FEVERISH [RYDEN] [REPOST]

THE BUS

The day was heavy, and smelled of travel. They were finally leaving Maryland in a bus Pete had hooked them up with, and they were done.

Pete had had them play three shows in the area, and they already loved them, tripping over themselves to get to them, needing their voices and the idea of their warm touch. But, nevertheless, more importantly...

They were done with the album.

Damn, that felt good to say.

Still, though the bus seats reeked of what was almost-airplane and they were going home, something was off.

Brent and Spencer were asleep in the back, but Ryan had seldom moved. He had set his phone aside and was now staring at Brendon, who, dead silent, was on the couch across from him.

The raindrops outside reflected in his eyes, and his tongue was swollen with lack of words.

Ryan raised his face, looking at the boy in front of him. His feet were tucked in, folding in on himself.

"Brendon, talk to me. What's wrong."

Ryan lined his eyes up with the top of Brendon's head, as his face was in his hands and there was nothing else to look at.

"Nothing's wrong, Ryan."

"Brendon-"

"I said nothing 's wrong, goddamnit!" Brendon raised his head out of his hands, his eyes visibly red, his voice repressing the blossoming tears.

"Talk to me."

Ryan didn't expect him to. He expected him to tell him to fuck off, it wasn't his business, it was stress, he'd smoke and be fine.

What he didn't expect was-

"Ry, they're following me."

"What?"

Ryan didn't mean the sharpness in his tone. He didn't mean it abruptly, and once the words left his mouth he didn't mean for them to cut through the air.

"The missionaries."

The base of Ryan's ankle tingles, sending a shiver up his legs. Missionaries?

"Why," said Ryan, choosing his words carefully, making sure that the syllables he chose didn't cause the boy in front of him to clam up and cut himself off. "Are they following you?"

"Because they think I'm gonna leave. Because they're against rock, and liquor, and weed, and gays, and morning coffee, and the idea of me dressing up and swearing and going on stage and, when I walk off of it, they're against the dirty thoughts that the girls whisper into my ears." Once Ryan had asked, he might as well have broken down the flood wall, because the water came pouring out, matching the steady flow of droplets outside.

"And they know they left me Ryan. Ry, they know they kicked me out and they know I'm weak and they'll come after me and Ry, Ry please, I don't know what to do."

Ryan had never seen another boy cry. A boy his age.

He had never experienced the moment when he said it and his voice broke and the tears come pouring down, and they slid down his perfect cheeks and then, oh god, and then-

Ry, please, I don't know what to do.

Ryan was pretty sure he could feel his heart break. That must've been what it was, because he felt a splitting feeling in his own chest and then he, too, had the undeniable urge to cry, or punch somebody, or do something to make it stop.

Brendon must've felt pathetic. Curled up, alone, sobbing, and there Ryan was, sitting like an idiot, as Brendon consciously wiped away his tears.

Goddamn it, he needed his family. He needed his mom to pull him close and hold him and-