behindthec: (ryden.)
[personal profile] behindthec

continued from HERE.


"Pictures don't do it justice."

Ryan unfolds himself enough to turn around, eyes lifting as Brendon pads down the length of the dock, closer with each step. His forehead creases a bit as his eyes land on the guitar in Brendon's hands, as Brendon lays it gently down behind them before taking a seat next to Ryan, hands folded in his lap and legs hanging over the edge of the dock.

"What?" Ryan asks.

Brendon smiles, just enough to put Ryan at ease, or so he hopes. "Your blog."

Ryan looks caught, staring like he's waiting for the punchline, for demands of an explanation. When Brendon proposes none, he deflates, turning back to the lake, to the near-blinding reflection of dying sunlight on the ripples of water.

"It's nothing special," Ryan lies.

"Then why'd you take a picture?"

"I wanted to remember."

"Remember what?"

Ryan shrugs, letting his legs extend to dangle over the edge, and toes the surface of the water with one bare foot. "That we were here."

Brendon watches the water splash up, a few drops landing on the rolled-up cuffs of Ryan's jeans, darkening the fabric. "What makes you think you'd forget?"

Ryan runs one fingertip over the darkened material, tracing the drops that look like tears. "I feel like I'm starting to already."

Brendon might be running on panicked nerves, stretched taut to the breaking point, but he's been performing too many years not to recognize a cue when it clocks him on the fucking head.


He doesn't know what he's expecting -- a lead, maybe, like the first invitation spoiled him and he's waiting for another. For wide amber eyes spelling out yes in the glow of the sunset. For all the pieces to fall into place and all the cliches to settle over them, because after this many years of failure, Brendon's entitled to a few of the cliches. Sunset confessions and whispered I-love-yous, promises of forever, skin on skin and nothing but music between them.

When Ryan turns to face him, he looks like an ending.

Brendon gulps, wiping his clammy palms on the knees of his jeans, and tries to remember every morning for the past month, when all he had to do was breathe.

"I -- I wanted. I wanted to say something. Um." And, right, now there's the whole business of saying it. "I was thinking. About -- what you said -- "

"I'm sorry I ruined it."

"I -- what?"

Brendon's pretty sure it's not healthy for his heart to double in tempo in the space of, well, a heartbeat, but there's nothing he can do to stop it, because even in five short words he can taste the doubt, the regret; feel the telling tremor as Ryan's infallible walls start to crumble around him, leaving him without a shell and nothing but hope to hold him up.

"No -- " Brendon starts, breathless. "No, fuck, can I just -- "

"Please don't."

"Ryan -- "

"Look, I know I fucked it up, okay, I don't need any more reminders."

"Oh my god, are you kidding me?!" Brendon springs to his feet, watching Ryan follow every movement with wide eyes, and maybe it's not the easy cliches, but there's still enough hope in them, flickering somewhere behind the fear, to spur him on. "Jesus fuck, Ryan, you think I'm giving up this easily? Dude, I -- I freaking played you Pachelbel's Canon, I acted out my wedding night with you, I gave you a god damned candy ring! Do I have to get down on one fucking knee?"

Ryan stares, slack-jawed and finally speechless.

"I -- okay," Brendon chokes. "Okay."

He nods to himself, bending over to snatch up his guitar and settle into a patch of sun (the last), cross-legged with the instrument cradled like a life preserver in his arms.

"Right." He looks up, fighting his own fear alongside Ryan's with one relentless stare. "Apparently singing is the only way you'll listen to me without interrupting, so."

He can't help the smile that peeks through at the hard truth; Ryan can wail and moan his way through a practice, but the moment Brendon's lips part over the mic, he's silent, eyes and ears attuned to every nuance, every note, every word, no matter which ones emerge.

It's the same look now; entranced; that same quiet respect -- and it's a little muddled under the raging host of emotions fighting for dominance in Ryan's eyes, but even under the layers, Brendon can see it. He's been peeling back Ryan's layers for years, one by one and Ryan's never asked him to stop, never tried to wrap himself back up in them once Brendon's broken through, and he isn't now. He's allowing. It's maybe the highest form of trust Ryan Ross can offer, and Brendon will die before he betrays it.

"I don't have a title yet," he says softly, staring down at the body of the guitar, and his voice is cracked and broken like he's fourteen again, stumbling through his first botched recording of "First Try."

