Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco
Run, Ry
“We could do it, Ry. You know we could.”
I look to the hot-chocolate haired boy spilt haphazardly on the grass next to me, pale skin glistening like platinum in the sunlight, and give him a look so full of pleading that I almost feel like a slave begging his master for freedom. Ryan just sighs and clamps his dragonfly eyelashes together as his dazzling irises hide behind their lids.
“I know, Bren.” He mumbles tiredly, fingers wrapping around my own as I weave our hands together lazily in an attempt to dull the ache in my heart at his tone; a tone that tells me he doesn’t know at all, just that he’s given up completely. “You definitely could.”
Immediately I drop his hand as though it’s turned to a snake in my grasp, my eyes wide with hurt as I prop myself up on my sharp elbows to give myself some height over his lying body. At the sudden absence of my digits caressing his own, Ryan’s portals of heavenly vision snap open and fix me with a desperate cry of silence to just drop the subject. Well, not this time. I may have done in the past, but not now; not whilst he’s got a rash of bruises hidden under his shirt, dotting his sweet little tummy and a black-eye poking out from under his eyeliner.
“No, I couldn’t. Not on my own.” I whine down at him, careful to keep my voice blanket-soft to slowly coddle him into the idea. “We, however, could. Easily.”
In a flash of blinked-back tears and gnawed-down lips, Ryan’s swung his torso up so that he’s sitting, towering over me now, and drags his knees tightly to his chest. Like a lost little boy searching for someone to care enough to just understand that he wants to be left alone. But I care more than that, love him more than that and, as his boyfriend of six months last Thursday, it’s my job to make him see that.
Not my job; my duty and my pride. The very reason that I wake up in the morning and have a spring in my step.
“I know.” He repeats, gaze firmly set on his Converse in a cold way that makes me want to snuggle up to him even though I know it’d make his bruises pulsate with pain. “I fucking know, Bren. I just… I don’t want to, okay?” He pauses, taking in a shaky breath that makes me wrap an arm around my skeleton of a partner and just let him rest his forehead on my shoulder like I’m the only one keeping it from rolling straight off. “I don’t want to run away.”
I wince at the harsh way he makes it sound; as though we’re just two fifteen-year-olds trying to hurt our parents into loving us by pulling a disappearing act. But it’s not like that, not at all. My family are oppressive, making me be a young gentleman when I just want to be a kid and play the music that they tell me will never get me anywhere in life because it’s shitty. Ryan’s dad hits him, hence the bruising, and so of course I want him to run. Now more than ever, the afternoon after he showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night barely able to stand on his willowy legs from where that bastard had sent his head spinning.
It’s not the first time I’ve tried to push the idea into his favour, far from it. Every time this happens to him, be it just a small knock against a wall or something that leaves him unconscious like last night almost did, I do my best to convince him to leave that awful hellhole he calls home to run away with me into the sunset like two heroes exploring a dangerous new world. Well, it can’t be any more dangerous for Ry than his own home is.
My poor little broken-winged angel.
“Why not?” I whisper, breath cool on his hot, swanlike neck. “Why don’t you want to escape?”
“Because he’s my fucking dad, Brendon! I love him!”
I’ve had enough of this.
“Yeah, well, it’s pretty clear he doesn’t love you!”
Shit.
I didn’t mean it, not at all.
Okay, maybe I did mean it because it’s true, but I never meant to say it out loud. Let alone scream it at my wounded boyfriend in frustration, the kind of frustration that was born of hideous worry and mindless good intentions. I’ve just got to get it into his pretty little head that the guy’s no good for him, that he lost all rights to being Ry’s dad the second he raised his hand to him. That Ryan would be far better off running away to Chicago with me, just like the coach tickets in my jacket pocket would let us. Two golden tickets that could make Ry safe and happy and all mine. Just like they could make me free. And all Ryan’s.
But right now Ryan’s sniffling, trying his best not to cry in front of me, because I’ve been bad. I broke the illusion that he was using to make it all hurt just that little bit less.
And I hate myself for it. I really fucking do.
“Ryro, Sweetie, I-“
“No.”
He looks up from the ground, my heart breaking when I see the blazing trails of tears tattooing misery onto his porcelain skin, and fixes me with a scarily determined look. The kind that I haven’t seen in a long time; the kind that’s all fiery, just like he used to be before his dad beat it out of him.
So I let a smile grow on my lips, my arm wrapping tighter around his shoulders.
“Fuck this, Bren. Let’s run.”
A/N: Just a short, crappy little one-shot I wrote because it feels like it’s been way too long since I wrote a Rydon. Anyway, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)
“We could do it, Ry. You know we could.”
