Sequel: Let's Start This Over ›
Make Me a Miracle
i don't want a lot for christmas.
2009
Dear Santa,
For Christmas I know I don't really deserve anything for Christmas, but I've been
trying really hard to fix my mistakes so maybe that counts for something. What I
really want is to have Brendon back. And this time I'll commit to him, I promise.
No girlfriends to try and convince people I'm straight and no lies, no pretending. I
promise I'll treat him the way he deserves to be treated. So, maybe?
Love,
Ryan
*
Santa,
For Christmas I want Ryan to come back. And for the record to get finished and
do well. And if Ryan and Jon want to be back in the band that would be awesome.
I mean, its good now but I'd like to have him back in the band. But only if he's ready.
(You could make him ready, maybe?) And world peace and gays to marry and all
that jazz for other people, too.
- B.
2010
It was two days until Christmas and Ryan was sitting in his apartment wondering how he had let another year go by without fixing a damn thing. The voice in his head that was easy on him told him that it wasn't a total loss. He and Brendon were talking now, at least (though he and Jon weren't). But the other voice in his head--and the one Ryan agreed with though he didn't want to--said talking was hardly worth celebrating. After all, they didn't talk much and Brendon had a girlfriend. (Ryan had a girlfriend, too, but that was different. Ryan always had a girlfriend.)
Brendon and Spencer were done with the album, he knew. Ready to start again, ready to tour. Ryan was floating, drifting, torn between the two places he wanted to be. He wasn't sure if he was done with music, but he knew he wanted to be done with lies. A new year, a new page maybe? Ryan just wanted to start over. He wanted things to be good again.
But Brendon was in Las Vegas at his parents' house and Ryan was in L.A. with plans to go to Z's for Christmas.
*
Z wasn't suspect about Ryan's feelings for Brendon. She knew. She also knew Ryan loved her, even if he wasn't attracted to girls. Relationships were about more than sex sometimes.
"If you think you should, then you probably should." she told him, looking up from her toenails, which were currently being painted red and green. "Christmas is miracles and stuff."
"I don't believe in miracles."
The girl glared at him. "I said miracles, Ryan, not God."
He rolled his eyes. "I know what you said, Elizabeth." He stressed the name, knowing the rise it would get out of her, too cranky to play nice. "I don't believe in miracles."
Z's arms flew to her hips and she kicked her leg out, nearly knocking over the red nail polish. "Look here, Mr. Grinch. You can either sit around and whine about it for another year or you can do something about it."
"If you want to dump me you can, you know. You don't have to make it seem like it's for my own good." Ryan knew he was dangerously close to the edge. Part of him wanted to fall off, but he wasn't sure which part it was.
Z, however, refused to play her boyfriend's mind games. "Don't flatter yourself, baby. I know how to dump someone without playing around." She didn't say anything for a minute, just let her words sink in.
Ryan hated when she did that. "Sorry." he mumbled.
"I know." the girl returned graciously. She leaned in, planting a light kiss to his neck. "I just want you happy, Ry. That's all. I think he'll make you happy."
"I am happy."
"I thought your New Year's resolution was not to lie anymore."
Ryan didn't reply. He thought of a comeback a few minutes later, how it wasn't 2011 yet. But by then it wasn't worth saying, so he just watched Z as she finished painting her nails.
*
Meanwhile, several hours away in Vegas, Brendon was having the Ryan-Sarah discussion with his mother. Again. She'd told her youngest son to help her in the kitchen with the sole intention of interrogation. "Sarah didn't want to come?"
Brendon groaned, doubting the apples she was having him slice would even make it into a pie, just a clever disposable pretense to hold him hostage. "No. I told you, she's in Michigan."
"And you didn't want to go?" Grace was a prier. She knew it, but since her intentions were always well-meaning she forgave herself.
Brendon sighed, popping a piece of apple in his mouth. There really was no good way to tell your mother to mind her own damn business. "Why don't you just say it?" he asked. There was no bite to his voice, just resignation. "Instead of all this beating around the bush. Just say it, Mom."
