Gluttony.

Habitual greed, too much of a good thing.

Artist: @wclvesvshearts on Tumblr.

Plot: Ryan is a famous movie star, adored by many. But despite that, he's extremely lonely, resorting to an excess of drugs and alcohol. Until a familiar face resurfaces in his life, that is.

Warnings: Sexual content, drug usage, and talk about depression. This is not a completely accurate representation of healing from depression. It takes more than falling in love, and there's much more effort into the actual process. I'm trying to put recovery into somewhat entertaining language and I'm trying to keep it under 10,000 words. Depression is a scary thing, and I'm using a lot of my personal feelings and emotions I've experienced to give to Ryan. A lot of the cliches (staying in bed literally all day, not being able to laugh, crying in the shower) were real for me, so please don't think I'm blindly trying to interpret this mental illness. Also, I wrote this chapter over the course of several months and a lot of his internal monologues/battles are very real ones I had w myself. Lots of tears were shed over this chapter.

The art is placed within the chapter to avoid spoilers.

::

Hazy.

If there was one word to sum up being high, it's hazy. He's a helium filled balloon, sailing upwards in a crystalline sky.

Ryan has no clue what he's on. He doesn't need to know. He just takes whatever pills are poured in his palm, smokes or eats whatever is handed to him. Some nights, he's loud and intense and sociable. Others, he's like this. Warm and liquid, almost watching himself from above, an outsider, disconnected from his body.

"Ross! Ryan Ross!" Someone jubilantly calls, and Ryan smirks, waving to a 20-something looking boy with an admittedly beautiful face and brown hair. "That's me." He says coolly, and the boy looks like he might faint.

This is the effect Ryan Ross has on people.

He loves it.

"I'm William! Man, this party is SICK! And you're here! I loved you in... um, what was that one movie? You played that guy, the tough one who blew shit up...?"

William is clearly extremely high, and doesn't know how to be, well, calm. Ryan almost finds it cute. Almost. But he's on a mission here, and doesn't want to make nice with fans who are clearly groveling for sex, money, or possibly an autograph.

"James Bond?" Ryan asks, letting a little disdain show in his tone. William is being a bit too friendly. Ryan isn't his friend, and he isn't interested in sex. Most likely.

Ryan sneaks a quick glance at his backside. Mostly flat.

Yeah, he's not interested.

"Oh! Yeah, him." William says, oblivious to Ryan's warning signals. Ryan wants to shudder as he steps closer. He reeks of cologne that was probably purchased at... dare he say it?

Sears.

The last time Ryan Ross stepped foot in Sears, he was 17 and looking for a cheap watch, determined to blend in with the in crowd. It didn't work, because anyone who is anyone can instantly spot a fake, just as Ryan can tell that William's sport coat isn't Armani. A convincing knockoff, though.

But Ryan is someone. He has been someone since the age of 18, precisely a year after purchasing that stupid fucking watch.

It's kind of funny how it happened, actually.

One night, Ryan was at a party. He was young, fresh faced, and stoned out of his mind. 17 (and a half) year old Ryan wasn't as good at holding his vices as 27 year old Ryan, and he had accidentally bumped into a boy who looked a bit younger than him.

The second Ryan had locked eyes with the boy, his stomach had dropped, and it wasn't the weed (and the beer. and the vodka. and the piña colada some girl had ordered for him.) talking when Ryan thought, for a split second, he was a fallen angel.

He was dressed like... well, like a slut. He wore jeans that hugged his pretty curves and a red shirt that showed a strip of soft skin. Ryan had wanted to sink to his knees and make the muscles beneath that skin quiver.

But despite the attire, he was angelic. Sure, he was clutching a beer and probably had condoms lining the pockets of his jeans, but he still looked innocent. Maybe it was the round eyes, so gentle and brown. Maybe it was the full lips or the God-Awful haircut (black hair cut unevenly and spiked in the back) or even the fact that the boy was... tiny, shorter than Ryan and skinny to boot, but whatever it was, Ryan had two desires: to protect him, to shield him from the world, and to fuck him so ruthlessly the angelic look would fade away.

Ryan had been very drunk at the time, and when Ryan got drunk, he got very horny. So, he took the boy home and had his wicked way with him. They had slumped against his shitty mattress, exhausted and still soaked with come and sweat.

The next morning, Ryan had awoken to a tiny figure wrapped around him, clinging on to him like there was no tomorrow. A smile was on his lips as he slept, and Ryan had been... confused. Really confused. He didn't have much experience with one night stands, but he was pretty sure cuddles weren't part of the deal.

He didn't have to worry about untangling himself, however, because the boy slowly woke, his eyes widening as he pulled away from Ryan.

"I-I-I'm so sorry!" He had stuttered, eyes full of fear. "I didn't mean to.. I was just so tired after last night, and I roll around in my sleep..."

Ryan had wanted to snort and say that rolling around didn't lead to cuddling. He had wanted to say that the boy was clearly alone in the world. But he didn't, not out of kindness or pity, but because...

Well, Ryan was alone in the world too.

After they had dressed and showered, Ryan had brewed strong cups of coffee. The two made awkward small talk and bitched about hangovers, which both of them were sporting. Ryan had said something about moving to LA in hopes of being an actor, and Brendon had mentioned that he had connections in the industry. Ryan had watched, openmouthed, as the boy called a 'friend of a friend', and in under 5 minutes, Ryan had an audition for a role in a movie. It took this boy 5 minutes to achieve something that Ryan had been trying to get for 4 and a half months.

The boy had regretfully said that the only role he could get an audition slot for was a minor character in a low-budget film. He said it probably wouldn't go past Sundance, but that it was 'something for the resumé'.

Ryan was over the moon. He had thanked the boy, and they exchanged numbers. It was clear he was warm for Ryan's form, and well... he was very pretty, and had an odd sort of charm. Ryan could see himself falling in love with him, eventually. It would be the unsatisfactory sort of life, with slow, loving sex and a boring 9 to 5 job. But Ryan didn't want that. Ryan wanted fire and fans and fame.

He didn't call the boy back. Ryan refused to let a boyfriend or even just a fuckbuddy drag him down. Especially one he didn't know the name of.

He did, however, go to the audition. And he nailed it, effortlessly snatching up the role. The movie was an indie film about about a girl growing up and leaving her town, slow and with one of those dramatic endings no one understood. Even the director and producer said that they didn't expect it to go far, that it was just a pet project, but.. it had been a surprise success. It went from Sundance to every theater in America (and all over the world, too) and did quite well in the box office.

Ryan's character, a young alcoholic named Bradley, didn't have many scenes, however the scenes he was in were full of rich, deep lines that were simple but had deeper, more thoughtful undertones. He played the character beautifully: even before Ryan had his ginormous ego (yes, he was aware of it, thanks) he could tell that he was talented. And clearly, the critics agreed: he brought home 5 awards between the Golden Globes, Oscars, People's Choice Awards, and SAGs. Sure, they were all "Best Newcomer" and "Best Supporting Actor", but it wasn't too shabby for a guy who, 6 months prior, had lived in the ghetto and dressed solely in knockoffs.

After that, Ryan had no trouble finding work. He was pretty, young, and talented: the press gobbled him up. And, well, if the press approved, the public approved. The next few years were a whirlwind of brand deals, public appearances, and movie roles. Never a TV show, though: Ryan's persona was mysterious, elegant, and quite simply, superior to everyone else. TV got predictable and boring, his agent had assured him. Ryan didn't want that.

And, well, when a photographer had gotten a picture of Ryan making out with a handsome nobody, his fame had catapulted to new heights. He was pretty sure the boy he had been with was now a successful model or musician. Ryan didn't know which. It didn't matter. Ryan did that, made that kid famous, just by association.

