Marked.

The head of hospital bed is raised when Brendon comes in. Ryan is half sitting, half laying, looking out the window. There is a heavy bruise on his cheekbone. The cut on his lip is scabbing over. The bandage on his left eye has been changed since the night before.

“I brought you some clothes.” Brendon says in a quiet voice, setting a paper bag at the foot of the bed. “They’re mine, so they might be a little big.”

Ryan doesn’t turn from the window, makes no response or movement to indicate if he heard the other boy. But Brendon knows he did. It’s been the drill for the past two days. Ryan won’t talk to anyone except for the nurses and that’s only to ask for something to drink or help getting up so he can go to the bathroom.

He won’t talk about Chris, he won’t talk about the fight. He won’t talk about the bruises on his face.

“The nurses said you could probably leave tomorrow.” Brendon says. “You’re going to stay at my place until we get your locks changed. I’ll crash on the couch for awhile.”

Ryan licks his dry lips. “Why are we changing the locks?” he asks softly. Those are the first words he’s said to Brendon since his hospital admission.

“Because Chris still has his key.” the younger boy replies hesitantly, not sure how Ryan will react to the name of his abuser.

Ryan shrugs and pulls the thin hospital blanket up higher on his chest, his eyes never leaving the window.

---

Ryan didn’t go with Brendon the next day. He checked out a few days later, after the bandages were removed from his eye and he had promised not to go home until the locks were changed. The night nurse, Madison, stayed an hour past the end of her shift to flat iron Ryan’s hair and style it to help him cover as much of his eye as she could.

Ryan walked half a step behind Brendon as they left the hospital, hood up, head turned. When they got on the interstate, Ryan curled up against the door and slept for the mere fifteen minutes until they got to Brendon and Shane’s house. Then he fell into Brendon’s bed and slept for nearly ten hours.

When he woke up, Dylan was curled up against his side and Brendon was hanging shirts up in the closet. “Shane picked up your prescription.” Brendon said, not turning away from the closet. “Do you need one?”

Ryan nodded, feeling slightly light-headed. “I’m starving.”

“We ordered Chinese. I’ll go warm some up.” Brendon hung up the last shirt and left the room.

Ryan tried not to cry. He knew from experience it only made his eye worse. And it didn’t do a damn bit of good. Dylan whined and crawled into Ryan’s lap, licking at his hand.

“No one will want you. They won’t even be able to look at your face. And you’re nothing without your pretty face, Ryan.”

Brendon came in with a plate of noodles and sesame chicken, a glass of water in his hand. He sat down across from Ryan on the bed and handed him the plate, then wrestled with the child-proof cap on the prescription bottle as Ryan inhaled his food, letting Dylan lick the plastic plate when he was done.

“We have more.” Brendon said, handing Ryan two white pills and the glass of water. “Your eye’s not healing up too bad. One of the nurses said plastic surgery could probably fix the scar. Does it hurt like a bitch?”

Ryan took a drink of water and tilted his head back, popping the pills in his mouth and swallowing. “Not too bad.” he said, voice quiet. “It’s gotten better.”

There was a pause during which Dylan started licking Ryan’s fingers. “What did he do?” Brendon asked finally, his voice low and nearly cracking.

Ryan shrugged. “Do you have any more?”

Brendon nodded, blinking hard a few times before taking Ryan’s plate and leaving the room. The nurses had warned him about this. Ryan still wouldn’t admit that Chris had hit him. Raped him. And whatever else he had done. They had also told him that if Ryan went back to Chris eventually he would end up dead.

“Where’s my cell phone?” Ryan asked when Brendon came back into the room.

The younger boy shrugged.

“You’re lying.” Ryan snapped. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

Brendon bit his tongue and handed Ryan a clean plate. “You lied to me.” he said quietly, not meeting Ryan’s eyes.

“I didn’t lie.” he said. “I just didn’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

The older boy shrugged and gingerly touched his fingers to his still-bruised cheekbone. “Wouldn’t have made a difference anyway.”

