Cancer

Banner by NorthernDownpour. <3

The next day, I took Ryan up on his offer and he picked me up from my hotel room at around noon in his brand new sportscar, partially paid for by Pretty. Odd. presales alone. Their fan base was absurd. I couldn't wrap my head around it.

"You know," I told him, raising my voice to be heard over the classic Tom Waits that seemed to be all Ryan ever listened to, "I never thought you guys would be celebrities."

"We're not," he said, shrugging. "We're just sort of famous."

I never realized the difference between the two before what happened to Panic and the five average boys who were somehow swept up in its unexpected--and altogether unwanted, as it turned out--rise to stardom.

-----

"I come here a lot," explained Ryan rather sheepishly as he pushed open the door of the tiny thriftstore half an hour later, a cheerful tinkling noise announcing our arrival. "I like, you know, vintage stuff."

"Obviously," I snorted, glancing pointedly at his bell-bottomed brown courderoy pants and pink flower-print silk shirt. He would have looked more fitting in an old rerun of The Brady Bunch than here in 21st-century Vegas.

"Hey, this is a great outfit!" he insisted.

"Sure," I said innocently, "if your name is Shaggy and your favorite word is 'groovy.'"

Ryan just glared and pretended to be offended as he stalked off towards the back of the store.

The thriftstore was small and cramped, and yet somehow comforting and familiar. Every inch of available wall space was lined with shelves upon shelves of ancient artifacts of pop culture. The floor was crowded with countless racks of clothes that had survived the 60's and 70's only slightly worse for wear (no pun intended). Ryan had most likely been understating things when he said he came here a lot; the whole store was basically an oversized version of his closet.

I wound my way between the racks of clothes, brushing my fingertips along the smooth, silky edges of the varied fabrics. The nearest shelf was devoted to old books with worn bindings and cracked spines and I glanced through the classic titles: War and Peace, A Tale of Two Cities, Grapes of Wrath, The Bell Jar, Wuthering Heights... I picked up a Robert Frost collection and flipped through the pages--a cloud of dust rose from the weathered pages immediately, and I put the book back on the shelf. Its pages were so aged and delicate that I was sure I would destroy them otherwise.

There were more trinkets crowding the shelves, strange, foreign items of another era veiled in a thin layer of dust. There was an old "Uncle Sam Wants YOU!" poster, a yellowed ad for a Moody Blues concert, a box of musty scarves that still carried the scent of some long-forgotten perfume. There was a tiny bookcase near the cash register devoted entirely to four old record players.

My interest sparked, I wandered over to the record players and touched the one on the top shelf reverently. I remembered suddenly the box of unmarked vinyl records I had found in Dad's garage last week and my dismay when I realized I had no way to play them, no way to ever even know what they were...

"I like that one, too."

I jumped at the voice behind me and whirled around to see a middle-aged woman with a bandana tied around her head smiling profoundly at me, her wrinkled hands clasped against the rattling beads hanging down to her chest.

"It's real cheap," she went on. "Normally it'd go for about--"

"Does it work?" I blurted out.

"Why, sure it does!" she said exuberantly, clapping her hands. "An' we got records to play in't, too, in the back room--"

She pointed over my shoulder and I turned to follow her gaze to an open doorway leading into another smaller room.

"That nice young man will show you where they are, he comes here all the time--"

"Thank you," I said politely. I smiled and headed for the doorway she pointed out.

I was not surprised, upon entering the narrow back room, that the "young man" the store owner had mentioned was actually Ryan. But I wouldn't have needed help finding the records anyway: racks and racks and racks of them lined every single wall.

"Oh my God," I breathed, staring in wonder at the endless array of music all around me.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" I looked up and Ryan was standing in the far corner of the room, smiling at me.

"There are so many..." I let out a little half-laugh of amazement. "It's unbelievable."

He looked at me warmly for a moment and then turned back to the stack of records he had been looking through with a little half-smile. I was too overwhelmed by the masses of records to look through them all, so I ended up standing by Ryan, watching him flip through the old vinyls.

