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behindthecFirst half here.
It’s two in the morning but who’s counting; it’s not as though he’s checking the ugly, glowing red letters of the digital clock on the hotel nightstand every five minutes. No; Brendon is far too busy rethinking the last sentence he said to Spencer, and has slowly begun to doubt its truth.
And it doesn’t matter now, because it’s two in the fucking morning and Ryan is asleep and the next Brendon will see of him, they’ll be scrambling to hoist their suitcases and gear onto the bus and it’ll be “Hey Bren” and a small, warm smile if he’s lucky, and it’ll be over, and any chance he might have had to go any further, any deeper (“Hey, Ry, if you want to talk, about anything, I’m...” ...actually able to keep my mouth shut for five minutes, I swear) will be lost.
It’s precisely at this point in his downward spiral of dooming predictions that three muffled, hesitant knocks tap through his door and revive the heartbeat that had been immobilized somewhere back in Spencer’s room with a few words and fewer breaths.
He swings the door open, those dooming predictions vanishing into the space between the figures on either side of the threshold. Ryan’s practically two-dimensional frame is swimming in one of Jon’s “fitted” tees and a pair of plaid pajama pants that he and Brendon could’ve both fit in (though he quickly expels this thought from his head, knowing where it could lead and already sensing the looming fear of Spencer’s warning).
“Hey,” Brendon offers, the three quiet letters brimming with far more surprise than he’d like.
“Hey. Did I wake you?”
“I – no. No, I was just. Y’know. Lying there. Jerking off – ” Ryan’s eyes shoot up with a disturbing confusion at this – “kidding, Ross.”
“Oh.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh.”
Brendon watches the small, chestnut-colored head tilted downward, motionless, starting to wonder if maybe that time his heart had been stopped, something in his brain had disconnected, because if he didn’t know better he’d suspect Ryan stopped by simply to listen to him talk, which Brendon thinks would be the most impossible possibility on the planet.
He, too, has a lot to learn about the world’s impossibilities.
“So,” Brendon prods, “it’s good to see you.”
“You too.”
Only you’ve barely looked at me since I opened the door.
“Um. Do you, uh, want to...”
And Ryan’s crying, that tiny body just fucking dissolving, and Brendon’s off on a surprising display of coordination, pulling Ryan inside the room and against his chest with one arm and pushing the door shut with the other in one swift, careful motion. He doesn’t even have the chance to be taken aback by Ryan’s total surrender, sinking into Brendon’s embrace as the latter attempts to lead them back toward the bed with Ryan clutching his shirt, his arms, anything to hold himself up (because despite Ryan’s size, Brendon’s still-sleepy arms aren’t going to do the trick), they reach it, which Brendon thinks is quite an accomplishment in itself.
As gravity would have it, they tumble backward until Brendon is half sitting against the mass of pillows with Ryan half on top of him, and it seems everything’s in halves now; his consciousness, his poise (physically on the nose; emotionally catastrophic), and Ryan – Ryan is only half of himself, it seems, if that.
Brendon succeeds in maneuvering them into a less compromising position, not that Ryan is in any state to notice or mind, until Ryan is curled up on his side and Brendon’s chest is squashed, warm and reassuring (or so he hopes) against the smaller boy’s back. Brendon’s already down with fucking all boundaries to hell and back in favor of giving Ryan whatever the fuck he needs, wrapping his arms around that miniscule waist and holding him close as he rides out the remaining sobs, tears dropping silently to the sheets as Brendon’s breath falls against his neck in a soft, comforting rhythm.
He wants to say something. Anything. But he’s learned silence always accomplishes more in Ryan’s presence, and now hardly seems the time to fuck with facts.
Luckily, Ryan speaks first.
“I’m sorry.”
...What?
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, voice marginally stronger.
“For what?”
Ryan shifts slightly, turning his head enough to be heard properly, resulting in his cheek pressed against Brendon’s forehead and oh. God. Fuck. Because it feels so good, so fucking right, all the cliches, like they’re puzzle pieces, like they’re born to fit together this way, and –
--And suddenly everything Spencer said makes perfect sense.
Fucking shit.
“I.” Ryan sniffles. “I don’t know.”
“Ryan.” Brendon forces a steadiness into his voice. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Okay?”
“This is.” He takes a breath. “This is so fucking stupid, Brendon.”
Brendon has certainly heard these words upwards of six thousand times in every available context, but something tells him it means something different this time.
“I – I shouldn’t fucking feel like this,” Ryan snaps.
Oh god what.
Brendon knows, logically, that he can still speak. It’s easy. Tongue. Lips. Mouth. Combinations of movements thereof. Only... fuck. Bad, bad train of thought.
He swallows. “Like – like what?”
“He was a complete ass,” Ryan hisses, turning back into the pillow, body stiffening. “I shouldn’t be upset. It’s not like I have all these good memories of him, like he was a good person or anything. This shouldn’t mean anything to me.”
Oh. Right. That.
“Ry...” Brendon’s hand is itching to reach another centimeter, maybe two, and close around Ryan’s fingers. “He was your dad. No matter what else, he was still your dad.”
“He was my father. I’ve never had a ‘dad’.”
Brendon feels a little piece of that newly revived heart break off and disintegrate. “Still,” he whispers. “He was your family. I. I’m not close to mine anymore, but I don’t know what I’d do if I lost them. Or... if I lost you.”
Whoa. Also, no.
“I mean. You know. All of you. The band. You guys are like my family, you know?”
Ryan nods against him, and Brendon begins to think of how true this really is, how much of a family they actually are... but even so, why him? Why would Ryan come to Brendon for this, when Spencer is so obviously the closest thing to being Ryan’s real family?
“Ry?”
“Mm.”
“Why. I mean. Why did you to come to me? I mean. You never. I’m never the one you. Y’know. It’s always Spence.”
“I. I don’t know. I just. You make me feel safe. You make me feel...”
The pause is so long that Brendon’s convinced Ryan forgot he was supposed to finish the sentence, and Brendon’s sure he will physically not survive without knowing.
“I.” His mouth is sandpaper, but he could care less. “I – I make you feel what?”
It’s the first time he’s physically felt the nerves radiating from Ryan’s skin, and it's so fucking new he scarcely knows how to handle it – it’s the exact opposite of what he’s grown accustomed to; the ghost of reality, the shell, the effects, the results. It’s none of that now, it’s the fucking reality itself. The tears and the nerves and it’s here, in his fucking presence, not to mention the weight of whatever is about to come from Ryan’s lips.
It’s so silent he can hear Ryan swallow.
“I. I don’t know. Loved.”
Brendon’s arms can’t help but tighten around the boy’s frame, just slightly, teetering precariously on that balance between accepted comfort and over the fucking line.
“You are loved, Ryan,” he whispers. “God, you have no idea.”
It’s not until Ryan has shifted in his arms, facing him with a bold confidence Brendon could only dream of at this point, that he realizes he’s said that last bit out loud.
And – fuck.
Ryan blinks, a blinding flash of hazel even in the dark. “What?”
That... would be the logical question, yes, and who was Ryan to ever evade logic?
Brendon knows he should look away, far away, but with the current proximity of their faces, it’s virtually impossible and all he does is fucking stare.
“Nothing.”
Ryan blinks again. “No, what?”
“Nothing.”
“Dude, why can’t you just say it?”
Brendon finally looks away, if only in shame of the honesty he can’t bring himself to avoid. “Spencer told me not to.”
A hybrid of smile and disbelieving chuckle: “What?”
“It’s – ” Oh, god. “It’s nothing.” And the nerves have finally kicked into gear, tearing through his body and manifesting as racing heartbeat, clammy palms, and a mouth so dry it reminds him of home.
But Brendon’s body chemistry has always been a little off, and while his eyes should be fully participating in this surrender to nerves, darting away from the calm, quiet, impossibly beautiful face before him... instead they just keep staring.
