Chapter Text
It was a rough time to be trying to achieve a doctorate in just about anything.
Medicine, Astrobiology, Philosophy, Physics.
You had to be a genius and a very, very rich man or woman to achieve a doctorate with today’s competitive graduate school cesspits of loose morals and desperation. To get into anywhere mildly prestigious, you either had to know someone or know how to suck a cock.
Ryan knew neither of these things.
So getting into Stanford’s Psychology graduate program had been a huge battle, both with himself and his passion and desire to become what he wanted, more than anything in the world. And it was the uniqueness of his dreams for his future that got him into Stanford, with a half-ride.
Not a lot of people wanted to study prisoners on death row. Not a lot of people wanted to even touch the subject with verbal communication in private settings. Most people turned a blind eye to death row if they weren’t picketing and protesting with clandestine dreams of becoming someone famous through their abhorrence of execution. Few people out of high school wanted to do something for the betterment of others. They weren’t Bodhisattvas, nor the enlightened. They weren’t actually eager to change the world, but only their world. Very few acknowledged any reality beyond their immediate needs. Needs for a better home, or the flat screen TV your neighbor has. The six figure paycheck, the prodigy child, the recognition of those below. And no one was afraid to lie, cheat, steal, and even kill for a better future.
Ryan was very cynical about everything and found that the dying were the most truthful people in the world.
And he only allowed himself to be plagued by minor concerns, such as his computer autocorrecting certain words to the acronym “DIC,” which was an intravascular coagulation process that involved blood clots that led to organ damage. He worried about bills, yes, and his part time job was hell. He loved working at the music store, as music had been his more unrealistic dream for his future, but the people that came into the store fancied themselves experts to everything and decided Ryan was the one in charge of stock and also deciding they needed to wax poetic justice on why Ryan didn’t know anything about good music because one album was not in stock.
Ryan hardly ever listened to these people with both ears, unless they mentioned something Ryan agreed with. Like the horrific lack of New Found Glory or Foo Fighters the store had. Ryan also believed that those bands should be second to none in a music store. Those conversations usually turned out to be rather enjoyable for Ryan.
Still, everything was nonstop awful for him. He was four years into grad school, so close to getting his doctorate. He’d been stepped on and spit on and used like a fucking piece of trash, crumpled up and tossed away. He’d failed a class simply because the professor didn’t like the way Ryan worded his fucking sentences. He’d been cheated on twice in high school so he wasn’t eager to create relationships in college, had been mugged in the subway three times in one year. He’d lost his first apartment due to fabricated and false noise complaints because his neighbor had wanted his own friend to move in next door, where Ryan had currently been living.
But now, Ryan had reason to celebrate. He had one assignment/project left before receiving the doctoral degree he’d fought for for the past eight years. He was hoping for a paper, having to study something for his doctoral thesis. He was hopeful that he’d get this done in a month or so. He was positive he could tackle this. He’d written enough papers to be able to think them up in his sleep, he was going to ace this thesis.
. . .
“You’re to take a case study of a volunteer student on campus with no abnormal psychosis and provide therapy, then write a formal article on the student and what therapies you used to aid them in their development. You will also be evaluated by the student and their evaluation will be factored into your final grade. You will meet three times a week for an entire semester, including breaks and holidays.”
Ryan’s stomach dropped. He was not going to ace his thesis.
. . .
Ryan lied awake that night, looking through the small, two paged packet he’d been given on his assigned student.
Brendon Urie. Male. Fourth year student in Stanford training to be a nurse in the CEPD program. Twenty-five years of age to Ryan’s twenty-six years. B-average student living in an apartment with one other person.
Ryan sighed and dropped the packet aside. The kid had been raised in a Mormon family. He was going to clash so badly with him. Ryan was strictly agnostic, he couldn’t prove or disprove the existence of a god so he just lived in this little gray area where his own morality was his personal bible and right and wrong was just something you should know of and choose between as a human being. He was responsible for himself. That was it.
