Fairy Tales of Yesterday -- Ryan and Jon
Nov. 6th, 2010 07:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
turpsFairy Tales of Yesterday. Ryan and Jon. 1832 words
In a meme I was asked what I'd write for a Jon/Ryan h/c story. This is my response fleshed out.
For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
themoononastick Who's a fantastic friend and someone who keeps on beta reading for me on a moment's notice. I hope you like this as much written out as you did in summary.
Warning. This deals heavily with depression issues.
Thanks go toteigh_corvus who helped me plan and then also beta read ♥
Jon’s always taken by surprise when it happens.
At least that’s what he tells himself. Truthfully, the reality is he’s a master of ignoring the signs. It’s easier that way. If he doesn’t acknowledge the creeping numbness he doesn’t have to spend his days waiting for that final brutal strike.
Before that, though, as he buys bulk amounts of cat food and ensures that his bills are paid and keeps on smiling for those around him; bright and tight and brittle -- on some kind of level he knows.
But the thing is, if he doesn’t acknowledge he can keep on living. Until that final moment when he can’t.
~*~*~*~
“You’re spoilt,” Jon says, and shakes more dry food into the bowls. They’re both full -- overly full -- but better that than them being too empty. He shakes in another cascade of kibble and sets down the bowls onto the floor, stands with his hands tucked under his armpits and watches his cats.
They brush against Jon’s ankles before attacking the food, and for a moment he listens to them eat, forcing himself to stay until he’s sure they’re okay. They’ve got food, fresh water, their litter boxes are clean. And Jon’s head is throbbing with the strain of providing this care when all he wants to do is lie down and not move.
That urge is almost overwhelming, and it feels like Jon’s holding onto the last thread of here and now as he does a last stumbling circuit of his house. Checking doors and windows as that thread fades, no matter how hard he grasps.
By the time Jon checks the last window tears are sliding down his face.
He doesn’t wipe away them away.
~*~*~*~
Jon’s eyes are open. His pillow is damp against his face.
Outside the moon is shining.
Inside there’s only sadness.
It presses Jon down and is packed tight in his chest.
It hurts to breathe.
Sometimes Jon thinks it would be easier to stop trying.
~*~*~*~
Jon keeps his quilt around his shoulders when he's forced to leave his room.
He’s got one hand against the wall and his nails scrape over the plaster and catch against the door-frame as he heads into the bathroom. Fumbling with his boxers, he pushes material aside so he can piss. Stands with his eyes closed against his own reflection in the too-bright tiles.
Jon doesn’t need to know what he looks like. He already knows.
~*~*~*~
Ryan’s voice is faint, his words caught on the machine.
“Hey asshole, have you let your battery die again? Call me when you get back.”
“Still waiting, dick wad. I’ve stuff to tell you.”
“I know you’re at home, call me already.”
“Jon, are you okay? Call me.”
“I’m getting freaked out here. Call me back as soon as you get this.”
“I mean it.”
Each message is marked with a beep. They mount up, a steady rhythm against Jon’s own stuttered breathing.
~*~*~*~
Jon opens his eyes and someone’s standing next to his bed.
Someone wearing brown, pin striped pants, the knee ripped and exposing a bleeding knee. Jon breathes out, says, “Ryan.”
“You never called me back.” Ryan sits, his back against the bedside table. He’s wearing a white shirt that’s smudged with green and black stains and he rubs at a mark with his fingers as he looks over at Jon. “You unfollowed me on Twitter.”
Jon’s eyes feel gummy, the lids falling closed as he concentrates, making his mouth form words. “I still like you.”
Ryan rubs harder at the stain, says, “I know. That’s not what I meant. You unfollowed everyone.”
It’s true, and Jon tries for some glib remark or a smile. His face hurts at the attempt and Ryan’s expression is the blank he achieves when he’s painfully out of his depth. Which should make Jon feel bad, and he does, but only in the most academic of ways. Like he’s acting out some emotion he doesn’t actually feel.
“I needed a time out, you know how it gets,” Jon says, and this is Ryan, who nods slightly as he keeps staring at Jon.
“I know you need a shower, you reek,” Ryan says. “And that you need to give me a key. I had to break and climb in a window.”
It explains the smudges, and the torn pants, and Jon matches expected reactions, forcing himself to grin. “You fell, didn’t you?”
Ryan opens his mouth, as if he’s about to protest, then says, “Not far. And your bushes broke my fall.”
