Pit Stop at IHOP (1/1) | Brendon/Ryan | PG-13

[behindthec]

Title: Pit Stop at IHOP [1/1]
Author: lolab
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Accidental misuse of orange juice.  Defiling of one (1) lavender hoodie.
Disclaimer: Q: “What’s the most ridiculous thing you ever bought?”  Pete: “Ryan Ross.”  So yeah.  Pete’s.  Not mine.  Fictional as far as I know.
Summary: "Do you want me to stop flirting with you?"
Dedications: To Keri, for being drunk enough to support my IHOP craving.  To Becca (falling_words), for loving happy!Ryro more than porn, apparently.  To my Clan of epic win (go join; brilliance is soon on its way).  And for everyone who gave me porn to get this early, including girl_divided, noteto__self, jfalaz, and my LJ wife, conquer_minds.
Author’s Notes: I wrote this fluff in two hours after a midnight trip to IHOP with my wifey.  This was the one good thing that came from breaking my diet, and therefore I don’t regret my stuffed french toast or hash browns for one second.

Title inspired by CIWWAF.





Ryan was in a good mood.

Brendon noticed right away because, okay, it didn't happen all that often -- not that Ryan tended to exist primarily in bad moods, it's just... if you bounded into the lounge area of the bus at one in the morning where everyone was sitting calmly, quietly attempting to write, send texts, listen to music, and so on, and demanded "Who wants to go to IHOP with me?"... something ranging from a quiet "Not now, Brendon" to a genuinely disgruntled "Fuck off" could typically be expected to emerge from Ryan's general direction.

But this time, really, it's a legitimate question, because their bus is parked in the middle of nowhere and across the street from nowhere just happens to be an IHOP.

And when he asks, Ryan actually looks up from his notebook, offers him a small smile, and says, "I'll go."

The streetlights glare over their figures, casting strange shadows over the half-dead grass and pavement they cross to reach the parking lot.  Brendon nearly walks into a parked car watching Ryan's shadow, wild and jumpy and just free, and it reminds Brendon of himself.  Maybe he's like Ryan's shadow, come to think of it.  Despite the fact that he's always the one in the spotlight, honestly, the words are Ryan's, the music is Ryan's... he's just the thing that clings to Ryan, speaking his words, mirroring his thoughts as best he can for the world to see.

It's too late or he's too hungry for this kind of philosophical bullshit.  Ryan lets out a little laugh as Brendon almost trips over the car, oddly strong arms reaching out to steady him and Brendon meets his eyes.  Ryan's smiling, and it's all surreal, because Ryan's still smiling and his hands are still clasped around Brendon's forearms for support, and Brendon realizes, well, that's weird.  Because Ryan doesn't usually voluntarily touch him, and he certainly isn't usually smiling about it.

Ryan doesn't go all weird and clear his throat and let go abruptly or anything stupid and macho like that.  He just lets go, because Brendon's standing on his own just fine now and there's no other reason to be touching him, but Brendon can still see his smile out of the corner of his eye as he announces, "I'm getting strawberries and whipped cream."

"Yeah?  Just... a plate of strawberries and whipped cream?"

"Well, maybe on a pancake,” Brendon decides.  “Unless you want to lick it off me."

He casts a quick sideways look at Ryan, perfect timing to catch Ryan’s glance back and the "Yeah, maybe later" that jokingly leaves his still smiling lips.

And Brendon thinks, even if Ryan never loves him back in that way, this... just this... making music, spending four months at a time with him in a bus, stupid flirting, watching his shadow, going to IHOP with him in the middle of the night... that could be enough for Brendon.  He could live with just that for the rest of his life, and be happy.  Mostly.  As long as Ryan was happy, too.  That's really all that matters in the end, he thinks, seeing Ryan happy.  That would be enough.

Brendon's hanging off Ryan's arm excitedly the second they walk in the door, half expecting to be shoved off, and when he isn't, he whispers, "Come on, let's do it."

"Oh, Bren..."

"Come on!"

"Do we have to, come on..."

"Do it, Ryan Ross, before I make you lick Cool Whip off my luscious, creamy skin."