From what he knew about Mormonism, it was almost cultish. Leaving the religion was difficult, and some people have had to move to a different state entirely just to escape the church. And they were very rigid people for those who claimed to preach unconditional acceptance. Ryan wasn’t very good at dealing with hypocrisy because he never addressed it, only stewed over it in his sleep. This was going to be a very difficult assignment.
. . .
“He’s waiting in room 47B,” the lady at the desk said. She looked older than most, crows feet in the corners of her eyes screaming of better days. Her lips were turned down in a frown and Ryan suspected she hadn’t smiled in long while.
Ryan just nodded his gratitude and went down the hall. These were sets built like therapy session rooms. Ryan was familiar with the room he was assigned. It was his personal favorite and he appreciated being assigned a room that he knew fairly well. The room was dark mahogany with red leather seats. Two armchairs facing each other with a coffee table in between and a coffee machine on a table in the back between two large bookshelves. The color scheme was dark reds and browns that spoke of professionalism and age that the large, open windows softened, the entire room feeling more comforting, like the office of a strong father figure. Ryan didn’t know much about father figures but he’d heard other students describe the room to give off that vibe.
Ryan opened the dark wood door with the frosted window, only glancing at the way his first name initial and last name was printed on it. That was new.
He froze when he saw a strong, male figure facing the window and hoped he’d been quiet enough for the man to not turn around. Ryan darted for the desk against the wall of the door where he could put his laptop and notes and stuff. He turned his back to the other man’s back and shuffled through everything to get organized.
“Hey,” an almost musical, yet deep voice greeted.
“Uh, h-hey,” Ryan stuttered back. He could handle murderers and rapist and abusers better than most people. It probably had to do with how he grew up around monsters. “Just, uh, gimme a moment. Sit in the chair closest to you, please, and, uh, think about something you wanna start out with. Any issues you can think of.”
He heard the creak of leather as the man sat in the chair and kept himself busied with his notes to try and calm his shaking hands before he turned to face his… his patient. Ryan stacked some papers, then grabbed a yellow legal pad and a black pen. He turned around and faced his patient.
The man definitely wasn’t average. He had a square skull and a strong jaw line, large features that were arranged pleasantly on his face. His hair was dark brown and coiffed to the ceiling with some sort of gel, but nothing outrageous. He had large, rectangle glasses sitting on his nose and his lips were very full for a man. His shoulders were strong wide and he seemed confident in his body. From what Ryan could see, his left arm was inked and he had good muscle tone under the t-shirt he was wearing. Ryan blushed faintly when his brain finally realized that his patient was hot.
This was Brendon Urie.
Brendon Urie frowned. “Gonna stare all day?” he asked with a raised brow.
Ryan sputtered out something unintelligible and shuffled to his chair, sitting down and brushing his long, curly hair from his eyes, tucking a strand behind his ear as he looked over Brendon’s personal summary one last time.
“So, uh, you’re a med student?” he asked, just to get him talking.
“You didn’t ask me for my name,” Brendon said with a frown. “Didn’t even tell me yours. Were you raised in a barn?”
Barely raised at all, Ryan’s mind supplied. He winced, knowing he was off to a bad start. “I-I’m Ryan,” he said. “Ryan Ross. And you are?”
“Brendon Urie,” the man replied a bit gruffly. Fuck, this was going to give Ryan so much anxiety. He’d only been in the room with this man for five minutes and he already felt like he was going to throw up. Ryan’s hands were shaking worse than they had been before and he forced himself to press the tip of the pen into the legal pad to still the tremors, ink blossoming out across the page like cancer.
“Brendon Urie,” Ryan repeated dumbly. “Uh, h-how do you want me to address you?”
“Brendon’s fine,” he replied. “You’re not really good at this.”
Ryan winced. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
Brendon shrugged. “It’s whatever. So, what, I’m supposed to talk to you about my problems and you’re supposed to fix them?”
Ryan nodded. “Thereabouts, yeah.”
Brendon crossed his arms, sitting back with a sour expression. “Well, what do you want first?” he asked. “Family or friends?”
