DAMN YOUR KISS; ryden

Chapter Three: You Remind Me Of A Former Love

Ryan sort of regretted his most recent haircut.

More than anything, it made him miss his old hair, but really, it was just plain annoying. Unless he meticulously sat in front of a mirror and use gel or spray or some shit like that to keep it pushed back, it just sort of … was there. Gone were the days he could roll out of bed, look in the mirror, shrug and be done with it.

And today of all days …

Todays of all days he was worrying about his goddamned hair, which was hilariously stupid, considering what was in front of him.

It had been Z, in the end, who had convinced him that doing this would be the right thing to do, after the call from Spencer. That he should go back and see if he could heal any bad blood, smooth off the things he’d left with jagged edges. Or at least stick a band aid on top. That it’d make him feel better, and he could move on. He’d already told her that he felt fine, he had moved on, but Z had simply stared at him with those massive, doe-like dark eyes, cupped her small hands on either side his jaw – and it wouldn’t have been out of place had she pressed her forehead to his in a typical warrior exchange – and said ‘Be real, Ryan.’ Her gaze only grew more determined. ‘Lie to me, but not to yourself.’

Z was good at all that Yoda stuff. She’d fix you up that stare, and even the stupidest thing sounded wise and world weary coming out of her mouth. Which made a drunk her incredibly fun.

Dammit, Ross, you’re too far inside your own distractions. He smacked the jut of his wrist to the side of his head, and shook fiercely. Maybe Z was right. She was a lot of the time. But maybe she was wrong. I mean, there’s always a first time for everything…

I really should buy more shoes. He looked to his feet, at the old, scuffed vans he was wearing. They were better than the other pair, with the duct tape to keep the sole and upper part of the shoe together, which he’d nearly worn today, before judgement told him otherwise. Actually, no, he didn’t. He had plenty, he just liked some more than others, and wore them to death.

Jesus Christ. He screwed his eyes up, and pressed his knuckles to them until they began to throb painfully, and the stars didn’t even want to flash beneath his lids.

It all just told him one thing. Today was going to be hard. He knew that. He expected that. But in all honesty, he also didn’t, because he’d never … been back. He’d never stormed off in quite a fashion with any intention to show face ever again.

What was it Brendon had said?

‘You walk now, you can keep walking. And if you know what’s good for you, I wouldn’t look back either.’

Well, Ryan never had been one to listen all that well.

It’s been awhile. When had it never been. Gripping the strap of his guitar – God, that strap. That old thing. Something Brendon had bought him, all those years ago, for his birthday, his 21st. Green and brown, with a psychedelic pattern. He’d pushed it at Ryan, at his birthday party, that ill-fated jaunt to Vegas, and when he’d opened it, he’d looked up to see Brendon grinning, spreading his hands wide and saying

We’re matchers!

He could hear him as clear as if Brendon were standing beside him saying the words now. And here he was, years later, the same bloody guitar strap, whilst Brendon had probably moved on, and gotten another. He’d surely notice.

Turning back would be easy the dark little part of his mind coaxed. Just swish, heels around, out the door, in the car, gone. They would never even know. Spencer and Zack would be disappointed, pissed, maybe, but …

His hands was out, curled in a fist, inches from the door –

You know what the reaction will be when they – he – sees you. Why kid yourself.

His knuckles brushed the wood, a whisper, soft.

Are you even at the right studio? Are you sure Spencer gave you the right address? It could all be one big, cruel joke. He could be yanking your chain, laughing all the way on the other side of the state, maybe even in another, at how stupid and desperate and needy you are –

The knock was hard. Harsh. Hollow. Three quick, and two slow.

There was no turning back. He couldn’t leave now, and he was at the right studio.

Time to face the music seemed an appropriate analogy. Perfect even.