9 Months Is a Long Time

When Pete gets home around three in the morning, Ryan is curled up on the couch. Cinderella is playing and other various Disney movies are strewn across the coffee table. Clearly not a good sign. Ryan is awake and has obviously been crying. His eyes are red and puffy.

So Pete shrugs his jacket off and sits himself down by Ryan’s feet. “Want to tell me? Or should I ask someone else?”

“I fucked up.” Ryan says, his voice scratchy from his raw throat. “With everyone. Brendon and Will and Craig and it’s all my fault and I don’t have anything to show for it.”

“Ryan . . .” Pete sighs softly, not really sure why, and puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Who the hell is Craig, by the way?”

Ryan winces. “Brendon’s study partner." He looks away, ashamed. “I didn’t tell Bren.” he whispers. “He’s so mad at me. Will walked in. And we had just made up.” He looks at Pete, tears in his eyes. “I was so mean to him. I can’t believe my mouth let me say those things.”

“Mouths have a way of doing that.” Pete says dryly, knowing all too well. “Have you talked to Brendon?”

“Tried. Knocked on his door for an hour.” Ryan sniffles. His knuckles were so red by the time he quit.

Pete rubs his back. “Try again in the morning. Let’s get you to bed, Ry.” Pete leads him down the hall and tucks him in, smoothes Ryan’s hair back and kisses his forehead. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Ryan stares up at Pete, his eyes large and sad. “I just wanted to feel pretty.” he whispers. He’s fully aware of how stupid and pathetic it sounds.

Pete gives him an empathetic smile and kisses his forehead one more time. “You’re beautiful. Now go to sleep.”

Ryan dreams about cliffs and Brendon screaming and Craig fucking him in the cemetery where his father is buried. He tosses and turns all night.

*

Ryan sleeps until eleven the next day and wakes up with a pounding headache. He’s not supposed to take anything and he sighs, winces, rolls onto his back. The door suddenly opens, Brendon’s figure in the frame. “I want my jacket back.” He doesn’t say it like he’s angry or seeking vengeance by reclaiming a borrowed piece of clothing; he just says it.

“Brendon.” Ryan whispers. He sounds so drained. “Brendon, I’m sorry.”

The younger boy sighs, flounces over to the bed, and sits down. “I know. And I’m not that mad. But you shouldn’t have done it and you know it or else you would have asked.”

Ryan hates that, how Brendon’s so damn perceptive. It’s easy to forget amongst the Spongebob jammies and the rocketship sheets on his bed. But he truly is remarkably insightful and he just read Ryan like a book.

“I wanted to feel sexy.” Ryan whispers, tears beginning to leak from the corners of his eyes. “And stupid and wild and not pregnant.”

Brendon’s hand reaches out tentatively and he places it on Ryan’s stomach. It’s the first time anyone has done such a thing and Ryan sucks in a quick breath. “But you are pregnant. You need to accept it. There’s only six months left.”

“I’m sorry for Craig.” Ryan says again.

“I know.” Brendon smiles. “I really do need that jacket though. I wasn’t just saying that.”

The older boy groans and rolls over, pushing his face into his pillow. “Dresser.” His voice is muffled, but he and Brendon have been friends long enough that it’s easy enough to decipher.

“I’ll be back early. Text me what you want for dinner.” Brendon leans down and kisses Ryan’s cheek. “I took twenty bucks from your wallet, by the way. Loveyoubye!” He dashes out of the room before Ryan even has time to roll his eyes. It’s so typical. And he supposes that Brendon deserves it after the night before. So he just goes back to sleep.

*

Will stands outside, a cigarette between his lips. It’s pretty nice out and there’s no need for a jacket, but there are goosebumps on his arms anyway. It seems like everything is falling into place and everything is out of control at the same time. Some things are being colored within the lines and some are definitely not.

Ryan’s a whore. Not that he didn’t know that already, but it’s just confirmation. And he thought Ryan may have been getting around to eventually conceiving the idea of a date with Will in his head, but clearly that idea is never going to permeate through all the hair product he uses. It hurts more than he would like to admit it does.

Will stomps his cigarette out with more fervor than necessary, picturing it as Craig’s face and mentally congratulating himself on the victory once his cigarette has been reduced to a filter and loose tobacco. Then he walks toward the street, arm out, attempting to flag down a cab. When it stops, he gives the driver Ryan’s address.

*

The elevator dings and Pete gets off on his floor, pulling his key out and unlocking the front door. He sets his briefcase down on the coffee table and sighs, before walking down the hallway to check on Ryan. He’d been half-dreading the moment and half willing the day to go quicker so he could get around to doing it. He really has no idea what he’s going to attempt to do if Brendon’s still refusing to talk. It’s not a situation he’s ever found himself in. Usually the problem is getting Brendon to shut up.

Ryan is sitting up in bed when Pete pushes the door open, knees to his chest. There is a stack of papers and a bottle of pills on the nightstand. The TV is on, but muted. Ryan looks like hell—to put it bluntly—more so than the night before.

Pete manages to contain his sigh, though it‘s extremely audible in his head. “So,” he says, sitting down, “Brendon’s still pissed.”

