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something-tofightfor · 6 years ago

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Neon Lights - Epilogue (part 2)

Pairing: Ryan Brenner x Reader

Word Count: 6198

Rating: M (language)

Summary: What happened to Ryan after he caught the train to St. Louis?

Parts 1-11 and the first part of the epilogue can be found on my 500 follower event masterlist (at the bottom of my main Masterlist page).

Thank you for reading. Please enjoy.

It’s long. Oops.

Tagging: @ooo-barff-ooo @agent-bossypants @likethetailofacomet

POV - Ryan

Ryan had managed to fall into a restless sleep after bracing himself in the corner of the train car, but he’d woken up after only an hour or so in pain and quite cold. Digging in his pack, he’d found a bottle of ibuprofen, dry swallowing three of them at once and focusing on his guitar case. My wrist is broken. There’s no way it isn’t. Even in the dim light, he could see the bruises creeping up his palm beneath his thumb, feel the swelling of the tissues in his hand, the stiffness of his fingers. Nothing I can do about it til St. Louis. While waiting for the medication to kick in, Ryan had reached out, using one hand to unlock his guitar case and pull out the recorder, turning it over in his hand. Without thinking, he’d turned it on and pressed record, taking a deep breath before speaking. “Hey, you.” He sniffed, shaking his head. “I screwed up. I screwed up bad.” He continued for a few minutes, venting his frustrations into the frigid night. If I can’t talk to her directly, I can pretend.

As morning broke, Ryan had prepared himself to jump from the train, easing his pack and then his guitar back onto his shoulders. Though it threw him slightly off balance, he’d tucked his injured hand into the space between the buttons of his jacket to stabilize it as he’d exited the train, teeth gritted as he snuck across the rail yard and each step jostled it. Look for the tower. He peered around, eyes wide open and when he’d seen the metal structure Kenny had mentioned he headed for it, a determined set to his lips.

His friend had been waiting for him next to a dark green SUV, and Ryan wasted no time in asking Kenny for help with removing the items from his back, getting them placed safely into the backseat. Kenny’s green eyes looked the younger man over carefully, and Ryan offered a sad smile before asking to be taken to an Urgent Care. “Think I broke my playin’ hand, Ken.” With a slump of his shoulders, the man had agreed, driving Ryan to the closest medical facility.

The wrist was broken, an X-ray confirmed it, but it wasn’t a bad break, and the doctor told him that if everything went well, the cast that was being put on could come off in roughly six weeks, followed by a few more weeks of splinting to ensure complete recovery. He’d felt his heart drop at the diagnosis, even though Ryan had known that it was coming, but it wasn’t until the wrist had been immobilized in a stiff cast that it truly hit him: he couldn’t play guitar. “You’ll notice that once the wrist starts to heal, you’ll be able to bend the fingers more, Mr. Brenner.” The doctor was kind, carefully manipulating Ryan’s fingers, which were poking out of the end of the cast. “Be sure to at least try to move them as often as possible, keep them limber.”

“I’m a guitar player, sir.” Ryan had spoken quietly, eyes locked on his arm. “I need my hands to make my livin’.” The doctor had placed a hand on Ryan’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

“You need to take a few weeks off, son. It’ll do you good.” Would it? Ryan had swiped his debit card to pay for the visit, shaking his head at the fact that he could afford the few hundred dollars for the initial payment, and headed back out to the car where Kenny was waiting. He wasn’t about to attempt to pay for the pain pills that the doctor had prescribed, and so his friend had driven them to a Walmart, where Ryan had loaded up on over the counter medication, grabbed a six pack of beer, and purchased a new phone. Not that it matters. Who am I going to call?

He’d been racking his brain and trying to remember your number, but though he could remember the last seven digits, he didn’t know the area code. All he knew was that you were from the east coast somewhere; you’d mentioned in passing that it was why you felt so at home by the water, why the cold weather didn’t bother you, but there were so many options that he was overwhelmed, and he knew that there was no way he’d ever figure out the right three numbers. Why didn’t I ever ask where she was from?

So he talked to you through the recorder, the days passing slowly with the assistance of some leftover pain pills from Maria getting her wisdom teeth removed, telling you stories and recording a few bars of lyrics at a time. Though unable to play, Ryan was writing up a storm, the lyrics flowing from him and onto paper, onto the memory card, waiting for the day when he’d be able to pick up the guitar and strum again like he wanted to.

