it's always cloudy (except for when
you look into the past)
Ryan Ross carefully closed his front door. His shaking hands made turning the
lock difficult, but after a moment he managed. He toed off his sneakers in the
front hall and checked the clock on the VCR. It was a little after three, and
his father wouldn’t get home from work until at least six, thank god. Ryan
didn’t think he could deal with him on top of everything else.
He padded to his bedroom in soft, white tube socks, slipped inside, locked that
door and pressed his back against the wood. He looked at his room: the Blink
182, My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy posters taped to the walls; the CDs
strewn across every available surface; his weathered, secondhand guitar balanced
against the side of his desk; his pale green bed sheets crumpled up at the end
of the bed; Spencer’s Playstation with the controllers still on the floor from
when they had played last week, the day before Spencer left for vacation with
his family. It all seemed so…small now, so immature.
His cell phone rang again and he clenched his jaw shut, determined to ignore it.
He could have been in Florida with Spencer right now, visiting Disney World and
trying to get out of babysitting his little sisters, but instead he chose to
stay home and spend the three weeks with her. He thought she was worth
it, worth almost a whole month alone with just his dad and no Spencer to escape
to when things got rough. God, what a fucking joke.
Ryan had been in love, and it turned out he was only a stopgap for Brittany;
someone to keep her occupied until she could hook up with one of the preppy guys
going to UNLV next month. Ryan let himself slide down the length of the door
until he was on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest. What if he hadn’t
showed up to her house early today? His stomach turned at the thought. Would she
have smiled at him? Kissed him? Would she have laughed inside when he talked
about how great their senior year was going to be, all the while thinking about
the college guy she just fucked? Would she have even felt bad?
He rested his forehead against his knees and sighed, the sound coming out long
and shaky. In his hand, his phone vibrated, telling him he had a text message.
He flipped it open and read what it said:
sry :(
He grinned mirthlessly. It pissed him off that she obviously wasn’t sorry enough
to spell out the whole word (she was only three-letters apologetic for breaking
his heart. What would warrant all five, he wondered, setting fire to a
nursery?), but the condescending frowny face is what finally sent him over the
edge. He hurled the phone across the room, feeling vaguely satisfied by the
crunch it made against the wall, even though he knew that if it broke his father
would kill him.
Why was it always him? What was it about him that made it easy for people to
cheat on him, fuck him over and generally screw up his life? His mom was gone –
Ryan hadn’t talked to her in almost five months – and his dad still looked at
him like he was either a mistake or a huge disappointment (when he was sober
enough to look like anything other than a drunken wreck). Spencer wouldn’t be
back for two weeks. He thought he had something with Brittany, and god, could he
get any more pathetic? Could his life get any more pathetic?
Taking advantage of his dad’s absence, he cranked his radio up all the way,
letting the first strains of Take Off Your Pants and Jacket drown out his
thoughts for a while. His journal was in the third drawer of his desk, stuffed
in the back. He dug it out along with a pen and sat down on his bed to write.
Over the speakers, Tom DeLonge was singing, everything has fallen to pieces.
At first, Ryan couldn’t write anything. His hand stood poised above the paper,
still trembling, while his mind raced. With a shout of frustration, he brought
the pen down hard and scribbled a dark blue line that ripped through three pages
of the notebook. He tore those out, dropped them on the floor and stared at the
next clean page. Biting his lip, he managed to write I’ve got more wit, a
better kiss before something strange happened.
Over the speakers, Tom DeLonge was singing, we never wanted to be abused.
His hand, not the one he was writing with, but the left one holding the journal,
seemed to…flicker. First it was there, gripping the paper so hard his knuckles
were white, and then it…wasn’t. It didn’t last long. In the time it took to
blink, it was back again, right where it had been. Startled, Ryan dropped his
notebook and pen and held both hands in front of his face. He stared at them,
eyes wide, until he couldn’t stand it anymore and had to blink. Nothing
happened.
Over the speakers, Tom DeLonge was singing, let’s make this last forever.
“Great, I’m going crazy now,” Ryan mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes.
Over the speakers, Tom DeLonge was singing, when you smile, I –
Ryan’s head snapped up as the music cut off, and nearly fell off his bed in his
haste to get away. In front of his radio stood a man with one finger still
pressed to the power button.
“Oh my god!” Ryan cried, stumbling backward and nearly tripping over one wayward
game controller.
“Don’t freak out,” the guy said, both hands held out in a placating gesture.
Ryan shot a look at his locked bedroom door and then back at the guy who neatly
blocked the exit out of said door. “Are you fucking kidding me? How did you get
in here?”
