Run away with me.

Yes, I mean it,
let's run away tonight
with only the stars to
guide us through the
immovable dark.

I want to know you
in a place I can't even
pronounce, wrap my legs
'round you on crisp
but unfamiliar sheets.

The people around us will
whisper, whisper about how
we smile too much but
they will speak a language
we don't understand.

Once the city fails to
keep up with us,
we will gather the few
things we need and take
to the trails man has not yet made.

So, my dear, I have
presented my case and ask
you, in all seriousness, if
such an existence sounds
suitable to you, to please

Run away with me.

I suck, seriously. I haven't written anything in forever, due to work and school.

And, well, you see, there's also a boy. He takes up an awful lot of my time these days, and I don't mind one bit.

But I should start writing again soon. Promise promise promise.

Title: A Series of Blurs
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
POV: Third person
Rating: R for language
Length: 700 words
Author's Note: For we_are_cities' 05/12/07 prompt.
Disclaimer: Fiction!


The roof of a venue, some September midnight in the past

Pete stares out into the dark night air and says, “The kids were nuts tonight. Seriously, fucken crazy.”

“Hm,” is all Patrick offers in response as he swings his legs rhythmically from his perch atop the building’s air conditioning unit.

“This is all gonna happen so fast, man.” Pete leans over the edge a little more and tries to count the cars speeding by below him until he gets too dizzy. “It’s gonna eat us alive.”

Patrick pokes the toe of his left shoe into the back of Pete’s thigh. Pete joins him on the unit and slips an arm around his waist.

“We’ll be fine, Pete. We always are.”

A dressing room, circa “the incident”

“Oh, look,” Patrick mumbles, “another article about us that turned into an article about your dick.”

“Are you ever going to let that go?”

Patrick doesn’t look up from flipping pages in a magazine. “Not yet. I’m still pissed. You’re stupid as hell.”

Pete grits his teeth. “Okay, fine, I’m sorry! I’m sorry for this, I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done, and I’m sorry for everything I’m ever going to do. Is that better?”

There is silence and Patrick doesn’t move. Pete punches the wall.

Pete’s living room, a Saturday afternoon in April

Patrick’s brain is trying to make sense of things. “So,” he says slowly, “what you’re telling me is that you fucked Ashlee Simpson?”

“I. Uhm. Yes.” Pete fiddles with the tag of his shirt.

“Are you trying to make it a goal to fuck every trashy, talentless whore in the business?”

Pete glares. “I fucked you.”

For a moment, no one has anything to say.

“You’re right, you did. What a mistake we made.” Patrick turns on his heel and heads for the door. And quietly, “You were so much less of an asshole when Jeanae was twisting your balls.”

“You fucking leave Jeanae out of this,” the door slams, “Goddamn son of a bitch.”

Ashlee’s bedroom, 11:30 that night

Her fingertips press against the skin of his cheekbones while she allows her lips to graze his neck. Pete stares at the ceiling and wonders how he ended up here. He can feel her smile and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she teases, tracing her fingers down his chest until her fingers meet his belt.

Pete pushes her to the side and scrambles off the bed. “I, oh God, I can’t do this anymore.” He pulls his shirt on as he heads for the door.

The driver’s seat of Pete’s car, 12:17 A.M.

“Hello?” Her voice sounds tired, disoriented.

“Jeanae? I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t call, especially so late, but I just…I needed to talk to you.”

He can hear her rub her eyes. “Pete, what’s wrong?”

“I think I fucked everything up.”

12:49 A.M.

Jeanae chews the inside of her cheek. “You know you need to go to him.”

“I’m outside his apartment.”

She hangs up. All Pete can hear is Go to him.

1:02 A.M.

Pete pounds his fist against Patrick’s door. He sees Patrick peek out the window.

“I’m not opening the door,” Patrick says.

“Yes, you are. We need to talk. About how I fucked up, and how I’m sorry, and how.” Pete stops. “And how I think I love you.”

The door opens a crack. Pete pushes it open wider and steps inside. Patrick is sitting on the floor.

“I know you’re mad. You’ve got every right. I have done…I have been so stupid lately. But I’m going to change that, and I’m asking you to help me.” Pete inhales. “I’m realizing how much I need you. I’m asking for your help because I love you; you’re it for me, kid. And, maybe, you love me too.”

