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Happy Birthday, I'm sorry.

Aug. 1st, 2012 | 12:27 am

Rating 
Pairing: Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie (Ryden)
POV: 3rd
Word count: nearly 2000
SummaryBrendon tries to take Ryan out for his birthday, but the surpise isn't what Brendon had in store
Disclaimer As true as I am beyonce (((cries)))
Author Notes: My friend gave me the idea for this and then I cried when I wrote it okay bye








Ryan huffs and looks out of the window, folding his arms.

He watches as miles of sand passes his eyes until he finally speaks again. 

“Can you please just tell me where we’re going?” he asks, turning his neck to look at Brendon, whose grip is getting tighter on the steering wheel.

“I told you, Ryan, it’s a surprise.” He replies, gritting his teeth. 

Ryan rolls his eyes, “You know I hate surprises, Brendon.” 

Brendon takes a deep breath in and ignores his boyfriend, focusing on the long stretch of road ahead. 

“Brendon! Seriously!” 

“Seriously what, Ryan?! This is for your birthday! So shut the fuck up and let me drive!” Brendon yells, still not looking over at the man sitting beside him in their brand new, paid-with-tour-money car.

Ryan groans and lets his head fall back onto the headrest behind him. He cracks his knuckles purposely to annoy Brendon, doing them one at a time.

“Don’t be a dick, Ryan. That’s gross.”

“Tell me,” crack “where,” crack “we’re going” crack.

“Stop it or I’ll break your fucking fingers off!” He hisses, glancing at Ryan quickly, before turning back to the front. 

“Oh really?” Ryan snorts, “Then how on earth will you get off?”

“My own fingers” Brendon retorts, “And for the record, yours do not get me off, Ross.”

“Oh really? Did I imagine last night then?”

Brendon slams his hand down on the steering wheel, turning to look at Ryan. 

“For fucks sake, Ryan! Why do you have to be such a fucking arrogant prick all the time?”


Ryan’s eyes widen and he watches Brendon face the road again with fury written all over his features. He sits up straight. 

“Me? I’m the arrogant prick?”

“Are you trying to turn this around on me?!” Brendon spits, disbelief in his voice, his body twisting to stare at Ryan.

“Well there is no one else in this fucking car-”

“Ryan! I am trying to do something nice for your birthday! Like a good fucking boyfriend! You’re so unappreciative, do you know that?” 

“Brendon-”

“No, Ryan! I’ve fucking had enough! It’s time someone told you-”

“BRENDON!” Ryan screams. 

Crash. 


Bang. 


White.


Red.

*

When Ryan’s eyes slowly drift open, he’s first greeted with a sharp, throbbing pain bouncing around in his head. 
He tries to sit up, but there’s a huge white cloud in front of him.

“What the-” Ryan begins, but he realises what it is. 

He pushes the airbag as forcefully as he can out of his way, and immediately turns to his left. 

“Brendon?” Ryan croaks, staring down at the sight before him.

His boyfriend is inches closer to him than he was before, his body slumped forward.

Tears begin to swell in his eyes as he see’s what’s done the damage, a huge dent in the side of the car has pushed Brendon in, and he’s bleeding. 

God, he’s bleeding. 

There’s blood all over his forehead, and Ryan makes the connection. 

One glance to the windscreen - it’s cracked. It’s so fucking cracked. Broken. Damaged. 

“Fuck, Brendon, Fuck!” he hisses, struggling to get his own seatbelt off. 

He has to save him, he has to. 

“Dude, you’re okay!” He hears a voice call from outside the car, but he doesn’t have time for anyone else, not right now. 

But the car door is being yanked open by a young, anxious guy who is gripping his mobile in his hand. 

“I, man I- I’m so sorry, I- you’re car came out of nowhere, I, I wasn’t expecting it, I-” 

“Have you called an ambulance?” Ryan rushes out, petrified. 

“I, wha- yes, yes of course” the guy replies, so Ryan whips back round, the thump in his head long forgotten. 


“Fuck,” Ryan pants, he doesn‘t know what to do.


Shit, would shout he do?


Is he breathing? Is he even fucking breathing?


The gentle rise and fall of Brendon’s stomach makes Ryan so relived he feels sick.


Putting both of his hands on Brendon’s shoulders, shaking slightly. 


“Brendon, fuck Brendon wake up!” he demands, shaking harder now. 


“Please, Brendon oh God, please,” he continues, his tears dripping down onto his arms, running down them onto Brendon’s body. 


Brendon’s eyes slowly begin to flutter open, and Ryan’s shut in momentary bliss. 


“You’re okay, shit you’re okay!” Ryan calls,  relief running through his body like a drug.


But then Brendon shakes his head, and Ryan’s smile slips from his features. 



“No? What do you mean no?” He demands, hands still gripping Brendon’s shoulders, hard.

Brendon’s arm raises weakly, and takes one of Ryan’s hands in his. 


Ryan gulps helplessly as Brendon gently places Ryan’s hand onto his head, “That’s a lot of blood, Ry,” he tries to say, but it comes out as barely a whisper. 

“So? So?!” Ryan cries, “the ambulance are coming, Bren, they’re on their way, we’ll get you out of here-”


Brendon smiles as Ryan brushes his hair out of his eyes. His hand falls and takes Brendon’s. 


“We’ll get you out of here,” Ryan repeats, and he’s nodding furiously, eyes sparkling. 


“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Brendon replies, gripping Ryan’s hand as tight as he can. 


“Brendon, seriously, baby, stop saying shit like that,” Ryan pleads, squeezing Brendon’s hand back crushingly hard. 


Brendon smiles again, but Ryan see’s the tears beginning to form in his beautiful, fucking beautiful eyes. 


“Ryan, I’m so sorry,”  he coughs, looking up.


“What? No, no don’t be sorry you idiot don’t be sorry,” Ryan begs, taking both their hands in his left, not bothering to wipe the tears from his eyes anymore.