I look to the hot-chocolate haired boy spilt haphazardly on the grass next to me, pale skin glistening like platinum in the sunlight, and give him a look so full of pleading that I almost feel like a slave begging his master for freedom. Ryan just sighs and clamps his dragonfly eyelashes together as his dazzling irises hide behind their lids.
“I know, Bren.” He mumbles tiredly, fingers wrapping around my own as I weave our hands together lazily in an attempt to dull the ache in my heart at his tone; a tone that tells me he doesn’t know at all, just that he’s given up completely. “You definitely could.”
Immediately I drop his hand as though it’s turned to a snake in my grasp, my eyes wide with hurt as I prop myself up on my sharp elbows to give myself some height over his lying body. At the sudden absence of my digits caressing his own, Ryan’s portals of heavenly vision snap open and fix me with a desperate cry of silence to just drop the subject. Well, not this time. I may have done in the past, but not now; not whilst he’s got a rash of bruises hidden under his shirt, dotting his sweet little tummy and a black-eye poking out from under his eyeliner.
“No, I couldn’t. Not on my own.” I whine down at him, careful to keep my voice blanket-soft to slowly coddle him into the idea. “We, however, could. Easily.”
In a flash of blinked-back tears and gnawed-down lips, Ryan’s swung his torso up so that he’s sitting, towering over me now, and drags his knees tightly to his chest. Like a lost little boy searching for someone to care enough to just understand that he wants to be left alone. But I care more than that, love him more than that and, as his boyfriend of six months last Thursday, it’s my job to make him see that.
Not my job; my duty and my pride. The very reason that I wake up in the morning and have a spring in my step.
“I know.” He repeats, gaze firmly set on his Converse in a cold way that makes me want to snuggle up to him even though I know it’d make his bruises pulsate with pain. “I fucking know, Bren. I just… I don’t want to, okay?” He pauses, taking in a shaky breath that makes me wrap an arm around my skeleton of a partner and just let him rest his forehead on my shoulder like I’m the only one keeping it from rolling straight off. “I don’t want to run away.”
I wince at the harsh way he makes it sound; as though we’re just two fifteen-year-olds trying to hurt our parents into loving us by pulling a disappearing act. But it’s not like that, not at all. My family are oppressive, making me be a young gentleman when I just want to be a kid and play the music that they tell me will never get me anywhere in life because it’s shitty. Ryan’s dad hits him, hence the bruising, and so of course I want him to run. Now more than ever, the afternoon after he showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night barely able to stand on his willowy legs from where that bastard had sent his head spinning.
It’s not the first time I’ve tried to push the idea into his favour, far from it. Every time this happens to him, be it just a small knock against a wall or something that leaves him unconscious like last night almost did, I do my best to convince him to leave that awful hellhole he calls home to run away with me into the sunset like two heroes exploring a dangerous new world. Well, it can’t be any more dangerous for Ry than his own home is.
My poor little broken-winged angel.
“Why not?” I whisper, breath cool on his hot, swanlike neck. “Why don’t you want to escape?”
“Because he’s my fucking dad, Brendon! I love him!”
I’ve had enough of this.
“Yeah, well, it’s pretty clear he doesn’t love you!”
Shit.
I didn’t mean it, not at all.
Okay, maybe I did mean it because it’s true, but I never meant to say it out loud. Let alone scream it at my wounded boyfriend in frustration, the kind of frustration that was born of hideous worry and mindless good intentions. I’ve just got to get it into his pretty little head that the guy’s no good for him, that he lost all rights to being Ry’s dad the second he raised his hand to him. That Ryan would be far better off running away to Chicago with me, just like the coach tickets in my jacket pocket would let us. Two golden tickets that could make Ry safe and happy and all mine. Just like they could make me free. And all Ryan’s.
But right now Ryan’s sniffling, trying his best not to cry in front of me, because I’ve been bad. I broke the illusion that he was using to make it all hurt just that little bit less.
And I hate myself for it. I really fucking do.
“Ryro, Sweetie, I-“
“No.”
He looks up from the ground, my heart breaking when I see the blazing trails of tears tattooing misery onto his porcelain skin, and fixes me with a scarily determined look. The kind that I haven’t seen in a long time; the kind that’s all fiery, just like he used to be before his dad beat it out of him.
So I let a smile grow on my lips, my arm wrapping tighter around his shoulders.
“Fuck this, Bren. Let’s run.”
A/N: Just a short, crappy little one-shot I wrote because it feels like it’s been way too long since I wrote a Rydon. Anyway, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)
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