Patrick stares up at Pete blankly. Pete’s heart falls.

“Oh. I, never…never mind then. I just thought…I’ll be going.”

“Don’t you dare ever leave me again, you bastard.”

Pete turns, only to be greeted by Patrick colliding with his chest. They are a tangle of arms and hungry mouths and shirts over heads.

1:13:07 A.M.
This.

1:13:08 A.M.
Is.

1:13:09 A.M.
Love.

Title: Suspended
Pairing: Ryan/Spencer
POV: Third person
Rating: PG
Length: 550 words
Author's Note: For we_are_cities' 03/20/07 prompt. Also, love to Matt Nathanson for suspension.
Disclaimer: Fiction!



There are these days of the past that blend together behind Spencer’s closed eyes. All he sees is Ryan and suburbia and nothingness. But little bits are clear, so clear, and he feels them every time he breathes.

---

He is suspended in a series of moments during a hot day in August the summer before eleventh grade. He chases Ryan around an empty park at noon. Ryan laughs and looks over his shoulder.

“Spence,” Ryan calls behind him. “Spence, you run too slow.” He stops to catch his breath, head down and hands on knees, and waits until Spencer can almost touch him before taking off again.

Spencer doesn’t follow, he just shakes his head. “I gotta sit down,” he says before flopping unceremoniously on the grass. Ryan jogs back and crouches down next to him. He sits carefully, almost daintily, next to Spencer, who is wheezing slightly.

“You ok?” Ryan asks, leaning back on his hands.

“I’m fine. Just not used to that sort of thing.” He lies down and tilts his head toward Ryan, squinting one eye shut. “You’re fast.”

Ryan smiles, rolls to his side, adjusts so that his head is resting on his palm. “You’re getting there, believe me.”

Spencer doesn’t believe him.

There is silence between them as Spencer’s vision moves toward the sky and Ryan shifts onto his back.

There are thick clouds moving in to cover the sun and Spencer wonders if it might rain when he feels warm, thin fingers covering his own.

“Dude, are you fucking holding my hand?”

Ryan pulls his hand back. “I…yeah, I was,” he says shyly. “Sorry.”

Spencer turns to face him. “Uhm. Well. It’s okay. I think.

“Yeah?” Ryan takes Spencer’s hand again, laces their fingers together. He smiles a little. “So,” he says and moves his head so that his nose is almost touching Spencer’s. He pushes himself forward a bit and lets their lips meet.

Spencer doesn’t know what he’s doing but he finds himself kissing back.

Something touches the side of his face, his hair, his back and he realizes he was right about the rain. He laughs into Ryan’s collarbone and his lips trail their way to Ryan’s neck. Ryan is throwing his head back and blinking the rain away from his eyes. Their lips meet again and Spencer closes his eyes.

Surrounding them is warmth and the smell of wet grass, warmth and the sound of rain on the asphalt parking lot. Spencer opens his eyes and wonders how he never noticed Ryan before, not really, not in any way that actually mattered. But now he’s so close and his hands are on Spencer’s hips. There’s no way of avoiding him now and Spencer thinks that maybe some things are better late than never.

When the rain stops, Ryan shakes the water from his hair and places his cheek on Spencer’s chest.

“You know,” he whispers and his breath tickles Spencer’s ribs through his drenched shirt, “We’re gonna be something. You and me. We’re gonna make it big, We’re gonna get out of this godforsaken place and people will know our names. We’ll be great. Believe me, Spence…we’ll be huge…” His voice trails off as he drifts to sleep.

---

Spencer remembers kissing the top of Ryan's head and how he believed.

Title: Fade In (Breathe Out)
Pairing: Mikey/Bob
POV: Third person
Rating: Oh-so-PG
Length: 860 words
Author's Note: For we_are_cities' 03/20/07 prompt
Disclaimer: Fiction!



Fade in to that night Bob is teching a show and Mikey is lingering about because it’s fascinating just to watch Bob work. When he spots Mikey, Bob lifts his headphones off of one ear and asks, “What do you want?” in a way that isn’t particularly rude or kind – it just is. Mikey shakes his head and makes his way toward Bob so he can get better look at what’s going on. They try to talk but the music is loud and most of what is said between them that night is lost beneath the sound.