“Leaving wouldn’t have made a difference?” Brendon didn’t even attempt to keep the incredulous tone from his voice.

Ryan looked at him and blinked once. “Who said anything about leaving?” His voice was strangely calm.

“You never planned to leave?” Brendon asked in the same voice.

“I love him.” Ryan said.

“He doesn’t love you.” Brendon snapped, growing angry because the alternative was to cry.

“Says you.”

“He hits you! He raped you!” the younger boy screamed, causing Dylan to whimper.

Ryan didn’t even flinch. “I never said that.” He lowered his hand to scratch behind Dylan’s ears. “Shh, baby girl. It’s okay.” he cooed.

Brendon had to leave the room. He didn’t want Ryan to see him cry.

---

At eleven p.m. Brendon went to the bathroom. When he came back, Ryan was sitting on the couch with Dylan in his lap. “What’s wrong?” the younger asked.

“Can’t sleep.” Ryan said. “Your air conditioner makes a weird noise. I keep thinking it’s him.” He looked like a little kid trying to be brave about the boogeyman. Brendon’s heart broke.

“Do you want me to sleep with you?” he asked.

Ryan petted the top of Dylan’s head, trying to keep his expression mild. “Yeah. Yeah, I think that would be good.”

Brendon nodded and grabbed his pillowcase off the couch (the one with the drool stains and pillowcase his grandmother had made him when he was born) and followed Ryan down the hall to his bedroom.

Ryan was wearing pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt, doubtless to cover up the bruises and scars and marks Brendon had been able to see when he was dressed in just a hospital gown. Ryan put Dylan down and crawled into the side of the bed further the door, lying as close to the edge as he could get. “Can we leave the lamp on?” he asked. “In case Chris comes. So I can see.”

“Chris isn’t coming, Ryan.” Brendon said, voice soft. “But we can keep the lamp on.”

Ryan pulled Dylan onto his chest and she curled up into a ball and a promptly went to sleep. “Do you hate me, Bren?” he murmured.

“What?” Brendon asked, slightly put off. “No. God, Ry, no. Of course I don’t hate you.”

“Does Spence? Does Jon?”

“Nobody hates you, Ry.” Brendon said gently.

“Oh.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because.” Ryan closed his eyes. “He said you would. And because I’m stupid.”

“You’re not stupid, Ry.” Brendon reached out and gently touched his arm. “This isn’t your fault. It’s his.”

“I never ran.” Ryan’s eyes were still closed. “I never hid. I never tried to stop him. I never told him no. Not after the first time.”

“Why?”

“Because it didn’t do any good.” Ryan tried to even out his breathing, clenched his hands into fists. It hurt his eye too much to cry and it hurt when he screwed up his face to keep from crying. He learned that his first night in the hospital.

“You could have told me.” Brendon said, trying to keep any hint of accusation from his voice.

“I didn’t want him to break up with me.” Ryan whispered. He opened his eyes now, turning to look at Brendon. “You don’t understand. I love him. I don’t care what he does to me. I love him.”

“Then why are you here?” Brendon asked.

Ryan’s lips trembled and the tears he had been fighting won. He hissed as the salt stung his eye. “Chris doesn’t love me anymore.” he whispered.

“Ryan--”

“Shut up.” He scooped Dylan up in his arms and rolled over, his back to Brendon.

The younger boy sighed and closed his eyes.

---

Ryan woke up around seven. Brendon and Dylan were both still sleeping, so he got up and went to the backyard with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He didn’t like being around Brendon. He wanted someone to yell at him. He wanted someone to scream. He knew he was stupid. He knew he could have left, told, fought. He hadn’t. But everyone (Brendon, the nurses, the abuse lady at the hospital) kept telling him it wasn’t his fault.

Ryan wished his father were alive. At least George Ross wouldn’t have lied to him just because his face was fucked up.

The back door opened and Ryan turned. Shane let Dylan outside and gave Ryan a small smile before pulling the sliding door closed again. The dog barked and ran between Ryan’s ankles once before taking off around the backyard.