"I've never seen so many old records in one place before," I murmured.

"Yeah. It's pretty amazing," Ryan agreed. He paused for a moment, pursing his lips as if unsure of himself. Then he added in a rush, "I would take credit for finding this place, but I didn't. Brendon told me about it."

My insides squirmed uncomfortably and I was glad Ryan was concentrating on the record covers instead of my face, so he couldn't see the flicker of pain that undoubtedly showed for a moment there.

"I, uh... I found a bunch of old records at my dad's house the other day." I had just wanted to change the subject, but I had only succeeded in roping myself into another touchy conversation. Talking about Dad wasn't much better than talking about Brendon.

"Really?" said Ryan. He didn't sound apologetic or sad or sympathetic, merely interested--and for that I was grateful. Maybe we could talk about this after all.

"Yeah, there was a whole box of them out in his garage. I don't know what they're of, though. All the cases are missing and there are no titles printed on them or anything," I explained, frowning.

"Huh." Ryan looked up and frowned, too, a tiny crease appearing between his brows. "Well, there's only one way to find out, then. Do you have a record player?"

"No," I sighed.

"Well, I do. So I guess you're just gonna have to spend another boring night at my place," he said playfully. His wide, childlike eyes sparkled boyishly and he winked at me.

My sarcastic reply was poised and ready on the tip of my tongue, but there was a softness about his expression that stopped me. "I like your place," I said.

I don't know why I said that.

Neither did Ryan, apparently--all the humor left his face abruptly and he studied my expression carefully, his dark eyes appraising in a very serious way. Then, suddenly, the corners of his lips turned up in a little smile, and he said, "Only because I have a pet mongoose."

I laughed. "No--I like your place because I'm currently living in a hotel room with my mother," I said matter-of-factly. "Krista the mongoose is merely an added bonus."

He laughed, too, and then turned back to the stack of records. "So," he said briskly, pulling out two records deftly, "which one: the Beatles or Morrissey?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Which one do you like better?"

"I like them both equally. Hence the tie."

I moved behind Ryan's shoulder slightly, so I could better see the two album covers he was holding up: Morrissey's Vauxhall and I and the Beatles' White Album. "Well," I said finally, "the Beatles are kind of classic. And I'm not a huge Beatles fan myself, but I hear The White Album's pretty crucial."

"The White Album it is, then," he declared, shoving Morrissey back into the stack of records. "Did you want to buy something?"

"Nah," I replied. "There's too much to look at. It's overwhelming."

"Yeah," he chuckled. "I've been coming here for a year or two now, and I still haven't looked through everything yet."

I waited as Ryan handed the gypsy-esque store owner the record and fumbled through a wad of bills he produced from his back pocket. The store owned punched in some numbers on the cash register and then glanced at the album in her hand again as if seeing it for the first time, her expression stressed.

"Oh, honey, I almost forgot!" Her voice sounded pained. "This record's scratched. I had someone bring it in to sell it back to me just yesterday because it was damaged. It wasn't supposed to go back on the shelf--"

"That's okay," said Ryan, his expression not disappointed in the least. "I'd still like to buy it, if you don't mind."

She stared at him blankly for a moment, her eyes wide and confused. "Well, of course I don't mind, but one of the songs won't play--"

"It doesn't matter," he insisted. "The rest of it will work, right?"

"...Right," she said slowly. "But it's damaged."

He flashed her a strained smile. "I don't mind damaged."

He handed her the money before she could try to persuade him further, tucking his new album under his arm as he headed for the door.

I followed after him, nearly as surprised as the store clerk. He was silent for a long time as we walked down the street side-by-side towards where his car was parked, his expression unreadable.

Finally, I said hesitantly, "Ryan?"

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye for a split second, as if afraid to really look at me for some reason. It was the same way you might refuse to look at someone you were mad at, but his voice sounded pleasant enough as he prompted,"Yeah?"