“I.” Don’t make me do this. Please. “I – need some water.”
And he’s whipped himself off the bed, flinching instantly at the sudden lack of warmth and breath and Ryan, and heads for the bathroom. Trembling fingers jerk randomly at the faucets until a stream of cool water is pouring over his waiting hands. He catches a pool of it in his palms, leans in, splashes it on his face, once, twice; the third time he pulls himself upright, takes a deep breath, and opens his eyes.
Ryan’s shadowed frame, all artsy lines and unpredictable angles, stands motionless in the doorway, a forcible shove back into a reality Brendon’s waited so long to be part of, and can now scarcely survive.
But something’s amiss.
Ryan’s face doesn’t display concern, as one might expect, or confusion, or even frustration. There’s one word and one word only that’s scrawled across, screaming from, defining those features:
Comprehension.
It clicks, finally, with what remains of Brendon’s subconscious, and he thinks the silence that follows is louder than ten thousand screaming fangirls who called this moment ten thousand times before.
And now Ryan’s swallowing hard and not looking away and his lips are moving and Brendon’s convinced absolutely no good words could possibly be voiced at this point because he’s fucked everything up so hard, Ryan will never speak to him again, and Spencer will have his head on a silver platter, surrounded by a caviar garnish and frilly little leaves.
And then Ryan fucking speaks.
“You – are you.”
Brendon’s eyes are still remarkably uncooperative, fixed unbidden to Ryan’s with an illusion of assurance that Brendon really doesn’t want to exhibit right now, being anything but assured.
Ryan takes one step forward. “Are you?”
It’s a real question this time, but still vague enough to avoid.
“Am – am I what.”
“Fuck, Bren,” and he’s rolling his eyes, even now, “you are so fucking annoying.”
The accused has no chance to respond, defend, or even agree, because Ryan’s stepped into that safe distance between them and fucking crushed it, capturing the younger boy’s lips in his own.
And this reality, this, Brendon can take, because he’s imagined it so many fucking times, but shit, it’s nothing like he imagines. It’s better, so much better, Ryan’s lips like fire against the cold beads of water that had come to rest on Brendon’s lips, their tongues sinking nervously into chaotic rhythm; and Ryan’s softer, shyer, smaller than he’d dreamed despite all the physical contact he’d stolen over the years. He’s trembling under Brendon’s hands that have found his hips, sliding upward to crawl under his shirt, press against his back, gentle, protective, urging him closer until he’s so close Brendon can feel the tears, and – fuck. There shouldn’t be tears. Brendon is unsure of about eighty-four different things at the moment but he is pretty sure there shouldn’t be tears.
Their mouths separate, and almost as wrong as the tears, Brendon thinks, is how much their mouths are really not connected anymore, because it was pretty much the most intense ten seconds of his life and now, just like everything with Ryan, a shell of the reality.
His hands stay in place, and Ryan’s are on Brendon’s shoulders, clutching absently at his shirt, his eyes squeezed shut as drops spill down his face.
“Hey,” Brendon whispers, sliding his hands up to cup Ryan’s face, smearing away as many tears as he can. “Hey. I love you. It’s okay. I love you.”
And he’s stunned at how easily the words spill out, into the open, because god knows they’ve been out there for a few minutes anyway, maybe longer, maybe this whole time, maybe all three years.
The words coax Ryan’s eyes open but not in surprise, and fuck, it certainly does nothing to stop the tears.
“Shh,” Brendon breathes, consciously stroking the smaller boy’s face now, desperate to stop the flow. “Shh. Ry, I love you.”
But Ryan’s shaking his head, scaring Brendon half to death because this is not a reaction he’s equipped to handle.
“Who could love me?” Ryan chokes, tear-sparkled eyes bright against Brendon’s gaze. “I’m out of my fucking mind.”
“No you’re not,” Brendon pounces quickly on the words because, words, okay, this is something he can do. “You’re not,” he repeats, holding Ryan’s face steady in his hands. Ryan only stares, unconvinced. “...Okay, maybe just a little,” Brendon concedes. “But only in fucking awesome ways, man. And, y’know, what the fuck am I, the poster child for sanity?”
There’s silence again, cut only by choppy breaths and manic heartbeats; their eyes are locked, and Brendon wants to say it again, over and over, wants Ryan to know he is more loved than anyone in this fucking world and that he deserves it, because, fuck... he does.
“I – I love you.”
It takes Brendon a second to realize the words didn’t come from him this time.
The words in Ryan’s voice are broken, foreign-sounding, like he’s never said it and meant it quite like this, like he’s so afraid it’s just going to crumble, that Brendon’s going to take it back and it’ll all have been some terrible, terrible joke.
The thought makes Brendon’s heart fucking ache, physically, right to the core.
“Ryan.”
And that’s it, the four-letter breath of a syllable is all they need, it says everything they can’t, couldn’t, everything that’s beyond words, and Ryan’s mouth is back on his, no hesitation, that tiny body throwing itself at Brendon with such surprising force that all he can do is lift Ryan into his arms, feeling a pair of legs instantly hook around his waist as Brendon stumbles both of them out the bathroom door, stepping aimlessly in the direction of the bed, their mouths locked as though their kiss is the only thing holding them up.
To say they reach the bed is a stretch; more like they collide with it in battle and fail utterly, but the end result has Ryan flat on his back, pulling Brendon down on top of him, and in Brendon’s mind, that’s about all that fucking matters.
Except...
“Hey,” he pants, closing a hand over one of Ryan’s that had begun lifting the hem of his shirt. “Look, we – we don’t – I mean – we don’t have to – we could just.”
It's not lack of available words that stops him (is it ever?), but the look on Ryan's face, once more displaying a single word written into those delicate, desperate features – only this time, the word becomes a reality:
"Please."
The pause that follows, the completely scientifically fucked cessation of all motion, isn't marked by hesitation, fear, uncertainty or any of the clichés. It's their eyes -- their eyes, meeting and lingering and locking them into this understanding, this reality, ensuring they'll never be able to leave it, not even if they tried.
And as it all locks in, Brendon lets one shaky breath escape, freeing it from this weighted connection they've forged, strong enough to hold them in and everything else out – and he surrenders, lowering his body to meet Ryan's and with a half-formed thought of okay, take it slow, he’s there, mouth hovering over Ryan’s until he feels a hand arise out of fucking nowhere, slip around the back of his neck, and pull him down.
Okay. So maybe three years was slow enough.
And that pretty much sets the pace right there; tongues work like they’re trying to find lost pieces of themselves in the other’s mouth; clothes are leaving their bodies in droves and it’s funny, really, how Brendon’s thinking of none of the things he’s thought about for three years – like what Ryan’s skin would feel like (really, really fucking smooth), how he’d kiss (the way he does everything, a subtle ambush of underestimated brilliance), the strength of his touch (pretty fucking strong for a boy Brendon could probably snap in half with two fingers, its strength surpassed only by its assurance). All the fantasies died when the reality came to life, and that intoxicating reality just about robs Brendon of any self-control his nineteen-year-old body had left.
Only now they’re naked, and the problem with reality is it tends to kind of hit you all of a sudden, and now there’s that unspoken buzz floating between them of okay what now and I’ve really really never done this and what do you want, and Brendon can see the fear in Ryan’s eyes, knowing it’s fear beyond lack of experience, beyond Ryan’s inability to read Brendon’s mind now when he seems to have no trouble the rest of the time. It’s fear of loss, loss of everything, sanity and this moment and a love that he’s still having trouble believing is real – and Brendon can feel it, the way Ryan’s fingernails are digging into his arms, holding him in place as if he’d dare fucking go anywhere, the dark pleading spark in Ryan’s eyes screaming don’t fuck me over, and it hurts Brendon so much to see it that all he does is lean down and start kissing him again, letting their bodies settle in together, adjusting to the sudden ohfuckinggod feel of skin on skin, that dizzying distorted-mirror sensation you discover with someone of the same sex, where everything you’ve got they’ve got, and yeah, all that and everything else has them both hard as a rock, which seems to strike them at just about the same moment, matching pairs of moon-sized eyes flying open, breath short and caught in their throats.
