Somewhere Hiding Underneath [Day 4 of Not The Sin (or, Brendon's 12 Days of Kinks)]

[behindthec]

Title: Somewhere Hiding Underneath [Day 4 of Not The Sin (or, Brendon's 12 Days of Kinks)]
Author: lolab 
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Kink du Jour: Make-up! Wrist-grabbing! Ryan's hands.
Word Count: ~1,490
Disclaimer: Fiction as far as I know.
Summary: He knows it's all going to hell at the first touch of the small, spongy eyeshadow tip across his eyelid, Ryan's breath hot on his face and smelling of the little caramels he's taken to popping before shows.
Notes: Vignette 4 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.

Under all his angst, Ryan possesses a certain nobility that makes him willing to guinea-pig any questionable new ideas he has for the band. Especially ones that threaten their "already tenuous guy-cred," per Spencer, who took one look at the stick of kohl in Ryan's hand and stalked out of the dressing room.

Brendon grins. "He'll come around."

Too wounded to respond, Ryan simply huffs and plants himself in front of the counter, leaning in to peer into the giant mirror lined with naked bulbs that wash him in bright white.

Brendon hops up on the counter, knocking over bottles as he wiggles his butt, trying to wedge himself into a spot.

"Brendon," Ryan sighs, righting the bottles and scooting his chair a few inches away.

"Sorry," Brendon offers, and manages to keep his ass in place as he watches Ryan work.

Ryan doesn't get much work done before his right hand drops forcefully to the counter, the little stick of eyeliner clicking obnoxiously as it hits the surface. He lifts his eyes to Brendon's, dark and warning, his other hand coming down firm on Brendon's knee, curling his fingers around it and pressing hard, and it's only then Brendon realizes he'd been bouncing it compulsively, foot braced on the edge of Ryan's seat.

"Sorry," he says again, smiling a bit in apology.

Ryan turns back to the mirror, holding the stick up to his eye. "Why don't you go get changed?"

"I like watching you."

Ryan pauses, slow for dramatic effect, and holds Brendon's gaze just long enough to show that the double entendre wasn't lost on him -- wasn't appreciated, either, maybe, but wasn't lost.

Brendon stares down at his knees until Ryan turns back to the mirror, and only then does he really let himself watch.

You'd think Ryan would do this with the same effortless precision he uses any time his hands are involved; with the guitar, or a pen, but this is different. It's not like he's never smeared a heap of messy black around his eyes for scene effect, but what he's doing now, shadows and colors and designs, is in an entirely different league. It's art, Brendon realizes, visual art, something that doesn't come naturally to Ryan, and Ryan treats it as such, slowing and doubling his efforts and taking extra care that each line, each wave of color, each curl, is flawless. But his touch is novice, fumbling, and tiny whispered curses hit the otherwise still air every time he falters.

He looks up when he's done, not into the mirror but at Brendon, and seeing Ryan's gaze turned on him now, like this, heightened and highlighted, it's just. Fuck.

Ryan's eyes widen and Brendon realizes the last word was maybe out loud.

Ryan blinks, a little flushed. "Is it -- okay?"

Brendon nods. Fucking traitorous voice.

"Can I do you?"

Brendon ignores the euphemism over his brain's roaring litany of yes yes yes, but all his traitorous mouth provides is a smirk and, "What, I'm not pretty enough on my own?"

Ryan rolls his eyes, shoving his seat away and pulling himself to his feet. "Forget it."

"No, hey -- " Brendon's hand whips out of its own will and lands on Ryan's wrist, curling tight to keep him from going any further. "No, yeah, you can."

Ryan's more unreadable than ever under all the color, but his eyes are sharp, betraying the false calm of his voice. "Let go."

Brendon does, muttering his third sorry.

But Ryan's gentle as he draws closer, stepping into his space with a forwardness only Brendon ever employs, and Brendon tries not to think about how automatically his legs spread for Ryan to stand between them.

"So," Ryan smirks wryly as his kohl-bearing hand lifts, hovering at Brendon's cheek, "does that mean I'm not pretty enough on my own?"

"Shut up, Ryan, you're fucking gorgeous."