He had come out as bisexual, and he was the internet's darling. Anytime he had a cheap hookup that was captured on camera, took a fame whore to a red carpet, or tweeted about LGBT rights, he was endlessly praised.

In reality, Ryan didn't care about any of that. He just happened to like dick. But whatever, it got him places. And when he gave a "view changing" rant about how his sexuality didn't define him on Twitter, he was basically king of all of the stupid little Tumble Blogs, or whatever they were called. Again, he didn't care about changing the world. He was just drunk and tired of being associated as the "gay actor". Honestly, that's what Neil Patrick Harris was for.

But nevertheless, he was Ryan Ross, and everyone loved him. He was relatable, thanks to his "hidden" (leaked by his publicist) LiveJournal entries about a depressive episode he went through at age 15. It was odd, honestly: it had been the worst time of his life, and people poured over it online like it was some hidden treasure. He came from a terrible family, and that inspired every person with daddy issues. He was LGBT. He wasn't traditionally attractive, not like Franco or DiCaprio. He was the "people's celebrity".

Eventually, the charm of being Ryan Ross wore off. He wanted to be someone else. When he was 24, he immersed himself in his work, taking on multiple roles in emotional movies, playing a cancer patient, a heartbroken man, a war veteran, and a doting father. He got excellent reviews on those movies, the critics called him 'breathtakingly real', 'heartbreaking', and 'Hollywood's best actor'. Once again, Ryan Ross won the hearts of everyone around him.

But still, he was himself. He couldn't distract himself from the looming sadness and despair that hung over him, that pressed down on his chest. He was lonely. He wanted love, craved the happy endings his characters got.

It was hard to fall in love when you were Ryan Ross. Other celebrities were fake, plastic, and there weren't many openly gay or bisexual men in Hollywood, nor any women that seemed to like him. In all honesty, Ryan preferred men. He couldn't ever see himself dating a woman: he just liked them because they were quick fucks, and SO easy to get off. Anyone who wasn't in the public eye was wary about being thrust into it. And not only that, but there was nothing special about those people. Ryan had seen so much, lived through so many things, that everyone seemed uninteresting.

Occasionally, the thought of the angelic boy he had seduced crossed his mind. The boy was sweet, handsome, and in all honesty, wouldn't have been boring to be with. Ryan had just been scared of commitment. But it was too late. Sure, he could have gone to the director of the film and found him, but... the boy could be dead. He could be married. Maybe he'd want nothing to do with Ryan.

It had been years, and he was sure the boy was different. Ryan definitely wasn't the same. And he knew, with absolute certainty, if he came across this boy again, and found he was happy, with a boyfriend and a pretty house and maybe even kids, he'd wilt. Because that would prove it: fame wasn't everything. It was money and pretty clothes and absolute emptiness.

So Ryan didn't open that can of worms. Instead, he discovered something even better than love.

Ecstasy.

Sure, he'd done drugs before. All celebrities had. But on Ryan's 25th birthday, he went on a bender. After that, he never returned to sobriety for long. If he was sad, he smoked pot. If he was thinking too much, he'd snort a line or two of coke. If he needed a complete break from the dreary, stone cold landscape of Hollywood, he'd indulge in acid or mushrooms, sometimes mixing the two.

The press occasionally snapped photos of him doing drugs, and sure, his reputation took hits, but he'd redeem himself by giving a poetic speech on mental heath or donating to some charity or the other.

Which leads to now. Where William is giving him a suggestive look and mentioning that he knows of an empty room upstairs.

"Well..." Ryan says, acting as if he's actually considering taking up the offer. "Eh. No thanks. I'm not in the mood tonight."

William pouts, stepping forward. Ryan gulps. This can't be good. "Are you sure? I can make you feel so good..." He says, fingers wrapping around Ryan's skinny wrist. Once again, Ryan is painfully reminded of his own mortality, and how thin he is. Tall? Sure. But his body lacks muscle, and William is much taller.

"Fine." William says, and Ryan silently cheers. "Want to do a line with me, though?"

Now Ryan's listening.

Fifteen minutes later, Ryan is flying high. One line turned into three, and whatever William has is good. Really good. Ryan considers asking for his dealer, but doesn't want to seem like an amateur. He's far from one, and besides, he already has a nice setup. William probably gets his shit from a sketchy back alley dealer, which Ryan would never deal with.

"Fuck, man." William says, staring at Ryan glassily. "Ryan Ross. King of Hollywood. I'd get on my hands and knees for you."

Ryan smiles, tilting his head and silently sizing William up. He's handsome, sure, but Ryan likes darker hair and eyes. He likes something to grab on, and he likes more exaggerated facial features. But William is there, he's willing, and he DID just give Ryan some damn good cocaine. Hmm, decisions, decisions.

Suddenly, Ryan's phone makes a loud beeping noise. It's not uncommon for his phone to do that: he's RYAN ROSS. But the sound that it just emitted means one thing: Pete Wentz has messaged him.

"Sorry, baby." Ryan coos to William, who looks confused. "My manager wants me. Guess it wasn't meant to be."

Ryan can't remember the amount of times he's spouted off that line. He's used it on scenester sluts, pouting models, and even the occasional reality star. It tends to make people think that they're special. Wanted.

Before William has time to argue, Ryan stands and saunters off, swaying his hips and lowering his Ray-Bans down over his face. A few girls cast admiring glances at him, and he chuckles low in his throat. Life? It's pretty good. Sure, Ryan is lonely, but he can conjure up any sort of pill or powder or prostitute with a flick of his wrist.

The only time Ryan ever feels truly alone is at night, laying alone in his bed. Most nights, he has a hookup or party, but he never lets them spend the night. He hasn't since Mystery Boy. It's too intimate. Too special. When Ryan finds someone (if he does), he'll let them spend the night. Until then? Everyone else can fuck off.

After squeezing a few asses and getting multiple phone numbers (all of which will end up in his paper shredder), Ryan is out front. A shiny black Rolls Royce is waiting for him, and without looking around, Ryan slides inside.

"Took you long enough." Pete scoffs, and Ryan rolls his eyes. "Fuck off. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Fair enough." Pete mumbles, and Ryan snorts triumphantly. "Oh, by the way..." Pete says, motioning to a figure on a separate seat, whose head is buried in his phone. "This is your new assistant. Don't scare him away, please."

Ryan glances at the man, who looks up calmly, taking a pair of sunglasses off to reveal a very familiar pair of brown eyes.

"Hey." He says smoothly, and Ryan remembers that voice, he remembers it perfectly. Every soft spoken word, every smoothly pronounced syllable of that voice.

"Ryan, meet Brendon Urie. Brendon... this is Ryan."

"It's a pleasure. I'm a fan of your movies. It's just amazing to see you in real life." Mystery Boy—Brendon—says, smiling sweetly. Ryan blinks. What. The. Fuck?!

"Ross?" Pete asks, voice confused. Brendon is smirking darkly, and Ryan practically hisses at him. He knows. He remembers, and he's gloating. Stupid asshole.

Stupid, beautiful asshole.

"Nice to meet you..." Ryan says faintly, and Brendon's composure cracks for a moment, dark eyes nervously sweeping over Ryan's face. He resists the urge to smirk. Brendon is questioning if Ryan remembers. Cute.

Brendon swallows, bobbing his head and sinking back into the plush leather seats. Ryan groans. "Is there some alcohol in here? I'm parched."

As Pete begins to question his sobriety, the shiny black car pulls away, speeding down the street.

::

The next morning, Ryan wakes to the smell of bacon frying, and slowly, he sits up. His mouth is dry, and feels like it's filled with cotton. To his surprise, a glass of water is on his bedside table, along with two aspirin. He groans. Aspirin never work for post-coke headaches, but he swallows it anyway, washing it down with the water. His limbs feel weak and rubbery, and he stands slowly, groaning before opening the drawer on his bedside table, grabbing a baggie filled with pot and his pipe. He messily crumbles the bud with his fingers before lighting up, a smile on his lips as he inhales the smoke into his lungs. He eyes another baggie filled with coke, a whole 8 ball, and considers doing a line. No, really, just a skinny one. That would be heavenly. But someone is downstairs cooking, and whoever it is doesn't need to see him all fucked up at...