He tried to find something within arm’s reach to use as a weapon. The only thing
he could see was a studded belt on top of the pile of dirty clothes from the day
before. He grabbed it and brandished it in front of him, feeling stupid and
hysterical.
“You’re freaking out. Of course you are, I remember that from the first time,”
the guy said, non-sensically. “Look, I’m not going to hurt you.” He raised his
hands in the air like he was under arrest. “See?”
“What are you doing in my house? Who the hell are you?” Ryan demanded.
The guy scoffed and spread his arms out wide. “Look at me.”
Ryan’s heart raced in his chest, but he took two deep breaths and let himself
look at the intruder for the first time. The guy was tall and lanky, with too
long limbs and dark brown hair that fell into his eyes. He seemed familiar but
Ryan couldn’t place him. His minded shifted through a catalogue of his life -
school, concerts, work - without success, until suddenly it dawned on him where
he’d seen the guy before. It was in the mirror.
“You’re…” Ryan gasped, back hitting the wall as he reeled from the shock of it.
“I mean, you’re…”
“You,” the guy finished for him, smiling slightly. “From the future.”
***
“When I was ten, Spencer dared me to drink something that made me sick. What was
it?” Ryan demanded as he paced back and forth across his light blue carpet.
The guy perched on his bed – Ryan couldn’t bring himself to name him – had an
annoyingly knowing look on his face, and sat the way that Ryan did, with both
hands laced around one raised knee. “His mom’s perfume. How long are we going to
have to do this? I can’t stay out of time forever, you know.”
***
Ryan ran his hands through his hair. “I’m going crazy.”
“You’re not,” the guy said. “You’re not. The flickering?” He waved his
left hand and Ryan felt all the air go out of his lungs. “You’re not going
crazy.”
“That…that was…”
“The first time it happened, yeah,” the guy said.
***
“It’s basically just a party trick,” his older self said, making Ryan gape.
“I can travel through time. That isn’t a party trick, it’s a superpower!”
“Well, it’s not like I can travel wherever,” he guy said. “I’m stuck in my own
timeline, so I can’t go back and see the dinosaurs or Woodstock or whatever.
Plus, I don’t jump ahead anymore if I can help it. It takes the fun out of
everything.”
“But can’t you, like, go back in time and tell me which stock to put money in or
something?” Ryan asked.
“It doesn’t work that way,” the guy said.
***
“So that’s why you’re here?” Ryan eyed him wearily, still expecting a trick,
still waiting for Trevor to jump out of his closet with a camera or something.
“To help me figure this out?”
“Yeah,” the guy – Ryan? God, this was nuts – answered slowly. “That, and…your
life fucking sucks right now.”
“Understatement,” Ryan said, crossing his arms defensively over his chest.
“Yeah,” his older version said, a little sadly. “But I’m here and I can tell you
that it gets better. So much better.”
***
“Famous?” Ryan asked, sitting down hard on the bed. “What do you mean by
‘famous’?”
Older Ryan smiled and sang, “We take all kind of pills to give us all kind of
thrills, but the thrill we've never known, is the thrill that'll get you when
you get your picture…”
“Rolling Stone?” Ryan whispered. “In only four years?”
“Less.”
“What? How?” Abruptly, something occurred to him. “Wait, isn’t there, like, a
paradox or something? Like, if you tell me about what’s going to happen, what if
I do something different and it messes everything up?”
The older Ryan shrugged one bony shoulder, and jesus, was he really that skinny?
“I’m not an expert or anything, but I don’t think that’s how it actually works.
I’m pretty sure things happen the way they’re supposed to no matter what.”
“But how do you know you’re not ruining my future right now?” Ryan insisted.
His older self gave him an unimpressed look, as if he couldn’t understand how
Ryan was so slow. Ryan felt himself scowl in response. “Because I’ve already had
this conversation. Just…from the other side.”
Oh, huh.
***
“But we only do covers of Blink 182 songs!” Ryan said, frustrated. “And my
singing kind of sucks.”
“Yeah, we performed a cover of a Blink song once,” the other Ryan said, then
rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, is it still a cover if we actually did it
with Mark Hoppus?”
Ryan pressed a hand to his heart, his eyes straying to the Blink poster on his
wall. “Which one?” he asked faintly.
“What’s My Age Again?”
Ryan moaned.
***
“You’re going to meet so many people,” his older self was telling him, some time
later.
“Like who?” Ryan asked. “Aside from the homeless pirate I obviously decide to
let dress me.”
“Hey, fuck off,” his older self said, adjusting his neckerchief – neckerchief,
jesus - primly. “At least I’m not wearing t-shirts, gym shorts and
tube socks on dates anymore.”