He glances up one last time, and Ryan almost looks like he's going to say something, open his big stupid mouth and try to make sense of things he has no business making sense of, so Brendon does all he can think to do to stop him.

He plays.

It should feel smaller, quieter than it did indoors, with the sound of the wind in the lake and the evening bugs intruding with unplanned harmony, but somehow it feels bigger -- like he's onstage and Ryan's the only one in the audience, each note echoing in the mass of space. He knows he's imagining the clear acoustics, the resounding theatrical echoes, but it doesn't make them any less real. He feels the words and hears Ryan's silence and tastes the music, and doesn't know how he reaches the end even after he's there.

I know you killed the brides before me
I know that I am next in line
But in our bed, I'll tell you tales
Of endless skies and desert sand

I'll distract you with a thousand legends
And one more story after that
Until we've reached our ever after
Without you knowing it was there

Let me steal an apple for you
Passing through the market place
Share it with me on the rooftops
Kiss me at the palace gate

And if you need more reassurance
To leave behind the fears that bind
Then press repeat, I'll start again
With ”once upon a time.”

When the last note of the last line of the last verse dies out, the illusion fades more than shatters, but with the same end result -- leaving Brendon in silence, terrified to look up, knowing this is the last moment in the series, the last wobbling domino that'll determine where they'll end up.

Fear is so scary-powerful.

He can hear the words in his own fucking voice, clearer than if they were spoken, mocking him.

Never, ever let it win.

If he can't do it himself, how can he expect it of Ryan?

Slowly, he lifts his head.

Ryan, to his surprise, doesn't look much different, and Brendon can't tell if he should be relieved or --


Or if Ryan already let it win.

There's really not much time to sit and ponder it, because Ryan's starting to move, disentangle his miles of limbs and take the few steps over to Brendon until he's behind him, settling down against his back and snaking his arms around until his hands cover Brendon's on the strings. It's all slow-motion and fast-forward in one, like Brendon can't quite keep up with it, but his brain, his fucking crazy heartbeat, are miles ahead, trying to anticipate every next moment until Ryan's breath touches his ear and everything just shuts down.

"I think," Ryan whispers, stretching one of Brendon's fingers until it reaches the next fret, "there should be an A flat at the start of the second verse."

Brendon swallows. Stares at their hands. Says, "Oh."

All feeling drains from his limbs as he feels Ryan press closer, nuzzling the side of his neck, and his own hands drop from the strings, falling limp to his sides as Ryan takes over, slowly picking out the introduction from memory.

Ryan breathes, "Sing it again?"

Brendon sings.

And if his voice hitches a bit, Ryan only presses closer, and if he forgets his own damn lyrics, Ryan hums them under his breath until Brendon picks back up. And if his head turns just a bit as he sings Kiss me at the palace gate, Ryan is right there waiting for him, head tilted just enough for Brendon to meet him halfway for that perfect, passionate kiss they practiced half a decade to reach.

And it's. It's new. It doesn't feel like a first step, like the beginning of foreplay, like it exists only to lead them elsewhere. It exists for itself, for the simple press of mouths as Ryan parts his lips and Brendon follows, their tongues meeting in the middle to draw them deeper. But it stays where it is, just a kiss, mouth to mouth and hand to cheek, gentle and sweet but enough to make the air buzz between them when they separate.

Ryan strokes his thumb over Brendon's jaw, smiling against his lips, and whispers, "This is why I brought you here."

Brendon smiles back. "This is why I came."

Ryan's smile widens, his eyes falling shut like it's sensory overload, too much to take in already without adding the sight of Brendon across from him, here, his.

Brendon can so totally relate.

He gently sets the guitar aside, turning to face Ryan at a better angle, and brings his other hand up, cupping Ryan's face in his palms.

"I know you're scared," he says, quick and sharp in case Ryan tries to stop him. "I -- I'm scared too, man. Either of us could die tomorrow in a fucking car accident, there's no guarantees, ever. But -- fuck, Ryan, I'd rather have one day with you than never have had you at all."

Ryan closes his eyes, leaning in until their foreheads touch, whispers, "I love you," and Brendon can't remember why he was afraid.

Brendon's eyes shoot open and he stares, half certain he imagined it. "Say it again."

Ryan smiles. "I love you."