He checks his clock, expecting it to say Eight AM.

It's Noon.

Oh.

Sighing, he slips his slippers on, padding downstairs. He hears someone cheerfully singing, and frowns. The voice is beautiful, but clearly untrained, and it isn't one he recognizes.

Is someone in his house?

Gulping, he darts into the living room instead of the kitchen. A fire is blazing cheerfully, warming up the chilly house, since Ryan forgot to pay his heating bill. Again. Doesn't he have people to worry about mundane things like bills?!

He picks up a fireplace poker, stumbling over air as he walks out into the kitchen, thrusting the poker forward.

"Oh, you're fi--what are you doing?"

Ryan turns to see a confused pair of brown eyes hovering over him. He blinks. Is he hallucinating. "I... is this a dream?" He asks the shorter man, who is standing in his dining room, arms crossed.

"Seriously? Are you high?" He asks, and Ryan's jaw drops. "What are you doing here? I haven't seen you in years."

The guy, the same beautiful guy, blinks. "You don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

He gives Ryan a disbelieving look. "Sit down. I'll get you some coffee."

Five minutes later, Ryan is clutching a mug filled with more cream and sugar than coffee, a plate filled with bacon and eggs sitting on the table, untouched. He likes an espresso in the morning, but right now, he has other worries. "So you just randomly got assigned to working for me? You didn't request me?"

"Correct."

Ryan snorts. "I doubt that."

Brendon eyes him warily, taking a long sip from his mug. They're fancy, were hand painted especially for Ryan and shipped in from France. The last time they sat together like this, drinking coffee in silence, was ten years ago. They drank out of chipped mugs that Ryan had gotten from various yard sales back in Vegas, in preparation for the move to LA.

He kind of misses the old mugs. They had their own sort of odd charm.

"You're kind of full of yourself, you know." Brendon finally says, and Ryan blinks, surprised. After a moment, he shrugs. "Yeah. I know, I guess."

Brendon doesn't say anything, just sets his mug down and stares at the table. It's made of metal and glass, and has ornate carvings that look like roses blooming. Brendon trails a finger along a metal rose, biting his lip.

Last time Brendon stared at his dining room table, the table cost fifteen dollars, and one of the legs was so rickety that Ryan had to avoid eating on that side of the table in fear of it collapsing.

"I wouldn't ask for this job." He mumbled finally. Ryan stares. "Why?"

Brendon twists his mouth in an awkward grimace. "We... you know. And then..."

"And then?" He questions, arching an eyebrow. Brendon gives an awkward shrug. "Well... you never called back."

Ryan opens his mouth. He closes it. He could laugh at Brendon, but he doesn't find anything about this particular situation funny. He doesn't know what to do.

If he had smoked more weed, he'd simply giggle and tease Brendon.
If he had snorted coke, he would surge forward and kiss him, bold and foolish.
If he had had a few drinks, he'd be crying right now, spilling all of his emotions out.

But right now, he's Ryan.

Just Ryan.

"I..." He starts, inhaling. "I wanted to. I really did, you know."

Brendon looks mortified. "Y-You don't have to... God, this was a mistake, I can't do this," He says, blushing and reaching for his phone. Ryan grabs his wrist, a sudden need to prove himself flashing through his chest. "Hey," He says desperately, forcing Brendon to lock eyes with him. "Hey. Um... I'm serious. I... wanted you. I wanted to call you. I did." He says quickly, stumbling over his words.

Brendon looks to the left, then up towards the ceiling. "It doesn't matter. Not anymore." He whispers, face unreadable. Ryan bites his lip. He wants it to.

He wants it to matter.

"Just... please. Stay." He murmurs, and Brendon gives him a conflicted look, tongue flashing out and swiping across his dry lips. Ryan tries not to stare.

"Okay." He says finally. Ryan smiles.

Ryan hardly smiles anymore.

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay, alright, I'll stay. Just because you need the help, though. No offence, man, but you're a mess."

Ryan laughs.

If only he knew.

::

Ryan is a weak, weak man. He loves his vices. Alcohol, drugs, sex. They're always there, beckoning him forward.

Brendon? Brendon... he's the most desirable. Ryan craves for him more than anything. Unfortunately, Brendon hasn't initiated anything in the past month he's been working for Ryan.

Sure, he's flirted. Well, if you count touching as flirting. Constant. Touching. Fingertips brushing his arm, quick grabs of his ass, careful hands on his shoulders. Nothing particularly obvious (well, okay, maybe the ass grab) or sexual, but it's clear that Brendon is doing it purposefully.

At least... Ryan thinks so. Fuck, he wants Brendon. He doesn't know much about the man, but he remembers the way that he was curled around Ryan, years ago. He remembers his quiet eagerness, his openness. Brendon doesn't speak to him often, but Ryan has heard snatched bits of conversations. Brendon has the softest, warmest laugh ever. He likes the same music as Ryan, and makes jokes that are equally lame and hilarious. He makes Ryan smile.

Not to mention, he has an ass straight out of a porno. Okay, Ryan kind of has a fascination with it. Or any ass in general.

And oddly enough, Ryan hasn't been able to hook up with anyone since Brendon came back into his life. He's tried, a few times, but wasn't a fan: they just didn't compare to Brendon Urie. Ryan is infatuated with a man he hardly knows.

And of course, having no one to touch, to consume, sparks an even more desperate feeling of loneliness in Ryan's body. He thinks a lot more than he used to. A LOT more. For once, Ryan wants to think about sleepy morning blowjobs and gentle kisses. He wants breakfast in bed and joint showers and whispers of adoration. Ryan has never had that before, and he craves it now. It's silly, he knows: wanting something you've never experienced. But he imagines that it feels better than any drug.

Being in Brendon's presence? Better than any high. In fact, snorting and popping and smoking doesn't feel the same any more. It's not enough to block out the pain, the loneliness.

Ryan is miserable. He's alone and empty and doesn't want to live. Fuck, Ryan doesn't want to live. That's a problem, he realizes. But how else should he feel? He's living only to die. He will be forgotten, not iconic enough to be like Monroe or Cobain. But would being remembered be a blessing? Would he want to be burned into peoples minds forever? Immortality vs Infamy. Fuck. Does it matter, really? Does anything matter? These are the questions Ryan asks himself.

Which is why he's sitting in his kitchen at 2:30 AM, a syringe full of heroin in his hand. Yeah, he knows. He KNOWS how stupid and how risky it is. He swore that he'd never try it before, that he wouldn't become THAT guy, a fucking hapless addict. But now? Ryan just wants a break, an out. Anything to escape his thoughts. He wants to drool in mindless bliss, to feel fulfilled and hopeful.

Ryan just wants to be happy.

Suddenly, he hears his front door swing open. Keys are rattling, and footsteps are echoing across the tile. Ryan hesitates. Now or never. Now or fucking never. He gulps, grabbing a band and trying to wrap it around his arm with shaking fingers. He can hear the slap of shoes downstairs, and a masculine voice calls out Ryan's name.

It's Brendon.

Ryan gets the band secured and desperately begins to smack his arm. That's what junkies do, right?! He's so out of his element, here. He doesn't know how to find a vein or properly do this. He figures he has twenty seconds before Brendon finds him, shirtless and trying to shoot up.

Ryan tastes salt. He didn't even realize he was crying.

He wants to stab the fucking syringe into his arm, vein be damned. Brendon can catch him, sure, but by that point, it'll be too late. He'll already be sinking into oblivion. Ryan wonders how Brendon would look to him in a drug fueled fog. Probably like a God. Then again, he always looks like that.