“They’re warm!” Ryan said, digging his tube socked toes into the carpet.
“That argument is less than convincing when you live in Nevada, just so you
know. Anyway, your style changes once you meet Pete.”
“Pete?” Ryan asked.
“Pete Wentz,” Older Ryan said, grinning when Ryan almost choked on his
own tongue. “He’s one of my best friends, actually.”
“Pete Wentz from Fall Out Boy? Are you serious? God, who else is there?” Ryan
demanded.
His older self smiled mysteriously, and Ryan held his breath. Did he write songs
with Thom Yorke? Have weekly dinners with Chris Martin? Practice yoga with
Madonna? What?
“Brendon Urie.”
Ryan frowned, thinking. “Who? I don’t know who that is.”
“Not yet,” Older Ryan corrected. He grinned, looking like he knew something Ryan
didn’t. Which, of course, he did, so was it really necessary to rub it
in?
“Is he a musician?” Ryan guessed.
“Want to see?”
“What?” Ryan asked.
Older Ryan held out a hand. “Want. To. See?”
“You mean, go…?” Ryan asked. “You can do that?”
“Not for a long time,” Older Ryan said. “It wears me out too fast. When I get
back, I’ll probably sleep for, like, a day, but yeah.”
“I don’t know…” Ryan said, apprehensive again. What if he didn’t like what he
saw? What if this guy wasn’t really him at all, and this was some kind of horror
movie set up?
Older Ryan rolled his eyes. “If it helps, I already know that I go.”
“Um…”
Without asking again, his older self grabbed his hand and hauled him off the
bed.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
Against his better judgment, Ryan squeezed them shut, preparing to feel ripped
apart or nauseous or a disgusting combination of both. “What now?” he asked.
“Open your eyes.”
“Huh?” Ryan cracked one eye open and was startled enough to open the other. They
weren’t in his bedroom anymore. In fact, he didn’t know where they were. It was
someplace small, confined, but with sunlight brightening every corner of the
room, streaming in from big windows on either end. He turned around, taking it
all in, and noticed the seats in the front. “Is this a bus?”
His older self nodded. “It’s a tour bus. My tour bus, in fact.”
A voice came from behind him, one he’d recognize anywhere. “I’m sorry, whose
tour bus is this?”
“Spencer!” Ryan cried, pivoting around on one foot and coming face to face with
his best friend, and wow. Spencer was thin. Not reedy like Ryan, but he
lost his baby fat just like his mother always said he would. “You got hot!” Ryan
cried, before he could stop himself.
Spencer barked out a laugh while Ryan gathered him into a tight hug. Ryan hadn’t
seen him in a week, and in the last two hours alone he’d walked in on his
girlfriend cheating on him, met an older version of himself, learned that he
could travel in time and then, you know, did. But Spencer…Spencer
was himself, even sleek and polished like he was now, and things were always
better for Ryan with him around; things always made more sense.
“Hey, Ry,” Spencer said, wrapping his arms around Ryan’s waist. “How’s it
going?”
“I can travel in time,” Ryan said.
“I know. It’s pretty cool, actually.”
“I’m a rock star.”
“Me too,” Spencer said, and Ryan pulled back a little to look at him. Shit, was
that eyeliner?
“I can’t believe it,” he said.
Spencer raised one eyebrow in an expression so familiar and completely him
that Ryan almost cried. “Do you really think you’d get anywhere without me,
motherfucker?”
Ryan laughed, bright and happy, before leaning back in and tucking his face
against Spencer’s neck. “Brittany is fucking around with Eddie Wright.”
There was silence a moment, and then Spencer said, “Hmm…that makes him, what,
seventeen?” Confusion threaded through Ryan at that, until he realized that
Spencer wasn’t talking to him.
“A month before,” the older him replied. “July of ’03.”
“Mmm…” Spencer said. Then, “Brittany Redding is a whore, and when we hit it big
she tried to come crawling back to you.”
“Really?” Ryan asked.
From beside him, his older self answered, grinning. “Forget Rolling Stone,
that was the greatest day of my life.”
“Awesome,” Ryan said, finally pulling away from Spencer. “So where’s Pete Wentz,
if we’re such good friends?”
“On his own bus,” his older self answered.
“Can we visit him?” he asked, and off the knowing looks Spencer and his older
self shot him, added, “I mean…”
“I don’t think we’ll have enough time,” Older Ryan said. “I’m kind of straining
here.”
Spencer inspected his older self critically. “You look like shit, Ross. Sit
down, I’ll get you some water.”
“Are you okay?” Ryan asked when they took their seats side by side on the couch.
He never sweated much, but his older self looked red-faced from exertion.