Brendon tries to swallow his nerves and chokes instead.
Ryan blinks, several times. Testing the reality of it all. “You – you okay?”
He nods. Smiles, even. Ryan smiles back, and it’s a smile Brendon’s never seen before, not ever, and it kind of breaks him inside – in an absolutely fantastic way.
Ryan draws one hand up Brendon’s chest, sliding over his neck and tracing lines across his face and that smile is still there and Brendon starts to worry it’s like the sun, like it’s going to blind him if he looks too long.
He lets his eyes flutter shut as Ryan’s fingers begin outlining his features, that foreign smile still set across kiss-swollen lips. “What,” Brendon whispers.
“You’re so beautiful.”
His eyes reopen and that smile, that smile, is still there – not huge and wide and ridiculous, it’s faint, just the sides of Ryan’s mouth inching upward, but it’s so fixed and solid and peaceful, all the things Ryan’s never been. But now...
He can’t help but smile back. “Am not.”
“Yeah, Bren,” Ryan insists with more conviction than Brendon can ever recall. “You are.”
Brendon huffs, smirking. “Never said so before.”
Ryan’s eyes don’t dare roll, not now, but Brendon can feel the gesture looming just beyond his eyelids, itching for it. “Some of us actually do occasionally have unexpressed thoughts, Brendon.”
He grins, pinching the closest skin he can find, which happens to be Ryan’s hip (and oh, god, yeah, he’s discovered he really likes Ryan’s hips). “Douche.”
“Twat,” Ryan snorts back.
“Fanboy.”
“Ass-fucker.”
“Only if you want me to.”
And the air just fucking hums with pressure, bubbling just below the breaking point, everything dangerously unvoiced and happening at once, invisible and silent just behind their eyes, just lodged in their throats. Brendon totally cannot believe he said it, is even more shocked to discover he meant it, Ryan almost laughs and then doesn’t because, Jesus, fuck, there it is, their eyes widening in unison and bodies frozen in space, maybe time too, as the reality of what they’re fucking doing sinks in, and really honestly forcing them to wonder, what are they doing?
Brendon blinks first, staring pointedly at a pillow. “Um.” He can’t tell if it’s a smile or just the way Ryan looks in the light. “I.”
“Yeah.”
His eyes shoot back to Ryan’s because it’s not a “yeah whatever it’s okay man,” it’s a fucking yes.
He completely forgets that whole vitality function of breathing until Ryan exhales, sharp, and stutters, “Yeah. I do.”
And in three years of giving a voice to the most breathtaking lyrics he’s ever read, Brendon can’t remember encountering any words more beautiful than the ones now hanging in the air between them.
He tries to shift his focus from his cock to his voice because, okay, priorities, but still, he can’t quite imagine existing without the latter, even now.
He’s breathing again. It’s a start. “Yeah?”
Ryan nods. Ryan is done talking. Really fucking done.
Brendon nods. “Yeah. Okay. Right.”
And that’s all, for a whole minute, just eyes on eyes and chests rising and falling against each other, hands fisted in hair and curled around hips, until –
“...Bren.”
“Yeah. Yes. Okay. Yeah.”
And he’s crawling off the bed, toppling a little stupidly onto the floor and reaching for his backpack by the nightstand, digging through and throwing things frantically across the room in search of this moment’s two most sought-after items on the face of the planet.
At last, lube in one hand and condom in the other, he whips back around, still kneeling on the floor, to find Ryan seated on the edge of the bed, watching him impatiently, legs dangling over the side, and a serious, serious hard-on two fucking feet from Brendon's face.
His eyes are unsurprisingly far from Ryan's, gawking at the sight in front of him, but he can feel Ryan watching him, knows his mind is being read and thank god for that because there isn't much he can say right now besides, "Okay, you're gonna have to wait a minute 'cause I've been waiting three years for this," before leaning forward and taking Ryan into his mouth.
A strangled, short-lived whimper is Ryan's only answer, and he doesn't give Brendon a second to doubt his impulsiveness, sliding fingers into the silky mess of Brendon's hair, fisting just tight enough for encouragement. Brendon's well aware he has no idea what he's doing, as is so often the case, but for once Ryan doesn't seem to give a shit. It's all gently thrusting hips and choked gasps as Brendon takes him in as far as he can, one hand closed around the base of Ryan's cock and the other at his hip, tracing soft circles into softer skin.
"Bren, I'm -- " is the last attempt Ryan makes at speech, instead reaching down to lace his fingers with Brendon's, squeezing affectionately in warning before disentangling his hand to gently push Brendon off.
But Brendon... well, fuck. He hasn't waited three years for Ryan to come in his fucking hand, for fuck's sake. He grabs the hand pressing at his shoulder, tightly locks their fingers back together, pins Ryan's hand to the mattress and sucks him in deeper, making it really fucking clear and Ryan just fucking moans, not for how close he is but for Brendon's aggressiveness, still cloaked in subtlety and soft-edged insistence, and it's just that, the hint of what could be lying just under the surface of puppy-dog pouts and boyish giggles, that does it for him, letting everything, everything just fucking go, right into Brendon's mouth, and the younger boy drinks it down like an elixir, like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
Maybe it is.
In fact, Brendon’s almost sure it is, because as he leans back to meet Ryan’s eyes, he wonders if he’s even alive anymore. Shit this good doesn’t happen in real life. He knows: he’s had a whopping nineteen whole years of it, after all.
It’s only confirmed when the hungry, shell-shocked glint in Ryan’s eyes evolves to action, and he’s grabbing at Brendon, every inch of him he can reach, pulling him up to the bed and down on top of him as they fall back to the pillows. Ryan’s hands are locked into Brendon’s hair, controlling the pace, the kiss, Brendon’s whole fucking universe, until he pushes their mouths apart long enough to grope for the items left abandoned beside them and push them roughly into Brendon’s free hand.
It comes out short, quick, determined, like all his breaths at this point, voice finally devoid of all fears as he stares right into Brendon’s eyes: “In. Now.”
And Brendon is still Brendon, shrouding nerves in humor (the worse the nerves, the worse the humor), as he raises an eyebrow, fingers sliding teasingly over the soft skin of Ryan’s inner thigh. “Topping from the bottom, Ross? Mmm... how typical.”
“You asshole,” Ryan hisses, failing to stop the corners of his mouth curling. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“God, you’re romantic.”
“For fuck’s sake, Brendon,” he snaps, snatching back the lube and unscrewing the cap. “Do I have to beg you to fuck me?”
Their eyes lock, which is becoming a dangerously powerful tool between the two of them, now both looking utterly shocked at the string of words still echoing on Ryan’s lips – tiny, soft-spoken, shy-to-the-core Ryan fucking Ross.
And Brendon just kind of chokes.
“Um,” he attempts. “Just. Yeah. Okay. Just.” He closes his eyes, forcing a deep breath that turns into a pitiful shiver. “Just gimme a minute.”
“Sorry,” Ryan whispers, and he means it.
Brendon lets his eyes settle once again on Ryan’s face, tracing a finger over his jaw line. “Don’t be. I just. I. I always want to remember what you looked like right now, that’s all.”
And for a second, Brendon is convinced Ryan’s going to roll his eyes and mutter some deprecating comment about Brendon being a chick. But all that happens is this subtle, slow-motion shift in Ryan’s face, all that omnipresent hard-set tension just leaking out into oblivion, replaced by this strange peacefulness Brendon could never have associated with him before. Ryan’s eyes drop shut, the slightest smile set on his lips, as Brendon silently tips the bottle of lube into his hand, slicking up his trembling fingers before slowly reaching between Ryan’s legs and slipping one inside.
