Ryan Ross is sick of dreaming. It just hurts too much to know that's all they are. RYDON one-shot. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
I had the craziest dream last night, a dream full of fumbling fingers fluttering like lovesick butterflies and erratic heartbeats pounding to a heavy-metal tango of passionate intimacy. A dream that wasn’t so much crazy as perfect.
Perfectly agonizing because I know that it will always be just a dream; something that will forever stayed locked up in my mind for whenever I can dare to face the putrid pain of imagining that which I will never have. Imagining what Brendon Urie would feel like pressed against me as though I’m the apple and he’s the toffee; bound together in a flawless ecstasy of pure sweetness. Imagining what he would sound like whispering those things which my heart desperately needs to hear as though he’s the preacher and I’m the lost sheep searching for someone to believe in. Imagining what he would smell like drenched in sweat as though he’s the lazy teenager laying beneath a tree and I’m the hot summer’s sun. Imaging how I would feel if he ever decided that he could possibly love me.
He won’t though. He can’t. Because I’m his best friend and I should be more than thankful just for that almighty blessing. And I am, I don’t think that I’ve ever woken up without thanking whoever it is that I should be for placing him on this earth, next to me, where he can make me smile every time he knows I’m about to cry. Before I met Brendon I thought that I was a lost cause, that everything that both my father and my ‘friends’ said about me was true; that my make-up looks stupid, that I’m a whiny little emo-freak in need of a good punch, that I’ll never amount to anything, that I’m stupid, that I’m an attention-seeker because of the bruises that I can’t do anything to hide, that I’m a worthless little runt who will die just as I live; as a nobody.
But Bren makes me forget all of that, every insult and stab at my heart from both parties of malevolence, just with the curvature of his perfect lips that look like sumptuous strawberry sauce dribbled upon the pristine whiteness of a meringue; enticing, deliciously mouth-watering and, above all else, highly desirable. And I guess that’s one of the reasons why his comfort hurts so much, because I know that I will never get to taste the splendid extravagance of his lips like I ache to. Like I did in my dream.
It was one of those dreams where you simply don’t ever want to wake up just because it means facing the harsh reality of accepting that it was only a dream; a hell of a lot more, nothing less. And that’s all it will ever stay as. Because why would he, with his melted-vinyl hair slicking perfectly over his head, ever look at me like that when he could quite obviously have anyone acting like his pet and eating straight out of his hand? He simply wouldn’t. It’s only logical, really; a painfully introverted boy with more issues than there are grains of sand in the Sahara or some pretty little blonde with legs longer than Sunset Boulevard; a skinny little mouse of a kid with too many scars to even start to count or some muscular dude with eyes deep enough to drown in; someone like me or someone like them?
Someone like them, obviously. He may well say that I’m kind and sweet and even fucking pretty, but that’s just Bren being Bren; him being his normal bubbly, benevolent self. A self that has been there unquestionably for me, right from day one. A day that was full of being slammed against lockers like a broken toy and being spat at until my eyes blurred with tears.
Or at least, that’s how it would have been. Instead it was; until Brendon pulled them off of me and practically carried me to the nurse’s office. He was waiting for me when I came out of the nurse’s with a black eye and a bandaged chest from where one of my ribs had decided to turn against me, he was waiting like a lost little puppy and then he insisted on seeing me home in return for saving my skinny ass. I, struck by the paralysing lightning bolt of his beauty for the first time, cautiously accepted; half terrified that he was just messing with me. He wasn’t.
We’ve been best friends ever since that day when we were just two fourteen-year-olds looking for a friend.
We’re now seventeen and still just as close. But only now the closeness aches like a blunt arrow twisting in an open wound because it’s just a metaphorical closeness; a closeness of understanding and care, not a physical closeness accompanied by love and lust.
Ha fucking ha.
As if anyone could ever lust after me, after boring old Ryan Ross. Why would they? I’m not sexy, I’m not even all that special to look at; just a skinny ghost of a boy with hair akin in colour to burnt toffee being spilt haphazardly onto my head. I can just about believe that I’m cute, but people don’t lust after cute. That would be like have a one-night-stand with your childhood teddy bear; wrong, disturbed and never going to happen. Just like me and Brendon, he’s the gorgeous one with more admirers than there are stars in the sky and I’m just the overused, scraggly old teddy bear who he couldn’t stand to throw out because of his stunning loyalty.
That’s right; he’s beautiful on the inside too. If he wasn’t then I might just manage to get over him like I know I never will. He’s selfless, but not to the point of being stupidly so; he’s quick-witted to the point of being able to make me burst into laughter when I should be bursting into tears; he’s benevolent enough to make Santa seem like Satan; he’s so over-protective of me that it almost makes me feel invincible. At least until I go somewhere that he can’t protect me. Like Chemistry class. Like home.
