Title: Life's a Song
Author: Marianna [insunshine]
Rating: R
Characters: Ryan Ross, Brendon Urie, Pete Wentz, Jon Walker, Spencer Smith [Ryan/Brendon, Ryan/Pete, hints of Ryan/Jon].
Word Count: 7819
Summary: In which Ryan is a stripper.
Disclaimer: I do not own these boys and I would sincerely love it if Ryan Ross were nothing like this in real life. Also, the title comes from the Patrick Park song of the same name, and the lyrics interspersed throughout are from Jason Myles Goss' Mississippi Red.
Author Notes: This is dedicated to forcedmovement. She edited with me, held my hand, tirelessly listened and basically let me talk it out until it made sense to more than me. I love her, and I just. Yeah. Seriously. Also, thanks to the wonderful people on the flist, and fallingfortruth for the funeral.



you're dancin' real slow

If there's one thing Ryan knows how to do, it's move. He bends his leg around the metal pole, flinching a little as it smooths across his skin, glad that for the moment, that his back is to the people. Ryan is good at moving because he's been running his entire life. It figures that he's trapped in the one place he ever actually made it to.

In exactly one minute and fifty two seconds there'll be a key change, and Ryan closes his eyes, working a hand up and down the sinews of his neck, flicking the buttons of the shirt hugging at his shoulders that's way too confining to be frilly, and he looks like he's taking time, he looks like he's enjoying this. They get off on that, and he knows it. He smiles a little at the man directly in front of his light. He can't see much other than a bald head and slightly trembling hands, but it's enough.

Ryan's shirt is gone when the chorus breaks, and the sound of fingers on strings sets something shivering along his skin, but Ryan ignores it. He has to.

In his past life, he knew how to play guitar. Sometimes, at night, when he closes his eyes and pretends to sleep, his fingers itch to be over the strings, but he ignores them, because he has to. Music is something he needs to live with, music provides him with means for his survival, but it begins and ends in three minute increments, and he never takes it home.

Music is for everyone but him. His apartment is always silent because he can't deal with the noise.

He closes his eyes, swinging his hips as he slinks the pants past them. They pool in a silky pile around his feet, and he steps out of them quickly. His fingers are calloused as he presses the pads of his thumbs against the skin of his arms. The song is over in thirty six seconds and he twists his head down, counting the beats under his breath, rolling his neck, and pushing his eyes open. He licks his lips, mostly for effect, but also because they're dry and he's parched, and he can't afford to have a split lip.

This is the part he hates.

He flicks his eyes out, over the audience, looking for his regulars, and his breath hitches the littlest, tiniest bit, because the guy is there. Sitting at a booth in the back corner. There's a shadow covering his face, but Ryan can see through it, Ryan can feel eyes sweeping over his skin, and the hand that's cupping his dick feels too warm, and too heavy, and his exit is clumsy when he feels the lights flickering, but that's Okay, that's Okay, because he's been doing this for a couple years now, and he's barely made a handful of mistakes.

Jon is leaning against the wall behind the curtain as he rushes off, and he smiles lightly as Ryan comes into view. Ryan doesn't stop and chat with the other dancers, but Jon is different. Jon is different because he smiles, and because he has a life, and a goal and and a plan, and Ryan has nothing.

"Hey there, Ross," If Ryan got attached to people, if he still had that gene in him, he'd be attached to Jon's easy slouch, and the brightness in his eyes, and his hope. Ryan sometimes wants to drown himself in that hope.

"Left you a mess on stage," He mutters, and he's freezing because it's still another couple feet to the hoodie and sweats he's stuffed in his locker.

"Here," Jon says, pulling his own hoodie from around his shoulders. He's still smiling, and his eyes are still shining, and Ryan doesn't know whether he wants to punch him in the face or just take it and get away as fast as possible. He takes the sweater because Jon looks like he could break him with a twist of his fingers, and nods his thanks.

"I'll put this in your locker when I've got my stuff," He mutters. He's getting really well acquainted with the cracked green parquet of the floor. He can tell when Jon smiles though, because the air shifts.

"I'll make sure your clothes get put in your locker before tomorrow. I know you've got an All Day," Jon's fingers are soft on his arm, and Ryan flinches even though he doesn't mean to. He hasn't. He hasn't been touched in a very long time without money exchanging hands; money, or a place to stay, or new shoes, or dinner. Jon doesn't press though, just smiles again, and waits a beat until the faint strains of his music come in through the speakers.

Ryan used to drown himself in music.

He no longer has that luxury.



hanging in the air, like the flicker of your cigarette

Pete's at his desk when Ryan pushes into the office. His hair is damp from the "shower" he'd managed to steal [a sponge bath with tepid water that he's pretty sure things were living in], and he doesn't miss the look in Pete's eyes. His lips are set into a grim line, and Ryan can just make out the ring of thorns around his neck.