Two weeks in, Ryan had started performing with Kenny, who was an accomplished musician himself. The gig that had been promised was at a local bar, Tuesday and Friday nights, and thanks to the recorder, Ryan had been able to play his music for Kenny to listen to and learn. It was weird for him to sit idly and simply sing along, but Ryan slowly got used to it and became more comfortable gripping a microphone with his healthy hand, leaning in focusing on singing rather than playing the guitar. Without the guitar in his hands, though, Ryan didn’t look down as much, instead focusing on the people that were watching him perform, taking in the smiles on their faces and the look in their eyes as they appreciated what he was showing them. He still closed his eyes often, but he was looking at the people in front of him much more closely.

He always sang as if you were standing right in front of him, gazing at him with those big, wide eyes, your lips parted slightly as you focused on him - focused on his voice, focused on the performance, but every time he opened his eyes and you weren’t there, it was a shot to the chest again, just knowing that there was nothing he could to to reach out, to simply let you know that he was doing OK - to tell you that when he’d been hurt, you were the first thing - the first person he’d thought of. So he told the recorder everything, pulling it out in quiet moments on Kenny and Maria’s porch, talking to it as if it were truly you, right there, in the palm of his hand, which, aside from some 60-odd hours in Vegas, was the only way he’d ever really had you: through a speaker and a screen. It shouldn’t be like this.

By the time he and Kenny had played a few times they’d established a healthy dynamic between the two of them, taking cues from each other - and Ryan actually felt content. It was good to be on a stage, and though they played a lot of covers, a lot of newer songs, they always sprinkled in a few that Ryan felt at home singing, always played “Southbound”, always ended with something he’d played for you in Vegas - Johnson or Croce or Seger. It was hard, thinking of you and your honest reactions to him every night he played, but it felt right - and it kept him at his best.

He wore your shirt at least one night a week, calling it his good luck charm since he’d had it on the night the bar owner had asked if they would want to play three nights a week since Ryan and Kenny had started drawing larger crowds than usual, and the man liked the extra profits. Not only were they making money gigging, but the tip money that was coming in seemed almost unreal to Ryan. It wasn’t quite Vegas tip money, but he’d quickly made back the money he spent on the Urgent Care trip, which was a relief.

By the fourth week, Ryan was unable to keep his hands in his lap, and he’d convinced Kenny and Maria to stop worrying about him. After gingerly playing a few songs in their living room with only mild discomfort, Ryan took his guitar to the bar with him for the first time in St. Louis. He was a little clumsy, a little off - but it felt good to get back to his routine, felt good to have the body of the guitar resting on his knee again as he played backup to Kenny. And the best part? His fingers didn’t hurt anymore, though his wrist still ached dully for the majority of the day and even worse the days following gig nights.

Taking a break and stepping outside to breathe, Ryan stared up at the star-lit February sky, hands loose by his sides, the fingers of his right hand flexing. What are you doin’ right now? “You’ve got a gift, Ryan.” He was startled out of his thoughts by a female voice from his left, and he turned to see a middle aged woman - a redhead with kind features - standing a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest. “Your friend Kenny sent me out here to talk to you, I know his wife, Maria.” About what? He frowned but nodded, watching as she stepped closer to him and reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone. “I’d like to hire you.”

Ryan had listened in disbelief as she’d explained that she and her husband were looking for a vocal coach for their daughter, who she’d shown him via a picture on her phone - and, once his hand had healed adequately, someone to teach her to play the guitar, too. “I’m not a professional, ma’am.” Ryan swallowed and shook his head, heart pounding. “I just play for fun and I sing because I like it.” The woman shrugged, closing her eyes and when she opened them, she was looking at Ryan as if him saying no would destroy her.

“My daughter just wants to learn. She wants to do something she likes, and we want to encourage her.” She sighed. “I don’t want her to learn from someone that’s going to fill her head with the idea that she needs to sing what’s popular, or be absolutely perfect to be good.” The woman tentatively reached out, touching Ryan’s shoulder. “You’ve got a voice that’s meant to be heard, and if you can help my daughter find hers - find out if she’s got one too, it’ll be worth it. We’ve seen you and Kenny perform three times now, and you just get better and better every night.”