Jon does laugh then, naturally, and the surge of emotion is so shocking he cuts it off mid flow, snapping shut his mouth as he tries to catch hold of and contain one bright spark in what’s otherwise dark.
“Fuck. Jon.” Ryan’s expression is crumbling, and he looks like the boy Jon first knew way back in the beginning. “You keep doing this and I don’t know what to do. Or to say. Tell me how to fix this.”
And the thing is, Jon can’t. He hasn’t the words to explain how he’s feeling. Not to himself, and definitely not to Ryan. He presses his face against his pillow again, breathes shallowly against the fabric. “I can’t.”
“Okay. Okay, I get that.” There’s the sound of Ryan moving, the soft brush of fabric against fabric, and when he speaks again Ryan’s words are stilted. “What about therapists. You could go, they help.”
Jon shakes his head. He hasn’t the ability to explain via words, but there is something. He says, “There’s box on the sweater shelf in the closet. Get it.”
Ryan goes, and Jon listens to his footsteps, the click of a door opening and Ryan rummaging in the closet. His soft exclamation before he walks back and sits in the same place.
Jon turns his head and opens his eyes, turns so he can look over the side of the bed to the box. It’s a move that pulls the quilt from Jon’s back and he shivers at the feel of fresh air against his sweat-soaked back, his t-shirt clinging to his body. He reaches for the box lid, and it feels like he’s swimming in cotton wool, his skin prickling and each movement an effort as he exposes the pictures inside.
They’re the ones that mean too much. Ryan in full make-up, shielding himself from the world. Brendon on Zack’s back, both of them grinning and flipping off the camera, Ryan and Spencer with their heads together, reading the same magazine. And the one of Jon. A self portrait taken on the cusp of a drop into nothing. A picture that’s almost all shadow, the lines of Jon’s face blurred and indistinct, fading into the darkness around him.
Jon takes that one and hands it over. “That’s me.”
“I know,” Ryan says quietly, and stands, tucking the photo into his pocket. “I’m hungry. I’ll make us dinner.”
Jon pulls up the quilt and closes his eyes.
~*~*~*~
When Jon wakes his bedroom is filled with sunshine.
It’s a glaring contrast to how he feels and he lies still, body rooted to the earth and head full of shadows. Despite falling asleep on Jon’s bed, there’s no sign of Ryan, no sound of him either and Jon draws in a quick breath and lets it out, again and again and again. Dylan fitted in the curve of his legs and Clover against his back.
He jumps at the sound of a door slamming, and someone walking upstairs.
“I bought muffins,” Ryan announces, and holds up a small paper bag. He’s still wearing the same clothes, the exposed cut on his knee surrounded by dried blood. “I’d have told you I was leaving but you were asleep.”
Jon doesn’t reply. Asleep or awake it makes no difference, and he’s compliant, shuffling over when Ryan sets down the bag and sits on the bed, kicking off his shoes before lying back, so his head is next to Jon’s on the pillow.
For a long time Ryan doesn’t speak, but he wants to. It’s there in the way he’s staring off into the distance and how his mouth is a tight line, as if he’s physically preventing his words from escaping.
Eventually, he says, “This is stupid, a stupid fucking idea,” and Jon forces himself to pay attention. Because while Ryan may outwardly present a thick skin, the reality is, that while Ryan’s aware that he gets mocked, it’s mockery that Ryan controls. Focused on his looks or his actions, never the part of himself that Ryan holds close.
Jon turns his head, so his forehead is against Ryan’s cheek. “You went out.”
“To buy muffins,” Ryan says, and then adds, “And to do this.”
He pushes himself up on one hip and pulls a thick pile of Polaroid pictures out of his pants pocket. Lying back down he sets them on his chest and takes one off the top of the pile, holding it up so Jon can see.
“You showed me that picture, and I thought. I thought this could be a stop gap for now. I took your camera. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Jon says, and looks at the photo, Ryan’s long fingers solid lines over a badly composed picture of a tree. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s a stupid idea,” Ryan says blankly, and again he stops talking, before saying in a rush. “Before, I lost myself in books, but you don’t do words, you do pictures, and you can’t go out right now, I get that. And I know this doesn’t help. But if you can’t go out I can bring the world to you. Until you feel better.”
“You brought me a picture of a tree,” Jon says.
“It’s the one on the corner of Eldrin Blvd,” Ryan says, and brings the Polaroid closer. “When I walked past there was a squirrel near the top.” He points at a patched of blurred green. “See.”