“I know you don’t like surprises, but-” he says, and Ryan can’t believe what he’s hearing. 

“Brendon, stop, please stop, you can tell me this at the hospital, please-”


“-I was going to take you to the restaurant we went to, you know, the day we got signed.” Brendon finishes, and it’s so obvious how hard he’s finding it to breathe, but Ryan can’t see it. 


Won’t see it.


Ryan’s body is racked from a sob which forms deep in his stomach, “Oh fuck, Brendon, I’m so sorry I pushed you like that-” 


“Shh, Ryan,” Brendon whispers, tears decorating his growing pale cheeks, “It’s okay,” 


Ryan scrambles closer, his legs pressing into gear sticks and the stereo. He’s on his knees and he can’t believe what was
happening. 


The sad smile is starting to fall from Brendon’s face, and Ryan shakes their hands desperately. 


“Hey, hey now Bren, stay with me,” he chokes, trying to keep it together, fuck, he needs to get it together, “the ambulance will be here so soon, baby, I know they will,”


Brendon’s lip is caught in between his teeth, but he doesn’t reply, he just looks down.


“No, Brendon! Look at me! Fucking look at me!” Ryan demands, ignoring the stream of blood that’s beginning to fall down Brendon’s face. 


Brendon rolls his head up, using up his energy. 


“I’m sorry Bren,” Ryan whispers, rocking back and forth on his knees, “I’m so sorry.” 


“Ryan,” Brendon breaths, and it’s so hard to hear him over the sound of Ryan’s sobs, “Ryan, baby, I love you.” He says, and Ryan’s whole body shakes.


“Brendon I love you so much, I can’t lose you, please, God please,” he replies, his tears blurring his vision. 


“You’ll never lose me,” Brendon says,  and Ryan shakes his head, begging God to please, please let Brendon survive.  “Not forever, at least.”


“Fuck, Brendon no-”


“But I’m going away now, okay?” Brendon whispers, his grip on Ryan’s hand loosening.


“No, no no no-”


“shh, Ry, shh, it’s okay,” Brendon replies, nodding against Ryan’s words, his tears now mixing with the blood, running towards his lips. “I’ll only be gone for a little while,” he promises. 


“No, you won’t be gone at all!” Ryan begs, his hair falling in front of eyes. 


“You’ll see me again, Ryan. So soon.” Brendon confirms.


His cheeks are so white. 


How does he look so beautiful, even when he’s-


Even when he’s dying.


“Brendon, no, Brendon,” Ryan chokes, words escaping him, he’s not prepared, God how is anyone prepared?”
“Keep the band, Ryan,” Brendon breathes, but Ryan is struggling to reply.  “Promise me.”


“I promise, baby,” Ryan replies, but he knows he’s lying. 


How could the band go on without the most perfect member?


How could Ryan go on without the most perfect man alive?


Alive. 


Fuck.


“I can’t survive without you,” Ryan tries, but Brendon’s smile is growing weak. 


“You did for seventeen years, you can do it for a couple more,” Brendon replies, his eyes sliding shut.


“No! NO!” Ryan screams, feeling Brendon’s hand slip from his. 


He puts his hands back onto Brendon’s shoulders, and shakes. 



He shakes so fucking hard.

But that it’s it.

He’s gone.


Ryan’s body gives up on him, and he falls onto Brendon, tucking his arms around Brendon’s shouders, his sobs filling the empty car. 

“Brendon,” is all he says, his tears flowing more than ever before in his life. 


Seconds later, he hears the sirens of the ambulance, and the calls of the guy outside, the guy who’s car they crashed into.


But it’s not his fault.


It’s not Brendon’s fault either.


It’s Ryan’s. 


He yelled, and screamed, and distracted Brendon from the road. 


God this is all his fucking fault. 


He didn’t know how his life could continue anymore, not after he’d taken it from the most beautiful, most talented, most sensational man he’d ever known.

He didn’t know if he could even try. 

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On The First/Final Evening

May. 4th, 2012 | 04:47 pm

Rating: PG-13 
Pairing: George/Boyd (But actually, Ryan/Brendon)
POV: 1st, Ryan's. 
Word count: 5524
Summary: George Ross is a young man living in The Whitechapel District in London. The year is 1888, and there have been murders. Lots of them. And George is, possibly, more involved than he wishes to be. 
Disclaimer: Not real, would be possibly disastrous if it was.
Author Notes: The first paragraph of this fic is from a Sherlock Holmes novel, it is what I was given in my English literature class. We had to carry on the story, and well, embarrassingly enough, here it is. I'm sure my teacher loved it.