He’d agreed, after telling the woman that he didn’t know how long he’d be in town for, but she’d waved him off dismissively, telling him that even a few weeks would be great. Starting the next Monday, Ryan had gone to the woman’s - whose name was Alicia - home, met her husband, and met their fourteen year old daughter Melissa. The girl was eager to learn, eager to listen to Ryan’s instruction, eager to watch him play the guitar - especially when he’d explained that he was re-learning to play too, since he’d broken his hand.

The time with the little girl had reminded Ryan of Lia, of how much finding and developing a talent could change a person’s behavior, and though they only met twice a week, Ryan looked forward to the time spent with Melissa and her parents, foraging an easy friendship with the adults. He never mentioned the fact that he was a drifter, though he assumed that they knew since they knew Kenny and Maria, but as the weeks passed and Melissa improved, Ryan did, too. The ache in his wrist faded almost completely, and as that happened, he was able to bend it a little more, fingers more easily finding the strings. He still wasn’t able to completely lose himself like he had before, but it was progress and it was important.

Between playing at the bar and teaching Melissa, Ryan focused on the future. He didn’t mind staying in St. Louis, didn’t mind the people, and actually made a few new friends, but as comfortable as he was, he knew that the time would come for him to leave. Slipping on the ice had been a wake up call for him, but it was the feeling of isolation - specifically being cut off from someone that truly cared for him on a deep level - that he’d experienced upon realizing that his phone was missing that had stuck with him in a way that being alone never had before.

There had been plenty of women at the bar and around town that introduced themselves to him, asking if he’d be interested in having a drink or seeing a movie or going out, and though a part of him - the rational part - had wanted to agree, simply because there was a very slim (if any) chance he’d ever find you again, Ryan had always politely turned them down with a quick smile and a shake of his head, fingers running through his hair as he thanked them for the offer.

If they were that bold with him after simply watching him sing, what were they like with other men? He’d never felt like that with you, remembering back to your genuine interest in his music before him, your hesitancy when asking him about his prior relationships, his own fear that you’d tell him you were seeing someone, that he was merely a distraction. But you weren’t and he wasn’t and when he’d bared his soul to you the following morning as he knelt over you, fighting with everything in him to keep his body from pressing against yours even though it had been all he’d wanted, it had been the truth - and he was glad that he’d said the words. ‘You deserve more. You deserve every night, not a night or two in a hotel room’. He still believed that, but as each day passed in Missouri, he realized just how much he wanted to be the one to give you those nights, and his days, too - and it had taken him far too long to admit it.

He loved traveling, loved seeing new places and meeting new people, but like when Cowboy had died without warning, without anyone knowing what had happened for days, Ryan knew that he was in dangerous territory each time he looked at his casted wrist. A broken bone in his arm was one thing, but what happened if he hit his head? What if he broke a leg or injured his back? There were benefits to being alone, sure, and Ryan had reaped them for many years, but the more he thought about it, the more value he saw in being with someone, being in a place where people knew him - with someone that got him.

As the days passed Ryan realized that there were two different kinds of people, and he was almost desperate to figure out which category he truly fell into. People like Georgie and the friends he stayed with in Chicago were always going to live life on the road, they’d never settle in one place, never be happy enough to stay. People like Kenny and Maria - and even Virginia had found reasons to stay in one place or another, found a purpose in their life, something that had stood out clearly to them. Even Jackie fell into the latter category, as someone whose priorities had changed dramatically very quickly, but she’d never looked back, instead choosing to wholeheartedly focus on what was essential to her: her family. Who’s my family? Do I need one? Though your face flashed in his mind as he thought, he shook his head, pushing the thought to the side. Can’t think about what you can’t control, Brenner.

By the time his cast came off in March, replaced with a rigid brace that he was only supposed to wear while sleeping and he’d forked over another $200 out of his account for a copay, Ryan had made up his mind. While he wasn’t going to leave St. Louis right away, he wasn’t staying, either. Being landlocked didn’t appeal to him, and he was itching to continue his journey east. He poured over maps, knowing that there were a ton of big cities within reach as soon as he reached the eastern seaboard, but he didn’t want just any city, he wanted one where he’d feel comfortable, but not be overcrowded or feel swallowed by everything around him.