He remembers what they taste like, knows each and every one of Pete's moods, because he's lived through them, and he knows this one too. He shrugs, and edges his shoulder along the doorjamb, boxed in and uncomfortable in his jacket, because his skin was used to the open, his skin was used to the air, and he hates the constraint, but. He's gotten naked in this place enough in the past few hours.

Pete doesn't look at him as he scoots the money across the scarred and wooden desk. Most nights, Ryan likes inspecting the patterns, likes tracing them with his fingers, determining their origins, thinking up stories. In his past life, Ryan had an imagination. He had thoughts and ideas and words.

Now he just has this, and the white noise, and the money, but he doesn't even have to look to see that there's not enough. There's never enough, not really, but this is just.

"There's just over thirty, there," Pete says, and his voice is even. Ryan's eyes are wide, and Pete's looking at him, but Ryan's looking down. Ryan has to get out of here. Ryan needs to shed his skin, and the sound, and the noise of this place and lock himself in his apartment until his shift tomorrow.

"Plus tips?" His voice is strong, which is surprising. Or maybe it's not, but it should be. Ryan doesn't know. Ryan doesn't know much of anything anymore, which isn't that surprising, because it's not like he knew much to begin with.

"Plus tips," Pete says, and Ryan has barely enough time to turn around and pocket the money before he feels the dry heaves edging their way up his throat. There's no way. There's no way he has enough to eat with this and call Spencer. Dammit, he needs to call Spencer. He can't miss his night again.

The glass door bangs as he pushes back out of that stifling little room, and he can smell smoke swirling around him when he gets outside. He hates fire, hates cigarettes, hates the warmth. He runs his hands through his hair, tugging on the ends and trying not to feel the lack-of-weight of the money in his back pocket.

It's Okay. It's fine. He's gone a few days without food before, and maybe if he gets here early enough tomorrow, Jon will share his coffee again. He'd done that once, and Ryan could still taste on his lips hours later. Coffee is good. Coffee is lasting, and Jon always seems to have an endless supply. Maybe if--

"H-hi."

When Ryan was a kid, he thought about death constantly. Getting into car accidents, getting his head and wrists and legs cut off, cut straight through, wondering whether the belt against his back would collapse a lung, if the malnutrition would suck the skin straight from his bones, if, if, if.

He never wished for it. Not really. Not until the end, where the bruises got harder and harder to conceal, not until he could barely walk he hurt so much from it. He wished for it then, but never concretely. Just for a way out. Away. Even when he was curling up in abandoned cars, and sleeping on street corners, he was never really scared because he got out. He got out, and nothing else mattered.

Nothing much matters now, except for the fact that if he dies here, Spencer's going to find out about the stripping. He has a feeling Spencer would be angry more than anything. And he would kind of prefer it if Spencer wasn't angry at his ghost. His karma is probably black enough as it is without adding something like that to the mix.

"You're stalking me," Ryan says simply, maybe just to watch color flood into the guy's cheeks, maybe to stall for time, although no one comes back here except for the other dancers, and Second Shift's already started. If this guy kills him, if tonight is the night, they won't find his body for hours and--

"I'm not stalking you," His voice is nice, in a hyperactive way, and Ryan blinks, because he can't believe he noticed.

"Listen, asshole. You've been coming here for three months, and sitting in that same back booth, and just watching. And that's fine. As long as you leave a tip, I don't care what you do, but I had a slow night," Which is your fault. "And I'd really just like to go home and crash. So leave me the fuck alone, Okay?"

"I didn't mean to bother you." His eyes are wide, and Ryan wants to hate him. Ryan does hate him. He hates everything about him, from his stupid, wispy haircut, to the way he has stubble on his cheeks. How his glasses curve over his cheeks, and the soft indent of his lips, where words that Ryan can't hear are spewing out.

"I'm going to pass out if I don't eat something soon," Ryan spits out, and the money in his pocket feels like it weighs even less than before. He won't be able to call Spencer this week. Again. His brain cheerfully provides him with the reminder that if this guy really is going to kill him, he won't have to worry about not calling Spencer. The thought is strangely more appealing than he actually wants to admit. "So can you either kill me or get the fuck out of my way?"

"I'm not." He moves his jacket a little to the side, and for a split second Ryan thinks it's a gun. Ryan thinks it's a gun, and his palms sweat, and he can hear music in his head. Music that he hasn't let in in god knows how long. In all the times he's thought about this, it has never been with a gun.

The guy just holds out his wallet though, and it's black and leather and beaten within an inch of its life. There's a badge there though. A badge that looks vaguely real, and vaguely police like. The rage that screams through him is thin and razor fine, and Ryan can honestly not remember the last time he was so angry.

