Snapshot.

I.

Brendon Urie was five the first time he noticed Ryan Ross. Ryan Ross was actually George Ryan Ross III, but his mother had said two Rs rolled of the tongue better and that mattered for ‘the industry’. So now he was Ryan Ross, six-year-old child model.

The first grade class was practicing handwriting. Brendon was in the seat two across from Ryan. The classroom door opened around one ‘o clock. A woman in a black skirt, white top, black jacket, black pumps, much too bright red lipstick, black sunglasses. “Mrs. Sheln, I’m here for Ryan.” she said, voice clipped, words precise.

“But we went yesterday.” the boy said, voice soft.

“And we’re going again today. Now get up and let’s go.” the woman said from the doorway, tapping her foot impatiently.

“But, Mom . . .”

“Now, Ryan Ross.”

Tears were streaming down the six-year-old’s cheeks as his mother pulled him down the hallway by his hand, telling him he was acting like a spoiled brat.

Brendon Urie was chewing on his pencil, thinking.

Nobody in the school really liked it when Brendon Urie thought. Five-year-olds weren’t supposed to think. They were supposed to listen and do. Use their imagination, sure, but not think. Not logically, not deep thought. Not like Brendon Urie. He should have been in kindergarten, but had been skipped ahead a year.

Brendon couldn’t understand why people didn’t like it when he thought. His parents didn’t mind. They were enthralled by the fact that their son could have a serious conversation, even if his vocabulary wasn’t quite up to the appropriate level for the discussion. Surely thinking was a good thing. Grown-ups did it all the time. His sister didn’t. (“Don’t you ever think, Leslie?”)

So he decided that his teacher must not like it because he was probably better at it than her and that comforted him.

And now Ryan Ross was worrying him.

He bit the eraser off his pencil and spit it into his hand, dropping it on the floor when no one was looking.

* * *

“Mommy, why can’t I go to someone different?” Ryan asked in the car, kicking at the back of the seat in front of him.

“Because Douglas is the best. Don’t you have any manners? You better not to be rude to him or I swear to God, I’ll have your father beat your ass, Ryan Ross.”

“Daddy wouldn’t. He thinks it’s stupid. He says I’m gonna turn into you.”

“Shut up, you stupid little shit.” the woman snapped. “You’re getting these new pictures taken and you’re going to fucking behave yourself, do you understand me?”

Ryan didn’t say anything, just continued to kick at the back of the passenger seat.

”Do you understand me, Ryan Ross?”

Kick. Kick. Kick.

”RYAN ROSS!”

“Leave me alone.” Kick.

* * *

The next day in class during ‘playtime’, when most of the children were fighting over paints and stuffed animals and dress-up clothes, Ryan was leaning against the wall in the corner, knees pulled to his chest, not saying anything. He didn’t have any friends in school. There was Spencer, at home, but he was home-schooled with his twin sister. All the kids in his class were scared of Ryan’s mom and were, in turn, scared of Ryan.

Except Brendon. Brendon just hadn’t noticed Ryan before, too busy thinking to notice anything. So today, when he noticed Ryan, he crossed the room and sat down beside him. “Hi.” he said quietly, but not shyly.

“Hi.” Ryan said, not really paying attention to what he was saying, playing with the ends of his shoelaces.

“I’m Brendon.”

“You’re the smart kid, aren’t you?”

“I guess.”

“I’m Ryan Ross. I mean, Ryan. Just Ryan.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do. You’re smart.” Ryan looked at the boy for the first time, a very faint smile dancing across his lips.

“You’re a model, right?”

Ryan went back to staring at his feet. “I don’t want to be.” he mumbled.

“My mom doesn’t think kids should be models.”

“I wish my mom thought that.”

Brendon leaned forward, brushing his lips against Ryan’s cheek. “It’ll work out.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Everything works out somehow.”