It's a wild night, the wind is howling outside and the rain is beating and splashing against the windows.
Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified woman. She runs down the dark, roughly laid road, stumbling slightly as she goes. Her neck cranes to look behind her and she screams again as she see’s the figure that is chasing her pick up their speed with their hands stretched out before them. She might’ve had a better chance if she had keeps her mouth shut. 
The gloved hands catch her wet, blonde hair and he pulls her back forcefully. He removes one hand immediately from the locks and throws it over her mouth, silencing the high pitched noise that was about to leave her lungs and pierce the air. He spins her round, hand still in place over her previously perfect red stained lips, and he brings his free hand to his mouth. 
He places one finger over his lips signalling her silence, before dragging roughly across his chin and down to his throat, where he slides the finger from one side the other. Had I been able to see that far with the dim light the gas lamps emitted, I’m certain I would of seen her pale eyes widen in greater fear. 
Slowly, he removes his hand from her mouth, and as desired she stays silent. They stand still for a moment, the wind blowing her long, dirtied skirt. I count in my head. One, two, three. Then his hands are around her neck. She throws hers up to his arms, and tries desperately to pull them away, clawing and scratching but he resists easily. Far to easily. Practise makes perfect. 
Her body becomes suddenly limp, but he doesn’t let go, not for a few more seconds at least. And when he does, she begins to fall ungracefully to the ground like a rag, but he catches her before she hits the ground. He places his arm around her hip, and pulls  hers over his frame. Like fate, her head falls onto his shoulder, and if anyone were to see, it is just another man carrying his drunken whore home. He drags  her feet across the road slightly to make her appear standing, before spinning to look up at the window I was inhabiting. 
He cocks his head slightly at the sight of me, before a grin spreads across his features. The blood in my veins grows cold, and before I can blink the dirty smile is gone, and he is focusing on pulling the body delicately and naturally, just like her heart is still beating.
He begins to move slowly, her feet drag roughly across the pebbles and he pulls her up just slightly more, and he smiles at how easy this all is. His eyes shoot back up to my window, and he nods his head. I sigh deeply, but that is it. That is my signal. So I turn around and walk swiftly down the wooden stairs. 
And I pull the door open. 
And there he is. 
Again. 
*
“Move out the Godforsaken way, George!” he demands, as he stands in my narrow hallway, still holding the limp body in his arms, rain dripping off his hair and on to the wooden floor that ran all over my tiny, dark house.
“I thought you were going to stop” I mutter, crossing my arms over my thin, brittle chest, looking sternly at the ground. How was I supposed to look him in the eyes anymore? 
“Move” he repeats, and against my will I stand slightly to the side, granting enough room for him and his latest project to brush past me and begin the descent down to my cellar.
“Dammit” I groan he kicks open the door at the bottom of the stairs.
“What did you say?” I hear him return, before the sound of footsteps on a cement ground fill my ears.
“I said dammit, Boyd!” I shout, walking past the first steps that take you down to a dark lonely room, filled with tables and clothes and.. Tools. 
And blood.
He doesn’t answer, so I carry on into my kitchen, opening two cupboards before I find a 
relatively clean pot, which I fill with water until my hands are tired. Carrying it over to the stove, I hear him shuffling around below me, and I gulp, despite my brain telling me not too.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had bodies in here, and I was positive it wouldn’t be the last, even if that may be contrary to what he keeps telling me. I tap my fingers needlessly against the worktop as I wait for the water to boil. 
God, I wish I was making tea. 
The grand bubbles appear quicker than I expected, but maybe I was just losing track of time. I pick up the handle and it’s cold against my skin, but the steam is rising from the mouth. I make sure I have a firm grip before turning and heading back the way I came, only a lot slower this time. 
The steps I take are careful as I begin walking down the narrow stair way, the noises of Boyd’s constant need to move fill the air. I reach the last step and condensation is forming on my forehead, but dare not reach to wipe it in case I drop the pan. 
Boyd smiles at me gratefully as he takes the handle from he, and immediately places down on a small table next to him. I suppose it’s not that heavy when you’re used to much greater weights. 
I try and keep my eyes focused on the ground, but the urge to look up becomes to strong and I find my sight shooting straight up to the woman laid across a thin white table in the middle of the room. I know the colours drained from my face and I can feel my stomach clenching, but Boyd only smirks. He takes a small, sharp knife and drops it into the pot, before running his now un gloved hand through his hair. He takes a step closer to me and takes my chin in his hand, and forces my head up so I can see him directly. 
“Don’t be a baby, George. It’s only skin and bones, you’ve seen it before.”
I jerk my head away and move backwards, arms once again crossing my chest. My defence mechanism, Boyd’s always said.
“Doesn’t mean I want to see it again,” I return, and I’m sure I can smell her already. 
He laughs quietly and turns away from me, dipping his finger into the water before plunging his whole hand in, pulling out the surgeons knife, and for something so tiny it holds a lot of power. 
Holding the handle delicately in his hand, he drags in down the flesh on pale side of his arm, smiling brightly when a thin stream of blood appears. “Sharp enough” he continues, and I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or himself. 
Or her. 
“Why do you bother putting the knife in boiling water? I ask, trying to distract him from cutting the body open because, Jesus Christ, I’m not sure if my stomach can handle that. 
He smiles at my interest, but doesn’t put the knife down. “It kills the germs” he answers, and my eyebrow raises.
“Germs? What do you mean, germs?” 
He sighs and turns away from me, stretching his arms out until I hear a pop of his shoulders, it makes me grimace. “Germs, bacteria,  pathogens?” he continues, and I still don’t understand. 
He places the knife down on a small, clean cloth and runs a finger through his longish dark hair which had began to flop over his cold brown eyes. “They’ll infect the body. Make it pus all nasty and such, don’t want that” he finishes. 
Despite my best efforts not to concentrate on the body laid out on a slab in front of me in my own damn house, my eyes always wandered and fell on the sight.
