meant it, the guilt seeping in through every one of your pores and leaving you miserable as he rested his head in your lap and stared out at nothing. But he had said it was worth it.
The two of you fell asleep like that, with your hand resting protectively on his boney shoulder and his slender one resting on your knee.
---
You’re not sure what gave you the sudden inspiration to put moves on Ryan onstage. It had come to you almost like breathing. Initially you blamed the adrenaline when Ryan scowled at you after the first occurrence and asked why the hell you had touched him like that.
The second time he asked, you claimed that the fangirls liked it and that it wasn’t a crime to do something to make the girls scream louder. Sex sold after all, right? He had rolled his eyes, but he hadn’t told you to stop and so you hadn’t.
Eventually he just stopped asking and the two of you never talked about what occurred between the two of you on stage. Because it was just a show after all and talking about it might bring up how sometimes you really did wonder what it would feel like to slip and let your lips press to his for just one second.
Or that sometimes you lay awake at night and replayed everything from the concert in slow motion as the adrenaline pumped through your system at a speed too quick to be healthy. You would close your eyes and take a deep breath, the images forcefully fading to the background before you could fall asleep.
Because you totally didn’t want to kiss another boy; and you definitely didn’t want to kiss your best friend.
---
Ryan hated parties. He didn’t like having to meet new people and he hated the stench of alcohol; not to mention the drunken idiots hitting on him (it was even worse when they mistook him for a girl). But when you’re a rock star, you have to party and so for a year you ended up playing chaperone after most of the shows.
Not that you minded. It wasn’t like you drank anyway, which made Ryan all the happier to cling onto your arm and use you to talk through whenever people came over to introduce themselves.
As time moved on though, he began to learn how to grow comfortable in the environment. And what that meant for you was that you got to spend the latter end of the party nursing your juice and watching him flirt with some skinny chick in tight jeans and too much makeup; something that left you more than tense and uneasy.
More often then not your arm was still cold when you left the party and you went home without him. You would lie awake trying desperately not to wait and listen for when he would tiptoe in through the door. Despite your efforts, you would still be sitting at the table with bloodshot eyes the next morning and endure the teasing about the Mormon boy having a rough night.
That’s how the rumors about you not being a virgin anymore got started. The irony made you sick to your stomach.
---
And there you lay, your head still throbbing and your eyes squeezed tightly closed to keep yourself from glancing over at the clock again. You were in a hotel this time, the foreign room feeling large and empty in its silence.
It was three a.m. and there was still no sign of Ryan - he never came back this late.
Something was settling rock hard in your stomach and you were trying so hard to ignore it. All you wanted to do was sleep; the last thing you wanted was for images of Ryan’s shy smile and his hand on some girl’s hip flashing through your mind.
Time felt hazy as you fought for sleep; the click of the door feeling far away as Ryan stumbled his way into the room. You weren’t going to open your eyes - but somehow they opened and you noticed the tear streaks on his cheeks and your heart stopped cold in your chest.
“Ryan?” Your voice was soft, thick, and strained.
You could see him jump at the sound of your voice through your lashes; a bit more of a twitch than a jump, really. It was hard to tell if he was ignoring you or not as you watched him strip out of his shirt and pants and slide under the covers.
The next few minutes were spent counting the vertebrae in his spine as they curved down into the sheets, your fingers twitching and playing with the soft, crisp fabric of the hotel sheets. Next was the curve of one shoulder blade, followed by the cut angles of his shoulder and all you could do was wonder if you should go to him. Your arms and heart were aching more than you thought they could and yet your voice stayed trapped beneath a lump in your throat and your lips felt chapped and stuck together with glue.
The next time you glanced at the clock it was nearly four a.m. and you hadn’t closed your eyes once. But you knew he wasn’t sleeping either because his shoulders were shaking just slightly and you couldn’t hear his heavy breathing.
“Ryan?” You couldn’t help but try again. Your voice sounded a little rougher this time but a little more natural.
There was a hitch then and a quiver that went all the way down the curve of his spine. And then he became the small boy in your doorway again and he was too far away, and your fingers were itching, and your arms were aching. You’re not sure how it happened, but suddenly you were next to him and your fingers were just barely brushing over his arm.
And then he started trembling all over and your arms were around him. He just shook and you just held him and neither of you said anything.
---
The next morning you woke up and you were on top of the sheets and he was beneath them, but his head was on your chest and he wasn’t shaking anymore. You ran your fingers through his silky hair and watched him sleep, reveling in the feeling of his soft breaths hitting against your partially exposed skin.
Your fingers moved then to feel along the cut features of his face, taking in the softness of his skin and the firmness of his jaw and cheekbone. Just before they brushed over his lips, he stirred and your hand pulled away with a slight jerk. Your heart hammered in your chest and all you could do was hope he couldn’t feel it as those soft, doe eyes looked up at you.
His smile was slow and possibly one of the shyest ones you’ve seen in your entire life - and it’s safe to say it made your heart skip a beat.
“Good morning.” God it felt awkward, but what else could it feel like really? So you just smiled and mumbled out an equally awkward reply before scooting away from him and sitting up. You hoped you didn’t have morning breath.
---
It was days before he approached you about it. His skinny legs a bit stiff as they stopped in front of you, silently begging you to look up from your Sunday comics. So you did, only to find his bottom lip caught between his teeth and his eyes anywhere but on your face.