Ryan sighs, scanning the patrons and servers and finally settling his eyes on one particular waitress who, in polite terms, resembles an elderly, overweight hippopotamus.  "Six grand."

"Really?  Six?"  Brendon narrows his eyes, subtly following Ryan's, and quickly looks back.  Surreptitious redefined, he thinks.  "I'd hit it for four."

"That's because you haven't gotten laid in like, a century."  Ryan smiles again, almost sympathetic.

"And whose fault is that?" Brendon demands in wide-eyed pseudo-innocence.

Ryan laughs.  "Dude, it's my fault you haven't gotten laid?  How does that work?"

"Okay, well it's your fault that my favorite game is determining how much cash we'd demand to sleep with ugly people."

"No, that's Pete's fault.  He invented it."

"Okay, then it's Pete's fault I haven't gotten laid.  Somehow."

"I'll be sure to mention that to him."

A tired, harried-looking hostess approaches with a pair of menus.  "Two?"

Brendon immediately wraps his arms possessively around Ryan, the way he does, and shoots the woman a warm grin.  "No, ma'am.  We're one," he coos, scoring a kiss on Ryan's cheek before the latter squirms out of his grasp, grinning, and mutters, "Um, yeah, two."

They are seated and equipped with menus in utter silence.

"Now look what you've done," Ryan leans across the table to whisper.  "They're gonna like, spit in our food or something."

"Whatever.  Like it was so healthy before."

Ryan rolls his eyes, holding a menu in front of his face to hide his smile.

Brendon spreads his menu out in front of him, muttering some unsatisfied comment to himself about not getting any crayons or a paper placemat with little mazes or word jumbles, scans the greasy plastic-encased photos of fried food and sugar-drenched goodness, and closes the menu.

"Ryan?"

"I'm not splitting your stuffed french toast with you, you know that shit makes me sick," the voice behind the menu snaps.

"Um, no.  Not that."

"Then what?"

"Do you want me to stop flirting with you?"

The menu wall is slowly lowered, revealing a regrettably unreadable expression on Ryan's face.  "...What?"

It's a logical response.  So logical that Brendon is actually asking himself the same question, only in his head it sounds more like, What the fuck are you DOING, Urie.

He shrugs, ignoring his inner everything, keeping his eyes on Ryan's.  "Do you?"

"I -- "  And he's so fucking flustered because it all makes no sense, they're both expecting him to say yeah, knock it off, I've been telling you that for four years, but all he says is, "...I... I don't... mind."

And that's... really not the worst response ever.

"I've..." he goes on, "I've gotten used to it.  It doesn't mean anything, y'know?"

...That, however, is.

Brendon takes a deep breath as subtly as he can, not knowing how this just happened but telling himself he completely walked into it, because, well, he did, and suddenly the whole world is kind of going fuzzy, because in the course of four years there's never been any real talk of it, and he's been able to let himself believe that maybe, y'know, just maybe, someday, and he really never expected to have four years' worth of hope just fucking dashed in an IHOP at one a.m. in the middle of nowhere en route to Chicago.

Where they'd see Bill and the Academy boys, and that was going to be awesome, in fact Brendon had been proclaiming just how awesome it was going to be for the past two weeks, and how much he couldn't wait for Bill to get him drunk and grope him, as Bill is wont to do, and suddenly none of that, nothing at all really, seems awesome anymore.

And then Ryan adds, "I mean.  Right?"

And because it's over now, Brendon just smiles and says, "Yeah."

Ryan smiles again, and Brendon can forget how much it hurts, because Ryan's smile is like his oxygen.  "Besides," he says, reaching across the table and taking Brendon's hand in over-exaggerated affection, "the fangirls would all die if you stopped."

Brendon snorts.  "You hate the fangirls."

"No, I just hate the slash."

"Homophobic."

"I am not!  It's just weird!  I mean, have you read it?!"

Brendon's eyes go wide.  "You've read it?!"

"NO!"

But it's too late, Brendon's doubled over onto the table in laughter, and before Ryan can blush and yell at him and hit him with straws, the waitress is at their table with a pad and pen in her hands.

