The Five Times I've Seen Ryan Ross Cry

The Time I Didn't Say It Back

It was the time after our concert when we were celebrating the end of a festival and Spencer came over to my house. We were doing some random shit, you know, talking, singing, playing the shit out of our drums. In the midst of our fun and fucking about, Spencer gets a call.

He looks down at his phone and frowns. His eyes glaze over the phone again and again, as if he were double checking his mind wasn't deceiving him. "You okay, Spence?" I ask, a bit concerned now. He bites his lip and nods, answering the call.

"H-hello?" he says into the speaker. A few seconds go by and I see his eyes widen, shock and surprise filling them.

I mouth, Who is it?

He shakes his head and refuses to make eye contact with me. After a few minutes of Spencer on the phone, he finally says in a somewhat strained voice, "I'm sorry, I-I can't help you. I can't deal with that again. F-fuck, Brendon helped me through it, man, you can't do it alone."

I tap my fingers against my leg and wait impatiently for him to fucking tell me who he is talking to when he then replies, "R-Ryan, I'm sorr--"

I tune the rest out. Ryan. Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. It's Ryan.

Immediately I sink into some sort of crisis. My breathing quickens and my foot taps faster. I rub my temple as I try to calm myself down, closing my eyes. I hear Spencer say, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I-I'm not the right person for this. Fuck, Ryan? That fucker hung up on me." I open my eyes and see Spencer giving me a concerned look.

"You okay, B?"

I let out a sarcastic laugh and ask, "You think I'm okay? Does it look like I'm okay? What did he need?" I grit my teeth and shoot daggers into Spencer with my glare. Spencer, who usually calls me out on my overly aggressive statements, instead just softens his gaze. I see tears in his eyes and I stop glaring and send him a questioning look. My mind immediately jumps to, What happened to Ryan?

I ball my hands into fists and bite my lip, still waiting for Spencer. "Spencer. Please."

"He needs help," he replies.

"Help?" What kind of fucking help does Ryan Ross need?

"Brendon, I--I...it's just not in my place to explain it. Call him."

I furrow my eyebrows and snarl, "No! Why should I call him?" Instead of responding to me, Spencer gives me this look--a desperate plea. I roll my eyes, yet I can't deny the bubbling guilt and curiosity starting in my stomach.

...

I excuse myself to the bathroom and lock the door, taking out my phone to call him. When he answers, I don't even recognize his voice. It's slurred and drunk, unclear and rough. "B? Oh my God, Brendon, I--"

"What the fuck do you want, Ross?" It comes out harsher than intended, but I was fucking angry. He doesn't get to build me up, as if I'm just blocks in his sick little game, admire me for a couple hours, and decide that I'm no longer appealing to him and knock me down. I am not a toy he can play with. I am not a pawn in his game. I am not the boy who was head over heels for him anymore.

"Brendon, I need you," he whispers. I can practically imagine his drunken form--his hair spluttered all over his face, the scruff growing untamed, the stench of alcohol emanating from him, his hazel eyes dulled and lifeless, like they always were when he was scared. The desperation in his voice scares me. He sounds so broken, so needing of someone.

I don't respond.

"Brendon," he begs, "I am not okay. And I haven't been. And I won't be. I need help. I need someone. I need you." The short breaths I hear from the earpiece and the quiet sobs in the back prove that this isn't another one of his stupid ploys to make me just some sex toy. He needs me.