Grace set the plate she was washing back in the sink. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to choose her next words carefully. "I just think," she began softly, cautiously, "that it wouldn't hurt to start to move on. It's been almost two years, baby. I don't think he's coming back." She put her hands back in the dishwasher. "Sarah seems nice. Maybe you should give her a real chance."
Brendon wasn't peeling apples anymore. He didn't want to be angry. He hated being angry. Especially with his mom and at Christmas and when she didn't mean to. But did she really think he was trying not to get over it? He'd tried everything to get over it. Maybe.
He'd stayed in the band instead of giving up (but kept the name). He'd gotten a girlfriend (that he never initiated sex with). He hadn't made the first move with reinitiating contact (but he'd checked Ryan's Twitter everyday). And he knew Ryan wasn't coming back (or at least he was 60% sure).
But he was trying. So what if it had been almost two years? They'd been together for over five. At least he wasn't crying himself to sleep anymore. At least he'd stopped sleeping with Ryan's shirt under his pillow.
"I'm breaking up with Sarah." Brendon admitted out loud for the first time. "So you don't have to worry about me stringing her along anymore." he added pointedly as he stood up, tossing the knife on the table.
"Brendon . . ."
He shook his head. "I need a cigarette."
*
Z got Brendon's parents' address off the internet and emailed the driving directions to Ryan, along with a link to some plane tickets. He didn't reply.
Ryan was stuck. He was in that place where his conscience was telling him he didn't deserve Brendon, Brendon had a girlfriend, Brendon had moved on. Then there was that part of him that said Brendon hadn't moved on and even if Ryan didn't deserve him, he owed it to him.
It had never been hard for Ryan to do the difficult thing before. He wasn't sure why it was now. Maybe it was because having to do the hard thing before wasn't directly tied to his personal fuck-ups.
His phone buzzed again and a text from Z popped up. You're uninvited tonight. Now you don't have any excuses. Ryan wondered if there was an action halfway between a kiss and a slap.
*
There were still things in Brendon's room that he hadn't packed when he moved. A pair of jeans he hated and some tee shirts he never wore. All the worship CDs he'd gotten as presents when he'd asked for rock albums. And, stuck in the back of a book, a picture of Brendon and Ryan.
Ryan had taken the shot, his arm outstretched and angled. They were on a bench in some park a few miles from Brendon's high school. And they were kissing. Ryan's eye was slightly opened, sneaking a peak at the lens. Brendon was awkward and clumsy, like he'd been in the beginning (and still was, sometimes), but eager. Always eager.
When the picture fell out onto the bed, Brendon let his fingers run over the glossy texture of their faces. Then he cried.
*
Ryan hated driving long distances alone. He didn't really like driving them, period, but alone was worse. Four hours wasn't really that long, in all fairness, and the traffic thinned when he got out of the city. But it still, simultaneously, felt like the longest and shortest drive of his life.
The radio made him think of Christmas, which made him think of mistletoe, which made him think of Christmas sex under the tree with Brendon. His iPod made him think of The Young Veins, which made him think of leaving Panic, which made him think of leaving Brendon. It was a musicless drive, which just made him imagine every conceivable (and inconceivable) way Brendon would react.
Ryan's personal favorite so far was the one where Brendon pulled an octopus from his pocket and threw it at Ryan's face. Then, of course, the animal had proceeded to suffocate Ryan with it's tentacles.
"The sad thing," he told his reflection in the rearview mirror, "is I was thinking this way before I started smoking pot." His reflection laughed at him.
On the side of the highway a green sign informed him Las Vegas was seventy-two miles away.
*
Seventy-two miles away, Brendon was watching the nieces and nephews and cousins open their Christmas Eve present before they left for a service at the temple. Brendon would not be attending, despite his mother's numerous requests. He was going to stay home and watch Christmas specials while he snuck food out of the fridge that was meant for dinner the next day.
"I really wish you would come, Brendon." Grace said one last time before she stepped outside. He was holding the door open for her.
"Have fun, Mom."
Sighing, she nodded and stepped outside. Brendon closed the door behind her and then went into the garage to finish the joint he'd started that morning. It wasn't that often he felt he needed pot to calm down, but with so many people in the house (and his mother's antics) he needed a little self-medication.