The beginning of April brought good weather to St. Louis, and Ryan and Kenny informed the bar owner that Ryan would be leaving, which resulted in a solid week of them playing nights in order for people to come and enjoy them for a few final days. Ryan’s last lessons with Melissa showed immense progress, the girl beaming from ear to ear as she played for her parents, and as he’d walked out of their home for the final time, Ryan felt pride that he’d been able to teach someone something meaningful, leaving a lasting impression on someone because of his talent - hopefully encouraging them to continue honing their own.

As he said goodbye to Kenny and Maria, heading out and toward the trains, Ryan had felt free - he felt focused, knowing where he was heading, and he would have been lying if he’d said he wasn’t excited to see what Memphis had to offer, that the feeling of climbing back onto the train, no support on his wrist wasn’t the best one he’d had in months. He let the breeze - still cool, even though it held the promise of true spring - blow over his face as he rode across Missouri and Arkansas and into Tennessee. It was a short ride, and within a few days of leaving St. Louis, he’d established a new routine that included wandering through Memphis and looking for inspiration. Wonder what you’d take pictures of here. He wrote down lyrics, came up with titles for songs, talked to the people he saw on the streets - Memphis was everything he’d imagined it to be, and Ryan was having fun.

His fourth night in the city, Ryan found himself wandering down the street near the Mississippi River’s east bank when he stopped in front of a tattoo shop advertising that they took walk in appointments. He tapped his foot for a few moments, unconsciously rubbing the inside of his right wrist while looking around and then with a grin, turned and walked through the doors of the building. It’s time for a new one.

With a bandage wrapped around his wrist just under an hour later, Ryan made his way back to the bus station, where he’d rented a locker for his things again. As he watched the people move around him, Ryan couldn’t help but smile. This is normal. This is… right. He was jolted out of his thoughts by the ringing of his phone and picked it up, greeting Georgie. After a quick conversation, Ryan rolled his neck, taking a deep breath. While there wasn’t any urgency in the phone call, his friend had wanted to touch base, inviting Ryan to meet up in New York City the last week of May, giving Ryan four weeks to make his way north.

Spending one final night in Memphis, Ryan hopped on a train going east the following morning, taking it as far as Nashville, but after only a few hours in the city, he knew it wouldn’t be a place that he could stay. No matter where he went, there were people like him - playing guitar on the corner, reading poetry on the stoops of their houses… trying to make a go of it. While the city itself was beautiful and lively, Ryan knew that if he stayed, he’d be consumed by it, crushed under the weight of people stepping over him to find their own success, and after less than 24 hours, he was again moving east, the ride between Nashville and Charlotte a two day ordeal.

The closer Ryan got to the coast, the more excited he was. He hadn’t seen the Atlantic ocean in years, and was looking forward to the day that he got to again. Soon. So soon. Charlotte was another short stay - a few days with his friend Natalie and her daughter while Natalie’s husband Jack was somewhere overseas. They weren’t friends from traveling, Ryan had known them as he’d grown up in Virginia, and he’d kept in touch with them throughout the years.

Natalie was a friendly face when he desperately needed one, and having his own room, his own bed, and access to a house that was empty most days was welcome after three months on a futon with Kenny and Maria, no matter how grateful he was to them. Ryan’s relationship with Natalie was easy, and as the days passed - a week of them - he realized that with as much as he wanted to keep traveling, having a routine, having something concrete to look forward to was just as refreshing.

The agreement had always been that when Ryan stopped through and Jack wasn’t home, that he’d help her with things around the house, and so as he finished up the list of things she’d needed, Ryan had told Natalie that he was heading out within the next few days. “You should go home, Ryan. It’s been how long? You said you told your friend to get closure, shouldn’t you do the same?” He’d told her about you, about meeting you in Vegas, about the way that you’d gotten each other, had connected on a mental level before anything physical had happened, and Natalie had heard in his voice that he loved you, something that Ryan hadn’t admitted out loud to himself. “You may not find her there, but you might just find what you’re looking for.”