* * *

For the next few weeks, Brendon and Ryan were inseparable at school. Always eating together, sitting by themselves on the playground. They didn’t talk much. Brendon thought a lot and Ryan stared a lot. But that was okay with them. The other kids teased them and the teachers had a tendency to ignore them, but neither of them really cared. Brendon was slightly narcissistic for a five-year-old and thought that caring about such petty things was beneath him. Ryan had much more to worry about than first grade insults.

“My mom says you can come over after school sometime if you want.” Brendon said on one such day. It was recess and the two boys were sitting on the grass, side by side, shoulders touching. “I think she thinks I’m making you up.”

“Why would you make me up?” Ryan asked, turning to look at Brendon, eyes wondering.

“I don’t know.” Brendon lied. He did know. He’d thought about it. His mom probably thought that there wasn’t a boy in the world who could possibly understand and put up with her son. Brendon was peculiar, odd, different. That combination didn’t typically sit well with elementary school students. Ryan Ross wasn’t typical though. He was just happy to have someone to sit with at recess and, truth be told, the older boy didn’t really mind not talking.

“Maybe.” Ryan said, shrugging. “If my mom has a party or something. My dad might let me if he can drive.”

“Why couldn’t he drive?”

“He drinks sometimes. You’re not supposed to drive if you drink. TV says so.”

“Oh. Okay.”

* * *

“My mom and dad are getting divorced.” First grade was almost over. It was April, a week until Brendon’s birthday. Ryan and Brendon were sitting outside the principal’s office. Ryan had punched a kid in the nose and Brendon had thrown a screaming fit when Ryan got in trouble.

“Is that bad?” Brendon asked.

“No. I think I’m going to get to live with my dad. My dad won’t make me model anymore. But I’ll have to switch schools.” Ryan reached out and grabbed the younger boy’s hand. “I probably won’t see you anymore.”

“Will you be okay?”

“Maybe.”

Brendon’s lips brushed against Ryan’s cheek just like they had the first day they had spoken. “I believe in you.”

II.

“Your mother called. She’s going to be here the day before your birthday.” George Ross said from the kitchen.

“I don’t want to see her.” Ryan called from his room.

There were footsteps and Ryan’s door was pushed clumsily opened. He looked up to see his father with a bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “Well, unfortunately for you, the custody papers say you have to.”

“Are you going to drag me there?” Ryan asked, slamming his pen down angrily. He hated it when his father smoked in his room. His clothes already smelled enough like cigarettes as it was.

“No, but you can bet your ass that your mother will show up in a fucking state if you don’t. And you’ll end up having to do it anyway. Plus, she’s your mother.” George finished as if it were the most obvious reason in the world.

“Yeah, well she was your wife, but now you don’t have to see her anymore.”

“You can’t divorce your mother, Ryan. She gave birth to you.”

“She didn’t want to.”

George Ross’s eyes hardened. “Where did you hear that?”

“Mom told me. When I was five and I didn’t want to go to San Francisco for the calendar shoot.” Ryan shut his math book. “She said she didn’t want to have me, but you and her mom wouldn’t let her get an abortion so she got stuck with a stupid little shit without any manners.”

George fought a smile. “You’re not stupid, Ryan.”

It was oddly sentimental.

* * *

“How are you?” Cadence Elly-formerly-Ross asked. She and Ryan were at a restaurant that there was no way in hell Ryan’s father would have been able to afford and she knew it.

“Peachy.” Ryan said in monotone. “How’s your husband?”

“He’s fine.”

“How’s your boyfriend?”

Cadence’s smile disappeared as she pointed a finger at her son. “You still have the same attitude you did in first grade. When the hell are you going to grow up?”

“Whenever you leave me alone.” Ryan said, slouching down in his chair. He knew it would piss her off, the lack of posture that she had worked on him with for two months straight until he could walk up the stairs with a book balanced perfectly on top of his head. “Why are you here, Mom?”

“It’s your birthday. You’ll be seventeen soon.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks for the history lesson.”

“Shut up.” Cadence reached into her purse and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. When she had lit one, she began to talk again. “I showed a friend of mine—“

“Friend or friend?”

“Shut up.” Cadence repeated. “I showed a friend of mine the Christmas picture your father sent me of you and your girlfriend, whatserface. Jackie or whatever.”