"You're a cop?"

"Yes?"

"You're a cop, and you come here?"

"I-"

"God. No. Fuck you. We're clean here. There are people. There are people out there who are getting fucked over, right now, and you're sitting in a strip joint? Sitting in a strip joint and watching me every fucking night? Are you on duty? I bet you're on duty, and you're here, watching me. God. Fuck off."

Except he doesn't. He leans forward and clasps his hand on Ryan's shoulder, and god, that's really fucking it.

"Just because I strip for a living does not mean--" His voice is loud. He's screaming in the middle of the night, in an alley outside the club with a guy who's been watching him for months. He's screaming.

Ryan hasn't screamed in years. He almost smiles. He hasn't smiled in that long either, doesn't know if his mouth even twitches that way, but it tries. He screamed.

The guy just looks perplexed, and Ryan blinks at him, hands rough against his shoulders.

"You can um. If you wanted to let go. That might be good." Ryan isn't one to apologize; not for anything, and besides, he's the one who should be getting an apology, not the guy who practically mugged him in an alleyway, but he mutters, "I'm sorry," anyway, looking down at the pavement. He screamed.

He can't get over it. His lips quirk again. Not a real smile, Ryan has no idea how to do those, but. But it's something. He doesn't have enough money to pay his rent, and if he wants to eat, he can't call Spencer, and if he doesn't call Spencer...

His brain is a mess, and he just did his worse set since he first got here, and he screamed at a random guy [a random guy that has maybe stalked him for three months, but a random guy none-the-less] in an alleyway. His night could be going worse. He could be dead. Or still dancing. Or in Las Vegas.

"Did you. Did you want to maybe grab some breakfast or something?" Ryan doesn't wear a watch, because they're not allowed to dance with jewelery and he doesn't have a cell phone because those are fucking expensive, so he doesn't know what time it is exactly, but it can't be later than four. Four am is way too fucking early to be eating breakfast.

"Breakfast."

"There's this place. They make pancakes." Ryan has never wanted pancakes more in his life.

"I could eat," He mutters, fingering the crisp bills in his back pocket. He doesn't know what he's doing, and this might be clearly violating some rule Pete has, but breakfast at four o'clock in the morning is different than fucking for a profit. And Ryan is definitely not looking to do either. He just wants pancakes. He hasn't had pancakes since he was a kid. Since before his mom left.

"We could take my car. It's a couple miles around the corner." He's fidgeting, and he's fidgeting hard, and the cigarette between his fingers has worked itself down to barely a nub. Ryan watches the embers are they burn brightly, and reminds himself that getting into cars with strangers is the biggest mistake he could possibly make.

He doesn't know what's wrong with his brain.

"I don't even know your name," Ryan mutters, and his lips are back to quirking. God, there is something so screwed up about this. The guy smiles though, the guy smiles, and it's. Well. It's something Ryan can't exactly articulate into words. He's forgotten how to use his. Forgotten why they existed in the first place.

"Brendon," He says, and the hand he sticks out to shake is formal.

Ryan tries to smile.

"Do you have any candy, Brendon?" Pancakes are enough of a lure.


honey, where else can you go?


Pancakes taste better than Ryan could have ever imagined. They're light and fluffy, and the weight staff don't look at the two of them like they're crazy for sitting at a diner at half past five in the morning, eating their weight in pancakes.

Ryan is silent, Ryan hasn't eaten this well in longer than he can remember. He's stuffing his face, not even bothering to wipe at his mouth, barely even bothering to swallow, and Brendon is staring at him like he's. Well, Ryan doesn't actually know, and it kind of weirds him out that he cares.

"So, you been dancing long?" Ryan rolls his eyes, closing them once he feels the slide of the maple tipped dough making its way down his throat.

"Are we doing this?"

Brendon blinks.

"Are you interrogating me for something? Is that the reason you're there, watching every night? Because I'm doing something wrong?" Ryan's pride is legendary and it sounds stung, even though yes, he's doing something wrong, he does something wrong frequently, but he's not a whore. He sometimes spends a little extra time with his regulars, and they like to pay him afterwards, but it does not mean he's completely reprehensible. He needs to eat somehow, and there's no way he can survive on more thirty dollar nights, few and far in between though they are. He has to pay rent at the end of the week.

"I. Uh. I'm a vice cop," Brendon mutters quietly, looking down at his coffee mug, his fingers tapping a pattern out on the ceramic surface. He has nice fingers. Ryan really needs to slap himself silly at some point in the next twenty five seconds, though, because he doesn't have time for this. Cops at the bar are one thing, fraternizing with them outside of it is a whole different one.

Ryan hates the system more than he could possibly express.

"So?"

