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The following is a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

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Come What May (s/a)
By dropsonroses

 


Come What May

It's New Year's Eve. Brendon is walking aimlessly around the crowded living room of Pete Wentz, holding his mojito above the swaying crowd. He can't spot anyone he knows here; it's driving him crazy. He pokes his head around a door, expecting to see Gabe at the table where the alcohol is laid out like prized cupcakes in a bakery window.

He sees Ryan instead, gazing into a small glass of whisky like he can't see the bottom. Brendon jumps backwards out of the room, debating whether to run or face his fears (well, Ryan, okay, whatever). He figures that its worth a shot, and fixes a million dollar smile onto his face, one that Miss World would give up her diamond encrusted tiara for.

"Hey, Ryan," he says casually, ignoring his heart pounding in his chest. Ryan blinks, and his eyes refocus on Brendon. "Oh, hey... Brendon," says Ryan. His words are slurred. Brendon inconspicuously sniffs the air- shit. Ryan's stoned and drunk.

Ryan blinks again, and stares at the glass in his hand. He shrugs, tips his head back, and downs the shot of whisky in one. He shudders- Brendon can understand why. Whisky is fucking disgusting.

“So… uhm… how are—you?” Brendon asks, his voice faltering at the death glare Ryan gives him. Ryan laughs mirthlessly and says, “The fuck do you think?” while waving a long-fingered hand down his body.

Looking Ryan up and down, Brendon can kinda see what he means. His shoes, once so carefully polished and stored so lovingly, now had scuff marks all over the front. The polish was peeling off. His jeans were too tight- and not in the scene-y way, but in the way of a man who consumed far too many 2 o'clock Big Macs. His hair is limp and his eyes are framed by deep, dark shadows, and they look like they've seen happier days.

Brendon pretends not to notice. “You look great!” he lies. Ryan scoffs, rolls his eyes, and stomps off. Brendon curses his stupidity. He goes to fill a glass with some of the shit Ryan was drinking- it's hard though, because there are about six bottles of whisky lying open on the grubby glass table. Brendon glances over them all- it's all cheap. If he knows Ryan at all….

Brendon slips out of the kitchen and goes to Pete's secret liquor cabinet. He finds where the heavy stuff- whisky, poit?n (a 50%-90% alcohol version of whisky- illegal and brewed in secret in the Slieve Bloom mountains in Offaly. Brendon remembers when Pete came home from Ireland in '07, raving about this stuff- to this day, Brendon has no fucking clue how he got it past the beady eyed American customs officials) and brandy were kept.

Pete may be messy in other respects, but he labels his alcohol extremely carefully. Brendon chews his lip, and selects a bottle from the shelf marked “1960-1980”. The glass is heavy but… the bottle is completely empty.

“Jesus,” Brendon mutters, and shoves the bottle back out of sight to the very back of the cabinet.

He stalks out of the darkened room and tries to find Ryan.

He finds him passed out in front of the swimming pool.

Brendon sighs, hauls him up, and tries not to think about how this must have happened to Ryan so many times before- except he was in Brendon's place, and struggling with the weight of an unconscious father.

Brendon furiously blinks back tears. His hands shake as he thinks about how damn unfair the world is.

He lays Ryan out on a bed, steals some of Ashlee's lipstick and writes a goodbye note in lipstick on his arm, telling him where he'll be and where the water is. He pauses to look at Ryan's unconscious/sleeping form, and wonders at how childish he looks when asleep. His finger is in his mouth, and he's curled up into the foetal position. Brendon steps out of the room and shuts the door as gently as he can.

Brendon sits outside in the tepid LA night. He dips his toes into the cool water, and stares at the solar lights. He makes up song lyrics in his head until he hears a hulla-baloo from the crowded room behind him. He is about to get up when he feels a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey.” Brendon stands up, and faces Ryan. Ryan swallows. “Um. I'm really sorry. I just had 3 ? litres of water and some Andrews, plus some feta cheese; I'm acceptable now. I'm no worse than they are,” he says quietly, jerking his head at the giggling people swaying lopsidedly to the dance-y music.

Brendon's lips twitch. He breathes through his mouth, the stench of vintage whisky and marijuana is starting to make his nostrils ache.

“It's almost 12, want to go in?” suggests Brendon half-heartedly. He's surprised when Ryan grins and pulls on Brendon's wrist.

There's a huge clock on the TV, showing people out partying beside a beach; a theatre; a TV station. The reporter's face is glowing as they prepare to welcome in a new decade. People were beginning to pair off as the clock reaches 11:59. And counting.

Pete, like the huge fucking ham he is, stands up on the mini stage he's constructed beside the gargantuan TV. He begins to count down.

50… Brendon wonders why the fuck he agreed to come. He'd have been much happier if he'd stayed at home with Bogart, Family Guy and a plate of onion bahjis.

40… Brendon looks around at all the couples. His heart aches.

30… he glances at Ryan, standing utterly still.

2o… He gulps, and takes Ryan's hand.

10… Ryan is chewing his lip.

5… Ryan has his hand resting on the swell of Brendon's ass.

“Welcome to 2010!” shouts the reporter, and cheap whistles go off and people scream, fireworks go off, cracking through the silent night. People are kissing joyfully, welcoming in another mundane year in which they swear they will meet The One, they will lose thirty pounds, and they'll get the perfect job.

Brendon scoffs. His eyes widen in surprise as a pair of lips meet his. Fuck, they're so familiar he doesn't even have to make sure who it is, even though he feels every line of the other's body pressed up against his.

Ryan breaks away. “Happy New Year,” he murmurs against Brendon's jaw.

Brendon tightens his grip on Ryan's waist. “Yes,” he agrees.

As the room of unfamiliar people burst into “Auld Lang Syne” even fucking doing the stupid dance, Brendon tugs Ryan's face towards his again.

This is the year in which Brendon will not let Ryan slip away again.

A/N Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! So I originally wrote this for anon_lovefest on LJ but I had no clue what to do, so I guess you guys get to read it!

News, news, news… Anyone go to see Paramore? I did. 12/12/09 Best. Night. Of. My-Incredibly-Short. Life. Not only cause I got to meet them as well, they were awesome!

But yeah. Hoping you liked it, and hopefully you'll review and tell me so! (Plus a big thank-you if she's reading this, to MeltYourHeadaches for reviewing my last thing (I Gotta Feeling) which was awesome. <3)

Oh and Fresh Starts Are Hard To Do has officially hit a wall. I know no-one cares but just letting you know. Jesus this is the longest A/N in history.

Reviews are loved. Welcomed. Adored. You get the point.

Happy Holidays!

 

The preceeding was a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

Please see the Terms of Service for more information.

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