“Whichever is most important,” Ryan told him softly.
Brendon sighed. “We’ve got a patient confidentiality thing, right?”
“To an extent,” Ryan replied, because he knew this. “I’m to talk about you and your problems in my thesis, but not give away any details you explicitly wish to be kept private and I’m not to publish personal information as to who you are. Only I, and my evaluating professor, will know your name.”
Brendon nodded. “Well, then I guess we should talk about my girlfriend and our sex,” he said a bit stiffly.
Ryan was only partially surprised by his straightforwardness. Nurses and doctors were generally very open about sex lives and stuff due to their intimate knowledge of the human body and its normal, healthy functions. “Okay,” he said with a shrug. “Shoot.”
“I can’t get it up for my girlfriend anymore,” Brendon stated bluntly.
Ryan was temporarily shocked into silence. “… Oh,” was all he could get out. Then, “I-I thought Mormons were against sex before marriage.”
“I’m not Mormon,” Brendon scoffed. “I was raised Mormon. There’s a difference. Honestly, all religion is stupid. Fucking dumb people following a false god like sheep. You’d think after years of genocide, humanity would realize that religion is the worst part of us.”
Ryan bit his lip, having no idea what to do from this point.
“I’ve been having sex for years,” Brendon continued. “With my girlfriend, her name’s Sarah. I’ve been with her for over four years, met her my senior year in high school. And everything was amazing until a few months ago. Suddenly my dick just stopped working.”
“Well, do you have any idea of what could cause it?” Ryan asked, knowing his textbooks. “I mean, maybe you’re in an unhappy relationship. Maybe you and her just aren’t clicking anymore, or maybe you’ve been arguing a bit more lately and your body finds it hard to relax and become aroused by her.”
Brendon scowled. “I don’t wanna know why,” he spat. “I wanna know how to fix it.”
Ryan flinched at the anger in Brendon’s voice.
This was going to be very, very difficult.
Ryan opened his mouth to ask another question and figure out how to explain to Brendon that knowing the cause of a problem was how you figured out the way to fix it, but then Brendon was standing in a huff, grabbing his back, and striding out the door.
Ryan watched him go with a blank expression.
. . .
“I’m never gonna graduate!” Ryan cried out to his cat once he was home. “Fuck! Of course I get the most angry, stubborn, and repressed guy in all of fucking Stanford! Of course nothing goes my way! Of fucking course!”
Cpt. Knots watched Ryan with half lidded eyes. Ryan remembered reading that was a sign of affection. Or a territorial challenge. He didn’t remember which.
“He’s just, he’s a prick,” Ryan huffed. “I mean, I’ve known him for all of ten minutes, maybe fifteen. And I’ve already offended him beyond belief with only a few sentences! I don’t know if it’s me or him! And I don’t know how I’m gonna get this paper written if this guy gets so mad at me with every word I say!”
Cpt. Knots mewled petulantly at Ryan. He sighed and sat on his sofa that became his bed at might. The joy of renting a one room apartment.
“I just don’t know what I’m gonna do,” Ryan whimpered, hanging his head in his hands.
. . .
“Why don’t we talk about something else?” Ryan suggested the next session. He hadn’t slept a wink last night, so he was too tired to become really anxious or nervous. Brendon didn’t look any more friendly, but he wasn’t storming out the door, so that was a win. “What are you learning about right now? In med school?”
Brendon shrugged. “Direct blood transfusions,” he said.
Ryan nodded. “Do you like it?”
Brendon shrugged again. “It could be a lot worse. At least we’re not doing catheters anymore.”
Ryan winced. “Okay, yeah. That’s gotta suck.”
“It really does,” the other man agreed with a hint of a smile. “Especially when you have to do it on your peers. We have to practice on each other. I’ve held so many dicks in my hands that it’s ridiculous.”
Ryan chuckled a bit, smiling tightly. “So, uhm, your girlfriend? Sarah?”
“You remembered her name?” Brendon asked.