“It’s always like this,” Older Ryan answered. “That’s why I don’t do it much. I
knew I had to see me, well, you, though, because I went before, if that
makes sense. Time travel is very circular.”
Spencer handed both of them a bottle of water and sat down on the couch across
the aisle.
“You know about this?” Ryan asked Spencer, waving a hand between him and his
older self.
“You tell us when you’re eighteen. It’s still weird to see two of you at once.”
Ryan grew abruptly impatient with all the small talk. “Okay, so tell me
something about my life,” he said. “Tell me something awesome.”
“You’re going to love playing in Paris,” Spencer answered.
“We get to play in Paris?” Ryan asked in awe, still trying to wrap his
mind around the idea of himself as a rock star.
“We get to play everywhere,” Spencer replied. “The whole U.S., Canada, Japan,
Italy, France, England. We’re going back to Paris the day after tomorrow, but
we’re in Germany right now.”
Ryan turned around on the couch and stared out the window onto plain asphalt and
trees that could have been anywhere in Summerlin. “Really?”
“Yeah, we’re parked at the venue right now. We have a show tonight. Speaking of
that, are you going to be okay to play, Ryan?”
His older self waved away Spencer’s worry. “It’s only, what, eleven here? A few
hours of sleep and I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe you should take him back now,” Spencer said.
“I’m fine. It’s not like I haven’t done this before, Spence.”
“Okay,” Ryan said, thinking out loud and interrupting their argument. “So I have
to go back and see myself, I get that. But how am I supposed to know when to do
it?”
Older Ryan gave him another one of his pitying looks. Did Ryan do that now?
Because if so, he couldn’t understand how he’d never been punched in the face.
“August 19, 2007,” Older Ryan responded. “Right around ten in the morning local
time.”
“Ah,” Ryan said, strangely deflated. “That feels like cheating somehow.”
His older self laughed. “Well, if it helps, I remembered my neckerchief when I
saw it at the store even four years later. You have some serious issues with
this thing, by the way.”
“It’s a neckerchief,” Ryan said. Because really, a neckerchief?
“They’re in style now!” his older self defended.
“Whatever,” Ryan said, letting his disbelief show, and then sighed. “We really
can’t see Pete?”
“You’ll meet him soon enough anyway,” his older self said.
“Well, what about Mark Hoppus or at least that other guy you told me
about…Brendon?” Across from him, Spencer ducked his head to try and hide his
smile, but Ryan still caught it. “What? What?”
“Actually,” his older self said, watching as Ryan twisted the cap off of his
water to take a sip, “I think it might be right about…”
The door to the bus banged open and a loud voice screamed, “Jon Walker is a
minion of Satan and deserves to be eaten by hungry fangirls for all eternity!”
Ryan’s eyebrows rose as he took another sip of water just as a guy with wet,
dark hair bounded on the bus. He wore a wide, excited smile, skintight black
jeans, red shoes and nothing else. In his hand was shirt, soaking wet and
dripping on the floor. He looked down at himself and tsked, running his free
hand down his wet skin from throat to belly button. Ryan choked on his water.
“I know, right?” his older self whispered his ear while pounding him on the
back. Spencer just laughed and laughed. At least Ryan wouldn’t have to worry
about fame changing Spencer. He was still the biggest bitch Ryan knew.
“Whoa!” the guy said, looking at Older Ryan. “Is this a little you?”
“Ryan Ross, Brendon Urie. Brendon Urie, Ryan Ross,” his older self introduced as
Ryan continued to cough.
“Aww, this is just like the first time we met!” Brendon said, grinning brightly
and pulling Ryan into a tight, damp hug. “I forgot how adorable you used to be,
Ross.”
“Fuck off,” his older self said as Ryan blushed, “I’m still adorable.”
“Of course you are,” Brendon said soothingly. “You’re the prettiest cowboy in
the whole saloon, Ryan Ross.”
Ryan snorted and put a hand over his mouth when Brendon winked at him. Hot
and funny? Ryan was so screwed.
“So this is how you met me before I met you,” Brendon said. “I always wondered.
Oh, hey, you’re flickering, baby Ryan.”
Ryan looked down at his hands and sure enough they were flickering the way he
remembered in his bedroom. “Uh oh,” he said.
“That means we need to get back,” Older Ryan said. He grabbed Ryan’s arm. “Close
your eyes.”
Ryan shut them and when he did, he felt someone dart in close to him and brush
lips against the shell of his ear. “You’re going to fucking love my
mouth, Ross,” Brendon whispered. Ryan’s eyes sprung back open, but he was back
in his own bedroom, alone with himself.
