Room 242

Ryan was sleeping. It was four in the afternoon and he was sleeping on his bed, which had fresh sheets on it, while the other members of Panic! at the Disco were scattered across the room. Well, not so scattered. Spencer was sprawled out on the foot of his bed, reading the same page of a book from Ryan’s suitcase for the thirteenth time. Jon was sitting at the head of Spencer’s bed, typing on his laptop. The youngest of the four had a fairly accurate idea that it was a private blog dedicated to how much the eldest of them wanted to kill the men who had destroyed the sleeping boy so swiftly. Brendon was sitting next to Ryan, occasionally reaching out lightly touch his hair before quickly pulling his hand back, ashamed.

They all remained like that for the better part of an hour, Spencer getting up once to get a bottle of water. Then, around half past five, Ryan woke up screaming again.

He sat up, eyes wide, mouth an ‘O’ as he screamed bloody murder. His eyes darted around the room. Brendon was next to him, Brendon was closest. Ryan threw himself at the younger boy, clinging tightly to him, whimpering into his shirt, shaking from trying not to cry. Brendon’s arms were squeezing him tightly, almost too tightly, but it felt good. It felt concrete and there and real. Ryan nearly melted into the touch.

“I want . . . I want . . .”

“What, Ry?” Brendon asked quietly, lips moving against Ryan’s hair. “What do you want?”

“I’m going to puke.” Ryan yanked away from Brendon quickly and ran to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time.

The other three heard him retching and looked at each other, not sure what to do. Was one of them supposed to follow him? If so, which one? Brendon, who had just held him? Spencer, who had been taking care of him since it happened? Jon, who hadn’t yet held him? All of them? Two of them? Which two? Before they could make a decision, they heard the toilet flush and running water. Ryan emerged from the bathroom, face and the neck of his shirt wet.

“I’m fine.” he said, walking back to the bed and sitting next to Brendon, leaning his head on the younger boy’s shoulder. “It’s too quiet.” he muttered. “Let’s turn the TV on.” The remote was next to Jon. He picked it up and tossed it to the other bed, where Ryan grabbed it and flipped through the channels. He stopped on TBS where the movie Sleepy Hollow was starting.

“This movie is shit.” Jon said automatically. Ryan and Brendon loved it, Spencer had no real opinion, but Jon hated it.

Ryan looked at him and laughed. Laughed. Ryan laughed. He smiled and laughed. Jon had made Ryan laugh.

“You always say that.” Then, a small smile on his face, he turned back toward the television, head on Brendon’s shoulder again. “Bren’s got good taste. He likes this movie.”

The word ‘movie’, however, was drowned out by Spencer’s Sidekick going off. He looked at the caller ID. “Got to take this.” he mumbled, not quite apologetically. He hurried into the other room, shutting the door behind him.

Ryan made some sort of jerking movement, head rising from Brendon’s shoulder. He shook it off, however, staring at the television.

“Hello?” Spencer asked in the other room.

“Hey, what the fuck’s up?” Pete’s voice. It made sense that he would call after he heard that Spencer had cancelled a week’s worth of shows without giving a reason. Spencer had secretly been waiting for it.

“Hmm? What’s up with what?” he asked, feigning innocence.

“Bullshit.” Pete sounded more than a little irritated. “A week’s worth of shows?”

“Yeah. And there might be more.” It was exhaustion that made Spencer sound angry. It was confusion and fear and anger. It was the night before.

“Tell me.” Pete said shortly.

Spencer hesitated. “I-It’s private. I don’t think Ryan . . . just don’t tell anyone. Anyone.”

“Sure. No one.” The boy on the other end sounded more than a bit worried now.

“Ryan,” Spencer began, licking his suddenly dry lips, “Ryan . . . last night . . . eight . . . eight guys raped Ryan last night.” There was a sound of Pete dropping the phone just like Ryan had done the night before.

Then labored breathing. “Sick joke.” he said weakly. “Sick joke, right Spencer?”

“I wouldn’t—“

“I know.” Deep breathing now. “Take . . . take as much time as you need. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of everything. Are you . . . are you going back to Vegas?”

“Yeah.” Spencer mumbled.

“I’ll get a plane for tomorrow morning. Text you with the information and . . . everything.” His voice cracked. “Bye, Spencer.” The line went dead.

The boy took a few deep breaths and a drink from one of the bottles in Jon and Brendon’s minibar before he walked back into the other room. Brendon, Jon, and Ryan were all sitting on the same bed now, Ryan between the other two. Their shoulders were all touching and they were watching the television. Jon moved over when he saw Spencer, leaving a space between him and Ryan for the younger boy crawl into.

Spencer nestled in between Ryan and Jon and the four of them watched the TV silently. It took Spencer a few minutes to realize they were watching Independence Day despite the fact that he had seen it over two dozen times. Nothing really seemed familiar anymore.