"I fucking love you, now fucking kiss me already -- "

Brendon would've fucking kissed him whether he'd asked or not, so whatever, it doesn't matter because Ryan loves him, and this is so, so much better than all the romantic cliches he was owed. But he kisses him anyway, hard and full and epic until they just fall back onto the heat-soaked wood, Brendon's body pressing Ryan's down and Ryan's pressing up, limbs wrapping around him and holding on, not so tight he's afraid Brendon would disappear, but just tight enough to say I know you won't.

Brendon pulls back for a second to get his bearings, but mostly to see Ryan's smile, because he figures even if he never saw it again, this could carry him through the rest of his life.

"I love you too, by the way," he says, smiling back.

"Yeah, good," Ryan grins, pulling him back down, and that's the end of that.

It doesn't feel like any fantasy, elbows and knees and heads colliding with the hard wood of the deck as they try to sink into one another, but it's good, just like this, just two bodies with no doubt and all the time in the world. Ryan kisses now like he's only just discovered how to do it, what it's for -- open and loose and wet, until Brendon goes limp enough for Ryan to start tugging at his jeans. Brendon registers the soggy flap as the dense fabric hits the surface of the water and he whimpers his disapproval, but Ryan only smiles into his mouth, snatching his hand and guiding it to the waistband of his own jeans, pressing hard, and, oh.

Ryan wrestles his way on top, wriggling eagerly out of the rest of his clothes before pulling Brendon up and crawling into his lap, just planes of skin between them and the sunset on their backs, bodies pushing up against each other until their dicks brush between the rhythm of their hips.

"Fuck," Ryan gasps.

"Mph," Brendon agrees, arms wrapping around Ryan's wiry torso as Ryan's follow, curling around Brendon and squeezing tight, fingers reaching to tangle in his hair, guide his head where he wants it. Their mouths meet again, and again, and again, just open collision of teeth and tongue, no technique and no agenda, and Brendon could go at it like this all night, could hold off for hours if it only meant more of this.

Ryan's mouth pulls off suddenly, head falling back to expose the length of his neck, and Brendon dips in, licking a stripe up the ridged line of his throat, one hand in Ryan's hair to support his head, and Ryan's lost under it all, his moan breaking clear into the silence. A shudder passes through them both, setting off their rhythm and balance and they're toppling down, tipping right over the edge with a wild, messy splash.

Ryan's giggling when Brendon splutters to the surface, already reaching out to pull him close, and Brendon grins, sliding his hands over Ryan's hips.

"Smooth, Ross."

"I'll show you smooth, asshole."

Ryan makes good on his word, seducing Brendon's mouth into open surrender, tongues piping hot against the cool surrounding their bodies. They slide together beneath the water, effortless, easy and slippery enough that their hands drift between their bodies before they know it, still-warm fingers closing around their cocks.

"Shit," Brendon stutters, pressing his face deep into the curve of Ryan's neck. "That's -- "

"Yeah," Ryan breathes. "Yeah."

And it is, endless liquid between them as they start to pump each other faster, still unhurried but with clear intent. Brendon can feel Ryan getting close, the way his body breaks out in these tiny shudders, lost to any rhythm; the way his fingertips dig into whatever part of Brendon he's clinging to, just to hold himself together. Brendon's so wrapped up in it, so focused on Ryan that his own climax takes him by surprise, by fucking storm; that he barely registers Ryan's strangled whimper as he follows.

Everything is bright when they come down, beautiful and clear and sharp. It doesn't feel like the world they left, and Brendon wonders if it has anything to do with the soft "I love you" that Ryan presses to his lips.

Brendon smiles, says it back, and thinks, yeah, maybe so.

Their kisses change then, building fast from a lazy, afterglowy make-out to frantic, full-on desperation. There's teeth now, nails and rough-ragged breaths and hands fisted in hair, coaxing whimpers and moans that never see the light of day, spilled straight into one another's mouths.

"Need -- " Ryan pants, forcing their mouths apart. "Seriously -- need to fuck you. Now."

"Fuck yes."

They're up and off, and the process is far from sexy -- awkwardly pulling themselves back onto the dock and slipping on the wet surface, trying to wordlessly negotiate their various states of nudity and whether it's worth it to try to pull on any of their clothes before heading inside. Images of their bare asses in the tabloids coupled with painful memories of pine cones and pebbles digging sharply into their feet win out, and they slosh gracelessly back to the cabin in boxers and shoes and t-shirts. They're barely inside the kitchen door before the clothes turn into mortal enemies and shoes are flying recklessly, leaving muddy stains against the baseboards and there goes Ryan's deposit -- again.

