FEVERISH [RYDEN] [REPOST]

SHAMBLES

The ceiling had never looked so enticing.

Ryan Ross lay on the hotel bed, 2 am, not sleeping.

What was going on?

This was, what one could call, a problem.

He was not gay.

This was something he knew, deep in his bones. He was not gay because he was not in love with Brendon Urie, and he would never be in love with Brendon Urie. Fuck buddies.

That's all they were.

Yes, Brendon was his "baby", but he was all of their babies, wasn't he? He was young, he was fragile, he had no family.

But then again, Ryan had no family, and he wasn't any of their rosy-cheeked child.

He turned to look at Brendon, his lips still pink, his body wrapped in bright white sheets.

He looked away.

He was sleeping contently, did that mean he was happy? Did that mean he was okay?
Because Ryan just got a blowjob from another man, and that did not seem like a particularly heterosexual thing to do.

He was not gay.

But still, the backstage memory came back to him, the mumbling of baby and darling and the feeling of his chin tucked into Brendon's shoulder as he roamed his fingers over his cock.

He was not gay.

He closed his eyes, but that didn't stop him from seeing. Seeing how simple everything was.

He pulled back the comforter, careful not to disturb Brendon's sleep.

The carpet was rough on his feet.

There was alcohol on the dresser, complimentary. A bottle of wine, a bottle of vodka, and a bottle of whiskey. He walked up to it, retrieving the small envelope from behind the bottles.

Brendon wasn't the only one who left the bus that night.

He could feel the powder jostling in the envelope, loose, packed unprofessionally.

Brendon was shrouded in darkness, his shirt gone, hickeys down his chest.

Which one was his dirty little secret?

The boy in bed, or the cocaine in his hand?

He crossed the room, knocking the whiskey bottle over in the process. He caught it, seconds before it hit the floor, spilling the dark liquid all over his hands, contaminating his Brendon-smelling skin with the stench of alcohol.

The

Stench

Of

Whiskey

Was

Over

Whelming.

He righted the bottle, taking a cautious lick off one of his fingers which now tasted like his late father and the burn marks on his bedroom door.

He could see Brendon in the mirror, his chest heaving and falling peacefully, his body moving slightly as if he was trying to find Ryan.

He kept his eyes trained on him as he downed the bottle.

He was drowning.

It filled his lungs, made him want to retch, cough, sputter.

It made him feel like he downed a bottle of bleach, and if he decided to lie down on the floor, he'd just die.