Jon doesn’t see. But he does feel Ryan’s hand as he curls it around Jon’s, a warm, solid tether to the world. Focusing on that, on the way Ryan’s lying so close, their bodies pressed together at the side, Jon says, “What else did you see?”
Ryan smiles, and shows the next picture of a giant golden dog. “There was a dog outside Starbucks, it was called Casper and the owner let me pet it. She said he liked me.”
“I’m not surprised,” Jon says, and lets himself sink, knowing Ryan will never let go. Because while the pictures won’t make Jon feel better, they are a reminder that Ryan’s here, that he cares.
Ryan puts the Polaroid on top of the pile and looks over at Jon. “Later. When you feel better we’ll go together.”
“To see Casper?” Jon asks drowsily, sleep claiming him once more.
“To see everything,” Ryan replies. “Together. When you’re ready.”
For the first time in days Jon takes a deep breath.
In a meme I was asked what I'd write for a Jon/Ryan h/c story. This is my response fleshed out.
For
themoononastick Who's a fantastic friend and someone who keeps on beta reading for me on a moment's notice. I hope you like this as much written out as you did in summary.Warning. This deals heavily with depression issues.
Thanks go to
teigh_corvus who helped me plan and then also beta read ♥Jon’s always taken by surprise when it happens.
At least that’s what he tells himself. Truthfully, the reality is he’s a master of ignoring the signs. It’s easier that way. If he doesn’t acknowledge the creeping numbness he doesn’t have to spend his days waiting for that final brutal strike.
Before that, though, as he buys bulk amounts of cat food and ensures that his bills are paid and keeps on smiling for those around him; bright and tight and brittle -- on some kind of level he knows.
But the thing is, if he doesn’t acknowledge he can keep on living. Until that final moment when he can’t.
~*~*~*~
“You’re spoilt,” Jon says, and shakes more dry food into the bowls. They’re both full -- overly full -- but better that than them being too empty. He shakes in another cascade of kibble and sets down the bowls onto the floor, stands with his hands tucked under his armpits and watches his cats.
They brush against Jon’s ankles before attacking the food, and for a moment he listens to them eat, forcing himself to stay until he’s sure they’re okay. They’ve got food, fresh water, their litter boxes are clean. And Jon’s head is throbbing with the strain of providing this care when all he wants to do is lie down and not move.
That urge is almost overwhelming, and it feels like Jon’s holding onto the last thread of here and now as he does a last stumbling circuit of his house. Checking doors and windows as that thread fades, no matter how hard he grasps.
By the time Jon checks the last window tears are sliding down his face.
He doesn’t wipe away them away.
~*~*~*~
Jon’s eyes are open. His pillow is damp against his face.
Outside the moon is shining.
Inside there’s only sadness.
It presses Jon down and is packed tight in his chest.
It hurts to breathe.
Sometimes Jon thinks it would be easier to stop trying.
~*~*~*~
Jon keeps his quilt around his shoulders when he's forced to leave his room.
He’s got one hand against the wall and his nails scrape over the plaster and catch against the door-frame as he heads into the bathroom. Fumbling with his boxers, he pushes material aside so he can piss. Stands with his eyes closed against his own reflection in the too-bright tiles.
Jon doesn’t need to know what he looks like. He already knows.
~*~*~*~
Ryan’s voice is faint, his words caught on the machine.
“Hey asshole, have you let your battery die again? Call me when you get back.”
“Still waiting, dick wad. I’ve stuff to tell you.”
“I know you’re at home, call me already.”
“Jon, are you okay? Call me.”
“I’m getting freaked out here. Call me back as soon as you get this.”
“I mean it.”
Each message is marked with a beep. They mount up, a steady rhythm against Jon’s own stuttered breathing.
~*~*~*~
Jon opens his eyes and someone’s standing next to his bed.
Someone wearing brown, pin striped pants, the knee ripped and exposing a bleeding knee. Jon breathes out, says, “Ryan.”
“You never called me back.” Ryan sits, his back against the bedside table. He’s wearing a white shirt that’s smudged with green and black stains and he rubs at a mark with his fingers as he looks over at Jon. “You unfollowed me on Twitter.”
Jon’s eyes feel gummy, the lids falling closed as he concentrates, making his mouth form words. “I still like you.”
Ryan rubs harder at the stain, says, “I know. That’s not what I meant. You unfollowed everyone.”