Ryan presses the needle to his arm. He isn't breaking the skin, isn't pressing down on the plunger yet. He closes his eyes. Three, two...

"Ryan!" A voice calls, arms wrapping around him. Ryan gasps, and before he knows it, the syringe is yanked out of his grip and he is being hauled to his feet.

"You fucking idiot!" Brendon practically shouts, and Ryan freezes. What did he just say? Ryan has fired workers for offenses much smaller. He will fire Brendon for this, he has to.

"What are you thinking? Where did you get this?! Don't Pete or Spencer or Vicky care?!" He snarls, naming Ryan's manager, best friend, and publicist.

They do. They do, most likely. But on some level, they all have surrendered to Ryan Ross's whims. As most people do. As Brendon SHOULD be doing. Brendon seems to be breaking through all of Ryan's rules, swatting them away like they're pesky bugs, not worth his time.

Ryan wants to snap at him, shove Brendon and laugh in his pretty face, inform him that he is Ryan Ross, that he is loved and that yes, he is cared about. And yet... Vicky always seems to go with whatever will make the front page of magazines. Pete doesn't ever bat an eye when Ryan self destructs. Ryan can't remember the last time Spencer had a proper conversation with him.

"Why?" Brendon says, and the corners of his mouth are turning down, drooping. Ryan feels a pain deep in his chest. "Because I don't have anything left to lose." He answers, and Brendon looks horrified, honest to God scared. "It's all I have Brendon, it's all I—mmmnph!" He says, the last part muffled because suddenly, Brendon Urie is kissing him.

His lips are as pillowy and perfect as Ryan remembers, and every breath is brendonbrendonbrendon, every touch making his veins hum and sing. Ryan is reacting to his touch, falling apart under Brendon's calculated caresses. Before he knows it, they're in his bed, hands roaming everywhere and eyes searching.

It isn't like the first time. They take it slow now, exploring every inch of each other's bodies. Ryan runs his tongue over Brendon's skin, and God. The taste is the most exotic thing he's ever had, caviar and truffles and rosé combined into one decadent flavor, the most luxurious thing he's ever consumed.

Brendon is on top this time, something Ryan isn't used to. It's terrifying and freeing, and Ryan is falling down into a dark hole. He's lost control, surrendered it to Brendon, and all he can hope is that Brendon will protect him from any stinging blows. Ryan Ross is not vulnerable to anyone. Except Brendon Urie, apparently.

Brendon licks him open, and it's hot and wet and sinful, and he lets out mewling cries, pathetically asking for more through whimpers and sighs. Brendon strokes his hair the entire time, cooing sweet words that breeze past Ryan's conscious mind. He'll catch snatches of it sometimes, things like 'beautiful', 'perfect', 'mine'. It makes Ryan melt even more. He is absolute putty in Brendon's hands. The idea terrifies him, but also makes him happy.

When Brendon finally fucks him, Ryan cries out in pain, hands fisting the sheets. It hurts, but Brendon simply places a hand over his mouth, kissing his shoulder-blades and neck. "Shh, baby. Be quiet for me." He whispers, and Ryan complies. Just like that.

Only for Brendon. Only for Brendon.

It isn't slow and gentle, but it isn't fast and rough. It's somewhere in between, but it's perfect. Him and Brendon? They're fucking untouchable, on an entirely different level. They're somewhere that no one else will ever reach, in the stars, the atmosphere. Ryan's head is foggy, so foggy, and it's hard to think. But he trusts Brendon enough to relax, to enjoy this.

"You're so perfect when you let go." Brendon whispers as he releases, leaning down and kissing Ryan. He comes soon after, and minutes later, he's on his back, legs on Brendon's shoulders. It's like they're teenagers, insatiable. This time, they stare into each other's eyes, and it's so much more intense. Brendon's eyes grow almost black, smoldering and dark when he's aroused, and Ryan loves it. He loves it all: Brendon's swollen lips, the way his hair is curling from the sweat, how his muscles ripple smoothly, sinuously, as he thrusts in, stroking Ryan in perfect rhythm.

Heavenly.

Finally, they collapse against filthy sheets, exhausted.

Ryan doesn't ask Brendon to leave.

As he drifts off, he swears that he hears a faint 'You know, I could fall in love with you' slip from Brendon's lips.

But perhaps it's nothing more than a dream.

::

Brendon is pretending like nothing happened. Ryan doesn't know how to feel about that. He should be happy, yeah? He gets off, no strings attached.

But there's something about Brendon Urie that sticks to his lungs, heavy and clingy and always there. He's been inside Ryan, ever since the day they met.

Ryan shakes his head. He is at work. Brendon shouldn't be at the forefront of his mind.

Some days, Ryan hates the hustle and bustle of Hollywood. Some days, Ryan thinks that he could have gotten into writing. He's good at seeing people, seeing past their bullshit. Sure, Ryan can be conniving and manipulative, not to mention an asshole, but he's smart. Smart, smart, smart. There's a word that gets you nowhere nowadays. You need edge. You need to stand out.

Everyone is smart.

You have to be perfect to succeed.

Ryan wants to succeed.

Therefore, he must be perfect. Simple fucking math.

Ryan will not rest, he won't relax until he is at the tip of everyone's tongues. Call him a Diva, but what's the point of entering a room if you aren't the one everyone is staring at? He'd rather die than be boring.

He wants to be remembered, treasured. Ryan wants to be loved. Ryan is loved. But it isn't enough.

Bigger, better, best.

His fame is only growing, and this movie will help his success grow. He's the star: the center of attention. He's working with seasoned actors. An amazing director.

Ryan cannot fuck this up.

Bigger.

Better.

Best.

He needs to be the best Ryan he can be. He needs to burn Brendon out of his mouth, his eyes, his brain. He needs...

He needs a painkiller. Something to take the edge off. Not a permanent fix. But it'll be enough, yes, it will be. Not enough to fuck him up, but enough to make life bearable. He needs to focus.

His hands shake as he grabs the nearest bottle. He has multiple. Doctors will give him anything if he thrusts enough money at them.

Ross, George Ryan. OxyContin, 20mgs. Take two tablets when needed.

Ryan takes three. He knows he is playing a dangerous game, that there are Opiates. He's well aware, thanks very much.

But he needs to burn Brendon out of his brain until he's nothing more than a blur.

This seems like a nice start. Right?

Ryan walks out to the set. He's gone through wardrobe, through hair and makeup. What scene are they shooting again?

Maybe that shot of Vodka with lunch wasn't such a good idea...

The movie is about a man who longs for someone who never really existed, who lived in half-formed dreams and hazy realities. This scene is about describing his fantasy lover to a therapist.

It hits a little too close to home.

His co-star sits in a chair, legs crossed. She makes a face at Ryan, probably because he's late. Fuck her. He's five minutes behind. Five. It's acceptable. At least he doesn't whine about the calories in his latte, like prissy little Jac.

Well, Brendon brings him his lattes. He probably would bitch about his coffee, no, definitely would, but lately he's been taking the cup and saying nothing.

He settles on the couch, scanning around the room. The director sits in her chair, going over the script with a producer. Both Ryan and Jac's managers are watching them, along with Jac's assistant.

Ryan mentally goes over his lines, picking at his cuticles. It's a nasty habit, one he's tried to stop. Normally, he prevents himself, but he's on a tiny little high right now, and everything is warm and pretty and soft, and he doesn't care enough to stop fidgeting.

Why was he upset again?

"Action!" Kathleen, the director calls, and suddenly, Ryan is someone else. He is a character. Ryan Ross? He's gone.

"I can't stop thinking about her." Ryan whispers, letting some of his actual anguish slip into his tone.

Maybe Ryan Ross isn't completely gone.

