coffee

part ten

Things are good, they're ridiculously good, really. Ryan can't remember a time when he's been happier. He's sleeping well, his head filled with thoughts of dark eyes and full, smiling lips. Brendon visits the shop every day, leaves him flowers, calls him when he can. Brendon sings him to sleep, promises him things that he couldn't even imagine. It's heaven, a feeling he could certainly get used to. But all good things must come to an end.

It's nearly midnight when the phone rings. Jon is sleeping at Spencer's, and Ryan is watching Steel Magnolias because it's the only thing on. He heaves himself off the couch, and snatches up the phone from its cradle.

"Walker-Ross residence," he says.

"Mr. Ross?" A gruff voice asks from the other line.

"Yes," he says.

"This is Officer Hicks," the voice says. "I'm calling to inform you of an accident involving Brendon Urie."

"What?" Ryan says, and his heart is beating so furiously in his chest. "Is he?"

"He's been sent to Mercy Hospital," Officer Hicks says. "His friend told me that you were the one to call. The driver seems to have been intoxicated, and he lost control. Fucking kids and their drinking."

"Yes," Ryan agrees. "Thank you." He hangs up the phone, and wanders back to the couch. He can feel tears on his cheeks, and he brings a hand up to wipe them away. "Fuck," he says, and gets up to grab his coat from the closet.

He gets stuck in traffic on the way to the hospital; there's back-up from the accident. He passes a car, wrapped up around a fucking telephone pole, and bile rises in his throat. A horde of police officers circles the wreckage, all standing around looking useless. A blonde girl, Greta, if Ryan remembers her name correctly, is being interviewed by one cop. She looks nervous, like she knows she's done something wrong. Ryan decides then and there to kill whoever the fuck was driving that car.

Ryan parks his car in a handicapped space, he doesn't care. He runs up to the automatic doors, and hurries through, stopping at the receptionist's desk.

"Um, I'm here to see Brendon Urie," he says, tapping his foot against the linoleum floor. The receptionist glances up at him, looking tired. "He was in that car accident," Ryan says.

"Ah yes," the receptionist says. "If you'll just sit down. He's being examined."

"Right, okay. Thank you."

"He'll be fine, dear," the woman tells him in a sweet voice. "Didn't look too banged up when they brought him in. A few scratches at the most. Don't you worry, we'll take good care of him."

"Thank you," Ryan says again, and slumps down into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. He sighs, takes his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, and dials Jon's number. Jon's voice-mail comes up, and Ryan sighs again. "Hey, Jon, it's Ryan. You'd never guess where I am right now. Mercy. Brendon was in an accident, but the receptionist, in her infinite medical wisdom, thinks he'll be fine. I wouldn't worry yet, but either way you're probably too busy shoving your tongue down Spence's throat. I'll call when I find out more. Love you." Ryan snaps his phone shut, and waits.

Fifteen minutes go by before Brendon emerges, a slight limp in his walk, and a cut on his forehead. Ryan leaps up from his chair, and throws his arms around the younger boy. Brendon lets a quiet groan of pain, and Ryan steps back.

"Sorry," he murmurs, inspecting Brendon's face carefully. "So the cops said that the driver was drunk," Ryan says.

"Yeah," Brendon says. "Gabe." Ryan looks at Brendon, blinking back a fresh wave of tears.