After Supper

Disclaimer: I own none of these people. The words are my own.

Characters: Ryan Ross, William Beckett, Gabe Saporta, Pete Wentz, a few other Fueled By Ramen band members.

After Supper.

There were three of them in the room. Four if you counted Gabe, but no one was. Not even his boyfriend and mother, clutching both his hands. Doctors and nurses would flutter in and out, write things down, check some numbers, flutter out again. Nobody said a word.

That was why

he

was such a shock. Bustling in, not fluttering, with a briefcase and a businesslike expression mixed with a tint of apology. "I'm Mr. Saporta's lawyer." he said by way of introducing himself.

Ryan looked up from the bed, wiping at his wet eyes. "His lawyer? What for?" His voice cracked from disuse.

"Affairs, affairs. The business side of it, of course."

"But he's not dead!" Ryan snapped.

"Of course not, of course not." The lawyer had a way of repeating things as if it would soften the affect. It didn't. "But he came in a few weeks ago, something about a test, and wanted to update . . . well, something. And anyway," he opened his suitcase and pulled out a manila envelope, "this is for his attorney-in-fact." He looked up at three confused faces. "His power of attorney. The person who makes all his decisions now that he currently can't. For William Beckett."

William looked up with wide, confused eyes. "What? But . . . but that's his mom. I don't . . . I don't even remember signing anything . . ."

"You didn't have to. Your signature isn't required for it. You can deny all rights and obligations. But you are, currently, his attorney-in-fact and these are for you." He handed William the manila envelope and left.

He didn't open it, nobody spoke, and Ryan and Gabe's mother went back to holding the hands of the comatose patient in the bed. William left a few minutes later, not saying where he was going or what he was doing. Nobody asked. He opened the envelope in the car which contained a white envelope that had Ryan's name printed on it. Why would Gabe put an envelope for Ryan in an envelope for William?

Well, it was William's then so he opened it, deducing logically that he wasn't going to give Ryan anything that would send him into another fit like the one he'd had the night before when the nurses insist he leave the room. His eyes widened slightly as he read through it, Gabe's handwriting slightly uneasy to decipher. But the words were clear, the meaning was clear, and Ryan's reaction—though unpainted—was clear as well.

He gave it to Ryan that night at a Starbucks in the local Target. William lay, sprawled on one side of the booth, while Ryan sat on the other, legs daintily tucked up underneath him as he began to read the letter William had given him. The older took the sound of crumpling paper to mean Ryan had finished it. He moved to sit up, offer the words he didn't have, but Ryan was already standing over him, staring down with an expression William had never seen before on his young, beautiful face.

William had only ever seen one upside down kiss in his life, let alone felt one. Open mouthed, with tongue, and nobody's chin or nose or forehead where it was supposed to be. Only lips and it was only lips that mattered, but eventually Ryan was on top of William on the bench and kissing him harder, grinding down on him as William arched his back to meet Ryan's lips with his own.

And it didn't matter that they were Ryan Ross and William Beckett and that this was a shitty Starbucks in a shitty Target in a shitty town with a shitty rental car outside waiting to take them back to a shitty hotel. It didn't matter that Gabe was lying in a hospital bed and had written Ryan a letter confessing all his trespasses and all the faceless, nameless boys in hotel rooms and all the girls with silicone breasts that he just didn't have the strength to refuse. It didn't matter.

Right now they were just Ryan and William and people were staring and a manager was coming out and Ryan grabbed the letter and William grabbed his hand and they ran to the parking lot and into the car and William was in the backseat with Ryan on top of him again. Hungry kisses, starving kisses, biting, painful, bleeding, bruising. And Ryan's hands holding William's wrists

hard

over his head and more grinding and more back arching. And then Ryan biting William's neck and William moaning and then screaming.

Ryan let go of William's hands to thread them tightly through the older boy's hair. And William's hands started to hesitantly explore the young, soft, milky skin underneath Ryan's shirt. Fingers light and dancing. Hands moving higher and higher until Ryan finally pulled away and ripped his shirt off, then yanked at William's, dragging fingernails harshly down the thin, pale flesh that was now exposed.