"Couple months back, we were looking into." Brendon's ears flush a little. Just the tiniest bit, but it's rounding the corners, and scalding into his skin. If Ryan could smile, he would be doing so around his mouthful of pancakes. "Just wanted to make sure everything was in working order." Ryan's brows raise, but he doesn't say anything. He wonders if he's going to have to pay for all of this.

If he doesn't, he can call Spencer. If he doesn't, he can maybe try and get down to the thrift store on the corner of his street and find a new pair of pants before his shift tomorrow. If he doesn't, maybe he can actually start saving again.

"We got an anonymous tip." There are warning bells going off in Ryan's brain, warning bells in blue and red, brightly turning like police lights, and Ryan coughs down a mouthful of coffee and looks at Brendon straight in the eye. "So they sent me out to. Check it out." He's twitching like crazy, Ryan can see his fingers moving back and forth against the cracked Formica, either craving a cigarette or guitar strings. Ryan's not sure which.

Ryan's not sure he cares. Ryan's not sure why he does.

"Oh. Did you figure it out?" Ryan kind of can't believe that he's sitting in a diner, with a cop at 5:30 in the morning, discussing his place of employment and the apparent scandal surrounding it like they're talking about the weather. To be fair, Brendon is mostly talking about the weather. Ryan is stuffing his face with food, because he may not get to eat like this for a while. He may not get to eat like this ever again, maybe.

"Yeah. It wasn't. It wasn't what we thought it was." There's a certain amount of subtext radiating off his words, and if this were Pretty Woman, Ryan would be looking up, and looking into his eyes, and smiling coyly and saying something about pantyhose. As it is, Julia Roberts has better hair than he does, and he kisses on the mouth.

Plus, he's a stripper, not a prostitute, even though the line sometimes gets blurred more often than he wants it to.

"You kept coming back though," Ryan says, and his eyes are still on the table, on the plate he'd practically licked clean. On their discarded cups on coffee. On Brendon's hands, twitching against the green. "Why?"

Brendon chokes a little on his coffee. Ryan hadn't realized there was any left over in his cup.

"I don't know," He's hedging, but the words are truthful, and Ryan has a really good bullshit detector. It helps, in his line of work.

He almost smiles again.

"I like the way you move," The words are simple, and goosebumps explode against Ryan's skin. He rubs at his arms, and presses his fingertips to his eyes. He is way too old for this.

"I have to go." Ryan doesn't even want to look at their receipt, hiding under Brendon's coffee mug. "How much do I owe you?" Brendon's ears flush again, and then the blush makes its way down to his cheeks.

"It's Okay, I got it." Ryan's cheeks flame, because he's not. Well, he is, but--

"I'm not--"

"I didn't say you were." Brendon's voice is easy, soothing, and Ryan doesn't even for one second think about falling into it. "How're you going to get home?"

That is a good question. Ryan should have never gotten in the car.

--

"Thank you, again. I mean, it couldn't have been cheap."

"Can you stop that? It was twenty bucks at a diner, not a million on the ponies." Ryan makes a non committal noise because twenty bucks at a diner is almost as much as he made tonight, but he doesn't put that into words. He doesn't know why Brendon fed him--unless it's like one of those Hansel and Gretel things, fattening him up, before the slaughter. "Where do you want me to drop you?"

It's like a whole new layer of tension has been added on Ryan's shoulders, because he never brings anybody home. Not that he's fucked for pleasure much, not for a while, if ever, but even his friends? Friend. Jon. Even Jon who he kind of, sort of trusts, even Jon has never seen his apartment.

"You can just leave me at the bar," He mutters, his eyes out, and flicking along the sidewalk. There's no light here, and the streetlights have burned out, and Brendon [if that's even his real name, except it totally said Brendon B. Urie on the badge, and Ryan's fairly certain no one would go to that much trouble just to kill him] could totally dump his body anywhere, and no one would know.

He vaguely wonders if Spencer would find out, or if he'd just keep on leaving messages on Pete's spare phone line, thinking Ryan just didn't want to call him back. He wonders if Pete would take pity on him. He wonders if Pete would tell Spencer the truth, and this hot pit of...something shocks through his stomach.

"Isn't that kind of. Do you really want to spend more time there than you have to?" Ryan lives about a hundred yards and a street corner away from the bar. It's not like he can avoid it.

"All of my." The words die in Ryan's throat, because Brendon is a cop. Brendon is a vice cop. Brendon might be a bent vice cop, but he's still a vice cop, and it's his job to check out stuff like this. The last time Ryan checked, prostitution was illegal, and he's not. He doesn't have a pimp or anything, Pete really doesn't run that sort of business, but. "It's just better. At the bar." Brendon sighs, at least Ryan thinks he does. He has no idea what that even means.

