Chapter 3: Melt Your Headaches, There's No Home

Ryan wakes up on a leather couch with a crick in his neck somehow, overall unaware of how he got there in the first place. He awkwardly shifts his posture, forcing his body to sit up straight. He's met with a wave of nausea, a powerful one that nearly knocks him over. He doesn't have time to think as he puts his hand to his mouth, then proceeds to vomit all over a white rug—Spencer's white rug. That's definitely going to get taken out from his paycheck.

"Oh fuck—" Ryan exasperates loudly, tugging at his own hair. The nausea doesn't cease, as he would anticipate to happen. Instead, it only worsens. His senses begin to heighten while his body is to the point of overdrive. Chills crawl up and down his spine as he's left quivering like a child without a blanket.

He falls backwards, his body pressing harshly against the leather couch. His head falls back and his vision is met with the ceiling. Tears prick his eyes while his face is steaming hot. Ryan's not one for crying, but the pain was unbearable. Combined with his confusion, he's surprised he hadn't been bawling at this point.

"Ryan?" A voice calls out for him. He hears heavy footsteps rushing in his direction. "Oh, thank god you're awake!"

He can barely recognize the voice over the thumping that's in his own head. His skull feels as if it was multiplying in density; pressing tightly against his own skin and eyelids. If he closed his eyes, it would feel as if his eyes would fall out; as if a hammer was beating at them from the inside. If he remained conscious, however, then he would have to carry on with the overall insanity that's rushing through his veins.

Ryan would rather get shot than deal with this pain.

"Ryan, look at me," the voice pleads. "Please dont die—shit! Can someone die from getting punched in the temple?"

Punched? Ryan couldn't recall getting punched. Well, he couldn't recall many things in the first place, like what his mother's name was, or what he's wearing at the current moment.

He shakily lifts his hand to his left temple, then presses his fingers down on the area. He's greeted with a shockwave of thumping, harsher and louder than before he'd like to add, followed by a muffled sob. It's really pathetic that Ryan couldn't take a punch. You'd think a cocky guy like him would be able to pick a fight, but then again, there's one hell of a bruise there. It could even be a concussion.

Where was the sobbing coming from? Surely no one else around him would be crying. No one would cry over a pathetic teenager who ran away from home. No one would cry at Ryan Ross' deathbed or funeral, that's for sure. What makes now any different?

"Ry, please look at me," the voice whispers. He feels a hand, a familiar one, reach towards the back of his head. His vision and surroundings are slowly returning to him as he's forced to fix his posture, to be straight and gazing ahead. He's not really sure what he's looking at right now, but once he blinks away his tears—he now realizes that yes, he's the one crying—he's able to see Dallon.

Dallon fucking Weekes.

He starts crying even harder than before. Not only is he confused and in pain, but he's angry. He's angry that he's seeing Dallon after what had happened many months before. He's angry that Dallon has the audacity to be there when he cries. He's just—so fucking agitated. He wants to yell, scream, but nothing comes out of his throat. It's a raw, forced sob; a stupid cry for help and sympathy.

His face looks perfect and it's sickening. He wants to vomit all over again just seeing those perfect, piercing blue eyes of his. Hearing his voice after all these months doesn't help, either. He can remember their conversations as clear as day; his words stayed up in the air and never seemed to leave his head.

They stayed on Dallon's porch one late night, stargazing. Ryan never wanted the moment to end, and he had hoped that Dallon felt the same way. It was one of those rare moments where Ryan truly felt happiness—something that had been rare seeing his past experiences.

"Will you be there for me, forever?" Ryan asked that faithful night. "Even when I'm at my worst?"

"Of course," Dallon said. At the time, Ryan hadn't known that he was lying through his straight lips. "It will just be us two against the world, no matter how much you'd want to get rid of me, I'll always be there for you."

Now, here they are, broken, just a mere couple months later. As much as Ryan would hate to admit it, Dallon was fulfilling his promise.

"I-It hurts," Ryan croaks, taking solace in Dallon's presence. He shakes his head, bringing Ryan into a hug while stroking his hair.

"I know," Dallon whispers. "I know."

When Ryan cries, it's nothing to take lightly. It means the façade he'd been desperately trying to hold up has finally broken. Only a select amount of people had seen him cry: Spencer, Jon, and now Dallon. He doesn't want the whole world to know that, yes, Ryan Ross, the seemingly charming asshole, can shed tears from time to time. But what he didn't take in for account is the amount of people who are now witnessing his cries.

"You got punched in the temple," Dallon explains, quite hesitantly, "by Brendon."

"H-How long was I passed out?" Ryan hiccups into Dallon's chest, taking in his scent.

"Ten or twenty minutes, give or take."

He's astonished. The memories hadn't been piecing together before he had passed out, but it wasn't like he wanted to remember, anyway. It only reinforces the burning hatred he feels for Brendon Urie.