It doesn’t seem like it would mean a thing but, in retrospect, Mikey knows it meant everything. He knows now that they’ve always lived beneath the sound.

It’s not long before Bob is teching the band’s shows on a semi-regular basis and meeting them for drinks afterwards. There are grazes of hands on knees and looks that rest on faces longer than they ought. Mikey asks Brian if Bob can do their shows more often. He says Bob will do them for free. What he doesn’t say is why.

No one questions Mikey’s insistence that Bob join the band. They’re good friends, it all adds up, one plus one equals two. The only problem is, here, one plus one equals one.

For months they live through a series of late-night phone calls between hotel rooms and nothing else. There are no touches, no kisses, nothing at all. Even the calls are void of any clues. This is out of fear. This is out of denial. This is something that can’t be ignored for much longer.

When they get to Chicago, Bob shows him around, takes him to all the big things people always want to see, leads him through some sprawling suburbia filled with pseudo-Mediterranean style tract homes. They comb through the clutter at nearby garage sales and, when Mikey finds a cheap brass ring, he (not so) jokingly proposes to Bob who (not so) jokingly accepts. The moment turns awkward and Bob pockets the ring but they will both think about it while watching TV at night. Somehow, however, it makes it decidedly less unexpected when Bob’s fingers make their way to Mikey’s hair and their mouths meet. The first kiss is quiet and unsure but the second is so much more.

It takes nearly a year for the rest of the band to catch on.

“Ten months,” Gerard says when the truth finally spills and he looks in his mind for a hint he might have missed but there are none. He repeats himself and Mikey moves nervously, thinks ten months one week and two days, and says nothing.

There are no real changes among the band, only that Mikey stands a little closer to Bob occasionally. No one looks down or acts uncomfortable because it’s okay.

Mikey meets this girl Alicia, who is cute and he sort of likes her. When he starts to feel like he’s supposed to, he proposes. He thinks of Bob and the garage sale and thinks that brass ring means more to him than this diamond one ever will.

They all put on their nice clothes and go to Frank’s wedding with Alicia sitting in the chair where everyone else knows Bob should be.

Mikey masters the art of deception and he holds onto Bob through the entirety of the album recording and its subsequent tour.

It takes three weeks for Bob’s laughter to last too long and sound so loudly. Five more days and Mikey is asking for things that Bob will never be ready to give.

Bob lets himself in to Mikey’s hotel room after a radio gig in Chicago. He puts his hands in Mikey’s pockets, pulls him close, and lets his chin rest on his shoulder for a moment.

“I’m out.” He says it so plainly but there is hurt pulling at the corners of his mouth. Mikey disentangles himself and takes a step back.

“What do you mean?”

“You two will make a beautiful family.”

There is a pause while the realization hits. Mikey reaches into his right pocket and pulls out the brass ring. He lifts his eyes to find Bob staring at the floor.

“I don’t…”

“You’ll be fine. You will love her and you will raise your children in a nice house in a nice town far away from any mention of me. There will be a boy and, and two girls who will look just like their mother and a swing set in your backyard and then she’ll smile at you when the kids are laughing and I promise you, I promise you I won’t even cross your mind.”

Mikey flinches. “That’s not true.”

Bob looks him straight in the eye. “Yes. It is.”

---

The wedding is gorgeous, there’s no denying it. The band put on their nice suits again and mingle with the other guests but, when it comes down to it, there is an empty chair where everyone knows Bob should be. The pastor finishes and tells Mikey to kiss his bride. Alicia beams. Mikey just closes his eyes, breathes in, and breathes out.

Title: Catch
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
POV: Third person
Rating: PG
Length: 500 words
Author's Note: For we_are_cities 01/16/07 prompt
Disclaimer: Fiction!


Pete has spent his life in places he can’t wait to be rid of. Every town, every place he’s ever called home is only temporary because there’s always (and somehow never) been something better.

So he flits around as though trying to catch the wind and he never stops, just keeps flying. He knows if he slows down that someone will catch him and he can’t have that, oh no. He’s scared to know what it means to be caught.

What he doesn’t know is that Patrick is scared to know what it means to do the catching.

Each relocation means new clothes, new words, new man. Chicago sees a Pete entirely different from the Pete in Atlanta the next week and his band members don’t know what to believe. Patrick breathes a little slower and realizes that he has finally stopped trying to keep up.