Ryan's closing in on him fast, shoving Brendon up against the wall by the fridge and clawing at his t-shirt. Brendon's arms flail aimlessly in his attempt to help, but he only succeeds in knocking a picture frame clear off the wall. Somewhere below he hears the glass shatter and Ryan laughing breathlessly against his shoulder.

"Way to go, fucker."

"Fuck you, upstairs."

There is no plausible explanation for how they actually make it upstairs. Turns out Ryan's energy is wicked contagious and soon it's all he can do to keep up with the explosive way it's taken hold of Brendon. Brendon's got bruises already blossoming on his hip from where they'd tripped halfway up the stairs and Ryan fell on him, and Ryan's going to feel it in the morning where his head rammed into the wall once Brendon decided he'd had enough of Ryan's stupid button-down shirt, unbuttoned or not, and that the only thing left to do was pin Ryan to the nearest flat surface and rip it off him.

Actually reaching the bedroom shoots a dizzy sense of accomplishment through them both, breaking their focus, and when Ryan starts backing them toward the bed, he misses by a mile and they end up colliding with the balcony door. It shakes under the impact, and Brendon pulls back, eyes wide.

"Better not break anymore glass," Ryan pants, a hint of mischief coating his tone.

"Better stop slamming me into things, then."

Ryan growls, uncaring of their position as he begins to suck a line of bright red marks up Brendon's neck, reaching blindly back toward the dresser to feel around for the bottle of lube strewn amongst the toiletries. Brendon manages to get one hand around Ryan's ass to tug his underwear down, and the other behind himself, feeling around for the door handle and shoving it hard.

The door whooshes to the side as they tumble out onto the balcony, limbs everywhere.

"Fuck," Ryan gasps as they land in a pile on the hard expanse of outdoor carpet. "You okay?"

Brendon nods frantically, pulling him back down. He's barely okay, he's going to feel this for weeks, but their bodies have taken enough abuse in the past five minutes, what's a little more?

"Crazy," Ryan's whispering against his mouth as he fumbles with the cap on the lube, lips stretching into a smile. "Fucking crazy."

"Shut up, you love me."

"Yeah," Ryan agrees, and, "yeah," when he realizes what he's saying.


"Nope," Ryan pants, twisting off the cap and literally pouring lube into his hand, cursing when it starts to drip between his fingers. "Right fucking here."


"That's kinda the idea." Ryan grins at him, lopsided, breath coming short and fast as he dips his hand between Brendon's legs, starting to push two fingers inside.

Brendon yanks them away. "Just -- come on. Fuck me."

Brendon can actually see Ryan's eyes lose focus, they way they go glassy and his pupils blow wide before he nods, completely wrecked, and chokes back a broken moan as Brendon starts pumping him with his fist, slicking him up as best he can manage. He drops his hands to the floor, palms pressing flat down, and stares up into Ryan's eyes: every kind of affirmation he can offer.

Ryan doesn't question him, doesn't ask him what he wants because he already knows. He slides in like it's all he's meant to do for the rest of their lives, and even in a mere two days of deprivation, Brendon's already forgotten how complete, how fucking full it feels, and Ryan sure as fuck makes certain Brendon's not going to forget it any time soon. He fucks him with none of the reservations from before, no concern for technique or precision or skill, but the end result kind of melts Brendon's brain from his head. It's Ryan, literally in reckless abandon, sacrificing all his control like he never wants it back, pounding into him with no thought for anything else in the world. There's no halfway, no tentative, no questions. It's all an avalanche of answers, and each one sounds like yes.

Brendon doesn't dare wrap his arms around Ryan, doesn't want to hold him down or guide him, just reaches back and grips the metal bars of the railing as tight as he can. But they're closer somehow than if they were wrapped up in each other, their eyes locked together, dark and unblinking through each thrust all the way to the end, when Brendon feels himself shoot hard between them, catching their stomachs and chests and even Ryan's throat. Ryan stutters through a gasp, eyes finally breaking contact and rolling back into his head as he releases, spilling hot and wet inside Brendon and it's. It's.