***

It took a while for Ryan to calm down. Nearly an hour passes before the pain fully subsides. He's embarrassed, for as he quickly comes to the realization that he made a scene in Spencer's own house. Sure, it was only among a couple people he knew, but Brendon was one of those people that stood in the background, dumbfounded while watching at the scene that unraveled before their eyes.

He's talking to Spencer now, who begins to fully explain the situation at hand. Dallon disappeared into the kitchen, most likely preparing a cup of coffee for him.

"So, Brendon was kind of..." Spencer hesitantly trailed off, "...harassing you? I don't know, there was a lot of sexual tension and you were clearly uncomfortable."

Ryan rolls his eyes, shuddering. Spencer acknowledges his current discomfort, but brushed it off as if it were a grain of salt. He continues, "So your savior, Dallon, tears Brendon from that wall over there and the two nearly get into a fist fight. You, being the angel that you are—"

Ryan snickers.

"—intervene and end up getting hit in the temple, pretty hard I may add, by Brendon, and you collapse."

"Does that mean I can finally stop working with him?" Ryan asks, bitterly. Gerard laughs.

"No," Spencer says, bluntly. "The press will tear the two of your apart, especially Brendon. We don't want that to happen, do we?"

"But—"

"I'm sorry, Ry," Spencer frowns. "You'll be making millions with this deal. Isn't that what you want? It's only for two months, and then you two will be done with each other."

Ryan goes silent, then nearly vomits in Spencer's lap. Two months? His manager backs away quickly, not wanting to feel the wrath that belongs to Ryan Ross. It's Brendon's turn to speak now, as he strolls casually up to him.

"I'm really sorry," Brendon goes down onto his knees, begging for forgiveness. He's all sobered up by now. Ryan can smell his breath—a good dosage of coffee now lined his system instead of cheap booze. "I was drunk and it didn't mean a thing."

"Being drunk doesn't justify your actions. I know that for sure," Ryan, again, laughs bitterly with an ominous tone to his voice.

"You've been drunk before, you should know that people make stupid mistakes while drunk," Brendon spits, quite harshly. There's a sharp pang in Ryan's heart—he doesn't know half of it.

"I've never gotten drunk," Ryan whispers. "And I never fucking will."

"I'd think a pretentious asshole like you would get drunk," Brendon argues. "You're so far up your own god damn ass to even notice what's going on around you! Jesus Christ, Ross! But it's all part of your act, isn't it?"

Ryan goes silent.

"You have nothing to say?" Brendon growls.

"Fuck you," Ryan's bottom lip quivers. "Fuck you and your stupid hair!" It's quite the weak insult, but it's all that could come to his mind.

"Guys, I think that's enough—" Dallon chimes as he steps into the living room holding two coffee mugs. Unfortunately, his words mean nothing, as he is cut off by more arguing.

"I was drunk! You don't need to extend our damn argument! Just say it's okay and we'll both be on our merry way!" Brendon suggests. "It's clear we don't like each other! Don't be so bitter!"

"You don't get it, do you?" Ryan says, coldly.

"You're overreacting—"

"Because it's not o-fucking-kay."

"I was drunk!"

"It still doesn't justify your actions!"

"Brendon's right," Spencer butts in between the two. "Ryan, please just make it easier for all of us and forgive him. He was drunk. It didn't mean a thing."

"So, you're implying that when people are drunk, their actions don't mean a thing?" Ryan states, on the brink of breaking under all his burdens.

Spencer widens his eyes, as if he had suddenly realized who he was talking to, "No, Ryan, that's not what I—"

"Because it sure as hell sound like it," he laughs, although it was no laughing matter. "All those times George hit me while he was drunk, it didn't mean a fucking thing. I get it, Smith, I get it." He bites his own tongue in order to stop himself from crying.

Actually, no.

He didn't like the way crying had sound. He was just shedding manly tears of anger and frustration, nothing more, nothing less. He smiles, standing up and pushing away his own weariness. His legs felt like gelatin while his arms felt heavy. Could he even drive in this condition? Fuck it, not like it had mattered to him, anyway.

"Ryan, wait!" Spencer shouts.

Ryan doesn't bother to look back, but instead places his hand on the doorknob, "Enjoy your vomit-stained carpet, because I quit."

He slammed the door.

Most normal people would think that he was a bit too irrational, quitting his only job, but then again, Ryan isn't your average 9 to 5 office worker. He's a model, a famous one, for fucks sake. He would be easily to find a replacement manager. Spencer Smith was a man who had gotten stressed easily whilst trying to satisfy his only client; he had to let him go eventually. There are bigger names he can aim for and apply to. Who would turn down the Ryan Ross anyway? No one in their right mind.

He hopes that he won't end up eating his own words. Besides, if he couldn't find a replacement manager, he can manage himself perfectly fine. Or, he could go into retirement. His name is worth millions! He spends frugally as it is; his current savings could last him a lifetime!

He's not worried. In fact, he's overjoyed. He'll show them—he'll show all of them.