And so Ryan said goodbye to the two women, hugging both of them tightly before Natalie pressed a brief kiss to his bearded cheek, whispering that she hoped he found something worth having. That ride was another day and a half long, and Ryan slept for much of it, waking up only to assess where he was and to eat. He was tired, and still had just over two weeks until he needed to get to New York and to Georgie, but almost as soon as he got off of the train in Norfolk, Ryan had felt sick to his stomach. This isn’t home. This isn’t my life.

But he knew that when and if you’d gone home, you wouldn’t have half assed it, and so he vowed to himself to stick it out, too. He used the library to find his mother’s grave, to visit her and tell her that he was sorry for running, that he wished he could have done something to keep her safer, that he was hoping that he could make something of himself and eventually make her proud. He sat on the ground, even as it started raining and talked to his mother until he ran out of things to say - telling her about where he’d been and what he’d seen and what he’d done. “But the thing is, Ma… the thing is that in these last 12 years, it’s never been enough. I’ve had some good times, but… nothin’ worth stayin’ for. Nothin’ that made me really feel alive or important.” He frowned, standing and looked out over the water before looking down again at his mother’s grave. “’cept for one thing, Ma. One person.”

Virginia hadn’t felt like home, but Ryan was glad that he’d finally said goodbye to his mother. He felt lighter as he waited for a ride the next morning, opting to hitchhike north to Baltimore instead of taking a train, and once he’d been dropped off in the Inner Harbor area, he immediately set up and began playing. Strumming the guitar put his mind at ease, and Ryan decided that once he’d earned enough for the day, he’d get a cheap motel and figure out what to do next - with his last ten days before heading to New York.

Later that night - fresh seafood in his stomach and feeling clean from a hot shower, Ryan was laying on his back in the bed, staring at the ceiling. He was totally silent, guitar packed in his case, simply thinking, and as the light changed in his motel room and day changed into night, Ryan came to a conclusion: it was time to think about stopping, about leaving the trains behind. He wasn’t old, but he was getting there, and he wasn’t getting the same joy out of being in a different city every few days that he had previously. He’d been perfectly happy working with Melissa and playing in the bar at night with Kenny. “Maybe you’re right.” He finally spoke, rolling onto his side and burying his face in the pillow - scratchy and flat, but more comfortable than a lumpy couch.

Georgie likely wanted to record in New York, and while Ryan was fine with that, it wasn’t what he wanted long term. He wanted to perform - wanted to entertain people - but didn’t need to be told when and where to be, what to play… “This is it.” Ryan sat up, running his hands through his hair. “The last trip.” He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn’t know where he was going or what he was going to do, but Ryan knew that coming back east had been the right call - ending his travels where they’d started was poetic, and Ryan was ready to find something new, something permanent - something real. He’d get a job, try to find more work teaching or playing weekly like he had with Kenny… whatever he did, he didn’t want to spend hours upon hours in trains anymore, he wanted an actual life - he just needed to decide where.

Ryan felt a weight lifted from his shoulders after making the decision, and he moved quickly to his guitar case and grabbing the recorder out of it along with his room key. It’s time. He slipped out of the room and made his way back to the waterfront, sitting down on a bench and taking a few deep breaths. After a few minutes, Ryan turned the recorder on, holding it close to his mouth. “Hey, you. I made a decision today, and I think you’d be happy for me.” For the next thirty minutes, Ryan talked into the recorder, his voice growing hoarse as he reached the end of what he had to say, swallowing hard.

“And I guess this might be the best thing for me.” He licked his lips, shaking his head. “I think if you were here, you’d be brainstorming ideas with me for where I should go, where I should end up for good - or at least for now.” Ryan sighed. “I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re settled. I hope you found what you’re lookin’ for.” There was another long pause and then Ryan closed his eyes, bowing his head. “I did. And then I lost it.” He sniffed. “I lost you.” Ryan stayed on the bench for a while longer before returning to his room and falling into a fitful sleep, the blankets bunched around his thighs.

The next morning, he made his way back to the waterfront, guitar in hand. He settled in, an easy smile on his face as he began to play. He didn’t sleep in motels again, but over the next three days and nights, Ryan played until his fingers hurt and his voice gave out; he wanted to make the most of his final days as a traveler, be sure that his decision was the right one. He still talked to you, but only in his head, knowing that while he still cared - still loved you, he had to accept reality; if he hadn’t found you yet, if you hadn’t found him…you weren’t going to. The world was too big, there were too many people, too many places. You weren’t supposed to have found him in the first place, so how could you find each other again?