"You say her as if she's a real person." Jac says, leaning forward and gazing at Ryan, a frown on her perfectly glossed lips.

"She is, to me. She speaks to me, in my dreams. Her laughter, her smile... it's everything to me, and I hardly know her." He whispers, looking away as he's supposed to.

He meets a pair of brown eyes that are staring intently at him. Brendon.

Brendon means everything to him, and Ryan hardly knows him.

He doesn't notice that he's crying until someone yells 'cut'!

"Ryan, I like the tears, but save them for later in the scene." Kathleen says, and Ryan pauses, nodding.

They redo the scene over and over, and each time Ryan fucks up. Jac is becoming more and more angry.

"And I know we can never be together, which is the fucked up thing! We can never be together, and yet, I want her. I want all of her, but I just reach out and she isn't there." Ryan says, and he can feel hysteria rising up in his throat. He can hear appreciative murmurs, and he knows that everyone thinks that this is just some masterpiece, done by the incredible Ryan Ross.

Jac hums thoughtfully. "And do you think you'll ever forget her?"

Ryan shakes his head. "No, no. I'll never forget. He's my lifeline." He whispers, and the tears are pouring down his face now.

"Cut!"

Jac glares at him. "Ross!" She snaps angrily. "You said 'he'!"

Ryan sways slightly. The room is blurry. "Did I?" He asks dreamily.

"Is he intoxicated?!" Someone mutters, and Ryan shakes his head. No, no.

"Um, everyone, lets take a break." Kathleen says, and Ryan stands, walking away. He feels stares burning into his back.

"Completely unprofessional."

"A trainwreck."

"That was too real."

"I guess the rumors are true."

Ryan briefly wonders what the rumors are. It doesn't matter: most likely, they are true.

He slams the door to his dressing room, before falling to the floor. He is a mess. He should be happy, blissed out.

This is what you wanted, Ryan. Eat your heart out!

He clutches all of the opportunities in the world. But the one thing he wants eludes his grasp.

Eat your heart out, Ryan Ross. This is cold, cruel irony, punching you in the gut. You made the wrong choice. Game Over. Try again next time!

Ryan has tried pushing himself to the limit. He's been close to OD'ing, so close. But Ryan is a risk taker, and this stupid fucking Oxy isn't working fast enough.

It's dragging him down.

Ryan can feel the urge to shoot up, to snort, to let tablets dissolve on his tongue, humming through his veins, fast and burning, consuming every thought, except for one. Brendon. It's always Brendon, because Brendon is just as addictive, just as pleasurable. But Brendon isn't his, and he isn't there.

His fingers shake as he digs around his dressing room table, lips quivering, as he searches for drugs. Heroin. Cocaine. Pot. Anything. Anything, anything. Anything to take the hurt away.

Ryan is quivering, shaking. He's a mess. He's disconnected and broken and alone and so, so sad. It sucks that he can only admit that after rejection. Because only Brendon can break Ryan like that. Only stupid, beautiful, amazing Brendon. He ties the tourniquet around his arm, grunting. He doesn't bother with a vein, piercing the muscle in his arm instead. No hesitation. Nothing left to lose.

Nothing.

He's never tried Heroin. But now...? Why not?

He finds an orange bottle, and twists off the top. Valium, excellent. He swallows a few pills, and fuck, it's chalky. His throat is dry, and he vaguely wonders how long it'll take for the new drugs to kick in.

He quickly pours white powder onto a counter, cutting it with a stupid business card of a frumpy hair dresser who he will NEVER call. He rolls up a spare bill and snorts it, wincing at the odd sensation and sniffing, smearing the rest across his gums. Pure, unadulterated gluttony.

What does he have left to lose?

He is underwater, his clothes weighing him down and ropes binding his limbs. Soon, Ryan will run out of air.

He doesn't even notice when he slowly sinks down to the floor. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Where is Brendon? He needs Brendon!

Ryan thinks there's a reason that Brendon shouldn't be here, shouldn't see him like this, but everything is so fucking beautiful and terrible right now. Colors are flashing, but they're overwhelming. Too much. Ryan trembles.

Ryan won't let anyone but Brendon see him like this, vulnerable, weak. Gabe will shake his head, tell him that drugs aren't the answer. Pete will automatically check him into rehab, no questions asked. His other friends are junkies or other celebrities—that's no help.

Anger and shame knot in the pit of his stomach.

And that's when Brendon finds Ryan.

Ryan feels arms snake around his stomach, and he glances up to see a blurry looking Brendon, who looks... sad. Not annoyed, or disgusted, or pitying. He looks like he's in pain, staring at Ryan. Ryan kind of adores it, adores the feeling of making someone else suffer.

"Ross. Hey, take deep breaths." Brendon instructs, his voice rough and uneven. Ryan obeys, biting down on his lip, hard. The pain barely registers. Ryan's eyes are focusing and unfocusing, and his heart is thumping way too fast. He doesn't like this. He doesn't like this.

It isn't supposed to be this way. He's supposed to be forgetting Brendon, but here he is, cradling Ryan, who feels foam dripping out of his mouth. His jaw is twitching, eyes are rolling madly.

"Bren. I need..." Ryan mumbles, before his eyes roll back up into his head, this time permanently.

Brendon stares down at a now-limp Ryan, an expression of shock adorning his features. "Fuck."

What happens when your emotions begin to own you? When they muddle up your head and your heart just spews pure, angry chaos, so dark and poisonous. Ryan's blood is poison. He is poison.

It's fucking killing him. This?

Killing him.

Ryan fucking loathes himself, loathes this monster he's become. When did his life stop revolving around the acting, the art, and when did it start becoming about the fame, money, the guys he could get into bed?

He has fulfilled his prophecy. He's a slave to the machine. He acts so in touch, so edgy and pretentious. But it's a front, an act. He is no different than any other poser, wannabe, and faker.

Sometimes, Brendon seems like the only real one left in the world, the only one holding him down here on earth.

But him and Brendon are doomed to be friends. Just friends. Ryan and Brendon. Never RyanandBrendon.

He's been in and out of hospitals for the past 6 months, after the OD. His publicist has concocted some tale of serious illness. But everyone knows the truth.

He's simply too depressed to go on.

::

Today, Ryan is at one of those rare points where time is slow and smooth. He feels sad and he feels like shit, but the fear and sadness and pain inside of him has stilled enough to make moving around bearable, if only for a little. He doesn't have therapy or med management or some other annoying appointment. Pete and co. are leaving him alone. The sun is dimmed significantly, shining through the windows and lighting up his smooth hardwood floors. Today, he won't simply exist.

He isn't going to live, because this isn't living. It's somewhere between living and simply being.

True nirvana?

Nah.

He makes himself cereal. Brews coffee. Sits out by the pool, watching the water ebb and ripple. Normally, on a peaceful day like this, he'd be writing, pouring his heart out to a notebook that's ripped and smudged, worn down. But today, words aren't coming. They haven't in a while, have refused to since he entered this tragedy that is his life. He doesn't need to write. He isn't a poet or a musician. But it's helped calm the hurricane inside of him in the past.

Ryan inhales as he stares at the sky. God, his home is beautiful. His life should be beautiful. It isn't, though. It... just isn't.

"Ross." A soft voice calls, and Ryan's heart picks up.

"Urie." He responds, closing his eyes as he hears Brendon walk forward, sitting next to him. Fucking hell. He's been coming to his house every day, restocking food and bringing movies and games to entertain him, trying to force conversation for months. Ryan won't let him, most days. He knows Brendon wants to be let in. But Ryan isn't that easy to unravel, and he isn't helping him at all.

"Mr. Ross." A nurse says, and Ryan looks up, giving her a nasty glare. His hands are shaking, and he's sweating. Withdrawal symptoms. It's worse than Hell, and Ryan just wants to get his fix, just wants some goddamned coke. Even a drink would be nice, at this point.