"Here we are," Brendon says a little unnecessarily, because the blinking lights overhead say Pete's, and Ryan has been dropped off here a good hundred times in the two years since he started taking his clothes off for money. He's not a whore. He isn't. But sometimes tips are low, and he has regulars who sometimes pay for more.

Sometimes it's just necessary.

"So, thank you. Again. I can't believe I yelled at you and you bought me breakfast." Brendon shrugs, and Ryan shrugs back. He should be getting out of the car now. He should be getting out of the car, and hoping that this is it. Maybe Brendon won't come back and watch him dance anymore, and maybe he'll be gone, so Ryan can not get distracted anymore.

The less distracted Ryan is, the more tips he gets. More tips means he can buy things like calling cards to call Spencer, and toilet paper, and maybe, when he's feeling really bold, chocolate.

In his past life, Ryan really loved chocolate.

"I didn't. I didn't take you out for you to thank me." Brendon sounds exasperated, and Ryan doesn't know why his brow quirks. He doesn't care, and he's been up for twenty four hours, and he's working an All Day tomorrow, but Brendon sounds tense, and Ryan shifts a little, and widens his eyes.

He hasn't had a real conversation since before Spencer left for school. Since before he was free. Since before. Even now, Spencer calls, and Ryan lies, he has to. He lies about taking classes at the community college, and playing at open mic nights, and about Janey, the nice girl next door who sometimes makes him cookies, and takes him to the movies.

The guy who lives next door to him is an illegal immigrant who speaks no English. Ryan hasn't had a cookie in so long he can't even pretend to remember what they taste like.

"So."

"So I should go. Early morning at the office." Brendon's eyes widen a little bit until he catches the sarcasm, and then a smile ghosts across his lips. Ryan has had to stop himself from thinking, god he's pretty, at least twelve times since the diner. Ryan, who doesn't date because no one would understand his line of work, Ryan who thought/thinks Brendon might still pull a shiv to his throat.

He is so fucked up.

"I really should pay you back," He's saying, and his voice is this breathy little whisper thing, and he doesn't actually sound like that, ever. And just as Brendon's saying, "God, for the five hundredth time, will you stop saying thank you? You're welcome, Okay? I absolve you of all guilt. Would you like another short stack?" he leans across the gear shift, and flicks open the top button of Brendon's jeans. "Woah, there, what are you--" But Ryan as good at this, this is the one thing he's good at it, and if his fingers are a little cold as they cup Brendon, he doesn't complain.

Ryan's eyes are closing as he pulls the head into his mouth, wrapping the hand not holding him up around the base of the shaft, and stroking them together in time.

"You don't." Brendon's voice is croaked out and breathless. "You don't have to do this." Ryan knows he doesn't.

The difference here is that he wants to.


put the makeup on, put the makeup on


Brendon doesn't come to the club for a full week, and Ryan tells himself he doesn't care. He doesn't care. He widens his eyes, and pouts his lips, and thrusts his hips out. He makes one hundred dollars, in tips alone on Thursday, and Pete is grinning bright as he hands the money over. Ryan smiles back, but his lips hurt, and they're not really used to twisting up.

"Got a message, Ross," Ryan flushes a little, but nods, perching his hip on the edge of Pete's desk, and pushes down the red message button and presses the phone to his ear.

"Hey, Ry, it's Spence. Just calling to check in, cuz it's my week and all." Ryan feels his throat tightening. "For once I'd actually like it if you actually picked up your phone, but I get it. Up and coming musicians don't exactly get the time to call their childhood best friends. Should I tell people to be looking for your name in lights?" Spencer chuckles a little to himself, and Ryan's eyes are wet. He doesn't cry. He hasn't. Not once since he was seven and his mom left without a word.

He doesn't cry, but he can't handle Spencer's easy words, and easy life, and his ease. Ryan shakes out a breath and takes a second after Spencer's down talking to calm down. It wasn't even an emotional message. Just a hey, how are you? I miss your stupid face.

Sometimes, Ryan really hates his life.

This is one of those times.

"Everything Okay?" Pete looks concerned, and he's sitting next to Ryan now, and the palm of his hand is warm against Ryan's shoulder.

Ryan ends up on his knees with Pete's dick in his mouth because he can't think of a way to answer.

--

Jon laughs at him, but Ryan likes his birds. They make his face look fuller, and that's usually not a good thing, but. He likes them. He likes the way they make him feel, and he likes that his hands don't shake and--

"Ross, you've got a visitor." Jon's grinning, and Ryan almost smiles back at him, because Jon is easy to smile at. It's best not to get attached though, because Jon has plans, and goals and a dream and Ryan has nothing. He nods quickly, capping his eyeliner, and then checking his reflection in the mirror. He doesn't think it's one of his regulars, they don't know their way around the dressing room, and Pete would've just barged in on his own, and--

"Uh. Hey." Ryan's eyes bug out a little bit, but he can't help it.