When the door opened again about fifteen minutes later, Ryan was sitting in the grass with Dylan in his lap, holding a cigarette in one hand and absently stroking her with the other. “Shane’s running to Panera for bagels and smoothies.” Brendon informed him. “What do you want?”

Ryan stared at him for an uncomfortable moment. “Chocolate chip. And a mango smoothie.”

Brendon didn’t move for a minute. “Do you need more cigarettes?”

“Yeah.”

The door slid shut and Brendon was gone. “He’s really weird sometimes, isn’t he?” Ryan asked the dog. She licked his fingers in response. “I guess I should probably go in, huh?” He sighed and pressed his cigarette butt into the ground before scooping Dylan up in his arms and walking inside. He could hear voices in the living room.

“But you don’t think, like, maybe we should check him in somewhere?” Brendon was saying.

“He’s twenty-one. And you’re not his father.” Shane answered in a low voice.

“But you don’t think he’s--”

“What?” the other boy interrupted. “Not his normal happy-go-lucky self? His boyfriend beat him. Chris raped him. How would you be? God, I know you’re naïve to the point of being stupid, but Jesus.”

Ryan heard footsteps and the front door slam. Dylan jumped and barked.

A pause and then, “. . . Ry?” Brendon asked, sounding terrified at the prospect of hearing a reply.

“Yeah?” Ryan returned, voice soft.

The younger came into the kitchen slowly, his face a mask of guilt. “I, uh.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Ryan said, setting Dylan down. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I didn’t mean to--”

“Brendon!” Ryan snapped. “I said I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Christ.”

The younger boy looked ready to cry. And Ryan wasn’t happy about it because he really didn’t want to feel guilty about making his best friend cry, but he did. “Come here.” he murmured.

Brendon shuffled over, looking very much like he expected to get slapped or yelled at again. Instead, Ryan reached out and put his arms around the younger boy, hugging him as tightly as he could without hurting his bruised ribs, which wasn’t too tight.

“It’s okay, Bren.” he whispered.

“I should be telling you that.” Brendon said, voice thick.

“I never listen.” Ryan gave a choked sort of laugh.

“I want you to be okay.” Brendon whispered. There were tears on his cheeks now and his voice shook. “You’ll be okay, right? Ry?”

The older didn’t say anything, just stroked the other boy’s hair and shushed him quietly.

Brendon pulled away and stared at his best friend. “You’ll be okay? Promise me you’ll be okay, Ry.” He wiped at his damp cheeks with the heel of his hand. “Promise you won’t go back.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Ryan said quietly, turning his head and staring at the counter. “When am I supposed to meet with that plastic surgeon lady?”

“Next Thursday.” Brendon said impatiently. “Now promise.”

“Or what?” Ryan snapped, lifting his head to stare at Brendon, eyes blazing. “Are you going to make me? Are you going to beat the shit out of me until I make your fucking promise?”

Brendon flinched as if he’d been struck. “N-No.”

“Then shut up.” Ryan picked Dylan up and left, going into the living room and turning the television on, trying to drown out the deafening silence of pain and anger with the sound of Nickelodeon. “Thank God you can’t talk.” he murmured under his breath to the dog.

She yipped happily before jumping up on her hind legs to lick at his face, paws resting on Ryan’s chest. The boy smiled in response.

Shane showed up about ten minutes later. Brendon joined them in the living room and partook in the not-quite-forced but very ‘safe’ conversation.

“I think I want to go to a movie tonight.” Ryan said suddenly.

“What do you want to see?” Shane asked.

“I don’t know.” Ryan shrugged. “Chris broke our TV. I don’t know what’s playing.”

“We can look it up online.” Brendon said after a pause. “I’m sure there’s something eccentric enough for you playing.”

Ryan gave a small smile and took a sip of his smoothie. “I’m going to smoke.” he announced, standing up and walking toward the kitchen. He gave a low whistle and Dylan jumped down from the couch, following Ryan outside.