*
Ryan had it planned in his head. He'd knock and someone would answer. Then whoever answered would try to get him to leave, possibly lying and saying Brendon wasn't there. Ryan was picturing it as either Brendon's father or one of his brother's at the door. And, then, if Brendon didn't happen to walk by, Ryan would either throw rocks at his window or wait in his car until Brendon went outside to smoke.
He was at a gas station. He'd paid at the pump and now he was getting a soda and a pack of cigarettes. He considered getting something to eat, but he had a feeling he was nervous he'd just end up tasting it twice. So it was just the drink and something to do with his fingers. Vegas was twelve minutes away. He almost bought Zig Zags, but he figured it probably wasn't the best idea to spark up before he tried to get Brendon back.
Ryan was so nervous and so scared, but he had hope now, something he'd been lacking when he started the drive. He crossed his fingers when he got back in the car before he lit a cigarette.
*
It was an hour and a half, maybe a little over, when the doorbell rang. Brendon had a deviled egg in his hand, which he hurriedly shoved in his mouth before getting up and realizing his family wouldn't be ringing the bell. He swallowed and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Probably carolers.
He pulled the door open and thought his heart might have stopped beating for a moment. Definitely not carolers.
*
Ryan tried to stop fidgeting as the door opened, but his hands fell to his sides like twigs when it did. He hadn't been expecting that. Now his plan was shot to shit and he had no script. He'd never been good with improv.
"Bren?" he choked out.
The younger boy looked just as shocked, if not more. "R-Ry?" His hand twitched like it might reach out, but it didn't. "What are you doing here?"
He hadn't planned this far. He had no words, no clue. But just kissing Brendon seemed completely wrong, so he bit his lip. "I . . . I was hoping . . ." His nose stung and he tried to push the tears back. He was not going to cry, dammit. He'd come too far to break down now.
"It's probably the best time of year for that." Brendon said, voice soft. But he was still clearly guarded, Ryan noticed. Being suspicious to keep himself from being hurt if he was hopeful.
Ryan took a step closer. In that moment he felt braver knowing Brendon was just as scared (maybe more) than him. "I love you." he whispered. He sniffled, raised his voice slightly. "I shouldn't have left."
"No." Brendon agreed, his expression becoming slightly less taut.
"I'm sick of this!" It just burst out of Ryan, a lot more loudly than he'd intended, reminding Brendon of a firecracker. And then the tears were on his cheeks, but there were no sobs. "I'm not happy. I thought I would be, but I'm not. I'm miserable. I-I don't think . . ." He gulped nervously. "I don't think I know how to be happy without you. It's probably impossible."
Brendon did reach out then, grabbing Ryan's hand and pulling him inside, close enough to breathe him. His fingertips brushed across Ryan's face remembering the way his skin felt, through the long curls. So much had changed, but he was still Ryan. "I didn't give up on you." he whispered, pressing their foreheads together. "I tired. I wanted to. But I couldn't."
He was crying now, finally bringing their lips together for the kiss. "I missed you so fucking much." The words punched out of his mouth violently, his hands tangling so tightly in Ryan's hair that it hurt. "Don't do that to me again, okay?"
The older boy shook his head. "I won't." He kissed Brendon again, desperate. "I'm sorry it took so long."
They were still kissing there fifteen minutes later--door open--when Brendon's family started to pull up. And the minute Grace Urie realized what was going on, she started to cry harder than either of the boys had.
*
"Merry Christmas." Ryan whispered into the phone. It was after midnight and he was in the bathroom. It was the last lie, he promised himself, the last time he'd hide something from Brendon.
"Merry Christmas." Z echoed, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "And, for the record, the best present you could give me is dumping me for a boy you're in love with."
"I still love you, Z."
"I know, Ry." the girl murmured. "I'm happy. Really. Just bring him by when you get home."
"I still don't believe in miracles." he told her.
"Sometimes we have to make our own, Ryan." The line went dead then and Ryan went back downstairs where the adults were eating cookies and taking about other Christmases.
When Brendon made Ryan dance with him to The Christmas Song, the older boy thought maybe he was a little too specific on his definition of miracles.