The home that isn’t really a home, more like a crypt concealing all that my family once was and now is; a fuck-up of a kid and a father all too willing to remind the kid exactly what he is. So I just daydream instead. Or sleep it off and really dream. But even my dreams are hurting me now, because they taunt me with things that I will never have.
Just like the dream that I have just woken up from. A dream fuelled by the ludicrous amounts of alcohol that I consumed last night at Brendon’s seventeenth birthday party, a party that forced the alcohol down my throat just because I know that it’s the only thing that makes thoughts of Brendon just a little bit more bearable. The hangovers, like the one I’m suffering from right now however, do not.
Which is precisely why I’ve still got my eyes clamped shut through fear of sunlight seeping into my conscious and triggering the mother of all headaches, that really would be the cherry on top of my nightmarish dream, wouldn’t it?
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty, time to wake up!” A bouncy voice chimes into the oblivion of my birthing hangover. A voice that was moaning my name in my dream, a voice that’s making my head spin just like it always does.
Fantastic; Spence didn’t even take me back to my house after I inevitably passed out last night, I must be on the floor of Bren’s living room looking like the complete idiot that I am. That he sees me for and still sticks with anyway.
“Seriously, Ry, the ‘rents are gonna be home any moment.” The bounce has dropped from his heavenly tone and so my eyes blink groggily open.
I’m on no living room floor. I’m tucked up in Bren’s bed in just my Batman boxers, sucking on my thumb like a stupid little toddler. The sunlight’s filtering into his room and catching on his skin to give him an almost vampiric glow, the kind that makes my heart swell and burst like a faulty firework.
I swing my head around, my eyes darting around the small ocean-blue bedroom for anything that might trigger memories of just what happened last night to make me end up in my best friend’s bed, with said best friend leaning over me and grinning like I do whenever I think of him. I raise my eyebrows at the inextinguishable light that’s flaring in his deep pools of coffee-coloured excellence, making his blinding beam widen even more.
“Wow, you must have drunk even more than I thought.” He sighs, that endearing smile faltering just slightly as he sits upright, fully clothed and on top of the covers with fresh eyeliner applied (indicating that he’s already been up and showered for some time). “Do you remember what happened last night?”
What did happen last night? Please don’t tell me that I tried to make-out with a pineapple again, it was painful enough the first time.
No, the look in his eyes tells me that it was something much more significant than that; something that hurts him to remember. Fuck, did I start a fight or something? What if I ruined his party? I’ll never forgive myself if I ruined his special night.
Unsure of what else I can do, I shake my head, wincing as the action causes pain to shoot through my body; yep, I definitely drank way too much last night.
“So you don’t remember what you said?” A shake of the head and a mischievous smirk that quickly hides the dip in his bubbly demeanour; what the fuck did I do? “Three words, three guesses.”
Shit. I know exactly what ‘three words’ he’s talking about; I told him, didn’t I?
How could I be so stupid as to let my tongue get loose enough to slur those three vital words to him; to most likely ruin everything that means anything to me? That’s probably why I’m in his bed; he probably felt sorry for me making an idiot of myself in front of everyone and so decided to spare me the misery of a bad back by pulling me into his bed. But that doesn’t change the fact that I said those three words, that I’ve almost certainly lost my best friend to the awkwardness that my confession will definitely generate between the two of us.
I think I’m going to be sick, and it has nothing to do with the alcohol.
Hang on. He’s smiling at me, beseeching me with those undeniable eyes to answer his question with the three words that I prayed I would never let slip from my lips and into Bren’s ears; ears to perfect to put up with my rambling. Still, he wants to hear it though and it’s the least that I can do to grant him that much.
I swallow past the fast-forming lump in my throat, looking down into my lap to avoid the laughter that will surely come. But I have to say this. It’s what he wants. And I could never say no to Brendon.
“I love you.” I choke out, tears welling in my eyes and fogging my vision because I know that this is the end; that I’m about to go back to being the school punching bag.
There’s a split second where everything just stops; the movement of air particles, the ticking of my heart, the intake of oxygen into my lungs, the tears pooling and sliding down my cheeks. Because he’s squeezing my hand, forcing me to look up and into his softly smiling face. A hand that’s warm and encouraging, a hand that I reflexively squeeze back as though it’s the most wondrous thing I’ve ever felt.
It is; purely because it’s attached to Brendon Urie.
“I love you too, Ry.”
A/N: Thank you very much for reading, I hope that this was alright! I’m not too sure if I like this or not, so please let me know what you think! :)