“I didn’t mean to call you stupid earlier.” Shane said, not looking at Brendon. “I know you’re worried.”

“’Kay.” Brendon said quietly. They didn’t talk about it again.

Dylan was digging in the flower beds and Ryan was sitting in the grass watching her. “It could have been like this.” he told her. “For me and him, I mean. Just nice and quiet like now. I don’t know what happened.”

Dylan poked her head out from under a bush and barked. Ryan laughed. “You’re so lucky you don’t have to deal with this shit.”

---

Ryan had an appointment with a therapist. He didn’t want to go, but after a ten minute conversation with Shane that Brendon couldn’t hear (though he tried), Ryan agreed. So now he was sitting in the waiting room beside Brendon and reading a three-month old issue of ‘Time’.

A door creaked open and a red-headed woman in her thirties appeared. “Ryan?” she asked.

He looked up and awkwardly raised his hand.

“Why don’t you come in?” Her voice was kind.

Ryan tossed his magazine on the table, standing up and looking at Brendon.

“I’ll be here.” the younger boy said, trying to smile.

Ryan followed the lady into her office. It looked more like a daycare center. There were fingerpaintings on the wall and a shelf lined with dolls and toys. An easel stood in one corner. He stared at her and she gestured toward the couch. “Please. Sit.”

He did. “Do you work with kids mostly?”

She sat in a chair across from him. There was a coffee table between them. “I work with kids and teenagers a lot. Young adults, too.”

“Oh.” Ryan tapped his fingers on his thighs and stared out the window.

“My name is Gladys.” the lady said. “Or Mrs. Schafer. Whichever you feel most comfortable using. May I call you Ryan?”

He nodded, still looking out the window.

“Would you like to tell me what brought you here today?”

“Didn’t they tell you?” Ryan asked.

“Yes, but I’d like to hear it in your words, not theirs.” Her voice was still pleasant.

Ryan stared at her. “I’m here because my best friend’s roommate talked me into coming.” His voice was monotonous.

“Why didn’t you want to come?”

Ryan lost it. Brendon could hear his voice in the next room, though the words were muffled. “Because none of this shit does any good! Don’t you get that? He hit me! He raped me! Do you really think me sitting here and talking about my feelings is going to change anything? Does talking magically make scars go away?” He was seething.

Gladys didn’t flinch. “Nothing can undo what he did to you.” Her voice was soft. “But not all injuries leave bruises. And talking can help to heal internal cuts.”

“Talking doesn’t do shit.” Ryan said darkly. “I think that was pretty apparent when he didn’t stop. So you just learn not to scream.”

“Would you like to tell me about it?” she asked.

Ryan sighed and slumped against the couch. When he spoke, his voice was soft and nearly choked. “Chris went to a party one night. I didn’t go. I was working on a new song and I told him to go without me. I thought he was okay with it. I went to bed around one, but I was awake when he came home around two. He came in and climbed on the bed, leaned down.” Ryan took a shaky breath and blinked hard before looking at the floor.

“I thought he wanted a kiss. But then his fists just came down. Over and over. I started screaming, crying. I tried to sit up, he shoved me down. My wrists were over my head, I was on my stomach . . .” Ryan’s voice cracked and he stopped talking, closing his eyes to keep the tears from falling. It still hurt to cry.

“How long did it last before you ended up in the hospital?” Gladys asked after a brief pause.

“It started in July.” Ryan said quietly. It was March now.

“Would you like to tell me what lead to the hospital?”

“I burned the video.” Ryan whispered.

When the therapist spoke next, she sounded confused. “What video?”

“He videotaped it one night, him raping me.” Ryan’s voice was shaking. “He used to make me watch it. He’d . . .” He took a deep breathing. “He used to make me . . he’d make me . . . come. I hated myself for it. I hated that tape. And the night before I burnt it, he’d been horrible. Worse than normal. He always told me he loved me when he was done. Even if it was something like, ‘you don’t deserve it, but I love you’. And that night he didn’t. So I was going to leave.