Ryan nodded haltingly. “Uh, Sarah. What’s she studying?”
“Criminal Justice and Law,” Brendon said with a grin. “She’s actually in the Law program here with one of my friends. She’s a fucking genius. She’s doing so well, has a four point seven grade point average, which is basically impossible unless you’re her. She has an internship this summer with NATO.”
“That’s awesome,” Ryan agreed with a smile. “Does she have to leave for it?”
“Yeah,” Brendon said. “But she’ll come back. I’m gonna hold down the apartment.”
“Long distance is hard, isn’t it?”
Brendon shrugged. “We’ve done it before. We can do it again.”
“Do you think long distance is maybe why you’re finding yourself unable to preform sexually?”
Brendon’s expression went flat. “What are you trying to say?” he growled, sounding very unhappy. Ryan almost backed down from fear, but just shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant to cover his initial panic at Brendon’s agression. He didn’t want Brendon to walk away from him again.
“Why don’t you tell me about Sarah?” he asked, wanting to move the subject along.
“She’s perfect,” the other man huffed. “She’s, she’s like the end line for me, you know? I’ve met her, so I’ve met my soulmate, and that’s it. Happily ever after, roll the credits, all that shit.”
“So you’re happy with her?” Ryan pressed. “You want her and you’re positive she’s the best person for you.”
Brendon looked uncomfortable for a moment and just shrugged. Ryan wanted to latch onto Brendon’s insecurity in his answer, knowing that there was a deep seeded problem that stemmed from Brendon’s relationship with Sarah.
“My friends say I should propose to her,” Brendon said.
“Do you want to propose to her?” Ryan asked, knowing that he’d just have to follow the conversation Brendon lied out for him.
Brendon shrugged again, for what felt like the millionth time.
“That seems like a no…”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to marry,” he sighed. “I just, it’s kinda scary.”
“Commitment or marriage?”
“Marriage,” Brendon sighed. “I love her, but I feel like marriage would break the spell or something. I’m scared it’ll fuck shit up, you know? We’ll have to get a house and plan for a mortgage and all that shit. She’ll want security, and that means I’ll…”
When Brendon trailed off, Ryan knew he had to supply the word he was thinking. “You’ll have to grow up.”
Brendon scowled a bit, but didn’t respond. That’s how Ryan knew he was right.
“Don’t be scared of growing up,” Ryan told him softly. “Because honestly, no one ever really does. I know so many adults who have all these responsibilities and they’re still just a bunch of kids, you know? No one grows up. They just get more to do and more money to do it with and less time for anything else.”
“I don’t want that,” Brendon said softly. “I don’t want to lose what I have now. This freedom to go out with friends and get wasted. I don’t want to lose that.”
“Then don’t,” Ryan said with a simple shrug. “Don’t let that happen. It’s that easy.”
“Are you gonna grow up?” Brendon asked.
Ryan was quiet for a moment. “I hope not,” he said. “I don’t have much luck with the kindness of adults. I wouldn’t want to become something I hate.”
“Are you dating anyone?” Brendon asked, sitting forward and looking curious. “Or, like, got any closer friends?”
Ryan shook his head. “No friends.”
“No friends?” Brendon repeated, looking incredulous. “No, come on. You have to have someone. Everyone has someone.”
“I have a cat,” Ryan said. “I mean, he’s pretty great. His name is Captain Knots and he’s really nosy and pretty awesome. He doesn’t claw me up.”
“That’s sad,” Brendon said. Ryan did his best not to take offense. “I mean, really? No one? Just a cat? That’s fucking pathetic, man. I’m sorry, just, that’s gotta be so lonely. So fucking lonely. No one to call when you need help or when you need advice or when you just need someone to talk to. That’s so lonely. You’re lying, you have to have someone.”
“I don’t,” Ryan sighed.
“Did you ever?”
Ryan bit his lip. “I had a best friend. His name is Spencer, but he moved away.”
“And you didn’t keep in contact with him? Cause, like, he’s apparently your only friend.”
Ryan paused. “He moved away from me.”