Ryan would jump a little more than necessary during the ‘scary’ moments, which made Brendon start a bit. Other than that, however, it seemed relatively normal to unaware eyes. Seemed. It wasn’t. Not with Spencer, Brendon, and Jon darting glances not only at Ryan, but at each other as well. Not with Ryan occasionally twitching as if to grab Brendon or Spencer’s hand. Not with Jon watching the fight scenes with a little too much fervor.

And the silence. Any stretch of silence between the four of them was unusual, let alone half an hour of it. Ryan broke it.

“I’m hungry.” he said for the second time that day, looking at Spencer beseechingly.

“Do you want to call room service?” the younger boy asked.

“No.” Ryan shook his head. “I want to go out. Let’s go out.”

“Ryan, I don’t know if—“

“Where do you want to go, Ry?” Jon asked, cutting Spencer off. He, too, wanted to escape the uncomfortable silence and the confining hotel room.

“I don’t know.” he said, shrugging. “Somewhere expensive. Somewhere we won’t matter.” He was quite aware of the disapproving look Spencer was giving Jon, but he didn’t care. He was the one who got raped and if he wanted to go to a fucking restaurant and drop three hundred dollars then he was going to.

Jon got up and went to the other bed, opening his laptop. “I’ll find one.” He sat down and began typing.

Brendon hadn’t said anything. He was staring at Ryan’s hands. They looked the same as always, so why was he staring? “You hate expensive restaurants.” he mumbled finally. “You say they’re pretentious.”

“Well, I want to fucking go to one.” Ryan snapped, wincing at his own voice. “Sorry, Bren.” he all but whispered.

Brendon was staring at his own hands now, bending his fingers and picking at his cuticles. He thought they cried, rape victims. That’s how it always was on television and in movies. They cried and wouldn’t talk to people and were afraid of boys. They didn’t watch TV in a hotel room bed with three other guys. They didn’t want to go to fancy restaurants. They didn’t . . . act like Ryan.

“Found one.” Jon said, looking up. “I think you’re going to have to change if you want them to let you in, though.”

Ryan immediately tensed, leaning in toward Spencer and squeezing his eyes shut. This was a bad idea. It was stupid. He shouldn’t have said anything. So many people staring . . . so many people staring at nothing but his body . . . so many people scrutinizing what those eight guys . . . what those eight guys had forced themselves into last night.

He knew Jon wanted out though. Not away from him. Ryan wasn’t stupid enough to think any of his band mates were disgusted with him or were going to leave him alone in his desperation. But Jon wanted out for awhile, wanted to clear his thoughts, wanted to get lost in a maze of people. Ryan knew because he wanted the same thing; he just wasn’t brave enough to do it yet.

“I-I don’t . . .” He opened his eyes and leaned forward a bit, looking at Jon. “There’s, like, a place up the street, isn’t there? Didn’t we go there yesterday?”

“I’ll go.” Jon said, trying not to act like he was jumping at the offer. He noticed the looks Brendon and Spencer were exchanging behind Ryan, but the other boy didn’t.

“Will you be all right if I go with him?” Spencer asked quietly.

“I’m staying.” Brendon said immediately though Ryan’s face had already paled.

“Okay.” Ryan nodded. “I’ll be fine.” he said, trying to reassure himself and all of them. “I’ll be fine.” He leaned in toward Brendon. “We’ll be fine, right?”

“Of course we will.” Brendon murmured, slipping an arm around Ryan’s shoulders. “We’ll watch some stupid movie about aliens and be just fine.”

It was a lie. They wouldn’t be fine. But they would be safe and that seemed good enough for the moment.

* * *

“Jon, don’t do anything stupid.” It was the first thing Spencer said when they got out of the hotel, both wearing jackets and freezing from the cold, but both loving the way it woke them up and sharpened their physical senses.

“What?” It wasn’t a feign of innocence. The older of the pair hadn’t heard him, too busy trying to get lost in the sounds of the city. He needed to concentrate on something other than the vehement anger building up inside of him. If he kept it bottled up too long without some form of distraction every so often he would explode. He had no idea what exploding in this situation would entail, but he didn’t want to run the risk of hurting Ryan’s fragile state of mind anymore. The boy in that hotel room was already so broken, so obviously empty inside.

“Anything stupid.” Spencer said. “Don’t do it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared straight ahead. “You’re not going to be able to find them.”

“Unfortunately.”

There was a pause, but not a silence; the city didn’t allow for it. “Yes.” Spencer said. They were outside the café Ryan had mentioned. He gave a sort of nod that Jon understood and they walked through the door.

* * *

Ryan turned the television off during the next commercial break. He looked at Brendon who was staring at him, wondering. “What is it, Ry?” he asked softly. He wasn’t sure what to say. He had agreed to stay, not just for Ryan’s sake, but because he thought they honestly would just sit there and watch a movie about aliens and wait for Spencer and Jon to get back with the food.

“I . . . I can’t write it.” Ryan said. He swallowed a lump in his throat. “I can’t write it, Bren. So can I . . . can I tell you? W-Will you be okay if I tell you?”

“If you went through it, I can hear it.” Brendon said. The words sounded wrong somehow. “Tell me, Ryan. I’ll listen. Let me help.” Those words sounded wrong, too. He felt like such a fuck up.