“But I couldn’t let him have that tape. So I burnt it. And I stomped on the video camera until it was just pieces. He came home early, saw what I did, saw my bags. He went crazy. Slammed me into the wall, hit me. His car keys were still in his hand. Caught on the corner of my eye.” He gestured to the still-healing wound on his face.

“Why wouldn’t you tell the police and nurses what he had done?”

Ryan was silent for a moment. “I think I’m ready to go now.”

She nodded after a silence. “Okay. Would you like to schedule another appointment?”

“Yeah, whatever.” Ryan shrugged indifferently.

He emerged from the room a few minutes later. Brendon stood up. “Are you okay?”

“I want to go home.” Ryan said, walking past him and out the door. Brendon hurried after him.

“What happened? Was she a bitch? Do we need to find another therapist? What did she say? Ry?”

The older boy turned around. His voice was calm. “Yes, she was a bitch. I don’t want to talk about it, and I have another appointment on Monday.”

“But--”

“Brendon, I said I don’t want to talk about it.” Ryan snapped. “You’re giving me a migraine.” He tugged on the handle of the passenger side door. “Let’s go. I’m hungry. Can we get Chinese?”

Brendon nodded and unlocked the doors. “Sure, Ry. Whatever you want.”

---

“Spencer called.” Brendon said. “He went by your house. He asked about you.”

“What did you tell him?” Ryan asked.

“I told him you didn’t really want to talk to anyone right now.” the younger replied. “I told him I’d let you know he called.”

Ryan nodded. “When do I get to go home?”

Brendon stopped breathing. He’d been dreading this question. He’d been trying to avoid any conversation leading to this question, but here it was, staring him right in the face.

“Ry, uh. I think . . . I think you should move out.” Brendon stared at the wall, voice awkward and slightly high-pitched.

“Why?” Ryan asked, voice expressionless.

“Because, well, Chris knows where you live.” Brendon said, knowing how lame it sounded.

“Chris doesn’t give a fuck about me.” Ryan snapped. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that.”

“But when you go to court--”

“Stop.” Ryan’s voice could have cut a diamond. “I’m not going to court. You’re not changing my mind. So stop trying your nonchalant bullshit routine. I’m not falling for it.”

“But--”

“Fuck you.” Ryan screamed, his voice dangerously close to break. “Just. Fuck you, Bren. Chris may have been a prick, but at least he didn’t bullshit me.” And he got up, put on his shoes, and left. He didn’t come home until the next day.

---

“Look, I know you can’t file a missing person’s report for him, but he’s got an abusive ex that put him in the hospital.” Shane was saying into the phone. “So doesn’t that count for something?” Brendon was sitting on the couch, eyes red from crying. He was holding a whining, squirming Dylan in his arms.

“Yes, thank you.” Shane snapped. “If we hear from the morgue, I’ll be sure to sue you. I mean, let you know.” He slammed his cell phone down on the counter. “Fucking lot of help they were.”

Brendon hiccupped in response.

“It’ll be okay.” Shane told him.

Another hiccup.

---

Ryan got in his car and drove. There was a guy he knew, had met once. Said everyday was New Years’ Eve and there was always a party at his house. When he got there, it was shot after shot. He took some hits off a joint and let a boy he didn’t know put a pill on his tongue.

He ended up in bed with the same boy for a dizzy fifteen minutes before vomiting into a trashcan and passing out with his head on the toilet bowl lid. When he woke up, he was in the same position. He got in his car and drove back to Brendon’s.

---

Shane shook Brendon awake from where he had fallen asleep on the couch. “He’s home. He’s in your bed. He’s sleeping. He’s fine.”

Brendon nodded and got up, cursing and rubbing at his neck where it had gone stiff from sleeping in the awkward angle. He walked down the hallway to his room and climbed into bed beside Ryan. The older boy reeked of liquor and pot. There were some hickies on his neck, but he was in one piece. At least he wasn’t sitting mute in a hospital bed again. At least they didn’t have to start from scratch all over again.