 I’d begged him to use his own home, pleaded with him not to get me more involved with his sickening way of life than I already am, but “honestly, George, you expect me to work like this in central London? You do understand what it’s like to be a doctor? I have people coming in and out of my house everyday! No one comes in here but me. Please, George. There is no better way.” 
I inwardly groan as I remember the way he forced my acceptance out of me, and how this is the last thing I ever wanted. Pulling my eyes away, I look around the room but it’s almost just as bad as the sight in front of me. 
In small bags lay keep sakes, a hair band, a glove, a string of lace. Something to remind Boyd of the victory he has had.
 He doesn’t always take the bodies back here, sometimes if he knows what he’s doing and how he’s doing it he’ll slice them open in the middle of the street, pull out their guts and leave the body there. But sometimes, only sometimes, Boyd needs more than just a couple of minutes in a dark alley.
Sometimes the case is more.. Extreme. And once the body has been ‘operated’ on, he passes it along to a man named James, who takes care of the evidence. A man who wakes me in the middle of the night with a sharp knock on my door. He pushes past me without a word with a thick cloth under his arm and makes his way straight to the basement, returning seconds later with a body wrapped in the cloth, somehow folded in half in ways I dare not think of if I want to sleep at night. The first time he came, Boyd was with him. He smiled reassuringly at me as a short, thin man with a trim beard and piercing blue eyes walked into my house, no emotion present on his chiselled features. Boyd showed him somewhat politely to the basement, and for the first time in my life I saw him nervous. 
Since then, once a week, every Tuesday morning at forty seven minutes past three, there is a hooded man standing at my doorway. 
Waiting.
Sometimes Boyd will arrive out of the blue late on a Wednesday night with a whore in his arms and I’ll be waiting for six days for James to come and a stench will begin to rise. 
I snap out of my thoughts when I hear Boyd curse, and I look up immediately. 
“Are you okay?” I ask out of habit, and he shakes his head in annoyance. 
“I’ve sliced my own finger, aint I?” he whines, and I look down to his source of pain, which was now sure enough dripping with blood. 
I cringe, and turn around searching for a bandage. 
“Don’t bother” I hear him mutter, and I spin to see him already wrapping his finger in a presumably clean white cotton. 
His eyebrows furrow as he struggles to tie the ends together, and defeated he holds his hand out to me, puppy eyes and all. 
There was no point pretending to resist, so I take his hand in mine and tied to lose ends together gently, but firm enough so they wouldn’t slip apart. 
His hand lingers on mine for a second or two before he withdraws and turns immediately back to the body. I feel my cheeks redden for no reason and I wipe my suddenly sweaty hands on my trousers. 
He sighs loudly and I ask him if there is anything I can do to help.
Seemingly annoyed at my offer he spins round and yells “What can you do, George?” 
I retreat slightly and look to the cold ground,
 “Gonna snap your fingers and fix the school boy error I’ve just made?” 
I want to look up and meet his gaze, but he over powers me easily and I find myself shrinking  into the walls. 
“I, I don’t understand Bo-” 
“You think people aren’t talking, George?” he shakes his head and rubs his face tiredly, “There’s been a second letter.” 
My eyes widen in shock and I let myself look up, taking advantage at his lack of anger, “There has?!”
He nods regretfully and collapses to the ground, tucking one leg under the other and sitting like a child on the floor. I
f anyone were to see, It’d be like I was looking after my little brother as he sits on the ground, heart broken for the first time, or upset because mother and father won’t let him go and play.
Instead, I’m watching my mass murderer best friend of twelve years break down in in my cellar because somebody knows. 
Somebody knows what he’s doing, and somebody’s trying to make it stop. The first letter was sent to the police a few months ago.
A faux letter claiming they were doing what Boyd was doing, that they were the mastermind of it all. Jack the Ripper, apparently. 
I watch him come apart as he runs both hands through the hair on the sides of his head and his knee bounces violently on nothing. It’s been years since I’ve seen him come even close to worrying, he’s had it all planned out so perfectly. And even I’d admit he was … good at what he does. 
If you can call it good.
I slowly bend my knees and sit, not worrying about comfort as I settle directly in front of him. He looks up and I try my best to smile and God, how can I bring myself to smile at such a sick man? 
Because it’s Boyd, and that’s why. 
He smiles slowly in return but his hearts not in it. If he has one, that is. His eyes don’t sparkle the way they do when he drinks his stupid Chinese tea or when he knocks on door at five in the evening because he thinks he’s come up with a break-through that’s going to save thousands of peoples lives. 
Or when he kills. 
How ironic.
“How do they know, George?” He asks quietly, and my stomach clenches because I hate hearing him so defeated. “I don’t know, Boyd.” I answer truthfully.
Two days after the fake letter appeared in the news paper, Boyd had a thin piece of dirty paper shoved under his door, reading  “don’t  you go thinking no one knows, doctor. Not so smart anymore, are we?” 
I’ve never known him not be able to handle a problem, even if this is bigger than all the ones he’s had before. 
“Maybe it would be best if you just… stopped.” I suggest, and it’s not the first time I’ve said it either, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. 
He shuts his eyes for a second to long to be blinking, and I immediately feel awful for making his pain worse. “I can’t” he breathes, and I don’t have a reply for that.
I lean back against the wall, and I try not to let words spill from my throat that I know I’ll regret. 
Minutes of silence are passing and I finally manage a “What did the letter say?” 
He stays quiet for a few more seconds, before a slow crooked smile forms on his face, “he called me, or should I say, himself, saucy Jacky”.
 I try not to grin but I can feel the edges of my lips turning upwards, and we meet each others gaze. “Saucy Jacky, ey?” I say, then the laughter is rising into my mouth and tumbling out of my lips like waves. 
Seconds after, he begins to chuckle too, and we’re sitting in the eerie cellar, joined but only by a corpse of a crime one of us has committed, and there are tears rolling down our cheeks and I’m clutching my stomach.  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry” I splutter, but he just shakes his head in return, wiping at his eyes and smiling widely. 
And I swear the sparkles back. 
The laughter finally stops and we’re back to just sitting, but the mood is considerably lighter. 
I wonder how I can even begin to call the mood light, but the feeling fades as soon as I see his smile, and Jesus Christ. Boyd Urie will be the death of me. 
*