San Diego is Pete’s last straw. He looks into the crowd and doesn’t see a single person worth his time. After the show, he changes his clothes, brushes his hair and then he’s gone.

He rents a car under a fake name and drives from one coast to the other, Pacific to Atlantic, straight across the country. Maybe, he thinks, maybe this is what freedom is supposed to feel like. But this freedom feels like asphyxiation and he’s not quite sure that’s right. Still, he keeps moving because at least movement almost feels like progress.

The car becomes everything else that Pete has ever tried to escape so he leaves it on the shoulder of a road somewhere just a little north of Absolutely Nowhere. He walks for hours, waiting for anyone to drive by and take him just a little farther in some direction that leads away from here. It’s been weeks but it doesn’t really matter. There’s time to kill; he’s young and, to the young, time is something than can be stopped and started at will.

Pete sleeps in the bathrooms of truck stops and dive bars. The men in these places buy him drinks and he tells them pretty things in the words he’s almost forgotten how to use. It is in these men that he sees what he is not supposed to be. He’s not supposed to be scared or lonely or here.

He hitches his way back to California and lets himself into his house. Every light in the whole place is on and Patrick is curled up on Pete’s bed, one of Pete’s shirts held tightly in his fingers. Pete sits beside him and strokes his hair.

Patrick blinks awake and looks questioningly at Pete, who smiles.

“You came back.” Patrick isn’t sure if this is the right thing to say.

“You waited.”

Patrick’s eyes close. “I had to.”

“So did I,” and he folds Patrick into his arms and they lie there, in silence.

Pete realizes later that he is Orpheus and Patrick Eurydice – only Pete is smarter than Orpheus. He knew he couldn’t look back.


---------------------------------
So I fell off the face of the earth for a bit. I apologize. I should be back now, though. Or, at least, I shall try.

Title: Warmth
Pairing: Gerard/Quinn
POV: Third person
Rating: R
Length: 700 words
Author's Note: For normalhumanbein because she's been waiting far too long for this. It's not good enough for you but but but Quinn!
Disclaimer: Fiction, yes.

Gerard checks his watch (it’s quarter past five) and glances toward the door in time to see Quinn enter through it. Quinn searches the room, spots Gerard, and makes his way over.

“You’re late,” Gerard isn’t rude but he sometimes sounds like he might be.

“Nice to see you, too,” Quinn says as he slides into the booth. “Tell me again why we’re meeting in a Denny’s?”

“They’ve got these fried, these bacon-cheese fries that are pretty much heavenly when you pour ranch dressing on them. They, oh fuck, they are so good.”

A tired-looking waitress deposits the fries on the table between them. It’s nothing but a heart attack in a basket and, for some reason that Quinn cannot discern, Gerard is actually eating them. He’s pouring the little container of ranch over them and all Quinn can think is that the fries are swimming in liquid heart failure.

Quinn makes a face. “Those things are actually going to kill you.”

Gerard stuffs a few fries in his mouth. “Sweet, delicious death,” and he grins. Quinn just shakes his head.

“So,” he asks. “How’s life?”

Gerard swallows before he answers. “Dude, all this stuff with the new album is just...amazing.” He waves his hand and, consequently, a french fry, through the air, leaving drops of ranch on the table. Quinn decides to leave the questions until Gerard finishes eating.

“Hey,” Gerard pushes the empty basket to the end of the table. “You wanna see my apartment?”

Quinn raises an eyebrow.

“No, it’s, like, decorated and stuff now! Not like last time.”

So Gerard pays the check and they talk about nothing and life while wandering down the streets in the general direction of Gerard’s place.

Which, for some ungodly reason, has temporarily taken on an oven-like state. It probably has something to do with the fact that it’s 103 degrees outside and the air conditioning is broken or something because it sure is doing fuck-all to cool the place down. Gerard is opening every window that isn’t painted shut and praying for a breeze while Quinn lies on the tile floor of the kitchen in a futile attempt to stay cool.

“Christ, Gerard,” Quinn calls out. “Next time I come visit you, it had better be snowing. At least the Denny’s had air conditioning.” Gerard laughs.

“Pansy,” he teases as he forces the last window open and then lies down next to Quinn. The tile isn’t as cold as he’d been hoping but it is colder than the air and he’ll take what he can get.