“Wanna sit?” You asked and swung your long legs off the couch to give him room, which he gladly took.
There was a long silence then and your eyes moved back to the word bubbles before he spoke. It came out awkward and choppy and anything but as graceful as his lyrics.
“I’m sorry.” He finally managed, his slender fingers gripping at tight jeans. “For the other night.”
You took a breath and you nodded, because you knew exactly what he was talking about. “Don’t worry about it.” And for some reason your voice sounded dry again; your eyes glued to those damn word bubbles and practically anything that kept you from noticing the grip on his jeans tightening.
Something just let you know that he wanted to talk about that night, but he just couldn’t. It took all you had to move your eyes away and to let your hand slip over his, but somehow you managed that and a smile. “Really.”
He just squeezed your hand and leaned against you, his eyes glancing over at the comics. “Anything good?”
---
From that day on you became his chaperone again. His hand never left your arm the entire night and his smiles were only for you; and you were not about to complain. Occasionally his fingers would brush against you or he would whisper in your ear and you would feel like you were flying.
One night he stuck like glue. You could feel his pin-striped thighs lining up against yours and those graceful fingertips tracing half moons along the back of your neck as the two of you talked.
“You wanna get out of here?” He finally whispered hotly against your ear after the fourth drunk guy that had stumbled over to feel him up. You nodded, and gripped his hand and tugged him out of that stuffy apartment and into the fresh, cool air of the night.
Ryan’s hand instantly pulled out of yours to wrap his arms around himself in protest of the cold and his lips formed a thin line. Your hand felt cold and empty, and so you shoved it in your pocket to try and forget about it.
“I told you to bring a jacket.” You grumbled, watching your breath pour out into the night like cigarette smoke.
He just shrugged a boney shoulder and shivered stubbornly. All you could do was grin and wrap an arm around him to pull him close against you, thankful for the chill as he leaned into your warmth and sighed softly.
The two of you walked in silence, the smoke from your breathing mixing with his and disappearing into the night. Leaves crackled under your feet and branches rustled around you, but you hardly heard them - completely content to just listen to his breathing.
“I wish you had stayed that night.”
You paused in mid-step and turned to look at him. You were off guard and speechless, but you couldn’t just sit there breathing so you managed a half-mumbled ‘um’ and something that sounds like a question while staying rooted to the spot.
“Why did you leave?”
And how do you answer that? Do you say you were jealous watching him flirt with some overdressed scene girl? Or do you lie to your own best friend? You opted for just a shrug and let your eyes drop to the leaf-ridden sidewalk.
There was a long moment of silence and when he spoke again; his voice had dropped an octave. “I didn’t sleep with the girl, Bren.” You could tell his voice was shaking, even though he was trying desperately to hide it. But all you could manage was an abrupt ‘oh’ and a shuffle of your feet. “I...” His voice faded out in the most beautiful decrescendo you’d ever heard.
Then you knew. And you knew he couldn’t say it and he wouldn’t, because he had his pride and his dignity to uphold. But your arms were instantly around him and you were burrowing into his boney shoulder.
“I’ll never leave you again.” He had no idea how strongly you meant that as you held him and fought back tears of guilt.
---
From that moment on the fleeting touches last longer and you find his eyes meeting yours more often than before. Ryan sits just a little bit closer, just enough for you to feel the heat coming from him, and he leans in so that you can just catch the scent of his shampoo.
Somehow it ends up being just the two of you on the tour bus one night; Jon had mentioned meeting up with his girlfriend somewhere and Spencer was out doing god knows what. Ryan had suggested renting a movie and so there the two of you sat, him practically in your lap with his head resting lightly against your shoulder.
You can’t even remember the title of the movie or what the name of the actress in the scene was anymore and all you can concentrate on is where to put you arm. Your heart skips a beat each time your fingers accidentally brush over an arm, a hip, a thigh, and you hope the hitching in your throat isn’t noticeable because that would be when you would kill yourself.
Something must be scary on the screen because Ryan is tensing and he’s leaning into you, his skeleton fingers clenching into the fabric of your shirt and his head burrowing into your shoulder. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest and you feel as if a whole zoo of butterflies just erupted under his touch, so you close your eyes and you take a deep breath that you hope you can attribute to the scary scene supposedly playing out in front of you.
The scene ends and Ryan relaxes, but his hand doesn’t move. It flattens out against your stomach and then you figure he must be able to feel the butterflies flapping against the inside because he’s smiling up at you in an almost teasing way.
“Ryan?” You mean to ask what he’s smiling about but somehow his lips brush up against yours and you forget completely.
Ryan tastes like fruit juice and peppermint, you decide, and his lips are softer than any girls’ you’ve ever kissed. His stubble feels rough under your fingertips as you trace his jaw, and it feels so nice and so perfect that you don’t even mind the feeling of his cut, slender hipbones digging into you as he moves in closer. Your fingers grip at his back to hold him in place, to cement this moment and never let it go.
And you don’t remember him being that skinny when you first met him, but you don’t care because it just shows how much time has passed and you wouldn’t trade that in for the world, because it led you to this. To fruit juice and peppermint, and stubble beneath your touch, and slender hips pressing against your own; simply perfection.