Ryan made a noise in his sleep and flung his arm out. It landed on Brendon’s chest and stayed there. So did Brendon. When Ryan woke up a few hours later, he took a shower and then went outside with Dylan to smoke. He went through a pack and a half before Brendon made him come inside.

Nobody asked about the night before. Ryan felt like he was drowning. After an hour of talking about absolutely nothing, he turned to Brendon and asked him to roll a joint.

“What did you do last night?” Brendon asked instead. Finally.

“I went to a party.” Ryan said coolly. “Now are you gong to roll it or not?”

“What drugs did you do last night?” Brendon asked, trying not to flinch under Ryan’s withering gaze.

“None of your fucking business, that’s what.”

“How’d you get the hickies?”

“An octopus attached it’s tentacles to me, Brendon,” the older said dryly. “How the hell do you think I got them?”

“But, I mean, who did you--”

“Brendon, I don’t need your fucking third degree.” Ryan said. “I can do whatever I want with whoever I want. I don’t need a curfew, I don’t need a baby-sitter. Just back off, okay?”

“Ryan, we’re just worried.” Shane interjected. “You don’t have to get defensive.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one worrying?” Ryan demanded, his face contorting with anger.

“You’re not though.” Shane replied. “You’re not worried. Someone needs to worry about you before you end up getting killed.”

“I’ve already told you that he doesn’t care about me.” Ryan’s voice was hard.

“He cares about you enough to keep driving by the house.” Shane informed him. “Did you think he would give up that easily? He’s your abuser, Ryan. He thinks you’re his property.”

“We’re going to go stay with Pete and Patrick for awhile.” Brendon said quietly, finally finding his voice again. “Have some movers pack up your house. Shane and Spencer are going to help. Then we’ll figure something out.”

“You think you can just hide me away?” Ryan scoffed. “What about tours? What about appearances? Are you going to suggest early retirement, too?”

“Can we just worry about the move first?” Brendon asked. “And deal with the rest later?”

“What if I refuse to go?”

And Brendon started to cry. He didn’t mean to, he didn’t want to, it just happened. His head lowered and he started crying softly. He remembered the nurses at the hospital telling him it would be hard, that Ryan wouldn’t admit to his limitations, that he wouldn’t want to act like anything was wrong. But Brendon had thought certainly Ryan would want to protect himself, that he would care if he died.

But now, with the way he was acting, Brendon was terrified he would end up burying his best friend before Ryan’s next birthday.

There was a silence. Ryan stared out the window and Shane at his hands, both of them waiting for Brendon to be done crying. It was the most terrible kind of silence, punctuated by loud, cracking sobs. And then Brendon just got up and went to his room. Ryan spared Shane a fleeting glance before taking Dylan outside with him to smoke.

He couldn’t get the words out of his head. ‘He cares enough about you to keep driving by the house.’ And if he repeated it in his head over and over, he could hear different words, hear exactly what he wanted to hear. ‘He cares enough about you to . . . He cares . . . He cares about you . . . He cares about you. He keeps driving by the house.’

Ryan didn’t believe that Chris would stop hitting him. He didn’t even believe Chris wanted to apologize. But he did believe that despite fists and screams and hospitals, maybe Chris loved him. And despite everything, Ryan couldn’t easily throw away love.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” Ryan whispered. He looked around for Dylan who was trying to eat a tulip. “Tell me what to do.” But, of course, she didn’t, just continued to gnaw at the flower until the bulb disconnected from the stem.

The back door slid open and Brendon came outside, sitting next to Ryan on the grass. “Can I have one?” The older boy handed him a cigarette and the lighter. Brendon lit it and inhaled deeply. He took a few more drags before he said anything else. “I’d really like it if you’d let us help you move and if you came and stayed with me in L.A. for a few weeks.” He kept his voice even and light, didn’t look at Ryan while he spoke.

“I don’t know what to do, Bren.” the older admitted, voice small. “I just. I don’t know.”

“Will you let me help?” Brendon looked at him and after a moment, Ryan lifted his head to meet Brendon’s eyes. “Please.”