There is a rustling sound and Gerard turns his head to see Quinn pulling off his shirt.

“I’m dying, man,” Quinn explains as he tosses the shirt toward the kitchen table. “I mean, I’m fucking melting here.”

Gerard moves to his side so he can face Quinn. “What, it doesn’t get hot in Utah?” he says and gives Quinn a little shove.

“You leave Utah out of this,” Quinn shoves back. The laziest fight breaks out between them – a slap fight of miniscule proportions – and it ends with the two of them laughing so hard they can barely breathe and Quinn sitting on Gerard’s stomach.

“We are so stupid, you know that?” It takes Gerard a few seconds to realize that Quinn has stopped laughing, and that the palms of Quinn’s hands are placed in the hollows below his cheekbones. Without even thinking, Gerard closes his eyes and waits until Quinn’s lips meet his.

Quinn can feel Gerard smiling into the kiss, feel fingers undoing his belt, and it isn’t long before they are skin on skin on tile. They move against each other, Quinn positioning himself on Gerard, riding slowly until a rhythm emerges. Gerard is pushing into Quinn, whose hands are pulling on Gerard to make him push a little harder. Everything is sweet and smooth, like they are slow dancing in a burning room.

After they both come, Quinn slides off of Gerard and lies beside him. There is silence for a moment and then Quinn starts to chuckle.

“Fuck, man. Now it’s even hotter in here.”

Gerard just punches him in the arm and tells him to shut up.

Title: Fitzcarraldo
Pairing: Frank/Gerard
POV: Third person
Rating: PG
Length: 400 words
Author's Note: For we_are_cities Dec. 26th prompt and also slightly inspired by "Fitzcarraldo" by The Frames.
Disclaimer: Fiction.

This has never been an easy road and Frank thinks maybe he walked stretches of it barefoot. Still, he knows if he stops now he’ll be lost for good so he just keeps walking, despite the broken glass and snow. His feet are blue and bleeding but it is one step and then another and he will continue moving because that’s what you do in times like these.

He remembers the beginning when everything was warm mouths and wandering fingers that became something like affection but not quite what affection is meant to be. How that faded to tired nights where they fell asleep side by side but miles apart without a kiss goodnight that became Gerard lying through his teeth so he mightn’t hurt Frank (but Frank knew they were lies because there is close and there is together and they had been together long enough for Frank to separate fact from fiction).

So he squints his eyes against the memory of Gerard’s back in the parking lot outside that hotel where he was left to inhale the cold night air and the smoke of his cigarette. He’d stuck his hand into his coat pocket, with its crumpled bits of paper and pocket-fuzz, looking for the matches Gerard had not returned.

There will always be a place in the back of Frank’s mind for the way Gerard tastes, and for how Gerard’s cheek feels on his chest. For the blank look in Gerard’s eyes as he said, “I was only thinking of you” and walked away. For how Frank cursed the skies for days afterward, punching walls and slamming doors.

What Frank knows now is that Gerard is a lot like the moon to the sun – he will eclipse you, if given the chance, but only for a little while. Then he will move on. But Frank can’t move on.

Frank still visits that parking lot when he gets the chance. He stands next to the lamppost that held that night and stares out to where Gerard disappeared from his view, for that night and for the rest of his life.

It aches the most when he realizes that he loved Gerard as perfectly and purely as he could. It should have been enough.

So Frank will live with this but he will not regret it, not a second of it, not ever.

It is a long way home.

Title: Dear Chicago
Pairing: Pete/Patrick
POV: Third person
Rating: PG
Length: 625 words
Author's Note: In which I ramble terribly.
Disclaimer: The piece is fiction. The title is a Ryan Adams song, I'm just borrowing it.

The heart of this city is cold, nothing but interweaving roads for veins. Every time the wind blows, lovers scatter like leaves and no one seems to notice – only Patrick, and Patrick can’t stand it. This may very well be because, sometimes, Pete scatters too. Never for very long, but it’s enough to make Patrick nervous.

It doesn’t really bother Patrick much that Pete has other lovers (except for the part where it does, bothers him so much that he shakes uncontrollably and cannot sleep) but he does want to know why he’s just not enough. He gives Pete everything he has and so he thinks that he’s obviously missing some vital component that Pete needs.