"Uh." Brendon looks like shit, which shouldn't make Ryan feel better, it shouldn't, but it does, and Jon winks a little at him over his shoulder before disappearing down the hallway to the bathroom. "You're not supposed to be back here."

Brendon grins, and holds up his badge.

"Official business."

"Ah." Ryan breathes through his nose, and tells himself not to panic.

They both stare down at their feet, and Ryan wishes he were anywhere but here, anywhere but in this hallway, anywhere but in this life, anywhere but with Brendon.

Ryan hates today already and he hasn't even gotten on stage yet.

"So, listen, I've got to--" Brendon's leaning over, and across and into Ryan's personal space bubble, brushing their lips together, and Ryan doesn't even breathe. Brendon tastes bitter, and a little like the cigarettes Ryan knows he smokes by the cartonful. Brendon starts to pull away and Ryan can hear the faint strains of his music coming on.

He doesn't care. He tugs Brendon closer, crushing their lips together, and twisting his his fingers in the cotton of Brendon's t-shirt. He loses his balance a little, and they bang back against the brick of the wall together, breathing through their mouths and for each other. Brendon's fingers are hard and hungry against the skin of Ryan's waist, and Ryan can hear the music, it's pulsing faster, and he should have been out there by now. He should have been, but he's not, and Brendon feels heavy against him, leaving bruises. Bruises are all Ryan's ever known.

"Want you to fuck me," He breathes, hot against Brendon's neck. Brendon's fingers tighten against him, against his skin, and the bruises under the surface there that will never really fade. "I need you, Brendon." He doesn't know where the desperation in his voice came from, doesn't know if it's even for Brendon, or for the contact.

Sometimes Ryan really misses the contact. The non I'll-leave-you-a-twenty-on-the-night-stand contact, he's had more of that lately than he'd like to admit.

"I'm not--" Brendon's breathing is labored, and his glasses are crooked, and Ryan will seriously, honestly spontaneously combust if they don't get naked soon. He's never wanted it this badly, never needed anything as much as he needs to feel the sting and slide of sex, and then Brendon let's go, and Ryan honestly physically cannot breathe. "I'm not going to treat you like a whore, Ryan, Jesus."

Ryan's eyes flash as Brendon steps away, and his lips are red, and cut and bruised, and just like Ryan's are, worse than Ryan's are, even, and his eyes are flashing with something. They're both breathing heavy, and Ryan's music plays on, just around the corner and through the curtain. Anyone could see them.

"I am a whore," Ryan mutters, mostly for shock value, but also to see Brendon's eyes widen. "I blew you in a parked car and begged you to fuck me against a wall. I would say that'd do it. I don't know what you expected." The laugh that slips past his lips is possibly the worst noise Brendon's ever heard in his life, and Ryan's eyes are dead as he looks into them.

Ryan's music plays, seeps into their skin, and their consciousness and if Ryan still has a job after this, he'll have to change his song.

Ryan's music plays, and everything changes.


your daddy wrote you a letter, said you better not come back home

Ryan knows it's coming, because Pete's eyes are sad. They've never been friends, or anything, but he knows Pete likes him, knows that Pete saved him, and he wants to make a joke, wants to say, oh, well then I shouldn't get Pete Wentz saves the world on my ass, then? But he doesn't, because that's not him now, maybe it never was.

He doesn't say anything, and the scars on Pete's desk look like they've faded.

"I-"

Ryan's on pins and needles, and something is coursing through him, because without this job, he is nothing. He doesn't have anything else. He doesn't have anything.

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry," Pete's not looking at him at all, twisting a pen around his fingers and keeping his eyes trained to the paperwork in front of him. "And I know it's none of my business, but dude, it's family, and you're more than welcome to take a few days off. I won't even doc 'em, Okay?"

"What?"

"I didn't mean to listen to listen, Ryan, I really didn't, but-"

"Didn't mean to listen to what?" His legs are tired, and his back is achy, but he has three hundred dollars in his pocket, and that's enough for more phone cards than he could ever think to use. Spencer is going to hear his voice so much that he's going to be sick of it.

"The message." Ryan must look confused, the blank stare must have turned into something else, he really doesn't know, he just wants to go to 7-11, buy his freaking phone cards and lock himself in his apartment. He'll call Spencer tomorrow, he's just tired, and his entire body hurts in places he didn't even know existed.

It's not the good kind of ache.

"Pete, I haven't been sleeping much, but you're not making sense, so thank you for not firing me, I'm just gonna go home. Maybe sleep it off. Okay?" He doesn't know who's voice this is, but it's certainly not his. He wonders if he can make himself talk like this all the time. If his lies and stories and twisted words will sound the same, or if Spencer will be able to tell.

