Swallow Your Sleep
of space,
Ryan could see the man rushing down the street almost the moment he turned the corner. Of course, there was next to no-one out on Christmas morning, and the sad little street in California seemed to be empty of life except for the minuscule corner shop – lit up with a tiny orange glow.
The man, as it happened, was Jon Walker.
Ryan ducked his head and carried on Northern Downpour, watching the way his fingers slipped from key to key – like they knew their place in life. He was glad some part of him did.
“Through playful lips made of yarn,
That fragile Capricorn,
Unraveled words like moths upon old scarves,
I know the worlds a broken bone,
But melt your headaches, call it home.”
Jon Walker was not meant to be here, six streets down from his apartment on Christmas morning. Jon Walker was not meant to see the hunched over figure, or recognize the strained voice. Jon Walker was meant to be upstairs in his apartment, six streets away with Spencer Smith and Brendon Urie – enjoying Christmas.
Ryan could almost feel the way Jon stopped in his footsteps on the other side of the street, but played over the thought, slanting his shoulders more inwards and determinedly not paying attention to anything but his guitar.
It almost worked, too.
“Ryan?” Stupidly, he looked up at the proximity of Jon’s voice then catching his expression, quickly looked back down to his guitar.
“What the hell are you doing here?” The song drifted away, leaking into the flakes of snow laying dead on the pavement. Ryan tilted his head up, feeling hollow. Jon didn’t want him here, of course. What was Ryan but a tragic waste of space?
“I’m sorry.” Came from Ryan’s lips before he could think of anything else. It was cold in California, and it was setting deep in his soul, veins creeping with cold acceptance and maybe just a hint of nostalgia. Jon looked affronted, maybe a little angry at the words and took another step forward.
“I swear to god if you came down here just to apologise for that stupid, fucking-”
“No, no.” Ryan quickly cut in, flinching from the heat in the words. “I was just – I. I’ll go. I’m sorry for being here.” He stood up; picking up his guitar case and deciding it would be best to – to put it in its case later. Away from Jon.
God. What did Ryan expect? A welcome back – hugs, smiles, happiness? He fucked up. He was a fuck up, a living breathing reminder of things that shouldn’t exist. He didn’t want to be alive.
Maybe Jon noticed something that wasn’t there, or maybe he wanted to say something more. Ryan would deserve that – someone yelling at him, maybe even hitting him, hell, his Dad had certainty thought so and he's long forgotten why that was so wrong.
“No, Ryan, don’t- ” He grabbed Ryan’s arm as he went to walk past and Ryan let out a small squeak of pain, flinching away from Jon’s grasp and bringing up his other hand to cradle the limb. Ow. Jon’s eyes were like saucers as he looked from Ryan’s arm, to Ryan’s hurt expression and back again.
“Ryan? Aren’t there. I thought – someone?” he stuttered out, bringing his hand back fully to his side.
“No.”
“Not even. I. Alex? I heard he-”
“No, Jon. Can I please just?” Ryan made a gesture towards the end of the street, pleading with his eyes for Jon to just let him go.
“Ryan; where are you going?” Ryan stopped again, eyes falling to floor.
“I think – I think I saw a hotel, back near the centre? I was going to get a room there...” Jon shook his head, now looking unhappy.
“Well- bye?” Ryan turned. And fuck, he really did mess this up. There was a lovely bottle of vodka in his apartment back home – merry fucking Christmas to Ryan Ross. Washed up super stars really were just that; washed up.
“Ryan. Come back to the apartment, please?” Ryan turned back for what must have been the 20th time to hear Jon speak “I can’t, I can’t leave you out here in a fucking hotel. It’s Christmas, Ryan. Christmas.” He looked sincere, any anger completely cleared from his features.
Jon felt sorry for him.
Ryan didn’t know what he should expect – happiness, hate, nostalgia? But not pity. Not fucking pity.
“No, thanks, Jon.” He forced a smile on and looked at the brown eyed man in the bad Christmas jumper, wanting to force that saddened look from his usually so relaxed features.