Dear Santa,
For Christmas I know I don't really deserve anything for Christmas, but I've been
trying really hard to fix my mistakes so maybe that counts for something. What I
really want is to have Brendon back. And this time I'll commit to him, I promise.
No girlfriends to try and convince people I'm straight and no lies, no pretending. I
promise I'll treat him the way he deserves to be treated. So, maybe?
Love,
Ryan
*
Santa,
For Christmas I want Ryan to come back. And for the record to get finished and
do well. And if Ryan and Jon want to be back in the band that would be awesome.
I mean, its good now but I'd like to have him back in the band. But only if he's ready.
(You could make him ready, maybe?) And world peace and gays to marry and all
that jazz for other people, too.
- B.
2010
It was two days until Christmas and Ryan was sitting in his apartment wondering how he had let another year go by without fixing a damn thing. The voice in his head that was easy on him told him that it wasn't a total loss. He and Brendon were talking now, at least (though he and Jon weren't). But the other voice in his head--and the one Ryan agreed with though he didn't want to--said talking was hardly worth celebrating. After all, they didn't talk much and Brendon had a girlfriend. (Ryan had a girlfriend, too, but that was different. Ryan always had a girlfriend.)
Brendon and Spencer were done with the album, he knew. Ready to start again, ready to tour. Ryan was floating, drifting, torn between the two places he wanted to be. He wasn't sure if he was done with music, but he knew he wanted to be done with lies. A new year, a new page maybe? Ryan just wanted to start over. He wanted things to be good again.
But Brendon was in Las Vegas at his parents' house and Ryan was in L.A. with plans to go to Z's for Christmas.
*
Z wasn't suspect about Ryan's feelings for Brendon. She knew. She also knew Ryan loved her, even if he wasn't attracted to girls. Relationships were about more than sex sometimes.
"If you think you should, then you probably should." she told him, looking up from her toenails, which were currently being painted red and green. "Christmas is miracles and stuff."
"I don't believe in miracles."
The girl glared at him. "I said miracles, Ryan, not God."
He rolled his eyes. "I know what you said, Elizabeth." He stressed the name, knowing the rise it would get out of her, too cranky to play nice. "I don't believe in miracles."
Z's arms flew to her hips and she kicked her leg out, nearly knocking over the red nail polish. "Look here, Mr. Grinch. You can either sit around and whine about it for another year or you can do something about it."
"If you want to dump me you can, you know. You don't have to make it seem like it's for my own good." Ryan knew he was dangerously close to the edge. Part of him wanted to fall off, but he wasn't sure which part it was.
Z, however, refused to play her boyfriend's mind games. "Don't flatter yourself, baby. I know how to dump someone without playing around." She didn't say anything for a minute, just let her words sink in.
Ryan hated when she did that. "Sorry." he mumbled.
"I know." the girl returned graciously. She leaned in, planting a light kiss to his neck. "I just want you happy, Ry. That's all. I think he'll make you happy."
"I am happy."
"I thought your New Year's resolution was not to lie anymore."
Ryan didn't reply. He thought of a comeback a few minutes later, how it wasn't 2011 yet. But by then it wasn't worth saying, so he just watched Z as she finished painting her nails.
*
Meanwhile, several hours away in Vegas, Brendon was having the Ryan-Sarah discussion with his mother. Again. She'd told her youngest son to help her in the kitchen with the sole intention of interrogation. "Sarah didn't want to come?"
Brendon groaned, doubting the apples she was having him slice would even make it into a pie, just a clever disposable pretense to hold him hostage. "No. I told you, she's in Michigan."
"And you didn't want to go?" Grace was a prier. She knew it, but since her intentions were always well-meaning she forgave herself.
Brendon sighed, popping a piece of apple in his mouth. There really was no good way to tell your mother to mind her own damn business. "Why don't you just say it?" he asked. There was no bite to his voice, just resignation. "Instead of all this beating around the bush. Just say it, Mom."