“Jac.”

“Whatever. Anyway, he’s interested. He thinks you’d be a great jeans model.”

“Fuck you.” Ryan muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“Fuck. You.” Ryan repeated, louder this time. “What, am I supposed to be fucking thrilled? You know the only reason I picked Dad over you is because of the fucking modeling. Well, that and the fact that you’re a first class bitch. I can barely stand Jac modeling. Like I’m going to fucking do that shit again.”

“You’re lucky you’re even getting a second chance!” Cadence snapped. “Do you know how rare that is?”

“I didn’t want the first chance!” Ryan yelled, standing up and kicking his chair over. He stormed out of the restaurant and flagged a cab.

* * *

“Jon found someone for guitar and back-up vocals, he thinks.” Spencer said the next day at school. Ryan grunted in response. “How did it go with your mom?” Silence. “That good, huh?”

“She wanted me to try modeling again.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“You should have given her Jac’s number. I bet she would have fucked you through the bed.”

“Ew.”

“Jac, stupid, not your mom.”

“I knew that.” Ryan rested his chin in his hand. “How’s things going with that one chick? Briana? She figured out who the stupid love notes are from yet?”

“She’s got a boyfriend, turns out.”

“Oh. Well, fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“She doesn’t wear a ring.”

“He’s in college.”

“Double fuck.”

“So practice tonight?”

“Well, apparently.”

“I need a ride.”

“Of course you do.”

“You’re weird, Ryan.”

“Tell me about it.”

* * *

“Ry, Spence?” Jon called, unlocking the door with the spare key Spencer had given him. “We’re here.”

“Kitchen!” Ryan called. He and the other boy were sitting next to each other on the counter, legs swinging and drinking Coke. They laughed when they saw the stranger being shoved into the room by Jon.

“I can walk, you know.” Brendon said, with a pointed glare.

Jon laughed. “Sure you can. Guys, this is Brendon.”

Brendon looked up when he was introduced, eyes faltering for a moment when they took in Ryan’s face. Quickly, however, he regained what is loosely referred to as ‘composure’ and gave an awkward wave.

Ryan’s face furrowed in confusion, as if he were trying to remember something. After a moment however, he shook it off and gave a small smile. “Hey.”

III.

Ryan was sitting against the side of the house, knees pulled up to his chest, nearly hyperventilating. Spencer was trying to talk to him, but it wasn’t doing any good. Then Brendon was there. He knelt next to Ryan, putting his hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Can I try?”

“Knock yourself out.” Spencer said, trying not to sound annoyed. He stood up and went to talk to Jon, who was looking worried.

“Ry?” Brendon asked calmly, reaching out and putting his hands on either side of Ryan’s face. “Try and take some deep breaths and listen to me, okay? That photographer is not going to hurt you. Spencer and Jon and me are going to be with you the whole time. We would never let anyone hurt you, understand? Nobody is going to hurt you this time.”

Ryan’s mouth opened a fraction of an inch and he stared at Brendon as if he had never seen him before (or maybe as if he were seeing him again). “I remember you.” His voice cracked and he threw his arms around Brendon’s neck, crying quietly into his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think it—“

“Well, that’s why I didn’t know.” Ryan said, half laughing. “You never used to talk and now you never shut up.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Brendon gave a smile, lips brushing Ryan’s cheek. “Ready to try this again?”

“Keep me safe?” Ryan’s voice was a breath, the words barely audible.

“I promise.”

* * *

It didn’t happen again until the first time a photographer wanted to do single shots. As soon as the words left the photographer’s mouth to go get changed for the solo shots, Ryan’s face went white and he latched onto Brendon’s hand with a painful strength. He shook his head wildly when Brendon turned to look at him. “No.” he whispered. “No.”

“I’ll be in the room with you.” Brendon promised. “I’ll be right there, Ryan, just not in front of the camera.”