Ryan’s eyes suddenly fucking spaz open in time with a sharp gasp, both hands finding Brendon’s shoulders and nails settling in for a death grip.
Brendon smiles nervously. “Okay?”
Ryan nods his consent, not daring to engage an ADHD Red Bull-obsessed teenager in conversation at a time like this. He just holds the eye contact like a life preserver, shifting his hips to meet the careful rhythm Brendon is building.
Brendon breathes, “Tell me when – ” and Ryan’s nodding before he realizes it, not even sure he’s ready but too desperate for more, more of Brendon, more of this, just... more. And Brendon gives him more (would give him the world if he could), sliding a second finger in beside the first and pushing them in a little deeper, suddenly remembering yeah, okay, there’s a point to all this, and curls his fingers just slightly when –
“Oh, god.”
Ryan’s body just shakes beneath him, hips thrusting against Brendon’s hand and fuck, that may just be the hottest thing Brendon’s ever seen. He crooks his fingers once more, hazy from the little sounds coming from the back of Ryan’s throat, before gently adding a third, not even waiting for permission, knowing it could be the dumbest move in the world or—
“Fuck, yes.”
...Or, yeah, that.
His eyes don’t dare leave Ryan’s as the smaller boy gives one nod, fumbling with the condom wrapper as Brendon slowly removes his fingers. Ryan, as it turns out, is a fucking pro at condom wrappers; he’s got it out and ready, no hesitation as those nimble guitarist fingers slide it over Brendon’s cock. Brendon’s transfixed, less even from the sensation than from watching Ryan’s face through it all, watching him bite his lip in concentration and shit, Ryan really needs to not do that or this is all going to be over a lot sooner than he’d like.
And thank god he finishes up, settling back into the pillow and staring up at Brendon, expectant, waiting, hard as fuck all over again, and it’s just too much to look at right now. So Brendon keeps his gaze on Ryan’s, still reveling in the sudden compensation for three years of averted eyes and connections broken before they could form, and now they’re here. They’re fucking here, after all that.
He positions himself, and Ryan’s hand is right fucking there, guiding him in past that tight ring of muscle, so tight he’s afraid if he goes in any further he’ll just fucking lose it. But Ryan’s having none of this tentative bullshit, cupping a hand around Brendon’s ass and pulling him forward until he’s buried right to the hilt and it just kind of hits them, settles over them like a blanket, the fact of what this is.
Their mouths fall open into identical O’s, matching their eyes, and Brendon drops his forehead to Ryan’s as he begins to move – just soft at first, slow, settling into the feeling of their joined bodies, trying to keep calm with the chaos of mind-blowing sensation wrapped around him. Ryan starts matching his movements, placing them in a rhythm that pretty much swallows all of Brendon’s conscious thought processes, and he just starts to feel, everything, Ryan’s breath and the nails digging into his back and those fragile hips arching to meet his and Ryan’s hand sneaking between their bodies to touch himself and... fuck. Just. Fuck.
He knows he must be doing something right from the force of Ryan’s thrusts, the sharpness of his breath, and oh god the way Ryan’s kissing him now. But these are the only clues he gets because Ryan’s not vocal, not in the least. Ryan, whose very existence centers on words and the magic he coaxes from them, seems to have no use for them now. But isn’t that how it’s always been, though – always trusting and releasing his words through Brendon, it’s always been Brendon to speak for him, bring him to life. And that, if nothing else, hasn’t changed, with Brendon now whispering all the things into his ear that Ryan would say himself if he could.
And as he can feel them both nearing the edge, it’s those final words – “Love you” – that set them off, choked gasps spilling from mouth to mouth as their releases follow each other, a rhythm all their own.
It’s a solid sixty seconds before either of them moves, before hearts and breaths slow, before eyes open upon eyes, and they’re left panting, sweating, high.
And in love. Fucking in love.
Brendon smiles at the thought, shifting his body until he’s on his side facing Ryan, their limbs and eyes still locked.
Ryan returns his smile, still silent but boasting a sex glow that would put their hometown’s neon lights to shame.
“Hi,” Brendon says, smile widening.
“Hi. I love you.”
Brendon feels his insides just pretty much collapse in on themselves, in a totally fantastic way. “Yeah?”
Ryan squeezes his hand. “Yeah...”
“Yeah...”
And they’re kissing again, lazy and slow but with ridiculous conviction, and after several moments Ryan pulls back just enough to mumble against his mouth, “You’re mine.”
And it’s not a question, really, or a claim. More like a shocked, elated observation.
Brendon grins against his lips. “I’ve always been yours.”
“Mmm... yeah?”
“Yeah. Even back when you thought I was the most obnoxious cocksucker on the face of the planet.”
“You are the most obnoxious cocksucker on the face of the planet,” Ryan confirms, nibbling on Brendon’s bottom lip. “At least you’re pretty good at the cocksucking, though.”
“’Pretty good’?!”
“Oh Jesus, dude, what do you want? Brendon Urie, you are the god of gay sex. You have carried me to new levels of quivering ecstasy.”
Brendon smirks. “That’s a start, yeah.”
Ryan’s smile just turns epic as he inches closer, trying to feel as much of Brendon as he can. “I love you,” he says again, then laughs. “I’m sorry. I just.”
“You’re sorry?” Brendon teases.
“I – I’ve just never.” The smile fades and his eyes fall, and this, this is the Ryan Brendon knows, and it makes his heart kind of plummet. “I’ve just never... been able to really, y’know, just say that. Or even... really feel it, I guess.”
He doesn’t look up until enough silence passes to worry him, and when he does, Brendon’s just staring.
Ryan tries to smile. “I guess hell froze over.”
“I – what?”
“You’re speechless.”
Brendon swallows. “I just. You don’t know what it does to me when you say things like that, Ry. Just... thinking of everything you’ve missed, your whole life.”
“It’s not so bad. I got you.”
And fuck, Brendon can’t help it, he’s leaning in and kissing this boy who’s his, after three fucking years, and he just can’t stop because seriously, there’s three years’ worth of making out to be had here, if you ask him. Ryan for his part has no complaints, flipping them over so he’s on top and pressing every line of his body down against Brendon’s, aching for the contact and just kissing the hell out of him, kissing him like they’re fourteen, like they’ll never get another kiss their whole lives.
And that’s when the knock on the door pounds into the moment.
They freeze, eyes on each other, silent.
“Bren?” comes Spencer’s muffled, half-awake voice. “Do you have any Nyquil?”
“NO!” both boys shout at once, immediately realizing the epic failure inherent in this enthusiastic synchronicity.
The silence that follows is deadly, until...
“...Ryan??”
...Which is, clearly, far more deadly.
Ryan’s got his hand over his mouth to stifle the giggles, and Brendon’s just staring, horrified, at the door.
“...Oh my GOD YOU’RE HAVING SEX.”
And that’s it for Ryan, losing his balance and toppling off the bed and onto the floor, overcome by silent laughter while Brendon frantically tosses articles of clothing in his direction, to which Ryan pays no attention whatsoever, curled up in a pile of sheets and giggling like a toddler.
“Jesus, Brendon!" the voice booms. "I ask you to do ONE THING! ONE FUCKING THING.”
Brendon scrambles into a pair of pants before leaning over the side of the bed, a smirk dancing on his lips.
“Like you said, asshole.”
“What?!”
He plants a lightning fast kiss on Ryan's head before starting bravely toward the door. “You’re lucky I love you.”
Ryan’s smile is brighter, more real, than anything Brendon’s ever seen. “I know.”
[fin.]