Grace set the plate she was washing back in the sink. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to choose her next words carefully. "I just think," she began softly, cautiously, "that it wouldn't hurt to start to move on. It's been almost two years, baby. I don't think he's coming back." She put her hands back in the dishwasher. "Sarah seems nice. Maybe you should give her a real chance."
Brendon wasn't peeling apples anymore. He didn't want to be angry. He hated being angry. Especially with his mom and at Christmas and when she didn't mean to. But did she really think he was trying not to get over it? He'd tried everything to get over it. Maybe.
He'd stayed in the band instead of giving up (but kept the name). He'd gotten a girlfriend (that he never initiated sex with). He hadn't made the first move with reinitiating contact (but he'd checked Ryan's Twitter everyday). And he knew Ryan wasn't coming back (or at least he was 60% sure).
But he was trying. So what if it had been almost two years? They'd been together for over five. At least he wasn't crying himself to sleep anymore. At least he'd stopped sleeping with Ryan's shirt under his pillow.
"I'm breaking up with Sarah." Brendon admitted out loud for the first time. "So you don't have to worry about me stringing her along anymore." he added pointedly as he stood up, tossing the knife on the table.
"Brendon . . ."
He shook his head. "I need a cigarette."
*
Z got Brendon's parents' address off the internet and emailed the driving directions to Ryan, along with a link to some plane tickets. He didn't reply.
Ryan was stuck. He was in that place where his conscience was telling him he didn't deserve Brendon, Brendon had a girlfriend, Brendon had moved on. Then there was that part of him that said Brendon hadn't moved on and even if Ryan didn't deserve him, he owed it to him.
It had never been hard for Ryan to do the difficult thing before. He wasn't sure why it was now. Maybe it was because having to do the hard thing before wasn't directly tied to his personal fuck-ups.
His phone buzzed again and a text from Z popped up. You're uninvited tonight. Now you don't have any excuses. Ryan wondered if there was an action halfway between a kiss and a slap.
*
There were still things in Brendon's room that he hadn't packed when he moved. A pair of jeans he hated and some tee shirts he never wore. All the worship CDs he'd gotten as presents when he'd asked for rock albums. And, stuck in the back of a book, a picture of Brendon and Ryan.
Ryan had taken the shot, his arm outstretched and angled. They were on a bench in some park a few miles from Brendon's high school. And they were kissing. Ryan's eye was slightly opened, sneaking a peak at the lens. Brendon was awkward and clumsy, like he'd been in the beginning (and still was, sometimes), but eager. Always eager.
When the picture fell out onto the bed, Brendon let his fingers run over the glossy texture of their faces. Then he cried.
*
Ryan hated driving long distances alone. He didn't really like driving them, period, but alone was worse. Four hours wasn't really that long, in all fairness, and the traffic thinned when he got out of the city. But it still, simultaneously, felt like the longest and shortest drive of his life.
The radio made him think of Christmas, which made him think of mistletoe, which made him think of Christmas sex under the tree with Brendon. His iPod made him think of The Young Veins, which made him think of leaving Panic, which made him think of leaving Brendon. It was a musicless drive, which just made him imagine every conceivable (and inconceivable) way Brendon would react.
Ryan's personal favorite so far was the one where Brendon pulled an octopus from his pocket and threw it at Ryan's face. Then, of course, the animal had proceeded to suffocate Ryan with it's tentacles.
"The sad thing," he told his reflection in the rearview mirror, "is I was thinking this way before I started smoking pot." His reflection laughed at him.
On the side of the highway a green sign informed him Las Vegas was seventy-two miles away.
*
Seventy-two miles away, Brendon was watching the nieces and nephews and cousins open their Christmas Eve present before they left for a service at the temple. Brendon would not be attending, despite his mother's numerous requests. He was going to stay home and watch Christmas specials while he snuck food out of the fridge that was meant for dinner the next day.
"I really wish you would come, Brendon." Grace said one last time before she stepped outside. He was holding the door open for her.
"Have fun, Mom."
Sighing, she nodded and stepped outside. Brendon closed the door behind her and then went into the garage to finish the joint he'd started that morning. It wasn't that often he felt he needed pot to calm down, but with so many people in the house (and his mother's antics) he needed a little self-medication.
