The Calendar

Brendon laid sprawled out on his bed, absent-mindedly flipping through his calendar. Okay, so maybe he did remember the previous night. And, okay, maybe he did want to kiss Ryan again. And again. And again. Because he already kind of broke up with his bitchy girlfriend, and that break up was kind of because of Ryan and maybe Ashly was kind of maybe a little bit right about him paying more attention to Ryan than to her. Because Ryan was really pretty. Well, Ashly was, too, but... she wasn’t Ryan.

He immediately sat up, panic setting in as he casually flipped to the beginning of August. No. No, no, no, no, no, no. This wasn’t happening.

One of the previously blurry names was now crisp, clear, blaring at the seventeen-year-old.

‘Ryan Ross: 17, by drunk driver.’

Not Ryan. Not Ryan. Not his Ryan.

He checked the date on his phone. 7/3. 6:27 p.m. Subconsciously, he wondered how tomorrow was already July, but the forefront of his mind spazzed about how he had less than a month to have Ryan, to figure out how to save him.

I mean, I already saved Ian, right? So how hard is this gonna be?

Very, his conscience told him bluntly.

Of course, Brendon Boyd Urie had a mission and even though all the odds seemed to be against him, he was determined.

He jumped to his feet, slid on his Vans, and purposefully strode down the staircase and outside, across the street, and entered the Smiths’ without knocking- really, after all this time, was it even necessary? No. Of course not.

As quietly as he could manage, which was nowhere near Ry’s practically-ninja level yet still fairly stealthy, Brendon ascended the stairs, towards Ryan’s room, where the faint sound of a guitar could be heard. The door was cracked open, and he glanced in to see Brent cradling Ryan’s head in his lap, the taller boy resting his guitar on his stomach and absentmindedly strumming, a soft smile gracing his features.

Oh.

Brendon turned, stiffly walking back downstairs and back to his own home.

Oh.