William screamed again, arching upward, hips grinding, mouth parted, gasping, choking, breathing. More biting, less kissing. More moaning, less cursing. More grinding, less arching. More skin, less fabric. More sweat, less tears. More anger, more lust, more hazy implacable emotions in Ryan's ever-darkening eyes.

And then no fabric, no clothes, William completely exposed to Ryan. And he realized then that no matter what Ryan was wearing, what he wasn't, whether he had just come out of a shower, if it was right after sex, no matter what . . . Ryan would never be exposed completely to William. Ever. And if he would have realized what that meant at that moment . . . well, it really wouldn't have mattered much. It wouldn't have stopped anything. Not really.

Ryan pressed two fingers against William's lips and the older boy parted his lips, licking and sucking and then Ryan pressed them hard inside and William arched again, moaning, screaming when Ryan's fingernails dug hard enough into his hip to draw blood, raking down his thigh. And then Ryan was up and staring into William's eyes, positioned but not moving yet. There was no sound except for William's trembling breaths. One hot tear rolled down his cheek and Ryan wiped it away.

Then the thrust.

And William screamed, tears streaming down his cheeks now, and over Ryan's hand which was clasped firmly over his mouth. And there was more, more, and William was choking from a mixture of muffled screams and tears that were making his eyes hurt and Ryan finally paused. Staring, wiping at William's cheeks, no movement. Ryan's labored breathing, a drop of sweat rolling down his temple and dripping onto the other boy's chest. Gentle lips on William's forehead and then gentle lips against his neck.

Hard thrusts, hard fucking, hard sex, feather-soft kisses. Which were what William would remember in the morning, those soft lips on his neck. He didn't even remember the sex ending and Ryan wasn't sure that he remembered it either, but then he was getting dressed and talking. It took William a moment to remember how to understand words.

". . . to the hotel. Get dressed."

William's head rolled back against the seat and his eyes shut. He heard Ryan curse, felt the jeans being tugged up his legs and over his hips. Zip, button. A kiss on his collarbone. Then driving, driving, he heard the wheels. No radio, no words, closed eyes, no blurred lights through the fading steam on the windows. And then Ryan shaking him awake and some more words he didn't really hear until the end. ". . . upstairs. Put your arm around me, baby."

Elevator, stumbling out, hallway, card key. Headline in the making. Drugs, sex, rock life style, secret love affairs. But really just William stumbling and falling face first onto the bed closest the door. And Ryan turning him onto his back, making soft comforting noises like a mother might. Helping William out of his jeans and into a pair of sweats and kissing his forehead. Ryan doing two shots of vodka and changing into his own sweats before tucking William in and sliding underneath the quilt in the same bed.

Then William was sobbing again and Ryan was staring hard at the ceiling, thinking. Quiet. No movement. And then, for no audible reason, Ryan pulled William into his arms, one hand gently stroking the older boy's hair. Whispered words, pet names, hushing sounds, soft songs sung under his breath. William knew then. Or maybe he knew in the car but couldn't understand through the moaning and fucking and screaming. But he knew then, aware, conscious.

Ryan was Gabe now. And William was Ryan. Gabe took care of Ryan. And now Ryan was taking care of William. And that was how it was going to be. Until a promise broke or one of them died. That's how it was. Forever. As long as forever lasted. Which sometimes isn't long at all. Gabe and Ryan's forever had been a little over a year. Now it was William and Ryan's forever.

William woke up alone. Barely. The bathroom door was open and he could

just

see Ryan's arm as he towel-dried his hair. The younger boy came out with a towel slung low around his hips. "You need to eat." A strong voice with a soft aftertaste. "We have to go see Gabe after you shower." Ryan stood in front of the mirror, playing with his hair and turning his head from side to side, examining his skin. He turned back to look at William. "Eat." he repeated.

"Not hungry." Mumbled reply. Nowhere near as eloquent as Ryan. Not that it would have really been eloquent if it were anyone but Ryan speaking and anyone but William listening.

"Eat." Ryan said again, this time raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms over his chest. He nodded his head toward the table with a few room service trays on it. "Now." he added. William sighed and got up. Ryan lit a cigarette and walked over to the chair William was sitting in, bending down and kissing the top of his head. "Then shower, okay?"

William nodded vacantly. Ryan hadn't smoked before. Gabe had. But Ryan was Gabe now. And William was Ryan. So now did he have to be the coy flirt who always drank too much and had to be carried to their hotel room?