“No. Fuck, Ryan, I-. Don’t do this. Don’t leave again.”
Ouch.
The man, as it happened, was Jon Walker.
Ryan ducked his head and carried on Northern Downpour, watching the way his fingers slipped from key to key – like they knew their place in life. He was glad some part of him did.
“Through playful lips made of yarn,
That fragile Capricorn,
Unraveled words like moths upon old scarves,
I know the worlds a broken bone,
But melt your headaches, call it home.”
Jon Walker was not meant to be here, six streets down from his apartment on Christmas morning. Jon Walker was not meant to see the hunched over figure, or recognize the strained voice. Jon Walker was meant to be upstairs in his apartment, six streets away with Spencer Smith and Brendon Urie – enjoying Christmas.
Ryan could almost feel the way Jon stopped in his footsteps on the other side of the street, but played over the thought, slanting his shoulders more inwards and determinedly not paying attention to anything but his guitar.
It almost worked, too.
“Ryan?” Stupidly, he looked up at the proximity of Jon’s voice then catching his expression, quickly looked back down to his guitar.
“What the hell are you doing here?” The song drifted away, leaking into the flakes of snow laying dead on the pavement. Ryan tilted his head up, feeling hollow. Jon didn’t want him here, of course. What was Ryan but a tragic waste of space?
“I’m sorry.” Came from Ryan’s lips before he could think of anything else. It was cold in California, and it was setting deep in his soul, veins creeping with cold acceptance and maybe just a hint of nostalgia. Jon looked affronted, maybe a little angry at the words and took another step forward.
“I swear to god if you came down here just to apologise for that stupid, fucking-”
“No, no.” Ryan quickly cut in, flinching from the heat in the words. “I was just – I. I’ll go. I’m sorry for being here.” He stood up; picking up his guitar case and deciding it would be best to – to put it in its case later. Away from Jon.
God. What did Ryan expect? A welcome back – hugs, smiles, happiness? He fucked up. He was a fuck up, a living breathing reminder of things that shouldn’t exist. He didn’t want to be alive.
Maybe Jon noticed something that wasn’t there, or maybe he wanted to say something more. Ryan would deserve that – someone yelling at him, maybe even hitting him, hell, his Dad had certainty thought so and he's long forgotten why that was so wrong.
“No, Ryan, don’t- ” He grabbed Ryan’s arm as he went to walk past and Ryan let out a small squeak of pain, flinching away from Jon’s grasp and bringing up his other hand to cradle the limb. Ow. Jon’s eyes were like saucers as he looked from Ryan’s arm, to Ryan’s hurt expression and back again.
“Ryan? Aren’t there. I thought – someone?” he stuttered out, bringing his hand back fully to his side.
“No.”
“Not even. I. Alex? I heard he-”
“No, Jon. Can I please just?” Ryan made a gesture towards the end of the street, pleading with his eyes for Jon to just let him go.
“Ryan; where are you going?” Ryan stopped again, eyes falling to floor.
“I think – I think I saw a hotel, back near the centre? I was going to get a room there...” Jon shook his head, now looking unhappy.
“Well- bye?” Ryan turned. And fuck, he really did mess this up. There was a lovely bottle of vodka in his apartment back home – merry fucking Christmas to Ryan Ross. Washed up super stars really were just that; washed up.
“Ryan. Come back to the apartment, please?” Ryan turned back for what must have been the 20th time to hear Jon speak “I can’t, I can’t leave you out here in a fucking hotel. It’s Christmas, Ryan. Christmas.” He looked sincere, any anger completely cleared from his features.
Jon felt sorry for him.
Ryan didn’t know what he should expect – happiness, hate, nostalgia? But not pity. Not fucking pity.
“No, thanks, Jon.” He forced a smile on and looked at the brown eyed man in the bad Christmas jumper, wanting to force that saddened look from his usually so relaxed features.
“No. Fuck, Ryan, I-. Don’t do this. Don’t leave again.”
Ouch.
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I have this all written out I'm just lazy times 1000 sorry