The next few weeks pass in a blur, like they usually do. 
Only something is different. 
I feel like I’m missing days.
 I wake up and I can’t remember what I’ve done the night before, or the hour previous. 
But it hasn’t been the first time.
 I suffered with such experiences as a child, but they stopped around the time I was thirteen. 
Around the time I met Boyd. 
I see Boyd twice in these weeks, and each time it’s just him, no pale blonde or startlingly limp brunette. 
The headlines still read all about Jack, but I can see it in his shoulders some of the worry is beginning to fade. 
They read that ‘The Ripper’ is a tall, maybe disfigured man, with a long hooded cloak and an evil smile. 
Whereas Boyd, well, he’s Boyd. 
Quite short, charming with a winning smile. He dresses proudly in rich purples and blacks, but not ones that cover his whole body. I find it hard to  convince myself that somebody could even begin to suspect him. He’s doctor Urie, sure to be the most respected doctor of the year 1888 in the Whitechapel district. 
And that’s why it’s all so damn clever, because who would suspect him. A man who earns his living saving lives and helping the sick grow stronger?
The Tuesday after Boyd’s last murder I was greeted with an anxious James.
I stood in my hallway in my pyjamas, rubbing my weary eyes and struggling to adjust to the light. He pushed past me, but turned before he could begin the descent down the stairs.
“Is he doing it?” he spat, and I was taken aback at the sudden contact. 
“What do you mean?” I countered, and he stepped slightly closer to me. 
“You know what I mean, boy. Is he turning himself in? Because I wasn’t part of this if he is!” 
If my hands weren’t beginning to shake with fear, I would of laughed. 
“Boyd? G-god, no! It’s not him writing the letters to the police” I confirmed, and he nodded once and carried on with his job.  
Today is the third time I’m seeing Boyd in now three weeks and two days. I stand with my hands behind my back, nodding politely at a man called Peter as he calls my name. 
He walks up to me, and I try hard not to roll my eyes.
 “How you doin’ there, Georgey boy?” he asks, and I force a smile. 
“Great cheers, I got off early today” I return, and he pulls a face.
“Ooh, get you!” he says, and the smiles are still forced onto my features. “Mind you, I suppose you’ve been working at the docks since they first opened here, eh?” 
I nod in confirmation. Working at the dockyards wasn’t my dream job as a child, but it suffices. 
“So what you doing still here then?” he continues to ask.
“Waiting for Boyd” I answer, and I see a familiar figure walking towards me, directly behind Peter.
“Who?” he asks, and I point behind him. He spins and his eyes widen slightly, before tuning back to me. “Doctor Urie?” he asks, and I smile, this time a lot easier. 
Boyd hurries over, face dark as thunder. Peter tries to introduce himself but Boyd clearly isn’t in the mood. He nods politely then turns his attention immediately back to me. “We need to talk” he demands, and okay. 
We walk away from the scene straight away, leaving Peter a little flustered. Boyd doesn’t say a word until we’re at least a good half a mile away, and the cold October wind is biting at my ears.  
He looks around carefully before slowing down slightly. I follow suit, but we continue to walk. 
“It must be James” he says, and I come to a halt. 
“James?” I repeat, and he nods his head. “No way, it can’t be” I say, and he shoots me a look disbelief. 
“Well who else can it be?” he demands, before pulling my arm so we start walking again. “Unless its bloody you?”
“Jesus, Boyd, no! Of course it’s not me!” I cry, shocked that he’d even begin to think that way. 
“Exactly! So it must be James, no one else damn knows!” 
“James was with me just the other week, Boyd! He was worried you were turning yourself in, with the letters! He looked genuinely scared that he’d get caught!” 
Brendon sighs like I’m a fool and argues, “that’s called acting, George. He’s clever. He knows what he’s doing, knows how to fool you into convincing me it’s not him.”
I think about this, and I suppose he’s right. It would be easy for James to convince me of his worry like that. “But surely James wouldn’t put his life on the line like that? He’s well respected amongst.. You’re kind” I try, and Boyd looks at me again. 
“My kind? My kind?” he spits, and I shrug defensively. “You’re just as bad as me, George” he follows, and I raise an eyebrow. 
“Pardon me?” I counter, and he mocks my shrug. “How dare you say that?!” I want to scream but it comes out as barely a whisper.
“What?” he shrieks, then realises how loud he’s being. “You are a part of this, George. You keep my victims in your damn house! If you were so disgusted, you would have turned me in long ago!” 
I stop again and let his words sink in. I don’t want to admit it, but I know he’s right. What sort of a person am I? 
“Exactly” Boyd says again, and I start walking before he has to grab my arm. 
I’m silent for a while, and we walk together. The slap of the wind doesn’t become any less violent, and I can feel my face grow red from the bitter cold. 
“So, it must be James, then?” I ask, feeling more involved in Boyd’s nasty business then ever before. 
“It must be. James is clever enough to tip off the police without being caught, so he’s not putting anything on the line.” His eyes grow darker and he finishes “He underestimates me”.
I like to tell myself I don’t fear Boyd Urie after all this time. 
But I know it’s a lie. 
“So, this is what we’re going to do.” 
*
Next Tuesday comes around quicker than what I needed. I sit in my tiny living room, hands sweating as I watch Boyd pace the room in the dim light. “I don’t understand” he says, “I’ve never been worried about killing someone before.”
His words run through my mind and I wait for the disgust to come, and I’m horrified when it doesn’t. 
“Well you’re killing for different reasons, aren’t you?” I suggest, and he nods. 
“it’s so much easier to destroy the women” he explains, “They’re nothing to me. They’re dirt. They parade the streets, avoiding the law  and not making their way in life properly. Couldn’t be bother to get a proper job.”  he continues, and I wonder how long he’s felt this way. “I worked all my damned life to get this job, to earn this money. And what have they done?” he pauses. I wait for him to continue, and when he doesn’t I realise I’m required to answer. 
“They.. They haven’t done anything” I say.
He nods. 
“Exactly, George, exactly! Do you understand now? Do you understand that what I do is for the better good?” 
I don’t, and I’m not sure I ever will, but I nod anyway. Taking a life is something I don’t think there’s a reason for. But here I am, sat in my own living room waiting for forty seven minutes past three on a Tuesday morning, so I can help kill James Smith. 
“I’m so glad you understand me, George” he finishes, and takes a seat next to me.
My eyes flicker beside me, and I see the warm smile that’s spread across his face. I try to smile back, but my lips are weak.
My senses heighten as I feel pressure on my hand. I look down and see that he’s placed his over mine securely, and my eyes flick up to his. 