Spencer can always tell, and Ryan misses him so much he can barely see straight. He blinks at Pete, and he can feel the money dragging heavy in his pocket.

Three hundred dollars.

"There was a message for you on the machine," Pete says evenly, and he looks like he's almost hiding, his head is dipped, and Ryan feels something twisting in his stomach. If he doesn't buy a lot of phone cards, and he pays off the difference from last month's rent, maybe he can get a phone of his own. One of those prepaid ones, one of those where he doesn't fill it unless he has the money.

That sounds nice.

"I didn't mean to listen to it, I didn't. I guess I just." Pete's face is smoothed in concentration, and his shirt isn't buttoned up the whole way again, so Ryan can see the thorns twisting around his neck. He remembers how they taste. He wonders if tasting them now will stop this. He wonders what it will get him.

He can still feel the bruises on his thighs.

"It's not a big deal," He says evenly, and his voice still sounds different. Even. "It's not like Spencer has state secrets or anything." Even Pete's eyes are grim, and the thing that's twisting in his stomach gets more insistent, it spreads like a cancer through his chest, and there's something rising up in his throat, something harsh and angry and trapped there. "He's not." The words aren't anything, they barely leave his lips on a breath and his voice is his again, and the world, his world, which wasn't actually that stable to begin with, is crashing down around his ears. "Spencer's not. He can't." Ryan can't breathe, and it doesn't matter that he hasn't seen Spencer in two years, it doesn't matter that his entire life is a lie and a fucking secret, Spencer is his best friend, his best friend, and he can't.

He can't.

Pete's face goes even paler.

"God," He's coming out from behind the desk, and he's kneeling in front of Ryan. Pete is kneeling and his hands are warm against Ryan's thighs, but this is nothing. Ryan doesn't feel anything, he feels groundless, weightless, except for the crisp bills in his pocket which are anchoring him to the ground.

It's blood money.

"God, Ryan, no." Even though they've fucked more times than Ryan can count on both hands, they have never been this intimate. Ryan hates it. He hates the tears welling up in his eyes, and the fact that his breath is hitching, and he hates Spencer. He hates Spencer most of all, because-- "Ryan, Ryan calm down, it's not Spencer."

Ryan hasn't eaten anything for two days, just long, long drags of Jon's cigarettes and his coffee, staving off the dark. If Ryan had a heart, he would be half in love with Jon Walker already. Ryan doesn't, and anyway, Jon deserves better.

He vomits all over the floor, black mixed with fear and relief, and when he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, he punches Pete on the shoulder, hard.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Ryan is dangerously close to screaming again, and his throat is on fire with everything that is contained there.

"It's not Spencer, Ryan, it's your dad." The words are quiet, and Pete isn't looking at him again. He's cleaning up the mess on the floor, but one of his hands is still on Ryan's thigh, reassuring. Ryan shakes it off because the contact is too much, and he doesn't need Pete like this. "Your dad is dead. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Ryan closes his eyes, and there is only relief.


temptation's got you going in the wrong direction

"So you're just not going to come." It is three o'clock in the morning, and he's freezing, but this is Spencer, and Ryan would stand through an ice storm for him, naked. He sighs into the phone, and the noise is loud and heavy. His joints hurt, every single part of him hurts, and there are fresh bruises on top of the old ones, marring his skin. He twists the metal cord around his fingers and embraces the pain, the hurt.

Spencer can hear the sound.

"You say come like you're already there." The second the words are out of his mouth, Ryan knows that this is truth. He leans his forehead against the metal of the pay phone, his eyes open, just able to make out the blue letters inches from his face. "You are already there, aren't you?" Spencer's silences have always been telling, and Ryan rolls his shoulders, hating the unspoken words.

"Ryan, I think it'll be good for you."

"I'm fine, Spence. I really am. We're going to take off one of these days, you'll see. My name in lights and everything." His eyes are still closed, and he's telling this story from memory, placing names and faces and ideas on places he's never been. Spencer makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds like disbelief.

"Ryan, you need to see that it's Okay. He's not. He's not there anymore. It's Okay to go back home."

Ryan doesn't have a home. He says as much in a mass of complicated grunts. Spencer sounds exasperated and sad, and it never once occurs to Ryan that maybe Spencer maybe wants to see him too. That maybe Spencer misses Ryan as much as Ryan misses him. He doesn't buy it for a second.

"I miss your stupid face, Okay?" Spencer's laughing a little, forcing him to, and a different kind of bruise starts to ache through him, and it hurts so badly he can barely stand up straight. "And I know a funeral isn't the time to like. Catch up, but if that's what it takes, I might take up target practice."