"What is it?!" He snaps, balling his fists, and she flinches slightly. He can see fear in her eyes, and that she's contemplating calling security, saying there's a patient being physically menacing. He wonders how many time a day other addicts threaten or grab at her. It's almost satisfying to see someone cower at the sight of him. He isn't scary, not with his ultra-thin figure and yellowish, waxy skin. He just looks hollow. Vacant. But then he feels like shit for scaring the woman, who is just trying to do her job.

"You have a visitor." She says slowly, and Ryan sits up eagerly. Him. It's him, he can feel it. "Take me to them." He demands, standing and stumbling slightly. She starts forward, attempting to steady his shaking limbs, but he shakes his head, forcing his body to cooperate. He will not let others help him STAND, help him WALK.

He isn't that far gone, not yet.

They walk down the hall in silence, Ryan's eyes traveling around the room. Several patients are milling around, and Ryan flinches as some trashy Reality TV Star looks him up and down hungrily. He knows that he's probably the most famous guy at this place, despite the celebrity status, and he knows that everyone is ridiculously horny. There's no fucking free time to jerk off, not in the cruddy showers that are monitored, not during the night, where doors are kept open and nurses check in every 20 minutes. But he deals, and so can the MTV Trash.

"Alright, you're going to be in here.." She says, holding a key-card up and scanning it, so the door unlocks. "Just buzz for a nurse when you're done, Mr. Ross."

But Ryan doesn't hear her, because he's staring into wide eyes, the color of bitter dark chocolate. They're concerned, but also full of affection, and Ryan bites on his lower lip, smiling slightly. "Hi." He breathes. Brendon smiles back, but it looks strained. Ryan barely registers the door shutting behind him as he settles into an armchair, leaning forward. "You came to visit." He says, smiling anxiously.

Brendon nods, blinking as Ryan takes his hands and holds them. "I did. Of course I did." He says, and Ryan feels a grin spread across his face, dry lips cracking as the corners of his mouth turn up. Brendon winces, and Ryan pretends not to notice.

"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me." Ryan says, laughing slightly. The tone is awkward, and just a touch too sincere. "You're a hard person to forget, Ryan." Brendon says, smiling gently, as if reassuring a child. Part of Ryan wants to accept the positive words and leave it at that, but he can hear an undertone to the praise: Brendon is here for a reason. He's about to drop a bombshell.

"But... we can't keep doing this. Whatever this stuff is." He says, and Ryan frowns, his heart wrenching. No, no, no. Not fair. "I... Brendon. I like you. I've liked you since that godforsaken party, before I was famous!"

Brendon smiles sadly. "I know. And maybe one day, we can... be together. Have sex. But you're hurting right now, Ryan, and a relationship is the last thing you need."

Ryan knows he's right. He knows that it would be stupid to stay together, so stupid. But he's still pissed.

"This isn't fair! What, you don't want to be with a junkie?! Is that it?" He asks, and Brendon rolls his eyes. "We aren't on set, Ryan. This isn't a movie, so stop being dramatic. You aren't a junkie, and of course it isn't that. I'm a pothead myself, that isn't the point. The point is, you need to focus on YOU. We need to be just friends. Maybe, when you get better, if you're still interested--"

"I will be."

"Well, then I'll be here." He says, smiling. Ryan sighs. "What if you find someone else?"

Brendon hesitates. "I can't say that there won't be, because I can't see the future. But, unless I meet my soulmate... I'm going to be waiting for you" He says, and Ryan nods slowly. "Okay. But..."

"But?"

"But I think you should leave. I don't really want to be with you right now. This just... fucking hurts."

Brendon nods slowly, gently kissing his cheek. "Okay. I'll see you."

"Maybe."

And ever since then, Ryan's been shutting him out.

"You're outside." He comments, settling beside Ryan. His tone is hesitant, friendly. Ryan wants to shut him down. Fuck off, Brendon. "I am."

Ryan will not make the mistake of falling in love. Love is scary and bottomless and a trap, and as much as he craves it, he will not ruin himself, and he certainly will not ruin Brendon.

"That's... good, right?" He asks, and Ryan shrugs. So what if it is?

"I got tired of how stale the air is in there." He says, leaning up against Brendon, who absentmindedly plays with his hair. "Needed some freshness. I'm not as... you know, today."

"Yeah. It's nice to talk with you." Brendon says softly. Ryan nods. "Mmn."

Neither comment on the fact that this has been the first time Ryan has physically left his bedroom in two weeks. Ryan usually has Brendon make him food, bring him news.

"Do you... wanna swim? We could play Marco Polo." Brendon says. Ryan bites his lip. It would be nice, to play in the pool with Brendon, to splash water in his face and make him laugh.

God, it'd be nice to laugh.

"Too cold." Ryan says quietly, his voice weak. "I'm going to go rent Fight Club in my room. Thanks for stopping by." He says, standing and stumbling. He is retreating back into his shell, hiding again from the world, from Brendon.

He wishes he could laugh. It isn't that simple.

He can't give Brendon what he wants. He's going back to what's easy, simple. Safe.

Back to the bed he despises.

::

"Ross! Mr. Ross, Ryan! Look here, please!"

One thing Ryan will never grow accustomed to is the paparazzi, flocking around him like vultures. He looks down, clutching his cup of coffee as questions are hurled into his face. Questions about rehab. His mental health. His break from acting. Brendon is by his side, waving away the press as they climb into their limo together, Ryan sinking into Brendon's arms, eyes fluttering closed. "Being in public, even just for coffee and therapy, saps my energy." He mumbles. Brendon snorts. "Get off me, you long-limbed beast." He says, gently nudging Ryan, who sinks back against the cool leather seats, sighing.

The past few weeks have been better. Not great or awesome, but better. Full of witty banter between him and Brendon, among other friends and co-workers. Healing. He has his rough nights, ones where he craves drugs or drink, nights where he convinces himself that he'll be alone forever. But the storm passes. He isn't full. He isn't empty.

Ryan's life is a constant 50/50.

Today has been nice. He woke up, ran on his treadmill for a while, ate lunch with Brendon, Pete, and Vicky, then went out in public, Bren dutifully by his side.

Now, he yawns, and Brendon clicks his tongue. "You're coming down with something," He says, and Ryan hums, sleepily nuzzling his cheek into the seat. Brendon chuckles, low and liquid and warm, and wraps his jacket around Ryan, who inhales. It smells musky and faintly of pot, like Brendon. He drifts off to Brendon's hand on his knee and the soft purr of the engine of the car as they drive down the streets of LA.

::

There are good days, and there are bad days. And then there are the days where you just question everything, try to look inside yourself for the truth.

Today is one of those days.

Ryan is sitting on the floor, head in his hands. It's ironic: he lives in a lavish mansion, and his bed, which is covered in silk sheets and is super soft, is five feet away.

And he's sitting on the goddamned floor, contemplating life, contemplating love.

Irony.

Is he a good person? How do you know what truly makes a good person?

He's done good things, sure, but he's hurt a lot of people. Ryan knows plenty of people sing his praises, but plenty of others hate him. Is the goodness he apparently 'radiates' because he knows everyone is watching?

I'm bad, Ryan decides. I'm a bad person.

And in light of that decision, he starts to cry.

And that's how he spends the day. He showers and cries. He makes tea and cries. He watches Fight Club, and then he really cries. Why is Palahniuk so amazing?! Why can't Ryan be like Palahniuk? Palahniuk probably is a bad person and knows it, and he probably fucking embraces it and wears it proudly.

Well, Palahniuk probably has some deep sort of theory on humans, and how true good and bad doesn't exist, and that life is meaningless, because everyone dies eventually.

And then Ryan starts crying even harder because goddamnit, he doesn't want to have no meaning!