His expression is cautious, and, and Jesus. 
I don’t know how to handle this now. 
“I’ll make us some tea, shall I?” I ask quietly, and pull my hand out from under his. I don’t wait for answer and I head to my kitchen. I place my hands on the cold counter and breath outwards, and I’m almost positive I can hear Boyd curse himself through the paper thin wall. 
I glance at the clock on the wall, and it’s quarter past one. We have around two hours left. I have two hours left until I’m a murderer. 
It’s hard to breathe. 
I pull out a pan and fill it with water, turning the gas stove on. The stove is practically brand new, Boyd paid for me to have one three months ago. Damn Boyd, I can’t turn anywhere in my house without a trace of him somewhere. 
The water boils and I crush some tea leaves in the bottom of two cups, trying to concentrate on that and not the beads of sweat forming on my forehead. It’s just the heat, I tell myself. 
I stir it for minutes on end, trying to bide as much time until I walk into the living room again.  I know the only think I should be nervous about is what we’re about to do, but I still feel worried about just seeing him again.
I slowly walk through the narrow hallway with two cups in my shaking hand, and he hasn’t 
moved since I last left. I pass the cup to him carefully. He smiles gratefully, but there’s something different now. We drink in silence, and I know there’s nothing left to do but wait. 
*
The knock comes suddenly, even though we were both expecting it.
We’ve been through the plan a thousand times, and I know what I’m doing. 
I have a small pistol buried deep in my dressing robe pocket, just in case, and I’ve changed into 
my pyjamas, as to keep to regular tradition so to speak. 
As I walk towards the door, Boyd steps silently into the kitchen and behind a wall, as to not be seen. I open the door and, there he is. 
Our victim.
He pushes past me like everything is normal, and I remember to rub my eyes and yawn. He begins to walk towards the stairs, and turns so he can walk down.
Boyd slides out from behind the wall and nods at me quickly. I return the movement and we wait for James to reach near the bottom of the stairs. Boyd  begins to go down the stairs, trying to be as quiet as he can, but really there is no point. 
There is no way James can escape this.
 I listen to the sounds of a fist on solid, and I follow Boyd down. I’m greeted by the sight of James sprawled out on the ground, Boyd’s fist still clenched but now hanging at his side.
He reaches for a knife that lays on the table where the body James expected should have been. 
Holding the knife securely in one hand, Boyd drops to his knees. He grasps James hair in the other and pulls him up to his waste. He hold the knife to his throat and- and I’m reaching into my pocket and I’m pulling out the gun. 
Boyd’s head shoots up at me and he looks confused, “George what are you doing? It’s fine, he’s unconscious-”
“Put the knife down” I demand shakily, and my voice cracks, and I have no idea what I’m doing. 
“what? No-”
“Put it down, Boyd!” I repeat, firmer this time. My hands shaking violently. 
Boyd carelessly lets go of James’ hair and his head drops to the ground like a stone in water. 
Boyd doesn’t drop the knife, but he stands hesitantly. 
“What are you doing, George?” he asks quietly, and his pupils have grown larger. 
“I, I don’t know” I admit, and I can feel tears burning in the corners of my eyes. My knees begin 
to weaken as images flash through my head, and I can feel the shape of a quill in my hand, and I can hear the scratch of it on parchment instead of Boyd’s heavy breathing that’s now filling the room. I can feel a sob rising from the pit of my stomach as I remember shoving the paper underneath someone’s door at the dead of night, and I can smell the bitter air in my nostrils. 
Before I can stop myself words are spilling from my lips and Boyd’s mouth is falling slightly open. “I’ve always been second best to you” I hear myself saying, and Boyd’s quick to respond. 
“That’s not true, George. You know it’s not. Put the gun down-”
“Don’t tell me, what to do!” I interrupt, and the sweat that is dripping down my face is now joined by the tears that are falling like rain from my cloud’s that let me see. And God, what am I doing? My whole body is shaking and my stomach is convulsing and the fear in Boyd’s eyes makes me want to rip the throat out of any man or woman who makes him feel it. 
But it’s me causing that fear, and I don’t want to stop. 
“It’s me,” I realise, and of course. It fits so perfectly together. “It’s me!” I repeat, louder this time, my lips forming into a deranged smile.
Boyd is still holding onto to the knife, but I know he’d never hurt me, he couldn’t hurt me. Not like I can hurt him. His eyes are wide and he looks destroyed, I notice his hands are shaking too, just like me. I guess we had more in common than I thought. 
“What’s you?” he asks, but what’s the damn point? We both know. We both always knew, deep down. 
Didn’t we? 
“I’m clever, aren’t I?” I spit, and I’m clutching the gun tighter than before. “I came up with it all by myself. But I didn’t know. I forgot. I trained myself to forget. I had to forget. For you. The letters, the threats. It was all me. Tell me I’m clever, Boyd.” 
He swallows deeply and I can see tears forming, and as each second passes we grow into the same being. He runs his hand through his hair and says “Put the gun down, George. We can fix this-”
“There’s nothing to fix, Boyd! You’re going to die! Just like all the innocent people you’ve killed!” I shriek, and he steps backwards from me.
He’s scared. 
Of me. 
I smile.
“Please, George I’m so sorry-” 
“No, you’re not! Shut up and accept what’s coming to you, Boyd!” I yell and I’m stepping over James’ unconscious body and pushing Boyd onto his knees. 
“Drop the knife” I command again, and this time he does. I look down at him and for once in all our twelve years, I’m the bigger person.
The person in control. 
I slowly bring the gun to his head, and now the tears are rolling down his face. Tears of regret, guilt and fear. 
“George, you can’t, please you can’t!” he begs, and grabs hold of my leg like that’s going to convince me not to kill him just like he’s killed so mercilessly before. 
“I can, and I will.” I mutter, and I’m pressing the gun hard into his skull.
“George” he stutters, and I know what’s coming. “Please, George I lov-”
“It doesn’t matter!” I shriek, and he shuts his eyes, finally accepting his fate. He’s silent. 
“Are you ready?” I ask, and slowly, he nods. 
“Good, because I wasn’t going to wait.”
And then I pull the trigger. 
The blood comes suddenly and it’s burst all over the walls and floor. A river of blood is already 
trailing onto the ground and his body has collapsed on itself. 
I see two things spelt out in the blood.
I see the lives of many women saved, women who might go on and make something of themselves. The lives of women who had family and friends who have been saved heart break of losing someone they love.
I also see the blood of the man I can’t live without. 
There are two bullets in the gun for a reason. 