“So,” Ryan said, and coughed into his fist when his voice cracked. “So that was
Brendon.”
“That was Brendon,” his older self repeated, looking uncomfortable and even
redder than before.
“He…um…he said,” Ryan stuttered before deciding to keep it to himself.
“Yeah,” his older self replied. “I, uh, remember.”
“How do I meet him,” Ryan asked desperately, his dick half hard at the
thought.
His older self didn’t answer, just smiled.
“Oh what, now you’re going to start being secretive?” Ryan complained.
“This is your life,” his older self said. “You should get to live it. That’s why
I try not to go into the future. It’s too tempting.”
“Well, is there anything else you will tell me before you go back?” Ryan
asked. “Which should be soon. You look sick.”
“Yeah,” his older self said. “Spencer’s about to call you from Florida. Don’t
tell him about all of this yet, though. He’d think you were crazy.”
“Or trying to get him to come home early,” Ryan said.
“Yeah,” Older Ryan agreed. “Hey, grab your notebook and write something down for
me. You should hang on to that notebook, by the way. You’ll need it later.”
“Okay,” Ryan said. He walked over to his bed and scooped up his journal and pen.
“What?”
“PureVolume,” his older self said.
“Pure…volume?” Ryan repeated, confused.
Older Ryan nodded. “Just write that down. Pure. Volume. Trust me.”
Ryan wrote down the two words and then stared at them, confused. He looked back
up from the paper, “What does it –“
But he was alone in the room. His older self was gone.
On the floor where it had landed after bouncing off the wall, the phone rang.
***
Seven Months Later
Ryan ran into his room, his father’s screaming still clear even after he slammed
the door.
Turning the lock into place, he squeezed his eyes shut, and suddenly he was
surrounded by much louder and much higher-pitched screams. His eye flew open and
a bright, white spotlight immediately blinded him. When he finally adjusted,
some moments later, to the harsh lights and ear splitting screams, he saw a drum
riser in front of him.
He realized it was Spencer thrashing away at the kit, his head banging and his
long hair sticking to his forehead, the same moment Spencer noticed him hovering
at the side of the stage. Spencer did a double take without missing a beat in
the song he was playing before smiling at Ryan, wide and brilliant.
Ryan was about to return the smile, but then he was back in his room, his
father’s drunken threats replacing the excited cheering from his future.
***
Six Months Later
“Where is he?” Ryan said. He strummed aimlessly on his guitar before
going into a half-hearted rendition of Time To Dance, singing the words
under his breath.
Spencer brought a couple Sprites from his grandmother’s refrigerator and placed
one on the coffee table beside Ryan.
“He told us he’d be late,” Spencer pointed out. “Something about having to pick
the kid up from church?”
Ryan rolled his eyes. Ever since Ryan had convinced Spencer to stop doing covers
and focus on their own stuff the band had been a revolving door of shitty
guitarists who would make it two weeks before quitting. “Yeah, but he said four
and it’s almost four-thirty. I have a six paper to write tonight or I’m going to
fail that stupid Philosophy class.”
“So it’s Brent’s fault that you’re a lazy fuck who procrastinates too much?”
Spencer asked innocently.
“Fuck you,” Ryan replied. “I’m the lazy fuck who writes all of your songs.
Anyway, school is a waste of time. I’d quit if I didn’t think my dad would kill
me. The band is what’s most important.”
“So you keep saying,” Spencer said, “but some of us still need to graduate from
high school first.”
The front door crashed open, and Brent’s voice came from the doorway. “Hey!
Sorry we’re late.”
“Again,” Ryan muttered under his breath as he took a sip of his soda.
Brent walked into the living room followed by his friend. Ryan meant to give the
kid a bored once-over but gasped in surprise when he finally came into view,
making himself choke on his sip of Sprite. The kid was shorter and thinner than
Ryan remembered and had long, shaggy hair that tumbled into his eyes instead of
the shorter, cleaner cut from the last time they met, but it was him. It was
him.
“Are you okay?” Spencer asked from behind his drum kit, looking more amused than
concerned.
“Yeah,” Ryan said when he caught his breath. “Yeah, sorry. Wrong pipe. Um, hi.
I’m Ryan Ross.” He held out his hand and the guy reached out to shake it.
“Brendon Urie. Sorry we’re late, it’s my fault.”
“No, no,” Ryan said, smiling. “You’re right on time.”
The Blink 182 songs quoted are "Anthem Part Two" and "First Date." Older
Ryan sings "On the Cover of the Rolling Stone" by Dr. Hook. The idea for this
fic came from some smooshing together and butchering of Doctor Who and Heroes
(and apparently the Time-Traveler's Wife).
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