Leaving
One and Lonely.
“Ryan. Ry. Please, don’t go,” Brendon choked as Ryan glared at him, his face a blotchy red from shouting at Brendon only moments before.
“I have to,” he said, quietly now, clutching his notebook. He had spent the night at Brendon’s, watching movies, eating and trying to find melodies for his lyrics.
“I need you. The band needs you.” Brendon was crying now, the tears leaving shining trails on his cheeks. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision so he could see his Ryan’s face better.
“No, you don’t,” Ryan replied. He bit his tongue so he wouldn’t shout at Brendon again. “And neither does Spencer.”
Brendon drew in sharply. “Jon’s leaving too?”
Ryan nodded without looking at him.
“Shit, Ryan! Why?”
“You know why.” Ryan sighed. “We just...we weren’t working anymore. Not together. You know it had to end sometime.”
“It doesn’t have to,” Brendon said, clutching Ryan’s arm desperately. “It doesn’t have to.”
Ryan wrenched his arm out of Brendon’s grip. “Yes, it does! You’ve always taken me for granted – and Jon agrees! You always make everything about yourself.”
“I don’t.”
Ryan looked at him with pity. “You know you do.” He bent down to pick up his bag with his pyjamas in it, the bag he’d packed only a day before thinking that maybe things were looking up, that everything could get better, back to the way it used to be.
Then, Brendon had laughed at some of the lyrics Ryan had shown him. That had been the last straw, and Ryan had snapped, shouting at Brendon every bitter and angry thing he had ever thought about the vocalist.
A new wave of tears streamed down Brendon’s face. “Please don’t go, Ry. I need you. Without your words my voice is nothing.” He made a noise that sounded like half a choke and half a hiccup. “Your words are beautiful.”
“Too late, Brendon.”
“Please.”
“I’m sorry.” Ryan put the bag’s strap over his shoulder and clutched his book of Brendon’s voice closer to his chest. He didn’t look back at the singer, and he left the house alone.
“I have to,” he said, quietly now, clutching his notebook. He had spent the night at Brendon’s, watching movies, eating and trying to find melodies for his lyrics.
“I need you. The band needs you.” Brendon was crying now, the tears leaving shining trails on his cheeks. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision so he could see his Ryan’s face better.
“No, you don’t,” Ryan replied. He bit his tongue so he wouldn’t shout at Brendon again. “And neither does Spencer.”
Brendon drew in sharply. “Jon’s leaving too?”
Ryan nodded without looking at him.
“Shit, Ryan! Why?”
“You know why.” Ryan sighed. “We just...we weren’t working anymore. Not together. You know it had to end sometime.”
“It doesn’t have to,” Brendon said, clutching Ryan’s arm desperately. “It doesn’t have to.”
Ryan wrenched his arm out of Brendon’s grip. “Yes, it does! You’ve always taken me for granted – and Jon agrees! You always make everything about yourself.”
“I don’t.”
Ryan looked at him with pity. “You know you do.” He bent down to pick up his bag with his pyjamas in it, the bag he’d packed only a day before thinking that maybe things were looking up, that everything could get better, back to the way it used to be.
Then, Brendon had laughed at some of the lyrics Ryan had shown him. That had been the last straw, and Ryan had snapped, shouting at Brendon every bitter and angry thing he had ever thought about the vocalist.
A new wave of tears streamed down Brendon’s face. “Please don’t go, Ry. I need you. Without your words my voice is nothing.” He made a noise that sounded like half a choke and half a hiccup. “Your words are beautiful.”
“Too late, Brendon.”
“Please.”
“I’m sorry.” Ryan put the bag’s strap over his shoulder and clutched his book of Brendon’s voice closer to his chest. He didn’t look back at the singer, and he left the house alone.
♠ ♠ ♠
By the way, I don't blame Ryan and Jon's leaving on any one member of Panic, I don't hate them for their choice to leave, etc etc. This is just a work of fiction written in a fit of angst.Thank you for reading :) Comments are always appreciated.