“No.” Ryan answers, his voice tiny and vulnerable. “We made up.”

Pete furrows his eyebrows. “So what’s wrong then?”

“Will’s moving back to Chicago.”

*

The intercom buzzes and Ryan reluctantly crawls out of bed to press the button. “Who is it?”

“It’s Will. We need to talk.”

Ryan buzzes him in without another word and unlocks the front door, before turning and shuffling back to the bedroom. Normally he’d be scrambling into Brendon’s jeans, but he’s so beyond caring right now. And it’s not like Will’s going to forgive him for being an unimaginable cunt just because his ass looks good.

“In here!” he calls when he hears the door open. He listens to each footstep, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, dreading opening them. But he does before the last footfall, trying to look normal and pitiful and maybe just sad enough to make Will forgive him as easily as Brendon did.

Will looks good, leaning against the doorframe, sliver of skin peaking out from under his tee shirt. Ryan hates him for it, but he tries desperately to fight it. “Will, I—”

“No.” he interrupts flatly. “Just shut up, okay?” He’s not even angry. He’s just stern, assertive. It’s worse than if he were screaming.

Ryan nods slowly, nearly biting his bottom lip, but stopping himself. So Will’s still pissed. Of course he’s still pissed. You’re a douche bag.

Will takes a steadying breath, stands up straight, and crosses the room, sitting on the edge of the bed, his overly long legs crossed. His eyes dart around the room as he tries to push last night away. This isn’t for revenge, it’s not. He’s ready. This is what he wants. “Okay.” It's more to himself than anyone else. He looks at Ryan. “I want the baby.”

“What?” Every other thought in Ryan’s mind seems to disappear, completely replaced with shock and confusion. “Why?”

“Because I’m the father and I want it.” Will says as if it’s completely obvious. “Are you not going to let me or something?”

Ryan’s mouth opens and closes, then again, and again. Words almost make their way out and then he swallows them, tries again. He doesn’t want to make things worse, he really doesn’t. “How long?” He clears his throat. “You know, how long have you been . . .”

“Since you told me.” Will starts playing with a corner of Ryan’s sheet. “I knew I had to tell you before you started talking to people.”

“So . . . this isn’t because of . . .” He lets his voice trail off, not wanting to articulate it. The situation is real enough without any mention of the actualities.

“No.” Will stands up and leaves. Ryan’s even more confused until he returns a moment later and sets a bottle of pills on the nightstand. “Prenatal vitamins. I picked them up.” He leans on his elbow against the wall. “You’re not going to be responsible.” he says. Ryan thinks it’s an insult until Will continues. “I don’t want child support or anything. And after it’s born I’m going to move back to Chicago so you don’t have to see either of us again.”

Ryan stares at his hands, trying not to look hurt. “W-Why wouldn’t I want to see you?”

“Why would you?” Will’s voice is hard. “I’m just the asshole who got you pregnant, remember?”

“Look, I’m sorry!” Ryan says, looking up. The desperation reads on his face and he hates himself for it, but it’s too late now. “I know I’m being an asshole but—”

“Yeah, you are.” And the older boy leaves for real then, not even slamming the door on his way out. And Ryan cries.

*

Ryan relates all of this to Pete in a relatively monotonous voice, keeping his eyes on the sheets and refusing to let his voice crack. He’s a proud, arrogant, son of a bitch and he’s not going to admit to anything.

“You like him.” Pete says. It’s not a question.

“He’s my friend.” Ryan says. “I generally like my friends, with the exception of you.” He leans back against the headboard.

“You’re an ass.” Pete replies automatically. “And you’re a liar. You like him. A lot.”

“No.” The boy shakes his head and picks up the remote, pointing it at the television and unmuting it. “Text Brendon and tell him I want sesame chicken for dinner.”

Pete just shakes his head and leaves the room.

*

“So . . . he’s just leaving?” Brendon’s lying on his stomach in Ryan’s bed. They’re eating from takeout containers while some reality TV show plays in the background. “Is he that mad?”

“I think he just knows I don’t want to see it.” Ryan tries to sound apathetic. “Plus his family’s there.”

“Well, that still sucks.” The younger boy scrunches up his face in distaste and sits up. “I mean, what if you didn’t want him to leave?”

“Why would I care?” Ryan swallows his last piece of chicken and grabs the 7-Up can sitting on the dresser.

“’Cause you’re, like, in love with him and shit.”

“So funny.”

“You are, Ryan.” Brendon glances at the television when a loud burst of laughter is heard from the speakers. He watches for a moment, then turns back to his roommate. “It’s okay.” He shrugs. “I mean, it’s got to be complicated with the baby and stuff.”

“I’m not in love with Will.” Ryan says, a little more aggressively than is probably necessary. And he’s not lying. “I’ve never been in love with anyone, let alone William fucking Beckett.”

"So you just like him." Brendon doesn't know when to quit. Or rather, he does but he doesn't like listening to nagging voices in his head telling him to leave well enough alone. He never leaves anything alone. "Whatever. It's okay to like someone, you know. It doesn't make you a bad pornstar or something."

“I don’t like him.” Ryan repeats. “And even if I did, it wouldn’t matter anyway.”