It’s two in the morning but who’s counting; it’s not as though he’s checking the ugly, glowing red letters of the digital clock on the hotel nightstand every five minutes. No; Brendon is far too busy rethinking the last sentence he said to Spencer, and has slowly begun to doubt its truth.
And it doesn’t matter now, because it’s two in the fucking morning and Ryan is asleep and the next Brendon will see of him, they’ll be scrambling to hoist their suitcases and gear onto the bus and it’ll be “Hey Bren” and a small, warm smile if he’s lucky, and it’ll be over, and any chance he might have had to go any further, any deeper (“Hey, Ry, if you want to talk, about anything, I’m...” ...actually able to keep my mouth shut for five minutes, I swear) will be lost.
It’s precisely at this point in his downward spiral of dooming predictions that three muffled, hesitant knocks tap through his door and revive the heartbeat that had been immobilized somewhere back in Spencer’s room with a few words and fewer breaths.
He swings the door open, those dooming predictions vanishing into the space between the figures on either side of the threshold. Ryan’s practically two-dimensional frame is swimming in one of Jon’s “fitted” tees and a pair of plaid pajama pants that he and Brendon could’ve both fit in (though he quickly expels this thought from his head, knowing where it could lead and already sensing the looming fear of Spencer’s warning).
“Hey,” Brendon offers, the three quiet letters brimming with far more surprise than he’d like.
“Hey. Did I wake you?”
“I – no. No, I was just. Y’know. Lying there. Jerking off – ” Ryan’s eyes shoot up with a disturbing confusion at this – “kidding, Ross.”
“Oh.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh.”
Brendon watches the small, chestnut-colored head tilted downward, motionless, starting to wonder if maybe that time his heart had been stopped, something in his brain had disconnected, because if he didn’t know better he’d suspect Ryan stopped by simply to listen to him talk, which Brendon thinks would be the most impossible possibility on the planet.
He, too, has a lot to learn about the world’s impossibilities.
“So,” Brendon prods, “it’s good to see you.”
“You too.”
Only you’ve barely looked at me since I opened the door.
“Um. Do you, uh, want to...”
And Ryan’s crying, that tiny body just fucking dissolving, and Brendon’s off on a surprising display of coordination, pulling Ryan inside the room and against his chest with one arm and pushing the door shut with the other in one swift, careful motion. He doesn’t even have the chance to be taken aback by Ryan’s total surrender, sinking into Brendon’s embrace as the latter attempts to lead them back toward the bed with Ryan clutching his shirt, his arms, anything to hold himself up (because despite Ryan’s size, Brendon’s still-sleepy arms aren’t going to do the trick), they reach it, which Brendon thinks is quite an accomplishment in itself.
As gravity would have it, they tumble backward until Brendon is half sitting against the mass of pillows with Ryan half on top of him, and it seems everything’s in halves now; his consciousness, his poise (physically on the nose; emotionally catastrophic), and Ryan – Ryan is only half of himself, it seems, if that.
Brendon succeeds in maneuvering them into a less compromising position, not that Ryan is in any state to notice or mind, until Ryan is curled up on his side and Brendon’s chest is squashed, warm and reassuring (or so he hopes) against the smaller boy’s back. Brendon’s already down with fucking all boundaries to hell and back in favor of giving Ryan whatever the fuck he needs, wrapping his arms around that miniscule waist and holding him close as he rides out the remaining sobs, tears dropping silently to the sheets as Brendon’s breath falls against his neck in a soft, comforting rhythm.
He wants to say something. Anything. But he’s learned silence always accomplishes more in Ryan’s presence, and now hardly seems the time to fuck with facts.
Luckily, Ryan speaks first.
“I’m sorry.”
...What?
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, voice marginally stronger.
“For what?”
Ryan shifts slightly, turning his head enough to be heard properly, resulting in his cheek pressed against Brendon’s forehead and oh. God. Fuck. Because it feels so good, so fucking right, all the cliches, like they’re puzzle pieces, like they’re born to fit together this way, and –
--And suddenly everything Spencer said makes perfect sense.
Fucking shit.
“I.” Ryan sniffles. “I don’t know.”
“Ryan.” Brendon forces a steadiness into his voice. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Okay?”
“This is.” He takes a breath. “This is so fucking stupid, Brendon.”
Brendon has certainly heard these words upwards of six thousand times in every available context, but something tells him it means something different this time.
“I – I shouldn’t fucking feel like this,” Ryan snaps.
Oh god what.
Brendon knows, logically, that he can still speak. It’s easy. Tongue. Lips. Mouth. Combinations of movements thereof. Only... fuck. Bad, bad train of thought.
He swallows. “Like – like what?”
“He was a complete ass,” Ryan hisses, turning back into the pillow, body stiffening. “I shouldn’t be upset. It’s not like I have all these good memories of him, like he was a good person or anything. This shouldn’t mean anything to me.”
Oh. Right. That.
“Ry...” Brendon’s hand is itching to reach another centimeter, maybe two, and close around Ryan’s fingers. “He was your dad. No matter what else, he was still your dad.”
“He was my father. I’ve never had a ‘dad’.”
Brendon feels a little piece of that newly revived heart break off and disintegrate. “Still,” he whispers. “He was your family. I. I’m not close to mine anymore, but I don’t know what I’d do if I lost them. Or... if I lost you.”
Whoa. Also, no.
“I mean. You know. All of you. The band. You guys are like my family, you know?”
Ryan nods against him, and Brendon begins to think of how true this really is, how much of a family they actually are... but even so, why him? Why would Ryan come to Brendon for this, when Spencer is so obviously the closest thing to being Ryan’s real family?
“Ry?”
“Mm.”
“Why. I mean. Why did you to come to me? I mean. You never. I’m never the one you. Y’know. It’s always Spence.”
“I. I don’t know. I just. You make me feel safe. You make me feel...”
The pause is so long that Brendon’s convinced Ryan forgot he was supposed to finish the sentence, and Brendon’s sure he will physically not survive without knowing.
“I.” His mouth is sandpaper, but he could care less. “I – I make you feel what?”
It’s the first time he’s physically felt the nerves radiating from Ryan’s skin, and it's so fucking new he scarcely knows how to handle it – it’s the exact opposite of what he’s grown accustomed to; the ghost of reality, the shell, the effects, the results. It’s none of that now, it’s the fucking reality itself. The tears and the nerves and it’s here, in his fucking presence, not to mention the weight of whatever is about to come from Ryan’s lips.
It’s so silent he can hear Ryan swallow.
“I. I don’t know. Loved.”
Brendon’s arms can’t help but tighten around the boy’s frame, just slightly, teetering precariously on that balance between accepted comfort and over the fucking line.
“You are loved, Ryan,” he whispers. “God, you have no idea.”
It’s not until Ryan has shifted in his arms, facing him with a bold confidence Brendon could only dream of at this point, that he realizes he’s said that last bit out loud.
And – fuck.
Ryan blinks, a blinding flash of hazel even in the dark. “What?”
That... would be the logical question, yes, and who was Ryan to ever evade logic?
Brendon knows he should look away, far away, but with the current proximity of their faces, it’s virtually impossible and all he does is fucking stare.
“Nothing.”
Ryan blinks again. “No, what?”
“Nothing.”
“Dude, why can’t you just say it?”
Brendon finally looks away, if only in shame of the honesty he can’t bring himself to avoid. “Spencer told me not to.”
A hybrid of smile and disbelieving chuckle: “What?”
“It’s – ” Oh, god. “It’s nothing.” And the nerves have finally kicked into gear, tearing through his body and manifesting as racing heartbeat, clammy palms, and a mouth so dry it reminds him of home.
But Brendon’s body chemistry has always been a little off, and while his eyes should be fully participating in this surrender to nerves, darting away from the calm, quiet, impossibly beautiful face before him... instead they just keep staring.
