FEVERISH [RYDEN] [REPOST]

VEXATION

He was on his deathbed.

With every exhalation a little bit of hope vanishes, and with every inhale the horrible toxins that are the forced normality of life penetrate his bones.

Goddamn, he thought. I should be famous by now.

To him, his happiness is a joke, something that is fueled only by weed and the yearning for drugs he cannot afford. All he can think is: we should have made it by now.

What the fuck?

"Ryan."

The boy tries even harder to melt into the floorboards, ignoring the common-sense voice trying to bore into his brain.

"Ryan."

He bangs his head onto the floorboards of Spencer's grandmother's house an extra time for emphasis, before flipping over onto his back.

"Stop fucking moping and get up. We're not going to go anywhere with that attitude."

"We can't do fucking anything because he's not here. Again." Ryan pointed out, to which Spencer pointedly gave him a look.

"He's not here because of church, Ryan. It can't be helped."

"What kind of member of a fucking rock band skips practice for church?" Brent said, getting up from the chair from the back of the room.

"You know what, Ry? Move over."

"Don't call me that." Nevertheless, Ryan shifted so that Brent could collapse on the floor next to him.

He shifted his head a minuscule amount, making way for Spencer to dwell in the corner of his eye, arms crossed, looking at them with the most exasperated expression on his face.

"He doesn't have a choice, you know." Ryan raised his arm lazily, swinging it around dangerously before flipping off some imaginary Mormon in some imaginary church, keeping their Brendon from their band practice, ignorant to the sound of the door opening.

"Wow, real mature."

"Bren!" Ryan hopped up with the renewed energy of a small puppy, who had just slept for four hours only to be awaken with the sudden urge to love everybody and everything at once. Especially the new person standing in the doorway.

"Talking about me, Ry?"

Brent looked at him with slight indignation at the injustice that was Brendon being allotted the two letters off of Ryan's name.

"No." Ryan said at the same time that Brent and Spencer said "Yes." He shot them an angry look, which just made Brendon laugh and whip the older boy with his coat.

"Why did you bring a fucking coat?"

"So they know I'm out, of course."

"You snuck away from home? With your fucking protective mother?"

"When we got home I just locked the door to my room and went out the window. I brought my coat incase they freaked out when they try to check on me and I'm not there."

"Bren, that's a bit overboa-"

"I could be kidnapped right now, Jackass." His face broke into a grin. This kid loved his family more than anything, Ryan thought. It would break him if they left him.

"You really need to leave that goddamn church, Bren." Brent said, rolling his eyes.

"Don't call me that." Brendon flashed him a warning glare. Brent was about to mumble into the ground about why Spencer got a nickname and Ryan got a nickname and Brendon got a nickname but he wasn't allowed to use any of them when Brendon cut him off with a nervous laugh.

"God, it's like you guys think I'm part of a cult or something."

The three exchanged glances.

"I'm not a part of a cult."

Bren, Ryan thought to himself. That's what people who are a part of a cult say.

"Fuck, you guys, come on, let's just practice." Brendon said, clearly unnerved and pissed off, as he picked up a guitar.

It had been three weeks since Ryan was sick.

Three weeks since he had filled in, sang for the first time.

'Why didn't you tell us you could sing?' He had said, voice broken and crackly from his cold, but awed nonetheless.

'Well,' Brendon continued, blushing a little. His eyes met Ryan's in a bashful look. 'I didn't really know myself'.

He filled in permanently after that.
Ryan had no problem with that. He hated his voice. He thought it sucked, it was shit, his words were great but his voice was trash compared, and all that.

He only thought his voice was good alone, in private, singing along to records left behind from the unknown.

"Guys, let's go. I ditched for this. Camisado. Come on." Brent and Ryan barely moved, causing an exaggerated eyeroll from the vocalist in the corner.

"Jesus Fuck."

Ryan liked it when Brendon swore. He did it a lot. It didn't change the fact that Ryan liked it, he liked when Brendon did every non-Mormon thing possible, because, Jesus. They all knew he was going to have to leave at some point.

Ryan didn't know really what he had against Mormons. Brendon was one, of course, so he couldn't hate them that much.

But still, he hated Mormons as much as he hated Catholics, and he hated Catholics almost as much as he hated himself.

(This was the lie he told himself frequently, that he hated Catholicism. But, in reality, he only hated the confines it put him to.)

Brendon marched over to Ryan, his scrawny arms placed on his hips, and thrust out his hand. He wrapped it around Ryan's wrist, pulling him up.

That boy's hands fit around my wrists as naturally as my hands around the neck of a guitar. Ryan thought, sending a quick glance to his brown eyes. I was lucky he was my best friend.

After hearing Brent moan and groan about having to move in the corner, Ryan pulled him up too. Brent was sizable, a perfectly normal build unlike his skinny and scrawny frame. Because of this, Ryan had to throw his whole back into it, which made Spencer cackle with glee in the corner.

"Bitch."

"You love me!" Spencer called back, sliding around his snare and molding into the seat of his drum kit. "Now pick up your fucking guitar, and do something!"

Ryan shot him a smile.

To be honest, he didn't know what he was on about, because Brent was proving much harder to get moving than Ryan was. He fumbled with his aux cord, placing them in the wrong, then right, then wrong again ports as Brendon rolled his eyes yet again.

Brendon looked concerned, troubled. With a quick glance, Ryan leaned over, brushing his palm against the younger boy's arm slightly.

"Sorry."

"'Bout what?"

Ryan shrugged, but he couldn't help but notice how Brendon's smile flickered at the absence of his hand. They'd do this all the time, little touches, on the arm or thigh. Reassurances. Ryan found that people understand each other better when they are touching.

And that's what friends are supposed to do.

Understand each other.