“No!” Ryan said desperately, almost a scream. His hands grabbed Brendon’s shoulders, his eyes widened as if he’d seen a ghost, and his face paled. “It’s just like modeling. The camera sees through you, Brendon. You don’t understand. They’re all going to know!”

“Ryan,” Brendon said quietly, “nobody’s going to know.”

“You knew.” Ryan whispered, fighting his tears.

“I had more than ten years to figure it out.”

Ryan sniffled, biting his lip when Brendon pulled him gently into his arms. “It’s going to be okay, Ryan. I promise. I believe in you. You can do this.”

“My mom’s going to see this. She’s going to see this and I’m going to get some smug phone call—“

“You’re a musician, Ryan, not a model. Everyone knows that. Now, go change before we get killed, okay?”

* * *

Ryan was leaning against Brendon, face pressed to his neck, arm wrapped around the other boy’s waist. “You smell good.” he murmured.

“Are you okay?” Brendon asked. It was the first time he had asked the question. Ryan had heard it for the past three days and was gradually getting more and more angry every time he heard the words. But Brendon was different. Brendon was always different. Because Brendon meant things differently than most people, he thought differently than most people, he was different from most people.

“No.” Ryan admitted for the first time. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. “He’s not . . . supposed to . . . die.”

“No.” Brendon agreed in a whisper.

“My mom called when she found out.” Ryan mumbled.

“How did that go?”

“I told her she was a fucking cunt and that she was dead to me.”

“What did she say?”

Ryan choked on his laugh. “The usual. Called me a stupid little shit and told me to learn manners.”

There was a pause and Brendon tightened his arms around the older boy, kissing his temple and barely rocking him. “We’re not going anywhere, Ryan. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You know I love you, right?” Ryan asked, looking up at his best friend.

“I love you, too, Ry.” Brendon whispered.

They fell asleep like that, waking up with neck and arm cramps but fully rested. That night Ryan got drunk for the first time and Brendon held his hair while he puked. Two days later was the funeral.

* * *

Ryan was staying the night with Brendon at Brendon’s parents. He was sitting on his friend’s bed, legs swinging. They were drinking, but the alcohol was in water bottles so they wouldn’t get caught. Almost like hiding a comic book behind your math book, only a little darker. Brendon locked his door and sat down beside Ryan on the bed.

“I wrote those songs about my dad.” the older boy whispered bitterly, tears leaking from his eyes. “The whole world thinks he’s so awful, Bren.”

“Ryan, you had every right to be angry with him. You don’t need to feel guilty.” Brendon murmured, reaching out and gently stroking his best friend’s hair.

“H-He probably thought . . . that I-I hated him.” Ryan choked out with a new wave of tears. “And I didn’t. I love my dad, Bren. I do.”

“I know.” Brendon put his bottle down and slipped his arms around Ryan’s waist. “I know you do, sweetie. No one thinks that you don’t.”

“I never told him.” Ryan said desperately, trying to explain. “I never told him. He never knew. I-I never got to thank him, Bren. Never. And now he’s . . . gone and I never can.” The older boy was sobbing outright now, face buried in Brendon’s shoulder.

The younger boy let Ryan cry for a few moments, stroking his hair and rubbing his back before he asked the question. “Thank him for what, Ry?”

The older boy pulled away, hiccupping and wiping at his face. “Divorcing my mom.” he answered. When Brendon continued to look confused, Ryan kept talking. “Because, if he hadn’t . . . she’d still have made me model. And . . . that photographer would have kept hurting me.”

Brendon’s eyes were moist suddenly as he reached out to wipe at Ryan’s tearstains. “It’s never too late for things like that.”

“I don’t believe in Heaven, Brendon.” Ryan said dryly.

“You don’t need to.”

At the cemetery, Ryan knelt beside his father’s gravestone and scribbled the two words with the marker Brendon handed him. They left, hand in hand, to go back to Brendon’s and sleep, maybe dream, maybe not. But to sleep and to hold each other and to wake up the next day and go on.

“Will you be okay?”

“Maybe.”

Brendon’s lips brushed against Ryan’s cheek just like they had the first day they had spoken. “I believe in you.”