“I.” Don’t make me do this. Please. “I – need some water.”
And he’s whipped himself off the bed, flinching instantly at the sudden lack of warmth and breath and Ryan, and heads for the bathroom. Trembling fingers jerk randomly at the faucets until a stream of cool water is pouring over his waiting hands. He catches a pool of it in his palms, leans in, splashes it on his face, once, twice; the third time he pulls himself upright, takes a deep breath, and opens his eyes.
Ryan’s shadowed frame, all artsy lines and unpredictable angles, stands motionless in the doorway, a forcible shove back into a reality Brendon’s waited so long to be part of, and can now scarcely survive.
But something’s amiss.
Ryan’s face doesn’t display concern, as one might expect, or confusion, or even frustration. There’s one word and one word only that’s scrawled across, screaming from, defining those features:
Comprehension.
It clicks, finally, with what remains of Brendon’s subconscious, and he thinks the silence that follows is louder than ten thousand screaming fangirls who called this moment ten thousand times before.
And now Ryan’s swallowing hard and not looking away and his lips are moving and Brendon’s convinced absolutely no good words could possibly be voiced at this point because he’s fucked everything up so hard, Ryan will never speak to him again, and Spencer will have his head on a silver platter, surrounded by a caviar garnish and frilly little leaves.
And then Ryan fucking speaks.
“You – are you.”
Brendon’s eyes are still remarkably uncooperative, fixed unbidden to Ryan’s with an illusion of assurance that Brendon really doesn’t want to exhibit right now, being anything but assured.
Ryan takes one step forward. “Are you?”
It’s a real question this time, but still vague enough to avoid.
“Am – am I what.”
“Fuck, Bren,” and he’s rolling his eyes, even now, “you are so fucking annoying.”
The accused has no chance to respond, defend, or even agree, because Ryan’s stepped into that safe distance between them and fucking crushed it, capturing the younger boy’s lips in his own.
And this reality, this, Brendon can take, because he’s imagined it so many fucking times, but shit, it’s nothing like he imagines. It’s better, so much better, Ryan’s lips like fire against the cold beads of water that had come to rest on Brendon’s lips, their tongues sinking nervously into chaotic rhythm; and Ryan’s softer, shyer, smaller than he’d dreamed despite all the physical contact he’d stolen over the years. He’s trembling under Brendon’s hands that have found his hips, sliding upward to crawl under his shirt, press against his back, gentle, protective, urging him closer until he’s so close Brendon can feel the tears, and – fuck. There shouldn’t be tears. Brendon is unsure of about eighty-four different things at the moment but he is pretty sure there shouldn’t be tears.
Their mouths separate, and almost as wrong as the tears, Brendon thinks, is how much their mouths are really not connected anymore, because it was pretty much the most intense ten seconds of his life and now, just like everything with Ryan, a shell of the reality.
His hands stay in place, and Ryan’s are on Brendon’s shoulders, clutching absently at his shirt, his eyes squeezed shut as drops spill down his face.
“Hey,” Brendon whispers, sliding his hands up to cup Ryan’s face, smearing away as many tears as he can. “Hey. I love you. It’s okay. I love you.”
And he’s stunned at how easily the words spill out, into the open, because god knows they’ve been out there for a few minutes anyway, maybe longer, maybe this whole time, maybe all three years.
The words coax Ryan’s eyes open but not in surprise, and fuck, it certainly does nothing to stop the tears.
“Shh,” Brendon breathes, consciously stroking the smaller boy’s face now, desperate to stop the flow. “Shh. Ry, I love you.”
But Ryan’s shaking his head, scaring Brendon half to death because this is not a reaction he’s equipped to handle.
“Who could love me?” Ryan chokes, tear-sparkled eyes bright against Brendon’s gaze. “I’m out of my fucking mind.”
“No you’re not,” Brendon pounces quickly on the words because, words, okay, this is something he can do. “You’re not,” he repeats, holding Ryan’s face steady in his hands. Ryan only stares, unconvinced. “...Okay, maybe just a little,” Brendon concedes. “But only in fucking awesome ways, man. And, y’know, what the fuck am I, the poster child for sanity?”
There’s silence again, cut only by choppy breaths and manic heartbeats; their eyes are locked, and Brendon wants to say it again, over and over, wants Ryan to know he is more loved than anyone in this fucking world and that he deserves it, because, fuck... he does.
“I – I love you.”
It takes Brendon a second to realize the words didn’t come from him this time.
The words in Ryan’s voice are broken, foreign-sounding, like he’s never said it and meant it quite like this, like he’s so afraid it’s just going to crumble, that Brendon’s going to take it back and it’ll all have been some terrible, terrible joke.
The thought makes Brendon’s heart fucking ache, physically, right to the core.
“Ryan.”
And that’s it, the four-letter breath of a syllable is all they need, it says everything they can’t, couldn’t, everything that’s beyond words, and Ryan’s mouth is back on his, no hesitation, that tiny body throwing itself at Brendon with such surprising force that all he can do is lift Ryan into his arms, feeling a pair of legs instantly hook around his waist as Brendon stumbles both of them out the bathroom door, stepping aimlessly in the direction of the bed, their mouths locked as though their kiss is the only thing holding them up.
To say they reach the bed is a stretch; more like they collide with it in battle and fail utterly, but the end result has Ryan flat on his back, pulling Brendon down on top of him, and in Brendon’s mind, that’s about all that fucking matters.
Except...
“Hey,” he pants, closing a hand over one of Ryan’s that had begun lifting the hem of his shirt. “Look, we – we don’t – I mean – we don’t have to – we could just.”
It's not lack of available words that stops him (is it ever?), but the look on Ryan's face, once more displaying a single word written into those delicate, desperate features – only this time, the word becomes a reality:
"Please."
The pause that follows, the completely scientifically fucked cessation of all motion, isn't marked by hesitation, fear, uncertainty or any of the clichés. It's their eyes -- their eyes, meeting and lingering and locking them into this understanding, this reality, ensuring they'll never be able to leave it, not even if they tried.
And as it all locks in, Brendon lets one shaky breath escape, freeing it from this weighted connection they've forged, strong enough to hold them in and everything else out – and he surrenders, lowering his body to meet Ryan's and with a half-formed thought of okay, take it slow, he’s there, mouth hovering over Ryan’s until he feels a hand arise out of fucking nowhere, slip around the back of his neck, and pull him down.
Okay. So maybe three years was slow enough.
And that pretty much sets the pace right there; tongues work like they’re trying to find lost pieces of themselves in the other’s mouth; clothes are leaving their bodies in droves and it’s funny, really, how Brendon’s thinking of none of the things he’s thought about for three years – like what Ryan’s skin would feel like (really, really fucking smooth), how he’d kiss (the way he does everything, a subtle ambush of underestimated brilliance), the strength of his touch (pretty fucking strong for a boy Brendon could probably snap in half with two fingers, its strength surpassed only by its assurance). All the fantasies died when the reality came to life, and that intoxicating reality just about robs Brendon of any self-control his nineteen-year-old body had left.
Only now they’re naked, and the problem with reality is it tends to kind of hit you all of a sudden, and now there’s that unspoken buzz floating between them of okay what now and I’ve really really never done this and what do you want, and Brendon can see the fear in Ryan’s eyes, knowing it’s fear beyond lack of experience, beyond Ryan’s inability to read Brendon’s mind now when he seems to have no trouble the rest of the time. It’s fear of loss, loss of everything, sanity and this moment and a love that he’s still having trouble believing is real – and Brendon can feel it, the way Ryan’s fingernails are digging into his arms, holding him in place as if he’d dare fucking go anywhere, the dark pleading spark in Ryan’s eyes screaming don’t fuck me over, and it hurts Brendon so much to see it that all he does is lean down and start kissing him again, letting their bodies settle in together, adjusting to the sudden ohfuckinggod feel of skin on skin, that dizzying distorted-mirror sensation you discover with someone of the same sex, where everything you’ve got they’ve got, and yeah, all that and everything else has them both hard as a rock, which seems to strike them at just about the same moment, matching pairs of moon-sized eyes flying open, breath short and caught in their throats.