It's. Yeah.

Brendon has no idea how long it takes them to come down, how long they spend just looking into each other's eyes, slack-jawed and panting; how long they kiss, slow and open and gentle, hands cupping each other's faces, guiding; how long before Brendon pulls back to lick up the line of come dripping down the side of Ryan's throat. But he suspects it's pretty damn long, because by the time they stop, the sun's long gone and Brendon's lost count of how many mosquito bites are starting to itch all down his body.

He smiles up at Ryan, scratching absently at his hip. "They're eating me."

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "Lucky them."

Brendon snorts. "Bed, loser."

"Yeah. Yeah, bed."

Bed is good. Bed is bug-free and clean and cool and soft, welcome relief to their sweat- and sun-soaked bodies. They lie on their sides, close enough to tangle their legs and clasp hands between their chests, but far enough apart that they can talk, study each other's eyes through the moments.

"So," Brendon starts, grinning stupidly, "that was totally not how I thought that would go."

Ryan smiles, ducking his head. "I. Kinda hoped it would, actually."

"Oh really?"

He shrugs. "You don't have the monopoly on stupid wedding fantasies."

Brendon's eyes widen, and he's glad that Ryan looks up to see, because that's about all he's going to manage out of this reaction.

"What, it's nothing. It's just. Girls aren't the only ones who think about that stuff, y'know."

Brendon bites his lip, a smile fighting its way out. "So where are we?"

Ryan blinks. "What?"

"It's our wedding night, where are we?"

Ryan grins. "Tuscany."

"Yeah?" Brendon grins back. "Why not France? Y'know, a language one of us actually knows?"

"That time. Remember?"

It's a testament to just how long and how deeply they've been weaved into each other's lives that Brendon understands everything from three words. It was their first tour in Europe, and they'd ditched everyone to hit up Italy for the day. It rained, rained hard and cold; sightseeing was out, but it didn't stop them from sharing the best fucking plate of spaghetti they'd ever had in their lives before hopping back on the train. They were still soaking wet and freezing, having brought literally nothing but the shirts on their backs, and Brendon spent the entire train ride in Ryan's lap, huddled close for warmth as Ryan hugged him tight, humming songs in his ear until Brendon fell asleep.

He swallows. "I remember."

Ryan smiles.

"Outdoor ceremony?"

"I was thinking, maybe, yeah. And roses. Everywhere. Just. Fucking -- piles of red roses. And a harp, 'cause my grandmother played it, and that's like, all I remember about her."

Brendon squeezes his hand. "What else?"

Ryan looks up, smirking. "Well, we've gotta figure out where Pete's gonna sit, 'cause I don't think he should be anywhere within a hundred-foot radius of your family."

Brendon chuckles, leaning in to steal a kiss. "So we're in Tuscany... having crazy animal sex on the balcony and scarring all the other honeymooners for life... I am so totally down with this, dude."

Ryan laughs, pinching his wrist. "I know it's not violins and candles, but fuck, this was just--"

"Exactly what you needed?"

Ryan looks up at him, eyes slightly widened in surprise. "Yeah," he says softly, lifting a hand to trail a slow path down Brendon's chest. "I know it's stupid or whatever, but I sort of always hoped that I could have this, like really bad sex and--"

"Oh wow, way to bash on the ego, dude."

"Shut up, you know you're magic. I just meant that, I don't know, sex always has to be so fucking perfect all the time. Like, I think too much. And try too hard. And with you, it's just... It's like I don't even care. Because I want you. Like, really, really want you--"

Brendon cuts him off with a kiss, rolling them over until Ryan is pressed against the sheets rocking his hips rhythmically against Brendon's.

"I want you too," he breathes. "Eaten by mosquitos or in a bed at the fucking Hilton, I don't care."

Ryan smiles.

"Yeah, and that's what I mean. You're--We're not that. Just. It's messy and ridiculous, and I'm pretty sure you actually have some kind of weird lake plant in your hair, but--"

"That's 'cause I'm your mermaid."

Ryan laughs at that, loud and free, completely unsexy and still so amazing that Brendon can't help falling in love all over again.

"Point is," Ryan says when he gets himself together again. "You're perfect. Because you're not perfect. Does that even make sense?"

Brendon presses closer, tugging Ryan's gaze toward him with a hand on his chin, their eyes not really searching, but waiting. Absorbing. Maybe a little questioning, but always sure the answer's close on the horizon.