Brendon’s expression closed. “Oh.”
Ryan shrugged. “It happened. It’s in the past. I’ve learned my lesson.”
“What lesson is that?”
Ryan smiled a bit, though it was hollow. “Don’t cry over someone who wouldn’t cry for you.”
. . .
The session was ended by Brendon soon after that.
When Ryan went home, it was only slightly cloudy. Ryan wished, not for the first time, that he lived further up north so the weather matched his dismal and melancholic mood. He wished it would rain more often. He wished it would rain at all.
Cpt. Knots didn’t greet him when he came home. That was actually rather normal for his cat. He only really attended to Ryan when there was a bag of food involved. Though it wasn’t like the cat had many places to avoid Ryan. He could hide under the sofa or creep into one of Ryan’s too empty cupboards. Ryan wasn't bothered by the fact that he had no one to come home to. He wasn’t.
Ryan went to bed without having said a word since he’d bidden Brendon goodbye.
. . .
“Hey, Ross,” one of the more influential professors called out. “We’re gonna go grab lunch. Why don’t you come with, we’re going to a vegan place, if that’s your thing.”
Ryan shook his head, not looking away from the computer screen for a second. He was organizing his notes before having a session with Brendon again, which was tomorrow. He was in the Psych building, which also the Sociology building. It had its own private library containing all the anthologies and thesauruses and encyclopedias that you could need. He liked to sit at this little collection of four desks that were back to back and bring up his laptop and work and study and just be generally obsessive until he had to go to work at two PM.
“I’m busy,” he mumbled. Ryan wasn’t sure if he was actually busy or not. He just didn’t want to hang out with the professors. He’d heard things about the professors exploiting female and male students alike, especially this one that Ryan couldn’t name, but knew by face. He didn’t want to get tied up in something like that.
“Maybe next time,” the professor said. He left, dragging his hand along Ryan’s shoulders and Ryan shuddered. He decided that he was going to have to find a new place to study.
. . .
Rya was organizing the Pink Floyd vinyls by release date when he heard a familiar voice bursting into unfamiliar laughter. Ryan looked up and paled bit when he saw Brendon come into the music store, laughing boisterously with a shorter man with bleached hair and a taller man with sweeping brown hair that was trimmed well. All of them looked like models and Ryan felt overwhelmingly insignificant. He ducked his head and kept working, figuring Brendon wouldn’t want to admit going to therapy anyways, even if it counted for credits, as he was informed.
“Oh, hey, Ryan,” Brendon said.
Ryan flinched and sighed softly enough for Brendon to be unable to hear. Then he looked up and tried to smile in a way that didn’t seem plastic.
“This is the guy I was telling you about,” Brendon was saying as he walked towards Ryan with his two friends. “My therapist, you know?”
“The guy with no friends?” the bleached blond man said with a wolfish grin. He was eyeing Ryan up and down like he wanted to either punch or fuck Ryan and he was made uncomfortable by the stare.
“Ryan,” Brendon corrected, nudging the blond back, expression oddly tight. Ryan didn’t expect to see him look like that with his friends. “Ryan, this is Pete.”
Ryan nodded at the man but didn’t say anything. “And Dallon’s back there.”
Ryan also nodded to Dallon who just waved three fingers.
“You work here?” Pete asked, still grinning like he wants to do awful things. “I’ve been going here since I moved out here. I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed someone like you.”
“Been here for five years,” Ryan mumbled, staring at the vinyls in front of him that he’s just thumbing through to feign business now that he’s looked away from Brendon and his friends.
“Five years?” Brendon cut in. Ryan could hear a frown in his voice. “I’ve been going here too. For a long time. What’s your shift?”
“Two to closing, open to lunch.”
“Every day?”
Ryan looked up at Brendon with a curious expression. “Why do you wanna know?”
Brendon’s expression closed shut again and Ryan’s interest was piqued over why that happened so often with Ryan. “Just wanted to know,” Brendon huffed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He pulled Dallon away from the rack of Tool CDs and made his friends leave the store with him. Ryan watched Brendon’s back until it disappeared. Then he went back to organizing the Pink Floyd albums with hands that trembled.