And it's odd how exasperated it sounds, how easily the words just tumble out, because seriously, how can Ryan not see it? And why does Brendon have to see it so god damned much, in every corner of his mind's eye, even when Ryan's not around?

Ryan flusters a bit, and that's always amazing to watch because it's so rare. "I just think... it could add something, you know? Make things more interesting... give us more of an edge..."

"...Give you something to hide behind?"

Ryan freezes, and Brendon knows that's totally not cue to continue, but he takes the chance because he knows he won't get it again.

"I just. Like. I get it. How it makes sense for you." He shrugs, trying to stare down at his hands folded in his lap but Ryan's so close it's all he sees. "Like, I know how you like to be seen -- noticed. To be everyone's focus. But at the same time, like, there's that other part of you that still wants to hide. Make-up kinda lets you do both. Makes sense, y'know?"

Ryan's closed himself off when Brendon looks up, eyes dark, but more taken aback than pissed.

He swallows and says, "Close your eyes."

Brendon does, only now realizing he hadn't quite braced himself for this, having to hand over this much control to Ryan and still expect his own body to behave. He knows it's all going to hell at the first touch of the small, spongy eyeshadow tip across his eyelid, Ryan's breath hot on his face and smelling of the little caramels he's taken to popping before shows. It's not until he starts whispering instructions -- "Lift your chin a bit; good," guiding Brendon's face with his free hand, his fingertip sliding across the sensitive skin underneath his eyes to blend the shades -- that Brendon realizes he could get addicted to this harder than heroin: Ryan easing him into full surrender, an implicit request for Brendon to come apart in his hands.

He does.

After awhile his right hand grips the edge of the counter, grounding himself, his thumb tapping a fast rhythm, and he doesn't even realize it until Ryan's free hand swoops down and closes over his wrist, elegant fingers curling into a circle around the delicate bones, squeezing until Brendon freezes all movement, eyes still shut, but even then Ryan's hand stays where it is while he finishes brushing a slight sweep of blush across his cheekbones.

"Could, um." Ryan sounds shy, and Brendon would kill to open his eyes and see the expression that comes with this, but he just can't. "Can I use some lip gloss? Just -- you have amazing lips, they should really be the focus."

Brendon's entire body shudders and he hopes, somewhere, a nod came out of it all.

He's expecting to hear the uncapping of a short tube, the kind that houses ninety-six fucking percent of all lip gloss in the world, seriously. Instead there's the small, muted sound of a lid unscrewing, and when he feels Ryan's fingertip press against his lower lip, slick and slippery as it swipes across the length, a sickeningly familiar tightness in his jeans starts to build and all he can do is pray to a god he doesn't believe in that Ryan keeps his eyes on Brendon's face.

The finger disappears and Ryan's voice comes soft: "Rub your lips together."

Brendon does.

"Open your eyes."

There's a tiny smile playing on Ryan's lips, shamelessly self-satisfied but no less beautiful for it. "Hang on, you've just got this little smudge--"

And that's all it takes, pressing that extra inch into Brendon's space for his hip to brush against the hard bulge in Brendon's jeans, and he jerks back as if burned.

His eyes are so wide, so dark and swarming with more of everything Brendon can't read, and he's halfway to stuttering another apology when he realizes that traitorous voice has gone into hibernation.

Ryan must stare at him a solid fucking minute, blush rising in both their faces; Brendon can feel his own, hot and dizzy, and hopes the make-up covers enough.

Ryan swallows hard, the line of his throat stretching with the effort, the action doing nothing to ease the problem at hand. Finally, finally he ducks his head, looking everywhere but there as his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

"You don't need make-up," he tells the floor, dropping the lip gloss onto the counter and turning sharp on his heel.

Brendon listens to the echo of his footsteps in the over-large room, to the click of the door as he leaves, too loud in a space too quiet.

He spends long minutes staring in awe at Ryan's work in the mirror, but it's not until thirty seconds to showtime, catching a glimpse of himself in a tiny mirror offstage, that he sees the black, pea-sized heart drawn just in front of his ear, hidden by his hair so no one would see.




[#5 tomorrow.]
 

Comments

[lolab.livejournal.com]

thank you! yeah, this was definitely indulgent for me; these are all my kinks too.

ryan has more going on than one may think. ;) stupid boys who don't communicate! bah.