Some days, his brain just won't let him win. But he composes himself. He won't let himself bawl over a movie that he's seen a million times, one that isn't really sad.

After the movie, he stretches a little, intent on letting blood flow. He sighs, listening to the sounds of his joints crack and pop. He's getting old, he knows it. There should be fear flooding through his veins. Aging is an actor's worst nightmare, but all he feels is an odd sort of serenity. Maybe it's the stretching. Still, he looks decent for his age. Better than most guys, although admittedly Brendon looks better. It's probably all the yoga he does. Stupid Brendon, who does yoga?

Speaking of Brendon, how long has it been since they've seen each other? Ryan doesn't know, but it feels like an eternity. Maybe Brendon'll cheer him up. Grabbing his phone, he calls his... friend... and invites him over.

Twenty minutes later, Brendon is in his bedroom, eyes wide and confused. He's clutching a bag of... is that Arby's? Ryan's stomach grumbles.

"Hey. I picked us up some food." He says unnecessarily, smiling slightly. Ryan awkwardly smiles back. "Thanks. But you know I can't eat that, my trainer will kill me..."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Fine. I'll just set your onion rings and chicken out. I also got you six mozzarella sticks." He continues innocently. "But you're right. Your trainer who you haven't seen in five months will hate you."

Asshole.

Ryan stares longingly at the food, watching Brendon chew noisily and shoot him smug smiles. Finally, he grabs a chicken strip and bites into it, sighing blissfully. "Fuck, that's good."

Brendon nods. "I know. You shouldn't worry about dieting and such.You're thin enough. Use it to your advantage."

Ryan sighs slightly. "Yeah. Maybe. But it's keeping some sort of structure in my life. Order. Like maybe if I follow some set of rules, I'll have some purpose. Something to keep me going."

Brendon pauses, looking Ryan up and down. "Ross," He says hesitantly, as if approaching a cornered and wounded animal, "You just told me that staying on track with your diet is the only thing keeping you going... do you realize how sad that is?"

Ryan rolls his eyes. He's well aware. "I don't have anything else going for me. No boyfriend, no current movie role, and I'm depressed." He says, looking up. There's a hint of sadness on Brendon's features, but it fades away quickly. "So instead of going out and getting those things, or working on mental health, you're focusing on dieting?" He asks skeptically. Ryan shrugs, looking down. Now he just feels foolish. "Well. Baby steps." He mumbles. That's what his therapist always says.

Brendon nods, and they eat in silence for a few minutes. Ryan looks up and jumps slightly, his eyes locking with Brendon's. "You've been crying." He says, and Ryan bites his lip, ashamed. "Yes. I have been." He mumbles. Brendon nods slowly, sighing. He looks sad, and... older, somehow. Wise beyond his years. "What's up, man?"

And so Ryan begins to pour his heart out to Brendon, who is a very good listener, nodding thoughtfully. After Ryan finishes his rant about how he's a bad person and how he doesn't like himself anymore, Brendon takes his hands. "It sounds like you're overthinking things." He says softly. Ryan nods. He's a classic overthinker, head stuffed full of too many thoughts.

Brendon bites his lip. "Are you done eating?" He asks, and when Ryan nods, he grabs all of their scraps and trash up and stands. "Get dressed in comfy clothes. Meet me out in your backyard." He orders, and Ryan blinks.

But he still follows the directions.

Ten minutes later, and he reaches the yard, where Brendon is unrolling a yoga mat. "I don't want to do yoga." Ryan complains. "I don't like it."

Brendon shakes his head. "We aren't doing that. Yoga is fun, and has a lot of health benefits, but I want to help you meditate."

"Meditate?" Ryan asks warily, and Brendon nods, taking Ryan's wrists and gently helping him settle onto the mat. "Cross your legs," He begins, lightly stroking Ryan's cheek, "and close your eyes."

Ryan obeys instantly, eyes fluttering shut. It's involuntary: Brendon just has that effect on him, making him relax and listen. It's easy to trust Brendon, which is odd. Ryan doesn't do this... doesn't open up like this. Only for him.

The thought is sudden and disturbing. Ryan isn't fucking sappy like this.

But it's true. Meditating? Closing his eyes and placing his trust in another person?

Only for Brendon.

::

"You did fantastic!" A voice cries happily, and Ryan smiles broadly as Brendon takes his hands. "Really?" He asks, and Brendon nods, hugging him tightly. Ryan isn't expecting it. The two don't hug often, but when they do, the feeling is great. "Thank you, B." He mumbles into Brendon's shoulder, voice muffled. When he pulls away, Brendon's eyes are shining and filled with tears. Ryan tilts his head, confused.

"Brendon? You okay?" He asks slowly, and Brendon lets out a slight laugh, wiping his eyes and sniffing. "I--yeah. It's just a lot... you're doing so much better, man, you know that?" He asks, smiling proudly, and Ryan blinks.

It's his first movie role in a long time. It's small, he's in one scene, but it's something.

It's proof that he wants to do what he's passionate about again.

"I am." He confirms, smiling slightly. Brendon pulls him into another tight hug. Ryan feels his breath, warm and soft against his cheek, and he smiles slightly. It makes him feel grounded, alive. "We were worried about you, for a while there." Brendon breathes. Ryan lets his eyes slip shut, and just lets Brendon hold him, tears of happiness and release flooding from both of their eyes.

::

"Happy Birthday, Dear Ryannnnn.... Happy Birthday to You!" Everyone sings cheerfully, and he grins as flashbulbs go off. He feels a hand graze across the small of his back, and Brendon leans in to help him cut his cake. Ryan smiles at him, happy and genuine, and he hardly notices when a flash goes off in their face, capturing the moment forever.

In the magazine spreads that cover his party, photos of the two beaming are front and center.

28. Some days, Ryan feels positively ancient. Then there are days like these, where Brendon is next to him, touching him.

On these days? He's young again.

::

Brendon has basically moved in, now. Ryan doesn't mind it, doesn't mind it at all. Every morning, they wake and spend their mornings talking. Brendon's furniture, his clothing and decorations just sort of... migrated into Ryan's home, and then Brendon just stopped paying his bills and started to sleep on Ryan's couch.

It's an odd mesh of things: Ryan prefers a modern design, and Brendon is... kind of a hippie. It's endearing, really, but also very odd. One day, the house is sleek and stylish. The next, there are colorful rugs everywhere, wall tapestries, and the house smells like incense. It's... homey. Lived in. Ryan likes it.

::

"So... what are we?" Ryan asks one day.

He feels horribly cliche, asking, but he honestly has no clue. Brendon looks up from his bowl of cornflakes, thickly rimmed glasses perched on the tip of his nose. "Hm?" He asks, arching an eyebrow, and just like that, Ryan is rendered breathless. Only Brendon could evoke such a strong reaction from such a minuscule moment.

"What... are we?" Ryan repeats, looking down at his hands. Brendon shifts, crossing his legs. They're sitting on the couch, swaddled in blankets and trying to ignore the insane amount of snow falling from the sky outside. "Hmm..." Brendon hums, like he's trying to figure out a particularly tricky math equation or remember an ingredient in a recipe. "I dunno."

And then he goes back to his cereal.

Ryan stares for a second, disbelieving. The Brendon he knows would never be this laid back or lax. Sure, he smokes pot and does yoga and loves cooking comfort food, but he's also uptight and clinical and he keeps track of shit. A perfect mix of comforting and precise.

"Kidding, I'm kidding," He says after a second, grinning at Ryan's expression, "I just kinda assumed we were... together. Y'know. We live together. Kiss in public. We fuck every night."

Ryan bites his lip. Well, the press says they're together. And Brendon's parents have met him, and it was just as awkward as every other time he's met a partner's family.

But despite all their affection and passion, that word still hasn't been uttered.

