Ryan Ross was dead, metaphorically. Brendon Urie saved him, literally. Short RYDON one-shot. Read, review, rate and feel my love! :P
When I first met you, Bren, I was lost. Not literally, as it was in the constricting corridors of our grotty little high school, but metaphorically speaking, I was about as lost as any person could ever possibly be. I was beaten and bloody, the shattered glass of my tears racing with the rubies of my blood to be the first to flee my torn face, when you first found me, but I’m sure that you remember that. What you probably don’t remember, because you never even knew, is how my arms were streaked with scarlet kisses, each one pressed sweetly into my forearms like a splash of colour on a dull canvas.
I think that’s the part that I remember the most though, the one part that you still have no idea about. I remember it the most because it’s what forced my nose to turn the same colour as my arms, what forced the regiments of tears to torrent down my face like little razor blades painting patterns onto my ashen skin; a group of boys in the grade above, three huge seniors, had caught a flash of red glowing from beneath the sleeve of over-loved Blink-182 hoodie and had subsequently decided that someone as pathetic as me, someone weak enough to let my inner-agony get the better of me like that, needed to be punished. Punished for being lost.
But you saw them, stopped them, made them leave me alone. And then you gave me a lift home in your cosy little Nissan, all the while trying your best to get me to speak to you through my stunned shock. Stunned shock that swirled with the dull ache in my chest to make me nothing but a shaking wreck of stamped-on-too-many-times nerves. Because you were beautiful, with your milky skin that I just wanted to lap up like a kitten and your deep eyes that oozed meaningful concern. Meaningful because it was genuine; because you actually did want to find me within myself for reasons that I still don’t understand fully. When I asked you just smirked at me, that smirk that never fails to make me fall to my knees and fly to heaven, told me that you’d been watching me for weeks; watching and waiting to see if I really was as unique as everyone says (by calling me a freak, a loser, a loner), that you’d seen me around and that I had intrigued you, that you thought I didn’t deserve to be getting hurt like that.
It didn’t hurt though, not really; not by the time you found me. I mean, sure, it stung physically, but on the inside? I just felt numb to everything, I’d felt it all and heard it all too many times before for it to still hurt me with the same vehemence that it once would have. But it wasn’t the kind of numbness that meant I was indifferent about what they did, far from it. It was the kind of numbness that just made me feel dead, like I was insignificant in a world full of important people all too willing to let me know that I’m nothing more to them than the nib to a pen that they’re using to write their own stories. That’s what hurt me; the fact that I was alone, that nobody would have cared even if I did flaunt the vents that I had crafted into my skin like I have seen so many others do. I could have just drowned in a pool of my own blood, like a deer shot down by society’s merciless shotgun, and people wouldn’t have even noticed my absence.
You changed that though, Brenny. That night, the night you had to help me through my front door because of the state that you found me in, you made me see that someone would care; you. As you dabbed at the locker-inflicted gash staining my forehead and the garnets from it matting my floppy fringe, I watched you in the closest thing that I had felt to contentment for an excruciatingly long amount of time; your hands worked with the same compassionate passion as a virtuoso pressing a symphony onto the teeth of a piano; your eyes beheld me as though you were an astronomer discovering a new star; your reassuring, yet sorrowful smile gave me strength enough to smile back at the first person to ever request it. That was the first time in a forever of painful nevers that I actually wasn’t lost. Wait, no, I was lost. But a different kind of lost, a nice lost that made me feel like everything would be okay; I was lost in your eyes.
The cutting didn’t stop though, it’s something that I had unwillingly become dependent on; just like a junkie is reliant on heroin, just like I have become reliant on you. Because you’re the one person who can make me feel like I don’t need to do this to myself, the one person who makes me restrain myself whenever I do let myself do it as I know that it’d hurt you twice as badly as it hurts me if you ever found out. And you confirmed that thought when you asked me to be your boyfriend; a proposal that no sane person would ever even consider refusing. You got down on one knee and everything, cracking blowjob jokes all the while, just like you were actually proposing to me. That was also the first time that you used my nickname, a nickname that all of our friends (who were once just yours) know me by; Ryan. Before that I was just George, plain and dull and synonymous with my father, a man that neither of us can stand. So you just started calling me Ryan, my middle name that you say suits me because it just sounds ‘cute’, sounds like I look, apparently.
I’m still lost though. Nowhere near as much as I used to be, but I’m still lost. Further away from society than you are from imperfection. That’s okay though, because at least I’m not alone; I’m with you, Brendon Urie. The two of us lost together in a haze of love.
A/N: Thank you very much for reading, sorry that this was crappy and kinda pointless but I hope that you liked it! I gave myself the prompt ‘lost’ and this is the end result of that, that and my endless boredom. Thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)