“I can’t give up on him if he loves me.” Ryan whispered.

“Protecting yourself isn’t the same as giving up. Please don’t let him kill you, Ry.”

The older boy took a shaky breath. “That house is haunted anyway. My stuff always goes missing.”

Brendon bit his tongue to keep from telling Ryan that was because he couldn’t keep track of anything for more than three minutes. A haunted house was as much of a yes as he would ever get. “Okay. I got us plane tickets for Friday.”

“How’d you know I’d say yes?” Ryan asked.

“I didn’t.” Brendon told him. “I just hoped.”

---

Patrick picked Brendon and Ryan up at LAX on Friday afternoon. Ryan’s hair was straightened and over his eye again, which was also partially camouflaged with make-up. He’d sent Brendon to Target for a flat-iron and Revlon the night before.

“Pete’s supposed to be in the process of ordering pizza.” Patrick told them after they were in the car. “Which he may or may not be doing.”

“Where’s Ashlee?” Ryan asked from the backseat.

“She’s staying with a friend of hers for awhile.” Patrick told him, eyes lifting to look in the rearview mirror for a moment. “They need to figure out wedding shit anyway.”

“I thought they weren’t going through with it.” Brendon said.

“I gave them my blessing.” Patrick said in a short voice which clearly meant he didn’t want to talk about it.

“There’s a virus of that going around.” Brendon muttered under his breath.

If Ryan or Patrick heard, they didn’t comment. “I missed L.A.” Ryan said suddenly from the backseat. “I forgot how nice it is here.”

“I’m probably moving back to Chicago in a few months.” Patrick said. “I’m so sick of L.A.”

“You mean you’re sick of Pete.” Ryan said.

“That’s what I said.” Patrick shrugged. “Oh, and by the way, Ashlee just adopted a new smoking rule because of the baby, so.”

“We usually smoke outside anyway.” Brendon said. “How’s Pete?”

“He’s still Pete.” Patrick said as they turned onto their street. He hit the garage opener. “Just please don’t mention the baby or the wedding. I’m sick of fighting with him.”

The second they walked in the door, Pete had his arms around Ryan. “Oh my God, are you okay? What did he do? How’s your eye? I swear to God I’m going to--”

“Pete.” Patrick interrupted sharply with a quick shake of his head.

Pete took a heavy breath and pulled back, jaw set. “Sorry.” His voice was strained. “I, um, yeah. The big guest room is getting turned into a nursery, so you’re staying in the one with the bathroom.” He blinked hard a few times and went downstairs.

“Sorry.” Patrick mumbled. “I talked to him but he--”

“It’s not a big deal.” Ryan interrupted. “I don’t care. He can say whatever he wants.” With that he went down the stairs after Pete.

Patrick turned to Brendon, looking halfway between having been slapped and nearly crying. “I didn’t mean to . . .”

“It’s not you.” Brendon said. “He’s all over the place. Don’t worry about it.”

Patrick swallowed the lump in his throat. “So . . . how bad is he?”

Brendon sighed, blinking hard. “I don’t know. I’ve barely seen him cry. Sometimes he’s sad and sometimes he’s screaming. Usually he’s screaming. Or outside with Dylan, smoking.”

“Do you know how Chris did that to his eye?” Patrick asked quietly.

Brendon just shook his head.

---

“Pete?” Ryan called as he walked down the stars.

The older grunted in response. He was sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the television, which was currently playing a Tide commercial. Ryan sat down next to him, but Pete kept his eyes on the screen. “I’m sorry. For--”

“Don’t.” Ryan interrupted. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s fine.”

Pete turned to look at Ryan finally, his expression clearly pained. “I could kill him.”

“I know.” Ryan whispered. “But I could kill myself.”

“Don’t say that.” Pete said. His voice would have been sharp if it weren’t tinged with tears. “Just. Ry.”

“Yeah, I know.” the younger said softly.

“So, the cut.” Pete brushed Ryan’s hair out of his face. “What did he do it with?”