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Live in Chicago (one-shot)

Oct. 30th, 2011 | 12:19 pm

Title: Live in Chicago
Rating: pg-13 IM SORRY BUT I LIKE FLUFF
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan.
POV: 3rd, mostly Brendon.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. This never happened, or I'm sure we'd of heard about it. 
Summary: “Are you scared?” Jon asked, making his way over to join one half of his band. “scared? That the guy of my dreams will turn me down in front of thousands of people, and won’t want to be with me forever? No. Not at all.” 
Note: ja so I'm sorry and live in chicago really is my favourite thing ever so I thought I'd ruin it. 


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Zack popped his head round the backstage door, and warned “five minutes guys. They’re eager out there.” His floral tour VIP pass swung on his black t-shirt as he shut the door behind him. 
“last show already! And it‘s being fucking filmed! I think we might of made it guys,” Ryan said smiling, leaning into the comfortable sofa’s, cold beer in his hand, the other running through his hair. “feels so good to be in Chicago.” 

“Amen” said Spencer, playing in Chicago had always been their favourite, although that wasn’t the main reason he couldn’t keep the grin of his well bearded face. Glancing at Jon who seemed to have the same problem, they shared a secret look of excitement before trying to put their faces back into focus. 

“what are you two doing?” Ryan asked, his eyebrow raising at his two band mates. 
“nothing nothing” Jon replied, now looking at his hands, twiddling his thumbs. 
“right. Where’s Bren?” he asked, now standing up for the technician coming in to hand Ryan his familiar guitar. 

“I don’t know, shall I ring him?” Spencer asked, grinning from ear to ear. 
“yeah man, seems like a good proposal.” Jon replied, putting the bass round his neck and adjusting it comfortably, smirking to himself. Ryan ignored the usual childish behaviour and plucked a few of his strings, the recognisable sound of an unplugged electric greeting everybody’s ears. 

Spencer picked his drum sticks up from the table and tucked them comfortably in his pocket. Three minutes to go. Tonight was going to be a good night. 

The volume of the cheering crowd increased momentarily when Brendon walked through the door, only just buttoning his shirt up and smiling like there was no tomorrow. “what is everyone so happy about?” Ryan laughed adjusting his fringe one last time, looking in the mirror on the wall next to him. 
“Just happy to be in the big C” Brendon lied, holding out his hand for Ryan to take, receiving a stifled laugh from Spencer and Jon. Ryan smiled, bashful still, and took the offer, his hand linking naturally with Brendon’s, just like it had done for the past exact three years. 

Brendon pulled Ryan closer and let go of his hands to put round his neck, not pressing to close because of the guitar. “You know how it’s our anniversary?” He began, breathing in the scent of pre-show Ryan. “Of course Bren, but this morning was a nice reminder” he chuckled, putting his long arms around his singers waste, remembering the surprising way he was woken up. 
“I thought you’d like that. I just want today to be really special.” he murmured, looking deep into his boyfriends hazel eyes. 
“every day is special with you, Brendon” he replied, leaning in for a kiss, broken short by Zack yelling “ONE MINUTE” from outside the door. 

Brendon smiled against Ryan’s lips, and saw Spencer giving him the thumbs up from behind Ryan, with Jon biting his lip, trying not to say anything to ruin the moment. “come on, or we’ll be late” Ryan said quietly. 
“Late? I don’t know the meaning of the word!”. Letting go, he pushed Ryan gently towards the door, and headed over for where his guitar had been laid out on the sofa by the technicians. 

Throwing the strap of his guitar quickly round his neck, he answered Spencer’s quiet question with a nod of his head. “Of course he’s ready, Spence” Jon intertwined, slapping Brendon on the back and smiling like a proud father, knocking Brendon slightly off his feet. “shh!” he hissed, glancing over at Ryan, who was now telling Zack to calm down and to get himself another beer. He turned around and smiled at Brendon, eyes shining and cheeks glowing, before opening the door and heading out, waiting for his band mates by the side of the stage, getting his hair re-done, no doubt. 

“God, he’s perfect” Brendon breathed, happy to forget about the audience and the instrument round his neck, and just have Ryan in his arms. “I’m happy for you, Bren. But don’t make me vomit already.” Spencer warned, following Ryan out of the door. 

“fuck.” Brendon whispered, ruining his perfected hair by running his hands through it roughly and biting his lip. “Are you scared?” Jon asked, making his way over to join one half of his band. “scared? That the guy of my dreams will turn me down in front of thousands of people, and won’t want to be with me forever? No. Not at all.” he replied, squinting his eyes at Jon, but laughing  nervously all the same. “That’s my man, Brendon. Now come on, the crowds deafening me already.” 

Brendon reached down quickly and patted his pocket, the box sitting in its temporary home, safe and sound. Taking three deep breaths, and for once not being screamed at by Zack, Brendon made his way out of the door. Ryan’s eyes shined when he saw him, and Spencer lovingly rolled his. “Showtime” Brendon said, sweat already beginning to gather at his brow. Gentle hands found their way onto his back, and he watched as his three friends were softly pushed on stage, him last.  

The screams increased, and the whole band grinned widely at the crows, preparing themselves for another show. Brendon took his place in between Ryan and Jon, adjusting the microphone as all singers seemed to unnecessarily do before their shows began. Despite thinking his hearing had been lost forever, the familiar introduction of ‘we’re so starving’ entered his ears, and Brendon got himself into action stations, never before this nervous on stage, not even at his first show.  Gripping the mic securely in his hands, he rose it to his mouth. “oh, how it’s been so long, we’re so sorry we’ve been gone. We were busy writing songs for, you!”. 

*

“We hope to see you very soon,” Ryan said into his mic, gleaming out into the crowd, his voice making girls in the crowd sob loudly into the air, “and er, well, have a happy Saturday night, this songs called mad as rabbits.” The screams grew louder at the songs name, and Brendon glanced behind him at Spencer, who was smiling, prepared. Jon played the familiar bass line leading into the song, and then Spencer crashed the symbols. 