"You want imperfect? I'm your man, baby."

Ryan laughs again, rolling them over until he's the one who's got Brendon pinned, and drops a kiss to his lips. "This is the best kind of imperfect."

Brendon melts into it as their mouths move, Ryan's tongue swirling softly against his own, and thinks... yeah.


There's a weird knot in Brendon's stomach as he makes one last run through the rooms, ducking under beds and behind doors to make sure nothing's left behind. The cabin's still furnished but it looks empty without them, without all their junk lying around. It hasn't been long enough to feel like home, exactly, and he's excited for what's ahead -- tour and, hey, his boyfriendwhoisRyan -- but he still feels like he's not quite ready to go. Not quite ready to leave paradise and face the music.

His footsteps echo on the bare bathroom floor as he walks to the shower, peeking past the curtain. There's nothing inside but the bar of soap they'd found beneath the cabinet, now little more than a thin, bendy strip. He glances over the tile walls, remembering the image of Ryan's head tipped back against them as Brendon had first dropped to his knees.

Looking at it all through the lens of memory, it's hard to remember that he's leaving only the physical place behind. That Ryan, Ryan, is coming with him.

A smile breaks wide over his face at the thought, remembering Ryan's midnight decision of, Yeah, so I'm just gonna walk over to your mic and lay one on you at our first show. It's nerve-wracking, thrilling, exhilarating and fucking terrifying to think of coming out, not only coming out but coming out as them. Facing head-on all of Ryan's fears and -- if he's being honest -- his own, too.

He kind of can't fucking wait.

He ends up in the music room, even though he knows all they brought into it were notebooks and guitars, all of which have been long since packed safely away in the backseat. It still feels empty as all hell, and Brendon wonders what the room will do without them, if it'll be lonely; what the sunlight will shine in upon, if not them. It's ego, maybe, but too much has happened in the room for him not to feel like he's part of it.

He trails his fingers over the piano keys, teasing a brief flourish from the higher octaves, before gently closing the lid.

Standing in the empty expanse of the living room, devoid of their yoga mats and DVDs and game controllers and stray articles of clothing and empty bowls and beer bottles, he can almost see them in the space, like he's watching as an outsider -- watching as Ryan wraps around him, holding him up; watching himself surrender, trusting Ryan with his body and soul and never looking back.

Outside, a car door closes, and he turns around, peering out the window. Ryan's walking around the car, stuffing a few final items into the Tetris-packed trunk as he swings the remaining doors shut. Brendon pads over to the foyer, snatches up his wallet and takes one last look around the space before heading outside, locking the door carefully behind him.

Ryan reaches up, pulls the trunk closed and turns around, leaning back against it and smiling when he sees Brendon.

Brendon smiles back. "Ready to go home?"

Slowly, Ryan shakes his head, pushing himself off the back of the car and walking forward until they're face to face, chest to chest.

"I am home."

The knot in Brendon's stomach rises into his chest and melts into warmth and he leans in, eyes closed as Ryan meets him for the kiss. It's brief, uneventful and chaste, but it's everything.

Ryan joins their hands as they separate, and Brendon feels the jingle of his own keys against his palm as Ryan presses them into his hand.

He grins, quirking an eyebrow. "You're letting me drive?"

Ryan smirks and shrugs.

Brendon's fingers close around the metal, but he keeps contact with Ryan's palm, skin to skin. "Do you trust me?"

Eyes locked, Ryan's hand slowly drops, leaving the keys in Brendon's grasp before he walks backward to the passenger side, fingers closing around the handle until Brendon presses down on the controller, unlocking the door.

Ryan pulls it open and smiles.



...Well, almost. Behold the grand finale, the official PCCF trailer courtesy of [ profile] redorchids.
(Definitely click the "HQ"; it's worth it.)

If you can't see the vid, try here.

If you missed the in-text links, the YouTube/WSB screenshots can be found here and here. I will proudly take credit for those: a morning at work well wasted spent in Publisher and Paint. Also, if you're curious, a very vague approximation of the cabin floorplan can be found here -- what, okay, I was bored and Red had some logistical questions. :P

And finally, visit the PCCF Q&A post for any questions, however random, you may have about the fic.

Thanks for the ride, guys. ♥

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May 2009

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