It’s true, and Jon tries for some glib remark or a smile. His face hurts at the attempt and Ryan’s expression is the blank he achieves when he’s painfully out of his depth. Which should make Jon feel bad, and he does, but only in the most academic of ways. Like he’s acting out some emotion he doesn’t actually feel.
“I needed a time out, you know how it gets,” Jon says, and this is Ryan, who nods slightly as he keeps staring at Jon.
“I know you need a shower, you reek,” Ryan says. “And that you need to give me a key. I had to break and climb in a window.”
It explains the smudges, and the torn pants, and Jon matches expected reactions, forcing himself to grin. “You fell, didn’t you?”
Ryan opens his mouth, as if he’s about to protest, then says, “Not far. And your bushes broke my fall.”
Jon does laugh then, naturally, and the surge of emotion is so shocking he cuts it off mid flow, snapping shut his mouth as he tries to catch hold of and contain one bright spark in what’s otherwise dark.
“Fuck. Jon.” Ryan’s expression is crumbling, and he looks like the boy Jon first knew way back in the beginning. “You keep doing this and I don’t know what to do. Or to say. Tell me how to fix this.”
And the thing is, Jon can’t. He hasn’t the words to explain how he’s feeling. Not to himself, and definitely not to Ryan. He presses his face against his pillow again, breathes shallowly against the fabric. “I can’t.”
“Okay. Okay, I get that.” There’s the sound of Ryan moving, the soft brush of fabric against fabric, and when he speaks again Ryan’s words are stilted. “What about therapists. You could go, they help.”
Jon shakes his head. He hasn’t the ability to explain via words, but there is something. He says, “There’s box on the sweater shelf in the closet. Get it.”
Ryan goes, and Jon listens to his footsteps, the click of a door opening and Ryan rummaging in the closet. His soft exclamation before he walks back and sits in the same place.
Jon turns his head and opens his eyes, turns so he can look over the side of the bed to the box. It’s a move that pulls the quilt from Jon’s back and he shivers at the feel of fresh air against his sweat-soaked back, his t-shirt clinging to his body. He reaches for the box lid, and it feels like he’s swimming in cotton wool, his skin prickling and each movement an effort as he exposes the pictures inside.
They’re the ones that mean too much. Ryan in full make-up, shielding himself from the world. Brendon on Zack’s back, both of them grinning and flipping off the camera, Ryan and Spencer with their heads together, reading the same magazine. And the one of Jon. A self portrait taken on the cusp of a drop into nothing. A picture that’s almost all shadow, the lines of Jon’s face blurred and indistinct, fading into the darkness around him.
Jon takes that one and hands it over. “That’s me.”
“I know,” Ryan says quietly, and stands, tucking the photo into his pocket. “I’m hungry. I’ll make us dinner.”
Jon pulls up the quilt and closes his eyes.
~*~*~*~
When Jon wakes his bedroom is filled with sunshine.
It’s a glaring contrast to how he feels and he lies still, body rooted to the earth and head full of shadows. Despite falling asleep on Jon’s bed, there’s no sign of Ryan, no sound of him either and Jon draws in a quick breath and lets it out, again and again and again. Dylan fitted in the curve of his legs and Clover against his back.
He jumps at the sound of a door slamming, and someone walking upstairs.
“I bought muffins,” Ryan announces, and holds up a small paper bag. He’s still wearing the same clothes, the exposed cut on his knee surrounded by dried blood. “I’d have told you I was leaving but you were asleep.”
Jon doesn’t reply. Asleep or awake it makes no difference, and he’s compliant, shuffling over when Ryan sets down the bag and sits on the bed, kicking off his shoes before lying back, so his head is next to Jon’s on the pillow.
For a long time Ryan doesn’t speak, but he wants to. It’s there in the way he’s staring off into the distance and how his mouth is a tight line, as if he’s physically preventing his words from escaping.
Eventually, he says, “This is stupid, a stupid fucking idea,” and Jon forces himself to pay attention. Because while Ryan may outwardly present a thick skin, the reality is, that while Ryan’s aware that he gets mocked, it’s mockery that Ryan controls. Focused on his looks or his actions, never the part of himself that Ryan holds close.
Jon turns his head, so his forehead is against Ryan’s cheek. “You went out.”
“To buy muffins,” Ryan says, and then adds, “And to do this.”