When Pete comes to see him with clothes that smell of someone else’s cologne and a tongue that tastes of someone else’s saliva, Patrick pushes his hips against Pete’s a little harder to try and ignore it. It doesn’t particularly help him but he thinks maybe it does help hide all the things in his mind from Pete.

So instead of talking, Patrick hums the tune his words would take if he could only say them and doesn’t notice Pete is running out of lyrics, out of notes, and out of time.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It sounds like there’s a clock in Pete’s chest and it’s slowly winding down. These days he’s nothing but a mess of ink and electricity, bits of what he’s never wanted and pieces of what he always hoped he wouldn’t become. He is the hugest lie ever told and he’s just waiting for someone to figure it out and call him on it.

Patrick lies awake on the nights when Pete is gone. He gets so anxious and antsy that he changes the channels on the shitty hotel TV fast enough that he can’t even tell what’s on; it’s just something for his hands to do. If he doesn’t then he gets to thinking, and when he thinks about the whole situation his heart starts to ache so badly that he digs his fingernails into the skin covering his sternum and tries to split himself right down the middle, tries to make everything about him that hurts stop. These are the nights that Patrick is an absolute mess.

Pete gives himself to any boy in the club with pretty eyes and prettier words. The nights are fine but the mornings-after, oh, how those kill. When he steps outside and the sunlight greets him, he feels like everyone knows, everyone can see all of his sins. He wants to fall to his knees and scream his apologies, scream out, “I never meant for it to be like this,” but he just buys an overpriced coffee and walks back to whatever hotel he should have been in last night.

The circles under his eyes are darker every day and Pete knows it won’t be long before he falls if he doesn’t stop this soon.

It’s been too many footsteps over worn carpets in hotel hallways for Patrick so he makes a choice and prays that he is strong enough for it.

When Pete comes sneaking into his room for a shower the next morning, Patrick is waiting.

“Listen,” he says. “We never made any promises so there’s none to keep but something either needs to start or end right now and it’s up to you which it is.”

Pete moves in to stand inches away from Patrick and whispers in his ear, “I’m everything that will destroy you.”

Cold hands take Pete’s face. “You don’t have to be,” Patrick answers gently.

“I don’t know how to not,” Pete’s voice is nearly inaudible.

Patrick twists his mouth into something like a grin. “I can teach you.”

Title: Runaway
Pairing: Spencer/Ryan
POV: Third person
Rating: PG
Length: 400 words
Author's Note: Just something small. I'm experimenting with the fandom.
Disclaimer: Lies.

No one has seen Ryan in over a week. He just disappeared after a show one night and hasn’t been seen since. Spencer doesn’t say anything to the others but he knows it’s his fault, knows he has to fix this somehow. The only problem is he’s not sure what to do.

So he spends hours dialing Ryan’s number, leaving hundreds of messages that are all variations of “I’m sorry for everything and I miss you, please don’t run away like this.” Then he spends hours pacing the floor of his hotel room. This all hurts so much that he can barely breathe.

The band keeps canceling shows, and the press release they put out says something about Ryan being terribly ill. Fans are sending get-well cards to a boy that doesn’t really exist anymore (a boy who may have never existed in the first place) and so they go straight into the trash. Spencer digs the pretty ones out of the dumpster and tapes them into a notebook. He doesn’t even know why; it just seems like the right thing to do. He laughs a little at all of this because he knows Ryan will never see the notebook. Then he thinks he might cry because he worries that the reason Ryan won’t see it is because he’ll never come back.

When Spencer wakes up every morning, he reaches next to him and finds nothing but empty space. Again. Today, he slides out of his bed and onto the floor. For the first time in years, he prays.

This time, when Spencer calls Ryan, the message he leaves is a little different. This time, he says, “Ryan, I can’t do this for very much longer. I’m trying one more time and then I’m going to stop. You need to find me tonight. If you think, you know where I’ll be.”

That afternoon, Spencer goes out and buys a dozen roses from a street vendor. He walks to the bench in the park where Ryan kissed him the first time and waits for night to fall. He waits an hour, then two. By 10:30, he’s set the flowers on the ground and is lying asleep on the bench. Ryan never comes.

Four days later, the cops find Ryan’s body in the reservoir. The papers and TV are full of him for days. Then silence.

Spencer doesn’t go to the funeral.