“His car keys were still in his hand.” Ryan gave a twisted sort of smile. “Caught on my eye.”

“Where is he?”

“I haven’t seen him.” Ryan turned away, blinking hard, but Pete slipped a finger under his chin and turned him back.

“But.”

“I want to sometimes.” Ryan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I love him. I don’t know what to do.”

“Sometimes love isn’t enough. Like, it should be. But it’s not.” Pete sighed and stroked Ryan’s cheek. “I know that nothing I say is going to make a difference, but I’m going to say it anyway.”

“I know.” Ryan turned toward the television and Pete let his hand drop to his lap. “What are we watching?”

“Don’t know.” Pete shrugged and handed Ryan the remote. “Just no ‘Gossip Girl’, please. Patrick’s been watching it nonstop and he’s killing me with it.”

“He just needs an excuse to cry.” Ryan told Pete, voice quiet.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Pete all but snapped, wincing as soon as the words had left his mouth.

“Do you think he’s happy that you’re marrying her?” Ryan asked, voice even. “I mean, he gave you the okay, but do you really think he likes it?”

“But what am I supposed to do?” Pete asked in a whisper.

“Not getting your cover girlfriend pregnant is probably the best thing.” Ryan put the television on the History Channel and tucked his legs underneath him.

“Do you think I meant to?” the older asked, trying to keep the fire from his voice.

“No. But I think you meant to propose.”

“You don’t--”

“No.” Ryan interrupted. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m going to say it anyway.”

“What are we watching?” Pete asked.

“Something about Cleopatra, I think.”

“Pizza!” Brendon yelled down the stairs a few minutes later.

The four of them ate around the upstairs TV, Ryan holding Penny in his lap. Afterward he went out to smoke, taking the dog with him. Pete followed.

When Brendon looked out the window an hour later, they were both stripped down to boxers in the swimming pool and Penny was sleeping on a lawn chair. “He won’t talk to me.” Brendon said, trying not to sound bitter. “But he’ll talk to Pete.”

“That’s because talking to Pete is like talking to himself.” Patrick said, coming up behind Brendon and putting his hand on the other boy’s shoulder. “Most people aren’t too afraid of talking to a mirror.”

“I barely got him to come.” Brendon whispered. “I think he hates me.”

“No.” Patrick said, trying to sound assuring. “I think he resents needing to be taken care of.”

“I need a drink.” Brendon replied.

“You know where it is.” Patrick told him, disappearing into the office at the end of the hall.

---

“I wake up in the middle of the night, thinking he’s on top of me, but I can’t scream,” Ryan was saying. “My mouth just doesn’t work.”

“Do you wake Brendon up?” Pete asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“I don’t like talking to him.” Ryan said. “He always gets this weird look in his eyes like he thinks he can save me from something.”

“He feels guilty that he couldn’t.” Pete said. “They’re weird like that.”

“They?” Ryan asked.

“You know.” Pete shrugged. “Patrick, Brendon. The people that love us most.”

“Chris.” the younger whispered.

“No.” Pete shook his head. “Being in love sucks like a whore. You know that. It makes you want to kill people, hurt them. But you know you love someone when you don’t.” The older leaned forward until his forehead was pressed against the younger’s. “Because you can’t.”

And Ryan started to cry, just closed his eyes and let the quiet tears run down his cheeks and the quiet sobs work their way out of his throat. It didn’t hurt to cry anymore, not his eye, at least.

Pete brought his hands up to gently cup Ryan’s face, stroking at his cheeks. “And I know it sucks because you can’t stop.”

“I just don’t understand.”

“It’s hard for good people to understand bad people.”

“But everything was fine.” Ryan whispered. “And then one night . . .”

Pete just kissed his forehead and wrapped his arms around Ryan. “I know it doesn’t matter right now, Ry, but you deserve better. You’re better than getting hit every night.”

“Why does everyone I fall for end up fucking me over?” And then Ryan dissolved into sobs, his entire body shaking.

And since Pete didn’t have the answer, he simply held Ryan while he cried.