. . .
“You met my friends,” Brendon said, not giving anything away. “What did you think? Pete wouldn’t shut up about you.”
Ryan grimaced. “Did he?” was all he asked.
Brendon nodded. “Pete’s got this thing,” he explained. “He wants to fuck as many people as he can before college. He’d just had a one night stand with this Mikey guy last weekend and he’s scoping out new conquests. I think he wants the next one to be you.”
“Not gonna happen,” Ryan said rather sharply.
Brendon’s eyes narrowed. “Got something against gay people?”
“Not at all,” Ryan replied in a clipped tone, only barely stopping himself for confessing that he’s the opposite. “I have nothing against homosexuals. But I don’t like being sized up like a piece of meat.” Ryan spat that last part like it was a curse and it was the most emotion he’d ever shown Brendon. Brendon smirked a bit, looking impressed.
“I’ll tell him you’re off limits,” Brendon said.
Ryan actually relaxed a hint. “Really?”
Brendon shrugged, then nodded. “He’ll move on. It’s not the end of the world and not the first time he’s been rejected. He’ll be okay with it. I’ll just tell him you’re not interested and he’ll go to the next piece of ass.”
“Does he make a habit of objectifying other people?” Ryan asked, ever curious.
Brendon shook his head. “Not at all. Pete’s actually a human rights activist. Not the feminism or the meninism, just humanism. Everyone’s human and everyone deserves to be treated like they are human. He’s getting a law degree so he can actually stand up to corporations and shit, I think. He’s really smart.”
Ryan nodded, scribbling a note because knowing a patient’s friends was a way to know the patient.
“Pete just wants sex a lot,” Brendon continued. “He enjoys it, you know? And when he’s with someone, it isn’t a quick fuck. He takes care of them, makes it about them. Honestly, I’d explain it as him using his own body to give people pleasure and just a night of nothing but the best. He gets off the most on getting someone else off.”
“Do you wish you could have a status like his?” Ryan asked to get them talking about Brendon again.
Brendon frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Do you wish you could sleep around like him instead of being in a monogamous relationship?”
Brendon’s frown deepened. “Are you asking if I wanna be slutty?”
Ryan matched his frown. “You don’t seem to think Pete’s a slut. Why do you call yourself a slut when you would only be following a similar lifestyle?”
Brendon left again.
Ryan sighed, packed up, and returned to his home that had started to feel emptier and emptier every day.
. . .
Ryan denied the professor again the next morning. He hadn’t found a new place to hide and the professor ran his hand over Ryan’s shoulders again. Ryan felt horribly sick because he’d been tense and anxious and he called in sick to work because he was so scared one of Brendon’s friends would be there. Ryan knew he should look into getting himself some anxiety medication, but he didn’t have any insurance and he couldn’t afford pricey pills.
Ryan had been on his way home when he got dizzy and nauseous. He ended up stumbling into an alley way and vomiting with his head pressed against the grungy, brick walls, shaking and shuddering and sobbing between each clench of his stomach.
A hand was on his back out of nowhere and Ryan cried out in learned fear, stumbling away and dropping to his knees next to a dumpster. His stomach was startled out of its purge, but Ryan still felt like his throat was going to fall out of his body. He looked up at whoever it was and recognized Pete.
“Dude,” Pete said with a frown. “I’m not gonna hurt you, jesus.”
Ryan whimpered, ducking his head again, hiding his eyes. He brought his knees closer to his chest. Pete moved forward, a hand held in front of him and Ryan could tell Pete was receding into a persona that Ryan couldn’t name
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he repeated and Ryan just nodded because what Brendon had said made Ryan believe Pete when he said he wouldn’t hurt Ryan. “C’mon, I’ll help you up. Where do you live? I have a car, I’ll take you home.”
