The front door closes behind Spencer and Jon, and Ryan winces. He's tempted to follow them, run away, but he knows he has to stay put to avoid causing any more trouble or heartbreak.
He's not really sure how to feel anymore. Everything has come to a head in the past few weeks, what with Jon's kind friend dying, Spencer and Jon finally getting their acts together, and Brendon running away. He's not entirely sure what to think about Spencer and Jon; he'd always known that the former had had attractions to men in the past, but Jon? Jon is supposed to be Brendon's, isn't he? Does it mean that Brendon is free now? Then again, Brendon has always been free. That's what he told Ryan, anyway. He doesn't do relationships and he doesn't like to be tied down. Ryan has got no chance.
The boy sighs, and curls into a tighter ball on his bed. Jon has been nice today, talking to him and being perfectly honest with him, and he just can't shake his advice from his mind. He's got to be complete, constant, for Brendon to truly need him. He can't keep trying to kill himself. Ryan sighs again, closing his eyes. He wishes it was as easy as just stopping. He wishes he was stable enough for somebody to fall in love with him. He wishes he could find contentment in living.
His fingers slip into his pocket, finding the comforting cold metal of the locket. He closes his fingers around it, eyes tightly closed, and tries to catch his breath. He can be what Brendon needs. He can be right, be normal, be safe, can't he? Can't he sacrifice his self-loathing for somebody he loves? He doesn't want to be saved, he's not important enough for that. He just wants to be the saviour, he wants to be Brendon's hero.
There's a soft knocking at the door and he immediately withdraws his hand, sitting up. Shit. With Spencer and Jon out of the house, there's only one person this is going to be. Ryan swallows, nervously, and calls, "C-Come in."
The door opens and, sure enough, Brendon walks tentatively in. He is still bruised and bloody and in those old, ragged clothes. His cheek is still a little red from Ryan's slap, covering the bruise and the cut that also adorn it. Ryan has never, ever seen anything to heartbreaking and he has to stand up, wanting just to do something, anything, that might help. "Brendon," he whispers, motioning to the bed. "S-Sit down. You must be ex-exhausted."
Brendon nods, emotionlessly, and sinks into the softness of the bed. Ryan cautiously sits next to him, not knowing what the hell to say. Usually, Brendon initiates conversation or, indeed, action between them. Ryan was never born to be a leader. Hands shaking just a little, he lifts one arm and brings his longer fingers down Brendon's back. Brendon shivers, and turns to him, bottom lip actually trembling. "Ryan ..."
"What?" Ryan whispers back, chest tightening.
"I'm sorry," Brendon murmurs, fingering a small hole in his sleeve. "I'm sorry for running away. I'm sorry for sleeping with you. I'm sorry for making you want to die. I didn't want any of this to happen."
"Don't ap-apologise," Ryan counters, almost automatically. "You've g-got nothing to be s-sorry for. You ran away b-because you were scared, j-just like I try to k-kill myself because I'm sc-scared."
Brendon's eyes widen at the personal comment, and one of his hands find Ryan's, grasping it tightly. "Ryan," he says, again, this time more urgently. "Please don't die. Please. Don't be scared any more. I'm not going anywhere."
Ryan shakes his head, a blush rising upon his cheeks. "Y-You are. You're J-Jon's. You'll go t-to that man, that R, y-you know you w-will. You can't change y-your whole life for m-me."
"But --"
"You're n-not like Jon. He'll p-probably manage it n-now he has S-Spencer, so --"
Brendon flinches, letting go of Ryan's hand. He stares at the boy, looking bewildered and lost and stunned. "Wait, what? Now he has Spencer? What do you mean?"
"Oh." Ryan shifts, uncomfortably, not really wanting to be the one who tells this broken boy the truth. "Well. Um. S-Spencer and Jon are d-dating now. After William's funeral, Jon s-started to drink loads and S-Spencer helped him s-stop."
It looks like all of the colour and life has gone out of Brendon. He pales beneath the purple of his bruises and actually seems to shrink, withdrawing into himself. His beautiful eyes move to the floor, wide and lost and desperate. "Oh," he whispers, and his voice is hollow. "Oh. Oh, fuck. Willam, William, Jon, no, fuck ..."
And, just like that, Brendon seems to lose his mind. His fingers tangle in his hear, clutching at it desperately, and he beings to physically rock backwards and forwards, all the while muttering, "Fuck, fuck, not Jon, fuck ..." his voice begins to rise from a whisper to a scream, his voice choked with tears as he shouts, "N-No, he can't - fuck, no, William, he can't, fuck ..."
Ryan stares at him, breath catching in his throat. Fuck. What's he done? What the fuck has he done? Desperately, he moves forward, hands clasping around Brendon's forearms, and he kisses him. He doesn't care about the fear in his heart. He doesn't care about Brendon's screaming. He just catches Brendon's moving lips with his own and closes his eyes, hoping against hope itself that this might do some good, that this will show Brendon he can lean on somebody else, lean on him. Brendon stills, at once, with the contact, but he shows no sign of resistance.
Tentatively, Ryan pushes his tongue forward and Brendon's lip part for him, with the smallest of moans. Ryan leans into him, still holding his arms, his lips moving slowly, tenderly. Brendon kisses him back - he kisses him back - hands sliding around Ryan's body, pulling him closer. Tears smear their cheeks and passion runs through every vein in Ryan's body, before Brendon's hand starts to creep down to his ass and he freezes.
Oh. Oh. No, no, no, he can't do this, not yet. He can't let himself be fucked and left, a rebound for the smarting Brendon. No, no, no. He wants to be here for him, but he wants romance, he wants subtly. He doesn't want to be the fuck to forget. He pulls back, shaking his head, and immediately wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Brendon's face falls, at once, and he feels like he's just killed somebody. Shit. Why can't he ever do anything right?
"I'm s-sorry for slapping you t-this morning," Ryan whispers, breathlessly. "S-Sorry, I just. I n-need to sleep, Brendon. I-I can't. I'm not --"
"Okay," Brendon breathes, closing his eyes, still startlingly pale. "Okay. I understand."
"N-No, you don't," Ryan sighs, honestly, and he presses the smallest to kisses to Brendon's bruised forehead. "You d-don't understand, not y-yet."
Brendon's eyes open and he stares at his companion, before the smallest of smiles adorns his beautiful lips. "If you say so," he whispers, sounding calmer, even happier. "I'm going to try to sleep, too. I can't believe ... William ..." he trails off, swallowing hard, and Ryan kisses him once more, firmly, on the lips. "Goodbye, Ryan. Thank - thank you, for everything."
"Bye, Brendon," Ryan mumbles, as Brendon gets up off the bed. He watches him walk over to the door, hips swaying just a little, and he can't believe what he's just done. He's half-hard, still, and he's just rejected Brendon. Well-fucking-done, Ryan Ross, well done indeed. With a sigh, Ryan slips under the covers, trying to get his head around the horrible truths he's just revealed to the boy.
"Oh, and Ryan?"
Ryan opens his eyes to find Brendon leaning over him. Before he can speak, Brendon's lips glide against his, softly. Ryan's brain goes just a little fuzzy, but then the contact is over, and Brendon is straightening up again. Licking at his lips, Ryan whispers, "Y-Yes?"
"Nothing," Brendon smiles, secretively, and then he leaves. The door closes behind him and all that Ryan can hear is the beating of his heart, loud and clear and maddening.
