behindthec | This Exercise of Self-Abuse [Day 1 of Not The Sin (or, Brendon's 12 Days of Kinks)]

Title: This Exercise of Self-Abuse [Day 1 of Not The Sin (or, Brendon's 12 Days of Kinks)]
Author:

lolab
Rating: R
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Kink du Jour: Slight bloodplay. Mostly embarrassed!Ryan.
Word Count: ~1,270
Disclaimer: Fiction as far as I know.
Summary: Ryan's head drops a little further, but he remains still. "Don't tell anyone."
Notes: Vignette 1 of 12; Bden's ~Sekrit Kink Series based on email/IM/comment requests from this fic (now #7 in the series). One a day through Christmas: here is my holiday gift to my friendslist. ;)

Please visit the master post for a list of all 12 vignettes. You can read them independently, but they are connected, so it's much better to read them in order.

This was no accident; it was a therapeutic chain of events.

The first time Ryan's lyrics get stuck in Brendon's head, the irony of it is lost on him; will be for years.

It's strange how relentlessly his brain functions on music before anything else: when he pushes open the door to Ryan's bedroom, it's not the sight that hits him first, it's the lyric. And it doesn't make sense, yet, so maybe he's psychic, or maybe he's just desperate to believe that nothing this bad (good) could possibly be an accident.

The sight catches up with him too late, once his body's already responded, his breath hitching, too audible for him to slip out of the room now. In that tiny sliver of space between the moment his eyes connect to his brain and the moment Ryan sees him, a thousand things happen.

It hasn't been that long since So, you want to join?, and he can't be blamed that he hasn't seen his brand-new bandmates naked yet; that's what cramped tour buses are for, later. It's not like he hasn't thought about it; he's sixteen, evidently less than heterosexual, and, you know, Ryan, Ryan, and. Jesus. For him, that's usually explanation enough.

He wishes it were enough now.

Ryan's naked, jeans and boxers shoved down to his knees as he perches on the edge of the bed, legs just slightly spread, held back by the confines of his jeans. One hand's clenched tight in the sheet, twisting it violently in his fist, his knuckles trembling from intensity, sharp and white even in the half-dark of the room. It's his other hand that's commanding the attention, though, gripped around a small, trapezoid-shaped blade as the tip disappears into the pristine flesh of his inner thigh, leaving a thin red trail in its wake -- not deep, just enough to draw out a reaction.

Brendon can't even tell what Ryan's reaction's supposed to be over the blinding fire of his own.

That's not it, though, that's not what makes him feel like he's floating out of his own skin: it's Ryan's cock, hard, hard as fucking anything, gorgeous and full and flushed and rising up toward the taut skin of his abdomen, the muscles in his stomach clenching as his body shakes under the sensations.

But even that is nothing next to Ryan's face.

Once Brendon's eyes actually make it up there, it's one of those defining moments of his existence. He's got no fucking clue what it's defining but it's something, it's some kind of flood of awareness, the recognition of his own desires suddenly clear as motherfucking crystal, their bubble bursting after sixteen years of repression, like everything he never knew he wanted, never knew existed, is suddenly spread out before him.

Ryan's eyes are shut, not squeezed tight but loose and fluttery, head dipping back as the blade drags across his skin, the lines of his neck drawn tight, exposed; hair spilling over his face. His breath is labored, but slow, controlled, bottom lip trapped between his teeth, tongue working over the bruised skin before it's too much effort and his mouth just falls, open and wet and slack, completely relaxed, and it only then occurs to Brendon that he's never seen Ryan at peace, because this, is peace. This is visible peace, shining out of every pore, settling into the tension of Ryan's shoulders and Brendon can actually see the moment when it melts, Ryan's shoulders sinking down on an exhale until his whole body relaxes, until the trembling fades.

Brendon tries to exhale with him, but the breath comes out gracelessly, sharp and loud.

Ryan returns so fast Brendon almost loses his balance. His eyes are open, wider than Brendon's ever seen them; the tension has jumped right back into his frame tenfold, and before he starts shit-flipping and plotting Brendon's murder, there's a moment where their eyes meet and there isn't any movement; they just watch.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Ryan splutters, scrabbling to his feet and yanking his clothes up with a tangle of awkward-long fingers trying to force his dick back into his pants, hard-on and all, but his eyes never leave Brendon's. "What are you doing?!" he repeats, and there's so much terror in his voice that the venom is lost in a mess of fear. "Get out! Get the FUCK OUT!"

"I -- "

"Get. Out. Now."

Ryan advances on him and Brendon instinctively backs up, but with the way he's standing, when his back hits the door it shuts behind him, leaving them both closed and alone in the room.

"Get out," he echoes, but his voice is a whisper and his eyes are starting to sparkle, glow. Either he's a vampire or he's about to cry, and either option is pretty terrifying to Brendon.

Brendon swallows. "I -- Spencer -- he -- the door was open so we're all downstairs and he said to come get you but I -- wasn't, didn't -- I'm not -- "

"Shut. Up."

"Sorry, I'm sorry, Ryan, I'm sorry."

Brendon can see the little well of tears start piling in Ryan's eyes, and Ryan doesn't miss it; he steps back and turns away, facing the bed, tension still gripping him but his frame is hunched now, collapsed upon itself. Brendon knew from the moment they met that humiliation isn't a good look for Ryan, and that he'll avoid it at any, every, all costs and then some.

"Ryan, I'm sorry." The words are meaningless but he means them, so hard.

Ryan's head drops a little further, but he remains still. "Don't tell anyone."

"I -- no. No, I -- no, fuck, I -- "

"Please."

"I... I won't."

"Tell them I'll be down soon."

Brendon nods, too fucked up to realize Ryan can't see him, and slips out the door, careful to turn the knob so it shuts silently without clicking.

He delivers Ryan's message and disappears into the downstairs bathroom.

He jerks off leaning against the wall, his head pressed to the baby-blue paint beside a faux-gold framed print of a sailboat. He bites his shoulder to keep quiet and comes so hard he has to use his other hand to catch it all before it drips to the flattened, faded yellow rug below the sink.

+++

That night, when he's pretty sure he can't keep lying to himself, he starts the list.

It's unremarkable; fitting, he thinks. Less intimidating, easier to hide. Just plain notepaper, off-white college-ruled, with the jagged edge running down the left side where he ripped it from his spiral calculus notebook, hands shaking too hard to tear along the dotted line. It's wrinkled from the force he used to tear it out, and he tries to smooth it out against the soft plush of his bedspread, the nice fluffy one his parents bought him after the week he spent volunteering at the church's summer camp.

That slice of irony, however distant, is not lost.

The pencil's dull but pokes through the paper until he brings the loose sheet to rest on his thigh, firm through the thick layer of jeans.

He doesn't title it, only writes a number "1" and a word. He follows down the paper, 2, 3, 4. After 10 his hand stops shaking.

Once he's finished, he stares down at the text, its thick, messy lines of lead -- daring it to defy him. Holding his breath, he draws a single line through the first item and stuffs the paper under his mattress.

When he lies down, he swears he can feel it beneath him.

[#2 tomorrow.]