Ryan looked around the hotel room. All rooms in hotels looked the same except for suites and they weren’t in one of those. This room was the mirror of room 242, beds on the opposite side of the wall. But it was a room, two beds, television, coffee machine, closet, bathroom. It was a room that looked so different from the other. Maybe it was the fact that it wasn’t dark. There was no moon. Maybe it was Brendon.

“They’re not nightmares. They’re memories.” he said slowly, licking his chapped lips. “Eight of them. I counted. Don’t know how since it was so dark, but there were eight. I woke up and he was . . . he was in me. I don’t know if he was the first one. I don’t even know how I got in that room. Half of a beer, Bren. Just half. Don’t know why I drank it. I don’t drink. Look what happens when you drink.” He gave a dry sob, pulling at his hair. “Then he was done and there was another one and another and another. And they were laughing at me and calling me a faggot. They knew who I was, Brendon. They . . . they picked me. I don’t know . . .” He sniffled, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. “The last one I remember . . . he . . .”

Ryan shook his head, voice trailing off. “That’s enough for now.” He sounded like a mom. That’s enough for now. You can have another cookie after supper, sweetie. Brendon’s mom never said that and Ryan hadn’t had a mom to say that.

The older boy leaned into the younger boy, quiet now. They were together, but separated somehow. Brendon was trying to think of what to say, what to do. What were the right words? Ryan had the way with words, not him. What could you say? There was nothing to say. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen, so how was anyone supposed to have a response?

Ryan, on the other hand, couldn’t really think. He had thoughts, sure, but they weren’t processing. It was like when you could hear your teacher’s voice in school, but you weren’t listening to the words she was saying. He could feel, though, and that was what was tearing him apart. He felt alone, felt broken, felt like he was still being raped, felt like he was nothing, felt like he wanted to sleep and not wake up. But he could feel Brendon’s warm skin against him, Brendon’s warm breath on his cheek as he held Ryan, watching him.

That helped.

A bit.

Somehow.

“You know,” Brendon said, “I think I have a few shirts as big as that one. Somewhere in my suitcase if I decide to wear one when I sleep. I’ll find them for you.”

Ryan didn’t need to say thank you. Him nestling his face into Brendon’s shoulder was thanks enough, even if the thanks made Brendon bite his lip to keep from screaming. This wasn’t Ryan. This was . . . something else. Not even someone. Something. It was all wrong.

The hotel room door opened then and Spencer and Jon came in, the former holding a paper bag.

“Food.” Brendon mumbled to Ryan.

The boy nodded into his shoulder. “I love you, Bren.”

* * *

The four of them slept in the same hotel room, but they slept in Jon and Brendon’s. Ryan immediately crawled into bed beside Jon. He didn’t want coddled and he didn’t want someone whispering that it would all be okay in his ear. He knew that Jon would follow his lead, even if Ryan wasn’t much of a dancer.

Spencer and Brendon slept in the other bed, the former facing Ryan and the latter sleeping face down with a pillow over his head. They were listening to soft instrumental music, which had been Jon’s idea. No words, no voices. Maybe it would keep the nightmares away.

No such luck. Not a surprise. Luck wasn’t on their side. Nothing was on their side.

Ryan woke up shaking, a scream frozen on his lips. No sound, just Ryan terrified of being in the dark. For one fearful moment, he forgot that he wasn’t alone. His bottom lip trembled. He should have picked Spencer to sleep with. He wouldn’t have any qualms with waking Spencer up. He had laid down without wanting comfort and had woken up desperate for it.

What was the matter with him? He had been raped. Shouldn't he have been angry? Terrified? Sobbing? Threatening to kill himself due to the violation of his body and the invasion of his mind? Cutting himself to focus on physical pain instead of emotional? Running scared from the other three boys because guys had raped him, forced themselves inside of him? Not burying his head in Brendon’s neck or Spencer’s chest?

He felt robbed, felt like that one man had stolen his entire reason for being. He felt alone because no one had been through what he had (not that he wanted someone to). He felt scared of the dark and that, in turn, made him feel five which, in turn, made him feel stupid.

But he wasn’t scared of boys, wasn’t scared of the men coming back.

“I am so fucked up.” he mumbled to himself.

“Ry?” Jon asked drowsily, sitting up. “Are you—bad dream?” ’Are you okay?’ Are you fucking kidding, Walker? Of course he’s not okay.

“Sort of.” the younger boy murmured.

“They’ll go away eventually.” Jon promised in a whisper.

“I . . . I want—need to . . . hold me?” The last two words were so quiet that the older boy didn’t hear them, but he didn’t need to. He wrapped his arms around Ryan without a word, laying down and pulling the other boy with him. Ryan rested his chin on Jon’s chest and the older boy stroked his hair until he fell asleep.

Ryan didn’t wake up screaming at eight in the morning, but his face was damp with tears. There was a cut on his cheek from where he had scratched himself with a fingernail. When Jon took him into the bathroom to wash it, they found Brendon sleeping in the bathtub.