And then the three of them just stopped.

The noise from the crowd decreased immediately, confused by what was happening. They weren’t the only ones, and Ryan’s last note of his riff entered the air, as he glared round to his band, “what the fuck?” he hissed, anger rising in his throat, and the camera’s still soared around the stadium. Brendon coughed nervously, and Ryan changed his stare to focus on him, the audience un naturally quiet. Brendon pulled the mic off the stand, and looked away from Ryan to the crowd.

 “As I’m, erm, sure most of you will know, Ryan and I have been seeing each other for three years now,” He began, and the noise was brought back. Thousands of girls began screaming and Brendon smiled shyly into the microphone before he carried on, “and this day happens to be our anniversary.” He took a chance and looked back at Ryan, to see his expression had softened, but the confusion was evident. “and I, I have something I want to ask him.” Ryan’s eyes widened in the boiling stage light, and Spencer’s gigantic grin could be seen out of the corner of Brendon’s eyes as he lowered himself onto one knee, after taking off his guitar and placing it next to him. 

The crowd roared with screams and yells, and Ryan’s hands flew up to his mouth, his favourite pick falling to the ground without a second thought. With his free hand, Brendon pushed into his pocket and bought out a rose coloured box, much smaller than the microphones head. The screams were deafening by now, but over the years Brendon had learnt to channel them out quite well, something he was grateful for now more than ever. He flicked the box open with his thumb with little struggle, something that had required much practice before hand. He smiled dumbly up at the man before him, who stood so gracefully with his eyes huge with shock and what Brendon hoped was happiness. He swallowed one last time before asking, “George Ryan Ross the third, will you make me the happiness man on earth and marry me?” 

Ryan’s hands fell from his mouth and he took in a deep breath, before clumsily pulling off his guitar strap and letting it carelessly drop to the stage ground, before practically leaping over to Brendon and pulling him up to his feet. Before Brendon had chance to breathe, Ryan’s arms were wrapped so tightly around his body and the words “Yes, yes! God, a thousand times yes!” were being poured into his ears.  Brendon felt himself start to lose circulation, or relief spreading through his body. He would of liked to say the latter, but it was most probably both. He threw his arms back round Ryan, and pulled as tight as humanly possible, and felt the older man start to cry beneath him.

 “Fuck,” He heard Ryan whisper, though he was probably yelling, “I love you so fucking much” he finished, before burying his head deep into Brendon’s neck, his soft hair tickling, but Brendon couldn’t care less. He pulled Ryan’s arms off him, for one reason only. He yanked the golden ring out of the box he was surprised had managed to keep hold of, and took Ryan’s shaking left hand in his. He pushed the ring slowly onto his finger, and they made eye contact, both their eyes wet with tears. “I love you more than anything” Brendon said, letting go of Ryan’s hand to place both of his onto his fiancés face, pulling close towards him. They shared their first kiss as an engaged couple on that Chicago stage, in front of thousands, and later millions. 

“Ladies and Gentleman,” Brendon just about heard Jon say into his microphone, “You’ve just witnessed the soon to be most popular video on you tube. How does that feel?” he asked, only receiving noise that Brendon was sure they’d regret making when they woke up the next morning, with a headache larger than Japan’s surface area. Brendon had always wanted to be a land surveyor after all. They stayed embraced for another minute or so, before Brendon picked up the microphone he’d let fall to the floor god knows when. “ 1 2 3 4!” he screamed, and Jon came straight in with that bass line for the second time that evening.


The song passed in a blur, and Ryan only joined in with his guitar half way through, to overcome to pick up what had been nicknamed ‘his only child’. His vocals were strangely high pitched, and broke off every know and again into a heartfelt sob, before he carried on, never once taking his eyes of Brendon. His Brendon. “we must reinvent love,” he sang, never more meaning what he was saying, and repeating those four words for all he was worth. The outro ended, and by now Ryan was a crying mess, a breath taking smile plastered all over his face. “We love you Chicago!” Brendon yelled, taking Ryan’s hand in his, “But not as much as I love him!” he finished, followed with Jon and Spencer laughing loudly. 

Ryan turned bright red as he was led off stage by his fiancé, followed by even more cheering as he came off stage by everyone there. Zack stood waiting with his arms wide open, “congratulations!” he called as soon as they stepped off the stage, pulling them both into a bear hug, “I wanted to be the first to say it!” he said, squeezing the life out of both of them, their guitars awkwardly banging together.
“thanks, man” Brendon choked out, after Zack finally set them free. 

“How do you feel, miss?” he continued, nudging Ryan in the side. “Fucking.. amazing. And who said I’m the woman?” he defended, his grip tightening on Brendon’s as he scowled playfully. 
“Your ringed finger!” Zack laughed, pushing them both towards the people waiting to congratulate them. 

Spencer grinned, “you have always been feminine, Ry”, before pulling him out of Brendon’s grasp and into his arms, the hug thankfully not as tight as Zack’s. “How long have you known?” Ryan asked, hiccupping halfway through his question and smiling stupidly. “that you two were gonna get married? Forever.” he replied, winking, and pushing him along to Jon, who had just let go of Brendon. “Ryan! Congrats, buddy!” he said, grinning widely and trapped him in another hug. For one who didn’t really like being touched all that much, Ryan embraced all the attention, “thanks, Jon, means a lot” he said quietly, putting his arms back round his elder. 

The hug was broken by Brendon tugging at Ryan’s shirt to return back to his rightful place, in Brendon’s arms. “are you happy?” he breathed, inches away from Ryan’s face. 
“happy doesn‘t even begin to cover it” he replied, locking his hands into Brendon’s hair, and pulling him in for their second kiss. “I love you so much, Brendon. Never leave me” he whispered into his ear, greeted with a small chuckle from the other man, “leave? I don’t know the meaning of the word.” 

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