“Don’ worry bout it,” Ryan choked out, already struggling to his feet. He looked past Pete out of the alley way and noticed that a couple with a child were watching them with wide eyes. Ryan grimaced and looked back to Pete. “I-I can walk,” he added. “It’s not far, just a block or so.”
“How many blocks?” Pete asked, expression saying that he wasn’t going to take Ryan’s shit.
Ryan swallowed. “Eight.”
“I’m driving,” Pete said. “I’m at a meter at the next intersection, think you can make it?”
Ryan looked to his feet. “Don’t worry about it,” he said again, mumbling.
“I’m worrying,” Pete huffed. “You have two options. Follow me to the car and let me take you home or I drag you to the car and take you to Brendon for him to check you out. You could be really sick and I’m not gonna be the one to kill his favorite therapist.”
“I’m fine,” Ryan repeated, not dwelling on what Pete called him. It had to be sarcasm because there was no way Brendon could say Ryan was his favorite therapist without the statement being drowned in falsities. “I really am.”
“You’re not,” Pete growled and Ryan was surprised. Pete actually seemed like he cared a lot for a complete stranger.
Ryan decided he shouldn’t test Pete’s anger and nodded and stood, ready to follow him. Pete wrapped an arm around Ryan’s shoulders and Ryan grit his teeth to keep from flinching away. Pete led Ryan to his car and Ryan was a bit upset when he saw it was a Cadillac. But then he beat down that emotion of jealousy because for all he knew, Pete worked hard to earn the money he so obviously had.
Pete carefully lowered Ryan into the car, even set his hand on Ryan’s head to help him duck and make it inside the low car. Ryan appreciated it and slumped back into the luxurious leather, catching a moan from the comfort he felt. He slept on a futon with a mattress barely two inches thick. This was heavenly.
Pete slid into the driver’s seat and smirked a bit at Ryan’s expression. “You look like you’re getting some amazing head.”
Ryan went bright red and shook his head without hesitation. “The, the seats are nice.”
“Yeah, they are,” Pete said, smirk turning into a grin. “Fuck, I saved up for this baby for so long. So proud of this. I mean, you’d go to my apartment and think I’m rich as shit and fuck, but really, I just do a lot of overnight work for some pretty influential people.”
“Like what?” Ryan asked.
“I write speeches.”
Ryan’s brow shot up, impressed. “That’s cool.”
“Yeah,” Pete replied, still grinning. “Just gotta be good at something and know how to get it to the people who want it.”
“Brendon told me you’re a human rights activist,” Ryan said just because he could.
Pete was smirking again. “Did he?” he hummed. “Yeah, Brendon’s a good kid. I’m getting a law degree to fight for human rights and shit, but not for, like, what people expect. I wanna fight for kids. The rights of teens and shit, kids who get hit and beat to hell by their parents. And I wanna fight to get the kid to the right parent cause the mother isn’t always the best.”
Ryan stopped asking questions when the topic hit too close to home.
“I just think it’s not fair,” Pete sighed. “It’s cruel, you know? Unjust. These kids get torn apart by the people that should be protecting them and no one gives two shits about what happens once the parent’s caught. They don’t care about what happens to the kid. It’s like they think the kids are wrapped up and locked away in an evidence locker. It’s fucked up.”
“Yeah,” Ryan mumbled. “Fucked up.”
Pete pulled up in front of the apartment complex Ryan pointed out to him and turned off the engine. “Want me to help you get up?”
Ryan shook his head, not wanting the man to see how horrible Ryan’s apartment was. He pictured a flat or studio apartment for Pete, nothing like Ryan’s crummy, one-room hell. Plus, he could be allergic to cats. “Thank you,” he mumbled before getting out of the car in a rush and just making it up the open-air stairs as fast as he could. He paused just before he went inside his home to see Pete pull out of the spot. He relaxed and went inside and collapsed on the couch without even making it into a bed.
. . .
Ryan was in charge of restock. He accidentally cut his finger on the box cutter. He kept working, not even pausing to wipe the blood. He kept cutting open the boxes with a robotic mindset and didn’t feel any pain until he was walking home and accidentally brushed the wall, dirt and scum getting into the cuts.