*
Ryan had it planned in his head. He'd knock and someone would answer. Then whoever answered would try to get him to leave, possibly lying and saying Brendon wasn't there. Ryan was picturing it as either Brendon's father or one of his brother's at the door. And, then, if Brendon didn't happen to walk by, Ryan would either throw rocks at his window or wait in his car until Brendon went outside to smoke.
He was at a gas station. He'd paid at the pump and now he was getting a soda and a pack of cigarettes. He considered getting something to eat, but he had a feeling he was nervous he'd just end up tasting it twice. So it was just the drink and something to do with his fingers. Vegas was twelve minutes away. He almost bought Zig Zags, but he figured it probably wasn't the best idea to spark up before he tried to get Brendon back.
Ryan was so nervous and so scared, but he had hope now, something he'd been lacking when he started the drive. He crossed his fingers when he got back in the car before he lit a cigarette.
*
It was an hour and a half, maybe a little over, when the doorbell rang. Brendon had a deviled egg in his hand, which he hurriedly shoved in his mouth before getting up and realizing his family wouldn't be ringing the bell. He swallowed and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Probably carolers.
He pulled the door open and thought his heart might have stopped beating for a moment. Definitely not carolers.
*
Ryan tried to stop fidgeting as the door opened, but his hands fell to his sides like twigs when it did. He hadn't been expecting that. Now his plan was shot to shit and he had no script. He'd never been good with improv.
"Bren?" he choked out.
The younger boy looked just as shocked, if not more. "R-Ry?" His hand twitched like it might reach out, but it didn't. "What are you doing here?"
He hadn't planned this far. He had no words, no clue. But just kissing Brendon seemed completely wrong, so he bit his lip. "I . . . I was hoping . . ." His nose stung and he tried to push the tears back. He was not going to cry, dammit. He'd come too far to break down now.
"It's probably the best time of year for that." Brendon said, voice soft. But he was still clearly guarded, Ryan noticed. Being suspicious to keep himself from being hurt if he was hopeful.
Ryan took a step closer. In that moment he felt braver knowing Brendon was just as scared (maybe more) than him. "I love you." he whispered. He sniffled, raised his voice slightly. "I shouldn't have left."
"No." Brendon agreed, his expression becoming slightly less taut.
"I'm sick of this!" It just burst out of Ryan, a lot more loudly than he'd intended, reminding Brendon of a firecracker. And then the tears were on his cheeks, but there were no sobs. "I'm not happy. I thought I would be, but I'm not. I'm miserable. I-I don't think . . ." He gulped nervously. "I don't think I know how to be happy without you. It's probably impossible."
Brendon did reach out then, grabbing Ryan's hand and pulling him inside, close enough to breathe him. His fingertips brushed across Ryan's face remembering the way his skin felt, through the long curls. So much had changed, but he was still Ryan. "I didn't give up on you." he whispered, pressing their foreheads together. "I tired. I wanted to. But I couldn't."
He was crying now, finally bringing their lips together for the kiss. "I missed you so fucking much." The words punched out of his mouth violently, his hands tangling so tightly in Ryan's hair that it hurt. "Don't do that to me again, okay?"
The older boy shook his head. "I won't." He kissed Brendon again, desperate. "I'm sorry it took so long."
They were still kissing there fifteen minutes later--door open--when Brendon's family started to pull up. And the minute Grace Urie realized what was going on, she started to cry harder than either of the boys had.
*
"Merry Christmas." Ryan whispered into the phone. It was after midnight and he was in the bathroom. It was the last lie, he promised himself, the last time he'd hide something from Brendon.
"Merry Christmas." Z echoed, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "And, for the record, the best present you could give me is dumping me for a boy you're in love with."
"I still love you, Z."
"I know, Ry." the girl murmured. "I'm happy. Really. Just bring him by when you get home."
"I still don't believe in miracles." he told her.
"Sometimes we have to make our own, Ryan." The line went dead then and Ryan went back downstairs where the adults were eating cookies and taking about other Christmases.
When Brendon made Ryan dance with him to The Christmas Song, the older boy thought maybe he was a little too specific on his definition of miracles.