There are tears streaming down Ryan's cheeks and he doesn't want them there. Tears are for the weak, tears are nothing, tears make him feel worthless, but then, he's never been anything but. His shoulders are shaking, and there's blood pooling in his mouth from how hard he's biting at his lip, trying not to make a sound.

"Will you come home? Please? Just for a few days. We don't even have to go. We can like, sit around and play Guitar Hero, and you can tell me about that girl you're seeing. Janey, right?"

Ryan doesn't know what the point would be. He promised himself he would never go back to Nevada. He promised himself he would never stay in that house again. He promised himself he would forget everything about that life, and the scars, and the bruises that will never fade. Bruises are all Ryan has ever known, and he hasn't really left that life behind at all.

"I'll think about it Spence, Okay? Just. Can I just think about it for a couple days?" Ryan has no intention of thinking about it until the words leave his lips, and he pictures Spencer in his mind; Spencer leaning back on his bed, shiny new cell phone pressed against his ear, hoping, hoping, hoping for something.

Ryan has let him down so much. Ryan has let him down constantly, and when he says he'll think about it he means the words.

"The funeral's on Friday. At the Summerlin. Noon."

"Noon." Ryan repeats, liking the taste of it on his tongue. His father will be in the ground at noon, and he'll really, finally be gone. Ryan will be free. It's the best thing he's ever heard, and he says the word again, even though Spencer has already agreed. "Noon."

"I'll see you, when I see you, Ryan Ross," Spencer whispers, and Ryan can't make himself say goodbye. The receiver is heavy in his palm, and he wants to see Spencer more than ever.

Ryan walks the thirty seconds back to his apartment and packs a bag. He has enough for rent this month and the bus ride to and from, and he's doing this, he's going back, and it will be Okay, because his father will be in the dirt at noon. It'll be over at noon, and Ryan won't show up 'til 12:05. He may dance too, if no one is looking and his joints don't hurt too much.

--

"Hi." Ryan blinks, and of course he knows the sound, of course he does. Brendon's voice is raspy, and it probably would be, even if he didn't smoke three packs a day, although the cigarettes probably don't help much.

"Going somewhere?"

"Stalking me?"

"I was driving home and I saw you sitting at a bus stop with a bag. I figured, since we're friends--"

"We're friends now?" Spencer is the only friend Ryan has ever had, the only real one, and the prospect of another makes his skin itch.

"I'd like to think we're friends." He's smiling a little, and taking another drag of his cigarette, and Ryan wonders if it's a nervous habit. Brendon seems to have a lot of hands. "I'd like us to be that. You know. If we're not."

Ryan nods, slowly, and his body feels trapped in the surplus of clothing he's wearing.

"Sure, Brendon," His voice sounds different, but it's not like before, not like it was with Pete. It sounds stronger. It sounds like his own. His father is dead. "Sure. We can be friends." He leans his back against the metal of the bench and let's the sun soak warm over his skin. He hates warmth, he hates smoke and cigarettes, but the sun feels nice, and maybe he'll start small.

Brendon settles down next to him, and he's fiddling with his lighter, and Ryan turns to look at him, cracking an eye open, watching the smooth curve of his hands. Ryan can't remember the last time he ever felt so peaceful, and he almost resents it when he hears the bus rumbling in the distance.

"Where are you going, anyway?"

Ryan sits up straighter, gathering his bags together.

"Vegas."

"What? Really?" Brendon's head is tilted to this side, and Ryan can't see his eyes, they're covered by dark tinted glasses and mistrust. "You from there?"

"Yeah." The bus is getting closer. Ryan can feel it. Ryan can also feel Brendon's smile. He's almost knocked over from the force of it, and he smiles back the littlest bit.

He didn't know he could still do that.

"Me too." Ryan smiles again, testing out the way it feels against his lips. He's free. He is finally, finally free, and it's like. It's like everything is better, and everything is shining, and on his way over here, he saw a HELP WANTED sign in the coffee shop around the corner from his apartment, and maybe he can work there full time, maybe-- "This is you," Brendon says a little unnecessarily.

Ryan test drives another smile.

He says, "Hey so," just as Brendon is reaching down to grab the last of his bags. Ryan has seven. He's only going for four days, and he didn't even realize he had so much, but. But he would've added, "you can never have too much." If Brendon hadn't misstepped on the curb, if Brendon hadn't been closer, suddenly. Closer than any person had the right to.

Ryan kisses him. He doesn't know why he does it, he knows that the driver is piling his mountain of bags inside the metal storage compartment, knows that this angle is awkward, and that he is seriously in no place to have a relationship right now. Or, ever, maybe, considering. But definitely in no place to have a relationship with a vice cop of all things.

That doesn't stop him though.

"Hey," he mumbles when he pulls away, and his fingers are still clutched against Brendon's shoulder. "You in the mood for a funeral?"