Brendon tries to swallow his nerves and chokes instead.
Ryan blinks, several times. Testing the reality of it all. “You – you okay?”
He nods. Smiles, even. Ryan smiles back, and it’s a smile Brendon’s never seen before, not ever, and it kind of breaks him inside – in an absolutely fantastic way.
Ryan draws one hand up Brendon’s chest, sliding over his neck and tracing lines across his face and that smile is still there and Brendon starts to worry it’s like the sun, like it’s going to blind him if he looks too long.
He lets his eyes flutter shut as Ryan’s fingers begin outlining his features, that foreign smile still set across kiss-swollen lips. “What,” Brendon whispers.
“You’re so beautiful.”
His eyes reopen and that smile, that smile, is still there – not huge and wide and ridiculous, it’s faint, just the sides of Ryan’s mouth inching upward, but it’s so fixed and solid and peaceful, all the things Ryan’s never been. But now...
He can’t help but smile back. “Am not.”
“Yeah, Bren,” Ryan insists with more conviction than Brendon can ever recall. “You are.”
Brendon huffs, smirking. “Never said so before.”
Ryan’s eyes don’t dare roll, not now, but Brendon can feel the gesture looming just beyond his eyelids, itching for it. “Some of us actually do occasionally have unexpressed thoughts, Brendon.”
He grins, pinching the closest skin he can find, which happens to be Ryan’s hip (and oh, god, yeah, he’s discovered he really likes Ryan’s hips). “Douche.”
“Twat,” Ryan snorts back.
“Fanboy.”
“Ass-fucker.”
“Only if you want me to.”
And the air just fucking hums with pressure, bubbling just below the breaking point, everything dangerously unvoiced and happening at once, invisible and silent just behind their eyes, just lodged in their throats. Brendon totally cannot believe he said it, is even more shocked to discover he meant it, Ryan almost laughs and then doesn’t because, Jesus, fuck, there it is, their eyes widening in unison and bodies frozen in space, maybe time too, as the reality of what they’re fucking doing sinks in, and really honestly forcing them to wonder, what are they doing?
Brendon blinks first, staring pointedly at a pillow. “Um.” He can’t tell if it’s a smile or just the way Ryan looks in the light. “I.”
“Yeah.”
His eyes shoot back to Ryan’s because it’s not a “yeah whatever it’s okay man,” it’s a fucking yes.
He completely forgets that whole vitality function of breathing until Ryan exhales, sharp, and stutters, “Yeah. I do.”
And in three years of giving a voice to the most breathtaking lyrics he’s ever read, Brendon can’t remember encountering any words more beautiful than the ones now hanging in the air between them.
He tries to shift his focus from his cock to his voice because, okay, priorities, but still, he can’t quite imagine existing without the latter, even now.
He’s breathing again. It’s a start. “Yeah?”
Ryan nods. Ryan is done talking. Really fucking done.
Brendon nods. “Yeah. Okay. Right.”
And that’s all, for a whole minute, just eyes on eyes and chests rising and falling against each other, hands fisted in hair and curled around hips, until –
“...Bren.”
“Yeah. Yes. Okay. Yeah.”
And he’s crawling off the bed, toppling a little stupidly onto the floor and reaching for his backpack by the nightstand, digging through and throwing things frantically across the room in search of this moment’s two most sought-after items on the face of the planet.
At last, lube in one hand and condom in the other, he whips back around, still kneeling on the floor, to find Ryan seated on the edge of the bed, watching him impatiently, legs dangling over the side, and a serious, serious hard-on two fucking feet from Brendon's face.
His eyes are unsurprisingly far from Ryan's, gawking at the sight in front of him, but he can feel Ryan watching him, knows his mind is being read and thank god for that because there isn't much he can say right now besides, "Okay, you're gonna have to wait a minute 'cause I've been waiting three years for this," before leaning forward and taking Ryan into his mouth.
A strangled, short-lived whimper is Ryan's only answer, and he doesn't give Brendon a second to doubt his impulsiveness, sliding fingers into the silky mess of Brendon's hair, fisting just tight enough for encouragement. Brendon's well aware he has no idea what he's doing, as is so often the case, but for once Ryan doesn't seem to give a shit. It's all gently thrusting hips and choked gasps as Brendon takes him in as far as he can, one hand closed around the base of Ryan's cock and the other at his hip, tracing soft circles into softer skin.
"Bren, I'm -- " is the last attempt Ryan makes at speech, instead reaching down to lace his fingers with Brendon's, squeezing affectionately in warning before disentangling his hand to gently push Brendon off.
But Brendon... well, fuck. He hasn't waited three years for Ryan to come in his fucking hand, for fuck's sake. He grabs the hand pressing at his shoulder, tightly locks their fingers back together, pins Ryan's hand to the mattress and sucks him in deeper, making it really fucking clear and Ryan just fucking moans, not for how close he is but for Brendon's aggressiveness, still cloaked in subtlety and soft-edged insistence, and it's just that, the hint of what could be lying just under the surface of puppy-dog pouts and boyish giggles, that does it for him, letting everything, everything just fucking go, right into Brendon's mouth, and the younger boy drinks it down like an elixir, like it's the only thing keeping him alive.
Maybe it is.
In fact, Brendon’s almost sure it is, because as he leans back to meet Ryan’s eyes, he wonders if he’s even alive anymore. Shit this good doesn’t happen in real life. He knows: he’s had a whopping nineteen whole years of it, after all.
It’s only confirmed when the hungry, shell-shocked glint in Ryan’s eyes evolves to action, and he’s grabbing at Brendon, every inch of him he can reach, pulling him up to the bed and down on top of him as they fall back to the pillows. Ryan’s hands are locked into Brendon’s hair, controlling the pace, the kiss, Brendon’s whole fucking universe, until he pushes their mouths apart long enough to grope for the items left abandoned beside them and push them roughly into Brendon’s free hand.
It comes out short, quick, determined, like all his breaths at this point, voice finally devoid of all fears as he stares right into Brendon’s eyes: “In. Now.”
And Brendon is still Brendon, shrouding nerves in humor (the worse the nerves, the worse the humor), as he raises an eyebrow, fingers sliding teasingly over the soft skin of Ryan’s inner thigh. “Topping from the bottom, Ross? Mmm... how typical.”
“You asshole,” Ryan hisses, failing to stop the corners of his mouth curling. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“God, you’re romantic.”
“For fuck’s sake, Brendon,” he snaps, snatching back the lube and unscrewing the cap. “Do I have to beg you to fuck me?”
Their eyes lock, which is becoming a dangerously powerful tool between the two of them, now both looking utterly shocked at the string of words still echoing on Ryan’s lips – tiny, soft-spoken, shy-to-the-core Ryan fucking Ross.
And Brendon just kind of chokes.
“Um,” he attempts. “Just. Yeah. Okay. Just.” He closes his eyes, forcing a deep breath that turns into a pitiful shiver. “Just gimme a minute.”
“Sorry,” Ryan whispers, and he means it.
Brendon lets his eyes settle once again on Ryan’s face, tracing a finger over his jaw line. “Don’t be. I just. I. I always want to remember what you looked like right now, that’s all.”
And for a second, Brendon is convinced Ryan’s going to roll his eyes and mutter some deprecating comment about Brendon being a chick. But all that happens is this subtle, slow-motion shift in Ryan’s face, all that omnipresent hard-set tension just leaking out into oblivion, replaced by this strange peacefulness Brendon could never have associated with him before. Ryan’s eyes drop shut, the slightest smile set on his lips, as Brendon silently tips the bottle of lube into his hand, slicking up his trembling fingers before slowly reaching between Ryan’s legs and slipping one inside.