He pushes himself up on one hip and pulls a thick pile of Polaroid pictures out of his pants pocket. Lying back down he sets them on his chest and takes one off the top of the pile, holding it up so Jon can see.
“You showed me that picture, and I thought. I thought this could be a stop gap for now. I took your camera. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Jon says, and looks at the photo, Ryan’s long fingers solid lines over a badly composed picture of a tree. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s a stupid idea,” Ryan says blankly, and again he stops talking, before saying in a rush. “Before, I lost myself in books, but you don’t do words, you do pictures, and you can’t go out right now, I get that. And I know this doesn’t help. But if you can’t go out I can bring the world to you. Until you feel better.”
“You brought me a picture of a tree,” Jon says.
“It’s the one on the corner of Eldrin Blvd,” Ryan says, and brings the Polaroid closer. “When I walked past there was a squirrel near the top.” He points at a patched of blurred green. “See.”
Jon doesn’t see. But he does feel Ryan’s hand as he curls it around Jon’s, a warm, solid tether to the world. Focusing on that, on the way Ryan’s lying so close, their bodies pressed together at the side, Jon says, “What else did you see?”
Ryan smiles, and shows the next picture of a giant golden dog. “There was a dog outside Starbucks, it was called Casper and the owner let me pet it. She said he liked me.”
“I’m not surprised,” Jon says, and lets himself sink, knowing Ryan will never let go. Because while the pictures won’t make Jon feel better, they are a reminder that Ryan’s here, that he cares.
Ryan puts the Polaroid on top of the pile and looks over at Jon. “Later. When you feel better we’ll go together.”
“To see Casper?” Jon asks drowsily, sleep claiming him once more.
“To see everything,” Ryan replies. “Together. When you’re ready.”
For the first time in days Jon takes a deep breath.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-11-06 10:01 pm (UTC)I don't really think Jon has this kind of problem- I think he just likes to be normal for awhile- but that said - I could really believe this. Your depiction of this kind of depression is scarily accurate.
I also really appreciate you writing a Ryan that was NOT completely emotionally retarded and actually got it. This is just gorgeous.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-06 10:12 pm (UTC)As for Ryan. I'm sure he can be self centred, but no way as much as I've read in some cases. He's also not some kind of robot. He's just Ryan.
Thank you for such a lovely comment. I haven't written away from the MCR side of things in ages and was nervous about this.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-07 12:21 am (UTC)Also? You made me cry, so I guess that means we're even *g*
Thank you, bb, I love it, and you <333333333
no subject
Date: 2010-11-07 12:38 am (UTC)As Ryan is the common element of these crying spells I suggest we blame him. Damn Ross and his emotional manipulation.
♥
no subject
Date: 2010-11-08 05:23 am (UTC)I love what Ryan does. I love that he clearly feels out of his depth, and doesn't take the greatest pictures, but that he does that thing for Jon. He cares, and he gets Jon. It's really sweet.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-14 09:58 pm (UTC)Like I said in other comments this was very much a what if story. So I'm glad it didn't seem too far out.
It's lovely to see your name around these parts again, too ♥
no subject
Date: 2010-11-12 02:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-14 09:25 pm (UTC)Thanks for giving it a go <3
no subject
Date: 2010-11-14 11:58 pm (UTC)after staying up to read every single one of Ryan's and Spencer's tweets. It's not completely out of the realm of possibility now that I think about it - since Jon suddenly unfollowed everyone on Twitter one day? Which I read to be - he didn't just want to get away cos he could have logged off, he wasn't in a happy mood.no subject
Date: 2010-11-15 12:04 am (UTC)Man, I love Ryan and Spencer so much. It breaks my heart that they're not BFFs any more.
no subject
Date: 2010-11-15 10:05 am (UTC)Random aside: I did not know that Ryan followed Ryan's Cocaine???
Now I kind of not-so-secretly wish that MCR and Panic will follow each other on Twitter - particularly Mikey and Ryan...I mean come on Ryan was/is totally an MCR fanboy!no subject
Date: 2010-11-15 08:27 pm (UTC)Yeah, that's what gets me :(
Ryan makes some strange choices in the people he follows, the one being the main one that always stands out to me. If they did start following each other I'd explode with joy.
no subject
Date: 2010-12-06 02:36 am (UTC)'B
no subject
Date: 2010-12-10 10:21 pm (UTC)I wasn't sure if anyone would be on board with this, so it's lovely that you took the time to read and comment.