"Huh. Guess we are. So, we're like... boyfriends?" Ryan asks, and Brendon stews over that for a second.

"Yeah, we are."

Boyfriends.

Boyfriends.

Ryan smiles.

It's taken a while, but Brendon Urie, the pretty boy from the party, is all his.

::

Fighting with Brendon is never fucking fun. Ryan may be the actor, but his boyfriend is the real drama queen.

"Get the fuck out!" Brendon shrieks from the doorway, crossing his arms. Ryan growls in frustration: freezing rain is pouring down on him, and it's the middle of the night. "Seriously?!" He shouts angrily, grabbing Brendon's arm and yanking him out into the rain. If he's getting soaked, so is Brendon. "It's my fucking house, Urie, you get out!"

Brendon lets out a scream of anger, and the roaring of the wind swallows the sound up. "If it weren't for you, this wouldn't be happening!" He cries, and Ryan throws his hands up in the air. "I don't fucking know what you want!" He says angrily, the wind whipping through his hair, rain soaking through his clothing. "I want you to tell me how you feel!" Brendon responds, and Ryan laughs, running his fingers through his wet hair.

"You know!" He responds, and Brendon shakes his head. "I don't, Ryan! We're dating, we live together, and you still fucking shy away from my touch, you still don't respond when I hint at it! You act like I'm a stranger!" He snaps, and Ryan frowns. "Hint at what?! That I... y'know?! Brendon, you have to know, you have to!" He snaps, and Brendon laughs. It's hollow. "I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a goddamned mind reader, Ry. I don't know how you feel."

Ryan stares, shoulders slumping slightly. He feels small, small and ridiculous. "Well..." He says, and Brendon inches closer, his face in such close proximity to Ryan's he can see the pale freckles adorning his cheeks, the raindrops clinging to his dark, fan-like lashes. "Well?" He asks, and Ryan swallows. "Well, I love you." He whispers, the words barely there in the chaos of the storm.

But he knows that Brendon heard, because one second his boyfriend is staring at him, and the next they're kissing like the world is ending. It's warm and wet and sloppy and so loving, and Ryan fucking adores it.

He's acted out a few cliched kiss in the rain scenes, and they're so overplayed and sappy. But as he dips his lover backward and deepens the kiss, he begins to appreciate them a lot more.

::

They both get colds from being out in the icy rain. The next few days consist of ordering takeout, watching cult classics (Brendon likes Heathers, Ryan prefers Fight Club), and drinking 'hot lemonade', which is just lemon mixed with honey and boiling water. Ryan always drinks it when his throat is acting up on set, and it works like magic. Brendon doesn't complain, chugging mugs of it down while Ryan lovingly massages his temples.

It's been nice. Sure, they're sweaty and sick and cranky, but it's just him and Brendon, curled up on their bed and exchanging gentle kisses and caresses. Even though Brendon LITERALLY works for Ryan, they hardly ever get time together. It's nice, spooning his gorgeous boyfriend and petting his hair as he whines about how sweaty he is.

Misery loves company, and they're both pretty miserable.

"Ryan," Brendon whispers sleepily, and Ryan turns to see his beautiful boyfriend, curled up in fetal position and shivering, "hold me?" He continues, and Ryan nods, wrapping his arms around the man. His hair is limp and sweaty, hanging in his face, and his skin is slightly pale. He gives off the general air of being unwell.

But he's still gorgeous. Gorgeousness just seems to come along with Brendon Urie.

"Love you," Brendon whispers, and Ryan just smiles, stroking his jaw. "Love you too, Bren."

::

Weeks later, they're laying on the floor of Ryan's living room, panting heavily. "You," Brendon says breathily, "are a fucking machine."

Ryan snorts, rolling over and pulling Brendon's naked body to him. "You're the one who wanted to have sex on every available surface. I live in a six bedroom house. Seven bathrooms. A gym, a in-home movie theater, a living room, the kitchen... that's a lot of fucking."

Brendon sighs. "Not fucking. Lovemaking."

Ryan snorts. "Right. Lovemaking. Well, we can quit for the night. We should probably get to bed, anyway..." He says, moving to sit up. Brendon grabs his wrist, and Ryan blinks, smiling at him warmly. Brendon looks beautiful, limbs sprawled out on the dark wood, eyes sleepy and heavily lidded. He's made of moonlight and stardust, he has to be, and Ryan can't help but trace a loving hand across the smooth expanse of bare skin that is Brendon's chest.

"We should stay up," Brendon argues, sitting up slightly, "and hang out for a bit. I'll make coffee."

Well, Ryan can't argue with that. He lazily stands, gripping the edge of the coffee table and rubbing his eyes. He's a little sore, fucking on hardwood flooring will do that to you, but he knows better than to complain. Brendon will actually smack him: his poor boyfriends ass must be raw. In the kitchen, he can hear the coffee maker burbling cheerfully, and Brendon is singing some sappy love song. Ryan smiles, taking in the sound. His boy has the voice of an angel, which he tells Brendon all too often.

He stretches, wincing as his joints pop, and then he contemplates getting dressed. Walking around completely naked is strange, but it's not like anyone else besides Brendon is there. After a minute, he decides to just stay nude. The weak breeze feels nice on his bare skin, and he figures Brendon won't complain.

Humming, he walks across the room, picking up a lighter and a package of Brendon's incense. He pulls a stick of it out, sniffing and gagging. Christ, how does Brendon stand the smell when he's meditating?! He quickly grabs a candle, clearly the safer option, and lights it. Hopefully the smell of sex will fade, although he also knows that Brendon likes THAT smell as well. God, his boyfriend is weird.

And he adores it.

"Put some music on! I feel weird singing by myself." He calls, laughing, and Ryan smiles, heading over to their record player. Brendon teases him for being old fashioned, but Brendon can't talk, because, hello: Brendon is just as old fashioned (completely into black and white films and Sinatra), if not more so.

"Rain Dogs or A Day At The Races?" He calls, going through their (large) collection of vinyls. There's a pause, and then Brendon answers with Rain Dogs. Just as Ryan sets the needle to the record, Brendon walks out into the living room, clutching two chipped mugs. Ryan accepts his graciously, taking a sip and wincing. "Christ--that scalded my throat." He says, and Brendon rolls his eyes. "Did not, don't be a baby."

Ryan scoffs, elbowing him gently. "You're a baby." He says, and Brendon gives him a faux-sappy look. "I'm your baby, Ry-Ry." He says, fluttering his dark lashes, and Ryan snorts, blowing him a kiss. "Always." He promises, and Brendon's mocking expression changes into something more sincere. "You sap." He says, setting down his mug and wrapping his arms around Ryan's waist. Ryan chuckles, kissing the top of his head. "Oh, you think it's cute."

Brendon shakes his head. "Plausible deniability."

Ryan snorts, setting down his mug as well, and beginning to sway to the music with Brendon, who nuzzles into his bare chest. "I love you." He says, mouthing the words to Diamonds and Gold as it comes on. He feels Brendon smile against his skin.

"I love you more." He says softly, wrapping his arms tighter around Ryan and softly singing the words 'Mad as a hatter, thin as a dime.' Ryan smiles, the tattoos on his wrists seeming to tingle.

"Hey, Ry?" Brendon asks when the song ends, burrowing into his body heat.

"Yeah...?" He asks, humming along to the next song, lost in a world of music and Brendon.

"Can we just stay like this forever? It's kind of nice." He says, and Ryan chuckles. "I think we'd get tired of each other eventually."

"No." Brendon says stubbornly. "Never."

"Then we'll stay like this forever." Ryan promises, amused. Brendon smiles, kissing Ryan's collarbone, then his shoulder, then his neck.

"Forever?" Brendon asks, voice soft and questioning. Ryan chuckles. "Forever."

And then they continue to dance together, smiles intact and hearts fluttering.