FEVERISH [RYDEN] [REPOST]

PARKING LOT PERSONAS (PART ONE)

"Okay, you're in."

Brendon tried to be as nonchalant as possible, pretending he was much cooler and much more in charge that he was in actuality.

"Sweet."

The boy, however, had no facade as he slung the bass over his shoulder, shooting them a smile.

He was good enough. From Chicago, so naturally, Pete would like him.

Spencer seemed to like him, and that was enough for Ryan.

He wasn't Mormon, so that was enough for Brendon.

So he was just enough.

-!-

-!-

-!-

They decided to celebrate the fact that Jonathan Walker had joined them by getting absolutely shitfaced.

Except for Ryan.

Ryan didn't drink.

This was something Spencer Smith knew.

This was something that Jon Walker didn't.

Now, see, it's quite easy to let your guard down when you're desperate.

And that, they were.

Jon was totally inebriated, and Spencer was too, presumably, considering he was hysterical with laughter.

Spencer didn't laugh when he was drunk.

This was strange.

And, at this part of the night, Brendon Urie was too.

And we all know what that means.

His fingers were laced in Ryan's hair, tipped over his lap, giggling to himself. There was a movie in the DVD player, which Jon was trying to watch, along with Spencer, but due to the drinks in their system, they were failing.

In all honesty, all Brendon needed was a little push away to retire to the couch and sleep it off.

But instead, Ryan pulled him farther into his lap, catching Spencer's sideways glance.

It'll be fine, Ryan thought. He'll just think we're drunk.

Spencer, though mostly wasted, had managed to notice the way Ryan wrapped his hands around Brendon's hipbones, burying his head in his shoulder, leaving an almost-kiss on the fabric.

The memory seared itself into his brain with the impending hangover, causing him to wait for Ryan after Jon passed out and Brendon retired to the back of the bus.

"Ryan?"

He stumbled a little as he stepped towards him, steadying himself on the countertop.

"Yeah, Spence?"

Ryan ran his fingers through his grease-tinged hair, the tour bus sweat finally getting to him.

"Uh, you alright?"

"Yeah, why? Just... tired."

He took a step towards the back of the bus, turning, guilt at letting his guard down ebbing up his arms and shivering down his spine.

"All that liquor getting to you?"

Ryan froze, his hand stopping as he pulled the curtain to their bunks back, ice shooting down his limbs. The fabric, attached to the roof in a mechanism such as a showercurtain, was the only thing separating the two boys from their bandmates.

Jon was passed out.

Brendon was not.

Ryan let out a nervous laugh.

"What?"

"I said-"

Spencer tipped forward, supporting himself on the countertop even more, his eyes trained on Ryan's back.

So he wasn't as drunk as Ryan thought.

"Is all that liquor getting to you, Ryan?"

He kept his eyes steady on the back of the bus. Behind his curtain, Brendon's light was on.

Brendon was only tipsy, barely so at that, indulging in the previous belief that he was drunk enough to love Ryan, gaining safety from the idea of being under the influence. His love, went he meant it, was always sober.

"I'm not sure what you mean by that, Spencer Smith." Ryan's voice was trained, even, controlled, steady.

"I'm not sure what you mean by that, George Ryan Ross the Third."

At this, Ryan was forced to turn and face Spencer, following his outstretched arm, his eyes meeting the tip of Spencer's finger, pointing directly at Brendon's bunk.

"Are you sending me to bed?"

"Are you playing dumb?"

Ryan's hands were starting to tremble, and he was internally begging them to stop wavering.

Do not show weakness.

You are not weak.

"What would I be-be playing dumb about, Spencer?"

"I think you know."

"I'm afraid." Ryan turned fully, his eyes meeting Spencer's. His outer shell melted away, his pupils' doors to his soul, young Ryan pushing out and taking control, his arms still held, raised above his face, protecting his flesh from a strike or bottle. He was the Ryan who still had to hold his ground, to lie to preserve his dignity, to protect himself.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Spencer bit his lip and nodded. He leaned forward a little, his voice coming out as a soft hiss.

"Remember, I took you out the window. I was the one who helped you through the curtain."

His eyes darkened as he turned to push past Ryan.

"So don't look at me like I'm him."

He left Ryan, standing alone in the lounge, as Spencer crawled into bed, his eyes watering. He could hear the sound of a bunk creaking as Brendon moved, leaving to go to the room that Spencer had just exited.

The light of Brendon's bunk lamp was extinguished, but there was no boy next to it to fall asleep in the darkness.

He saw Ryan, facing the front of the bus, and he bit down on his tongue, pretending he didn't hear Spencer and Ryan's conversation. Pretending he didn't hear Ryan say-

"Nothing's going on?" Brendon asked.

Ryan's eyes were fixated on the door, his tears sliding down his cheeks, burning like vodka down a throat.

Ryan nodded.

Existence was a religion, and lying was the only prayer he knew.

If there was one thing he learned, the more blood you take from the lip as you bite down the more tears are quenched, the more lies are allowed to slip through your skin.

"Nothing."

He agreed.

Brendon was near tears now, too.

"Meaningless?'

Ryan nodded, his voice cracking as he forced the word out, his trembling response.

"Yes."

Lies.

He watched Brendon's eyes widen slightly. He tipped the salt into the wound, he rubbed the lemon juice on the cut to get it to fade.

"Meaningless, Bren."

Brendon said it before Ryan could get to it.

"In that case, I need a walk."

He was the second person to leave Ryan Ross in the lounge that night as the bus doors opened, and Brendon Urie allowed the night to consume him.