No, no. He didn't. The Ryan changed. The Ryan had to change. Because William hadn't been with Ryan before so he couldn't know. But Gabe had to stay the same. Gabe couldn't change. And Ryan had to be Gabe because Ryan

knew

. So Ryan was Gabe and William was still William. But different. Still William, but different.

At the hospital, Mrs. Saporta sat on one side of the bed, holding her son's hand. Ryan sat on the other, holding William's. No words. Gabe would hate this if he were awake, William thought. Thought was really the only time there were words. Gabe would have. Gabe hated quiet. Gabe hated silence.

Or maybe not as much as William had thought. The older boy glanced at Ryan. Ryan squeezed his hand and they said nothing. They left at seven like clockwork, like always. They went to a liquor store and William used his ID to buy Ryan more vodka. They went to a gas station and Ryan used his ID to buy himself more cigarettes and a new lighter. It was orange.

Ryan's hand lead William by the small of his back to their hotel room. Six inches and three years didn't matter. Numbers didn't matter. And soon nothing mattered, William on his back again, wrists held tightly by Ryan and there were more hard kisses and more moaning and more hurt and more crying and more gentle, dancing lips on William's neck. And then Ryan holding William again afterward. All the same. Different. Maybe it was the softness of the bed.

And the next morning, both in clothes from the night before without deodorant or combed hair or brushed teeth, Ryan and William waited at the desk for Gabe's mother. And she kissed her son one more time and walked from the room, nodding and wiping her eyes. William signed the paper and Ryan's only tear fell on it.

Then Gabe stopped breathing.

The next day Ryan washed William's face with a washcloth and forced him out of bed and into the shower. Ryan stepped in after him, washing William's hair and then scrubbing his entire body from foot to neck. He towel-dried the older boy's hair and wrapped him in a white robe before leading him back to the bed. Ryan held a hand under William's chin and forced him to drink water before he let him lie back down.

Two days after that, Ryan held William's hand through the blurred service, the words all running together, the faces all distorted, nothing real to William except Gabe's casket and Ryan's hand. Then he ran from the casket, from the gravestone, from the people, from the mass of black. And Ryan followed, at a steady pace, perhaps slower than usual. And they sat there on the ground in their ugly black clothes while William sobbed into Ryan's chest and Ryan gently stroked William's hair, cooing in a mother's voice.

They stayed long after everyone else had gone, until William gave a shaky nod and let Ryan help him to his feet, the younger boy pulling a packet of tissues from his pocket and wiping at William's tearstained cheeks.

At the hotel Ryan ran a bath and he and William sank into the steaming heat of it, Ryan washing the other boy's hair again, wrapping his legs around William's waist and murmuring soft words in his ear. The next day there wouldn't be any hotels. And William would sleep in Ryan's bed with the pretty blue sheets and too many pillows.

And after that hellish plane ride with a stop in Chicago before continuing on to Vegas and William being the only one who wasn't in Ryan's band on the second take-off, not that anyone noticed or cared or said anything. William was clinging to Ryan like a child and Ryan was absently stroking the older boy's hair, not saying anything. After the landing that should have jolted everyone's senses but did no such thing, Ryan took William's hand in his and lead him off the plane and across the cement as a man followed behind them with their luggage and loaded it into the back of Ryan's car.

Then Ryan buckled William into the passenger seat and patted his cheek before they started the car and headed for Ryan's condo, not a word spoken to anyone else. Or even William for that matter. But it didn't matter. William traced patterns on the glass of his window and cried quietly as Ryan's hand stroked his back for a few moments. Then they were at Ryan's and Ryan was leading William from the car, exchanging forty dollars with the doorman so he wouldn't have to mess with the luggage because Ryan always hated dragging luggage up stairs anyway.

It was earlier in Vegas than it should have been because of the time change. So Ryan tucked William into bed at five 'o clock and kissed his forehead before he went out to the balcony to have a cigarette and think. Think about Gabe, think about William, think about everything and nothing. Think.

Gabe's band broke up first for obvious reasons. Then William's because he said everyone was always staring at him. They were, of course, because they were worried he would crack, but he thought it was because of the paper he had signed in the hospital, the paper that kept him and Ryan up at night. Then Ryan's band broke up because Ryan was taking care of William. Then Pete's band broke up because he had a mental breakdown and had to be institutionalized. After that Fueled By Ramen fell apart.