Four days after arriving in Baltimore, Ryan stepped out onto the highway, thumb up and accepted a ride to Philadelphia, his last stop before New York City.

---

He’d totally forgotten that one of Kenny’s friends lived in Philadelphia, and so as soon as he arrived in the city, he headed to her house after texting to ask if he could stay for a few days. Ryan dropped his stuff off, grabbed the spare key, and headed out to explore the city. After a few hours, he’d seen the charm of the downtown area, the parks, the Zoo, the people. It was a bustling city full of history, and as he walked, he felt calm, felt settled. He didn’t understand it, but when he pulled his guitar out that night to play, he felt better than he had in weeks - and it showed. Ryan had a larger crowd his first night n Philadelphia than he’d had since St. Louis, and it felt good. He’d asked some of the people watching where a good spot to set up during the day would be, and many of them recommended Rittenhouse Square, telling him that it was easy to connect with other musicians there, that he’d fit right in. Tomorrow. I’ll spend all day in that park.

So when Ryan had set up at Rittenhouse Square the following morning, taking a seat beneath a tall tree, he’d been excited because the square had already been bustling, even at 10:00 am. Students, professionals - people that were simply enjoying the warm temperatures streamed by, and Ryan soaked it all in. His wrist felt good, his voice sounded good, and Ryan played happily, conversing with people as they stopped to make conversation with him, offering a genuine smile or a laugh multiple times. He was having fun, but his mood changed throughout the day as he thought of you, began to doubt his decision to stop moving. If I stop traveling, I’ll never find you. If I keep moving, there’s a chance. Knowing that he wasn’t going to be able to keep up with anything upbeat, Ryan chose a melancholy song, clearing his throat and taking a deep breath as he pressed record and started strumming, playing the song for the first time in a few years.

…Well I've heard there was a secret chord That David played and it pleased the Lord But you don't really care for music, do you? Well it goes like this: The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift The baffled king composing Hallelujah…

Ryan closed his eyes as he played, getting lost in the song. He thought of his life. He thought of his friends. He thought of his family. He thought of you. He thought of your hands and your eyes and your face. He remembered your voice, remembered how sincere you’d been with him. He sang as if he were singing for you, throat aching from the strain of letting himself get emotionally wrapped up in the song, but he knew it was the only way. It has to be authentic.

The song continued and Ryan’s voice held, though it wavered a few times, particularly near the end of the song. When he finished playing it, he paused, opening his eyes and looking up at the first man who’d stepped forward to speak to him, leaning in to tuck a few bills into his case. “I’ve never heard anyone sing that song like that, man.” Ryan looked at him, feeling his heart pounding as he caught his breath. That was… I didn’t know… Ryan opened his mouth to speak to the man, thanking him, but froze as he heard a female voice from his right.

“You’re really good.” There’s no way. His fingers tightened around the guitar neck and he forgot that he was speaking to someone as he turned slowly toward the sound. “Your voice is incredible.” She’s here. This isn’t possible. Ryan looked down, quickly setting the guitar back into the case and stood, eyes finding yours again. There’s no way. This isn’t happening. He watched as you stepped toward him, too, before stopping, your eyes bright in the early afternoon sun. She’s from Philadelphia. Of course she is. “Do you know any Robert Johnson, Ryan?” You got the last sentence out but he barely heard it; all he could hear was a roaring in his ears as he stepped closer to you - only a few steps away now. He heard your words from Vegas again - I found you in a crowd of hundreds of people - and felt his heart pounding even as he stepped closer still.

“Are you…really…” He spoke spoke directly to you and even as the tears ran down your face you nodded, reaching out for him. His fingers touched your face, cupping your cheek and you gasped, a sob escaping your throat as your own fingers closed around the fabric of his (your) shirt, tugging on it. “Oh God.” His hand slid around to the back of your head and he pulled you to his chest, his other arm circling around your back, holding you tightly. After a few moments, your free hand moved up to grip his shoulder, and as he tilted his head downward, pressing his lips to the top of your head. He knew that he was crying too, but he didn’t care. He kissed the top of your head again before tilting his head to rest his cheek against it. “I told you I’d see you again.”

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