The morning after the end of tour, Jon wakes up first, before his alarm. It's actually the quiet that does it. He can sleep through Andy gargling and Nick tapping on things, and he's developed a resistance to wet, inquisitive kitten noses reminding him it is time for breakfast, but silence, that will get him every time.
It's kind of nice, actually, just him and the sunshine and Ryan's bizarrely ancient coffeemaker. He sort of ambles around the kitchen a little, gathering up breakfast, periodically catching a glimpse of the packed bags and guitar waiting for him by the front door.
He cleans up in a way that he will acknowledge, if only to himself, is compulsive and a delaying tactic. But knowing he's leaving Ryan with a kitchen that is in good order eases the ache in his stomach.
Finally it's time to go. Ryan is still asleep, or at least still in bed. Jon didn't really expect him to be awake; he's booked the airport shuttle in advance. He's also left a note on the table, pinned down by the salt shaker shaped like a cow.
Jon taps lightly on the bedroom door, then pushes it open slowly. Ryan is totally crashed out, curled around a teddy bear in a swirl of half-kicked-off blankets. He's only wearing boxers and a ratty t-shirt; the AC is blasting and Jon is suddenly cold.
He pulls the blankets back up over Ryan, but even that doesn't wake him up. Jon thinks, for a moment, about cancelling the shuttle, and staying, about tearing up the note and trying just one more time to talk about the next record, about new music, about what it is they're doing now. He thinks about lying down next to Ryan, to wait for him to wake, as if closer proximity will fix their inability to hear each other. (It won't; they've had the same argument bunched up in the van as they did 2,000 miles apart, and Jon knows this, too.)
Finally Jon exhales, and puts one knee on the bed, and leans down to kiss Ryan's temple. Ryan mumbles and stirs and Jon pets his hair until he settles, and then he leaves.
FIll: TYV: Ryan/Jon
It's kind of nice, actually, just him and the sunshine and Ryan's bizarrely ancient coffeemaker. He sort of ambles around the kitchen a little, gathering up breakfast, periodically catching a glimpse of the packed bags and guitar waiting for him by the front door.
He cleans up in a way that he will acknowledge, if only to himself, is compulsive and a delaying tactic. But knowing he's leaving Ryan with a kitchen that is in good order eases the ache in his stomach.
Finally it's time to go. Ryan is still asleep, or at least still in bed. Jon didn't really expect him to be awake; he's booked the airport shuttle in advance. He's also left a note on the table, pinned down by the salt shaker shaped like a cow.
Jon taps lightly on the bedroom door, then pushes it open slowly. Ryan is totally crashed out, curled around a teddy bear in a swirl of half-kicked-off blankets. He's only wearing boxers and a ratty t-shirt; the AC is blasting and Jon is suddenly cold.
He pulls the blankets back up over Ryan, but even that doesn't wake him up. Jon thinks, for a moment, about cancelling the shuttle, and staying, about tearing up the note and trying just one more time to talk about the next record, about new music, about what it is they're doing now. He thinks about lying down next to Ryan, to wait for him to wake, as if closer proximity will fix their inability to hear each other. (It won't; they've had the same argument bunched up in the van as they did 2,000 miles apart, and Jon knows this, too.)
Finally Jon exhales, and puts one knee on the bed, and leans down to kiss Ryan's temple. Ryan mumbles and stirs and Jon pets his hair until he settles, and then he leaves.