And things were easier on William because there was really no pressure anymore. He and Ryan fell into a pattern, a schedule, and things worked well most of the time. Ryan would get up first, start the coffee, smoke a cigarette, take a quick shower, drink coffee. Then William would get up and make more coffee because the first pot would be disgustingly lukewarm, go and watch an hour or so of television curled up next to Ryan on the couch, then shower. He'd get out of the shower and Ryan would be doing his hair, then towel-dry William's because he insisted that he did it better.

Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays were mail days. Ryan and William would go to the Post Office and send off packages and letters because it seemed there were

always

packages and letters to send off. After that, on Thursdays, they would go to the grocery store and then go home where nobody would cook anything and they would have sex on the couch and fall asleep there until supper. Tuesdays, after, they would call William's mother and sister and brother and Ryan would cook and they would watch a movie. On Wednesdays, Ryan read and William slept.

Every Friday Ryan and William went to see Pete in the hospital. He rarely talked to them and when he did it was in a terrible high-pitched voice that said words nobody could make sense out of. Ryan always brought fresh flowers and fresh bed sheets, which William always changed. Five minutes before visiting hours ended, Ryan would send William down to start the car and he would stay to talk to Pete alone. William knew who they were talking about, naturally, but he had no idea

what

they were talking about.

William thought Ryan was Gabe. And Ryan

was

Gabe. But William didn't know that there was a Gabe

before

Gabe. That Ryan wasn't a copy. But a copy of a copy. And Pete was Gabe before Gabe was Gabe. Because Gabe was Ryan before Ryan was himself. Pete took care of Gabe and then found Ryan and gave him to Gabe, having lost too much strength himself to take care of another person, let alone a soul as beaten and broken as Ryan. And now Ryan was Gabe and William was sitting in the car, tapping his fingers on the wheel.

Ryan pulled his white gloves off as he got in the car. "Jesus, it's fucking cold out. I hate January. Let's go somewhere warm. What do you want to eat, Will?"

William shrugged. "I'm not hungry." he said as he put the car into reverse and turned to look over his shoulder as he backed out of the parking space slowly.

"You're never hungry." Ryan said, laughing quietly. "All right. Let's go to that place on 46th, okay? That Tai place." William smiled at him and drove. The restaurant Ryan was talking about wasn't that far nor was it that busy. He got a parking space quite close to the door, but it didn't stop Ryan from meticulously putting his gloves on and making sure his fingers were perfectly aligned with the seams. He buttoned his coat again and then got out of the car, leading William into the restaurant by his arm.

Things like that were different during the daytime. Ryan lead William into places, touched his arm, but he didn't need to take care of him most of the time. Not like at night or when William broke down. During the day he was perfectly content to let William run about like a fucked up idiot, eat bad food, and watch terrible made-for-TV movies. He generally watched the other boy over the pages of a book or while cooking dinner. Not amused, but not concerned or annoyed. Just watching.

At night it was a different story. Night started the minute Ryan put William's supper onto a plate and set it down in front of him while William sipped at a glass of wine (it was almost always wine). Then Ryan would sit down and they would eat silently while the television played in the background because William never remembered to turn it off when he left the living room.

Then William would put the dishes in the dishwasher while Ryan put the extra food down the garbage disposal. (He didn't believe in leftovers.) If it was a weeknight they watched a movie in the living room, William's head in Ryan's lap and Ryan stroking his hair. Then Ryan would lead William up the stairs to their bedroom and Ryan became William's silent savior while the older boy cried and tried not to scream. Feather-soft kisses.

If it was a Saturday, someone came over. There was never a guarantee of who it was going to be, but someone always came over. Usually it was Brendon, but everyone had showed up at one point or another. An attempt at conversation would follow after Ryan answered the door and lead the guest into the living room, pouring another glass of wine. Whoever was there would answer questions and ask as many while trying to ignore William resting his chin on Ryan's shoulder and staring back and forth between them with wider than normal eyes, speaking every so often. Brendon was best at ignoring it, Patrick second-best. But Jon had thrown his glass against the wall and hadn't come back.