Ryan looked down at his hands like they weren’t his.
Then he kept walking, letting the blood drip, and tried to remember how he usually got blood to stop flowing.
. . .
“So Pete tells me he took you home,” Brendon said, still unreadable. “Said he found you in an alley, throwing up. What’d you do, drink too much?”
Ryan frowned a bit, but shrugged. “I must’ve caught something at the Uni,” he lied. “Why don’t we talk about your other friend? Derek?”
“Dallon,” Brendon corrected. “He’s a cool guy. Engaged to this girl he’s been with since high school, Breezy? They went through some tough shit, she had cancer. But she’s fine now. They’ve just got a shit load of medical bills.”
Ryan nodded, understanding that idea well. “What kind of friend would you say he is?”
The other man paused, obviously thinking it over. “He’s… He’s a father figure,” he finalizes. “Dallon’s strong, you know? After everything, he has to be. And he’s kind and supportive and nurturing. And he’s just a good person and he makes good decisions and he gives good advice.”
“So would you say he’s helped you figure out a few things you’ve wanted?” Ryan asked. “Maybe helped you work out some ideas, desires. What’s good for you, in the long run.”
Brendon shrugged. Then paused. Then nodded. “He’s been, uh, helping me through some stuff,” the man says.
Ryan really wanted to latch onto that suspicious statement, but he didn’t want anger Brendon out the door again. Ryan’s found himself becoming more invested in Brendon’s wellbeing and psychological growth than he is looking for his final thesis. “Do you trust him?” he asked instead.
Brendon doesn’t hesitate when he nods. “He’s always been there for me. I know he always will be.”
“And you trust him to help you work through whatever this problem is?”
Brendon looked slighty pleased that Ryan wasn’t digging. He nodded again, grinning just a bit. “I know he’s gonna help me come to the right decision.”
Ryan met Brendon’s smile and tried his best to make it real.
“I hope he does help,” Ryan said softly. They were both comfortably quiet for a moment.
“Penis,” Brendon suddenly blurted out.
Ryan blinked. “Come again?”
Brendon bit his lip. Then repeated, “Penis. I’m having… I-I’m dreaming about men. In sexual ways. And I can’t seem to see past it to Sarah anymore. So I’m lacking in bed, so to speak. She doesn’t know about the dreams, but Dallon does. I’m thinking of telling Pete cause he’s so open about sexuality and shit that I think he can help. That’s what the problem is.”
Ryan nodded slowly. “Do you think you could maybe be bisexual or maybe even gay?”
Brendon left quicker than he ever had before, but not quick enough for Ryan to miss the look of fear replacing the usual anger on Brendon’s face.
. . .
Ryan fell asleep near the door, propped against the wall, notes scattered around him. Never could he have ever guessed that Brendon would have actual repressed sexual urges about the same gender. He fell asleep looking over all his notes from previous lessons, wondering how he could have missed it.
Before falling asleep, Ryan felt like he had failed both Brendon and himself. He’d taken psychology classes for eight years, he knew how humans worked and what they were thinking and why and how it made sense to them even when it was the most evil and cruel thing they could’ve ever done. Ryan sometimes hated how well he understood what criminals were doing and why. He hated himself for understanding why his father did those things to him. He hated that he understood the sick thoughts of rapists and murderers and psychopaths. He hated how easily he could understand.
But just before passing out from exhaustion, Ryan hated himself more than ever for not being able to say the words Brendon had needed him to say at the very beginning of these sessions.
. . .
Ryan called in sick again the next day and went straight to the Psych building. He needed to brush up on his sexual phobias and dysfunctions so he can better help Brendon work past these feelings and rekindle his relationship with Sarah. Brendon being happy had become the most important thing to him in the course of a night. He didn’t know how to handle this overwhelming need to help someone who was angry with him at the end of single time they ever met, in and out of the sessions. He just knew he needed to make Brendon’s life okay to even start to feel any better about his own.