Ryan’s eyes suddenly fucking spaz open in time with a sharp gasp, both hands finding Brendon’s shoulders and nails settling in for a death grip.
Brendon smiles nervously. “Okay?”
Ryan nods his consent, not daring to engage an ADHD Red Bull-obsessed teenager in conversation at a time like this. He just holds the eye contact like a life preserver, shifting his hips to meet the careful rhythm Brendon is building.
Brendon breathes, “Tell me when – ” and Ryan’s nodding before he realizes it, not even sure he’s ready but too desperate for more, more of Brendon, more of this, just... more. And Brendon gives him more (would give him the world if he could), sliding a second finger in beside the first and pushing them in a little deeper, suddenly remembering yeah, okay, there’s a point to all this, and curls his fingers just slightly when –
“Oh, god.”
Ryan’s body just shakes beneath him, hips thrusting against Brendon’s hand and fuck, that may just be the hottest thing Brendon’s ever seen. He crooks his fingers once more, hazy from the little sounds coming from the back of Ryan’s throat, before gently adding a third, not even waiting for permission, knowing it could be the dumbest move in the world or—
“Fuck, yes.”
...Or, yeah, that.
His eyes don’t dare leave Ryan’s as the smaller boy gives one nod, fumbling with the condom wrapper as Brendon slowly removes his fingers. Ryan, as it turns out, is a fucking pro at condom wrappers; he’s got it out and ready, no hesitation as those nimble guitarist fingers slide it over Brendon’s cock. Brendon’s transfixed, less even from the sensation than from watching Ryan’s face through it all, watching him bite his lip in concentration and shit, Ryan really needs to not do that or this is all going to be over a lot sooner than he’d like.
And thank god he finishes up, settling back into the pillow and staring up at Brendon, expectant, waiting, hard as fuck all over again, and it’s just too much to look at right now. So Brendon keeps his gaze on Ryan’s, still reveling in the sudden compensation for three years of averted eyes and connections broken before they could form, and now they’re here. They’re fucking here, after all that.
He positions himself, and Ryan’s hand is right fucking there, guiding him in past that tight ring of muscle, so tight he’s afraid if he goes in any further he’ll just fucking lose it. But Ryan’s having none of this tentative bullshit, cupping a hand around Brendon’s ass and pulling him forward until he’s buried right to the hilt and it just kind of hits them, settles over them like a blanket, the fact of what this is.
Their mouths fall open into identical O’s, matching their eyes, and Brendon drops his forehead to Ryan’s as he begins to move – just soft at first, slow, settling into the feeling of their joined bodies, trying to keep calm with the chaos of mind-blowing sensation wrapped around him. Ryan starts matching his movements, placing them in a rhythm that pretty much swallows all of Brendon’s conscious thought processes, and he just starts to feel, everything, Ryan’s breath and the nails digging into his back and those fragile hips arching to meet his and Ryan’s hand sneaking between their bodies to touch himself and... fuck. Just. Fuck.
He knows he must be doing something right from the force of Ryan’s thrusts, the sharpness of his breath, and oh god the way Ryan’s kissing him now. But these are the only clues he gets because Ryan’s not vocal, not in the least. Ryan, whose very existence centers on words and the magic he coaxes from them, seems to have no use for them now. But isn’t that how it’s always been, though – always trusting and releasing his words through Brendon, it’s always been Brendon to speak for him, bring him to life. And that, if nothing else, hasn’t changed, with Brendon now whispering all the things into his ear that Ryan would say himself if he could.
And as he can feel them both nearing the edge, it’s those final words – “Love you” – that set them off, choked gasps spilling from mouth to mouth as their releases follow each other, a rhythm all their own.
It’s a solid sixty seconds before either of them moves, before hearts and breaths slow, before eyes open upon eyes, and they’re left panting, sweating, high.
And in love. Fucking in love.
Brendon smiles at the thought, shifting his body until he’s on his side facing Ryan, their limbs and eyes still locked.
Ryan returns his smile, still silent but boasting a sex glow that would put their hometown’s neon lights to shame.
“Hi,” Brendon says, smile widening.
“Hi. I love you.”
Brendon feels his insides just pretty much collapse in on themselves, in a totally fantastic way. “Yeah?”
Ryan squeezes his hand. “Yeah...”
“Yeah...”
And they’re kissing again, lazy and slow but with ridiculous conviction, and after several moments Ryan pulls back just enough to mumble against his mouth, “You’re mine.”
And it’s not a question, really, or a claim. More like a shocked, elated observation.
Brendon grins against his lips. “I’ve always been yours.”
“Mmm... yeah?”
“Yeah. Even back when you thought I was the most obnoxious cocksucker on the face of the planet.”
“You are the most obnoxious cocksucker on the face of the planet,” Ryan confirms, nibbling on Brendon’s bottom lip. “At least you’re pretty good at the cocksucking, though.”
“’Pretty good’?!”
“Oh Jesus, dude, what do you want? Brendon Urie, you are the god of gay sex. You have carried me to new levels of quivering ecstasy.”
Brendon smirks. “That’s a start, yeah.”
Ryan’s smile just turns epic as he inches closer, trying to feel as much of Brendon as he can. “I love you,” he says again, then laughs. “I’m sorry. I just.”
“You’re sorry?” Brendon teases.
“I – I’ve just never.” The smile fades and his eyes fall, and this, this is the Ryan Brendon knows, and it makes his heart kind of plummet. “I’ve just never... been able to really, y’know, just say that. Or even... really feel it, I guess.”
He doesn’t look up until enough silence passes to worry him, and when he does, Brendon’s just staring.
Ryan tries to smile. “I guess hell froze over.”
“I – what?”
“You’re speechless.”
Brendon swallows. “I just. You don’t know what it does to me when you say things like that, Ry. Just... thinking of everything you’ve missed, your whole life.”
“It’s not so bad. I got you.”
And fuck, Brendon can’t help it, he’s leaning in and kissing this boy who’s his, after three fucking years, and he just can’t stop because seriously, there’s three years’ worth of making out to be had here, if you ask him. Ryan for his part has no complaints, flipping them over so he’s on top and pressing every line of his body down against Brendon’s, aching for the contact and just kissing the hell out of him, kissing him like they’re fourteen, like they’ll never get another kiss their whole lives.
And that’s when the knock on the door pounds into the moment.
They freeze, eyes on each other, silent.
“Bren?” comes Spencer’s muffled, half-awake voice. “Do you have any Nyquil?”
“NO!” both boys shout at once, immediately realizing the epic failure inherent in this enthusiastic synchronicity.
The silence that follows is deadly, until...
“...Ryan??”
...Which is, clearly, far more deadly.
Ryan’s got his hand over his mouth to stifle the giggles, and Brendon’s just staring, horrified, at the door.
“...Oh my GOD YOU’RE HAVING SEX.”
And that’s it for Ryan, losing his balance and toppling off the bed and onto the floor, overcome by silent laughter while Brendon frantically tosses articles of clothing in his direction, to which Ryan pays no attention whatsoever, curled up in a pile of sheets and giggling like a toddler.
“Jesus, Brendon!" the voice booms. "I ask you to do ONE THING! ONE FUCKING THING.”
Brendon scrambles into a pair of pants before leaning over the side of the bed, a smirk dancing on his lips.
“Like you said, asshole.”
“What?!”
He plants a lightning fast kiss on Ryan's head before starting bravely toward the door. “You’re lucky I love you.”
Ryan’s smile is brighter, more real, than anything Brendon’s ever seen. “I know.”
[fin.]
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Date: 2008-05-11 01:16 pm (UTC)but darling, fic is so much better than real life, isn't that why we're here? ;)