"Why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

I knew he knew what I meant. "Buy that broken record."

He shrugged casually. "It doesn't matter to me if it's scratched. It gives it character. Besides," he added, his voice brightening suddenly as he turned to smile at me at last, "The White Album is crucial."

-----

By the time we left the thriftstore and stowed Ryan's new acquisition in his car, it was way past lunchtime and neither of us had eaten yet. We walked across the street to a tiny cafe that was another one of Ryan's favorite joints. It was three o'clock and we were the only customers in there.

The waitress was jumpy, nervous, asking if "everything was okay" in a shrill voice too often. Normally I would've wondered why she was so flirty and anxious with Ryan, but I had been around him long enough now to have learned that he was pretty well known as a local celebrity in this part of town. He was treated differently.

"This is my favorite kind of day," he told me after the waitress brought us our food and unneccessarily refilled our drinks for the sixth time. "Sleep in, hang out at the record store for a while, grab some food here..."

He smiled fondly to himself as he pushed his food around on his plate and my insides warmed a little.

Then he sighed and his expression darkened abruptly. "Won't be too many more days like this pretty soon," he muttered under his breath.

I just stared at him in confusion. "Why not?"

He shrugged. "We're going back out on tour in a month or so."

"A month?" I repeated, gaping.

"Well, sure," said Ryan. I could tell by the tone of his voice that this was obvious information, but there was also a strained look about his face that contradicted his words somehow--like he knew it was true but wished it wasn't. "Our album comes out in two weeks."

"Really?" I gnawed at my lip, digging in my brain for the date, and realized he was right. "Huh. I didn't realize it was so soon."

"Yeah," he mumbled. "It's really soon."

We ate in silence for a while. I watched as the strain in Ryan's face doubled, tripled, multiplied exponentially until he almost looked like he was in pain.

Then, finally, he asked, "So, are you gonna stay in Vegas?"

I shook my head, locking my gaze on my bowl of soup instead of him. "No. As soon as I can get the house sold, I'm going back. I thought I told you already?"

"You did," he said quietly, "but...I was kind of hoping you had changed your mind." I looked up and he met my gaze as he laughed nervously.

"No, Ryan. I can't stay here."

He sighed. "I don't know why not. What's wrong with Vegas?"

I let my spoon fall into my bowl of soup with a loud clattering sound. "I don't know," I muttered, avoiding his gaze.

"What?"

I gritted my teeth and forced myself to say it: "Brendon."

I looked up and his face was blank. Coward I was, I looked away again before his expression could change to one of sympathy, or pity, or disgust, or...

"Kelsey," he said softly. I still couldn't look at him. "You're going to remember Brendon no matter where you are. You can't run away from that."

"I can run away from him," I said.

Ryan was silent until I looked up at met his gaze again. His dark eyes stared back at me, his gaze searing and unreadable.

"I want you to stay," he said.

I looked down at my soup again; I couldn't stand to look in his pleading eyes. "I can't stay."

I felt him watching me in silence for the length of a few heartbeats before he spoke.

"You know," he whispered, "you're one of the best friends I've ever had. I don't know if you know that, but you are."

I studied his face again, but there were no answers to be had there. Ryan knew everything and let me know nothing; he held his thoughts and his heart close to him like a secret hand of cards, his poker face giving away nothing.

My heartbeat sped up and suddenly the words were there on my tongue. "You and Brendon don't really talk much anymore, do you?"

He just stared back at me sadly for a moment.

"No. Not really," he said. He laid his huge hands flat on the table, palms-down, and just stared at them there. He paused before he went, and I could see he was gauging my reaction as his eyes flickered up to take in the look on my face. "Brendon doesn't really talk to anyone anymore."

My chest hurt.

"He's changed a lot. Well..." Ryan cleared his throat and slid his hands off the table, folding them complacently in his lap. "We all have."

He met my gaze just long enough to force a smile for me, and then he looked away again, his wide brown eyes lost and afraid.