"You ready?"

Brendon's still laughing, and thus useless.

"Um."  Ryan idly wonders just how red his face is now, but looks up.  "Yeah.  Um.  Brendon?"

"Just a sec."  Brendon pulls himself up, taking a deep breath and making quite a show of collecting himself, a wide Cheshire Cat grin still dominating his face.  "Okay.  I'll have the pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream, a side of hash browns, one egg, one piece of toast, extra butter.  And a Coke."  Ryan opens his mouth, but --  "And he'll have the veggie omelet with extra mushrooms, no peppers, a side of cheese hash browns, a large orange juice, and a water.  With lime.  Please."

Ryan stares with his jaw dropped as she scribbles on her pad and says something about it being "right out" before taking off.

Brendon effects his most triumphant grin.

"How -- "  Ryan starts, a disbelieving smile creeping onto his face.  "How did you..."

He shrugs.  "I know what my boys like."

And he immediately hopes Ryan doesn't request a recitation of Spencer's or Jon's IHOP prefs, because the truth is, it's all a lie.  He only knows Ryan's.  He's known Ryan's since they were sixteen and all went out to IHOP after their first practice together.  It's the night Ryan slung an arm around his shoulders for the first time and said, "I'm glad you're in, man."  It's the night Brendon realized he was in love.  The night he cried himself to sleep, because he knew he was in for however many years of heartache, and then just threw a book across the room to kill his frustration over being so damn emo and his parents knocked on the door and asked if he was all right and he was ninety percent tempted to yell out, "Guess what, I'm gay," and didn't.

He'd forgotten that night for a long time until now.

And Ryan's still watching him.  His face is just as unreadable, again, but different.  Entirely different.  How does that work?  But Brendon doesn't get a chance to study it, because Ryan quickly looks away when Brendon meets his eyes, redirecting his attention to a caked-on crumb of food on his side of the table.

"I really do want crayons," Brendon announces, willing the thoughts from his mind.  "Don't you think the world would be happier if adults were given crayons at restaurants?"

Ryan smiles, small and contemplative.  "Yeah, totally."

"I mean, just picture it, right.  Political negotiations, tense business meetings... just give 'em some crayons and paper, have 'em draw their pets, their kids, their houses.  Their dream amusement park.  I mean, seriously, this could prevent wars, Ryan."

Ryan's just laughing by now, not loud or hard, just chuckling that could quickly escalate into uncontrollable giggles if not monitored.

Brendon grins.  "What?"

"Nothing," he chokes, catching his breath.

"You disagree?"

"No."  He shakes his head, eyes warm and liquid and bright as they meet Brendon's.  "I just love you, that's all."

Brendon's chest does strange jumpy things for about half a second, before he latches onto rationality.  Not like that, he remembers, and with this in mind, manages to choke out, "I love you too."

But his eyes are set on the table when he says it, and that says enough.

When he does look up, Ryan's still watching him, though eager for the opportunity to break the gaze as their waitress approaches, plopping white oval plates in front of them as they echo their thanks, digging into the food and grateful for the distraction.

"Dude," Ryan manages between mouthfuls of egg.  "I remember when we were like nine, Spencer's mom took us here after a sleepover and Spencer got in trouble for drawing boobs on his placemat."

Brendon cackles, nearly spitting a strawberry back onto his plate.  "That's fuckin' sweet.  I got in trouble when I was twelve when we were visiting my cousins for Christmas and I made an anatomically correct snowman."

Ryan half chokes on his egg, reaching quickly for his glass of water.  "Dude.  That's... I don't even know, man."

"Hey, he was fucking equipped, okay.  If I were Frankenstein, my creation would fucking love me."

"Brendon, if you were Frankenstein, I think the world might end."

"Yeah, it would be taken over by really well-hung creatures."

Ryan shakes his head, digging into his hash browns.  "You're a freak."

"But you love me."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Say it!"  And it's so much less for the sake of being obnoxious than it is an exploitation, because he knows Ryan doesn't toss these words around freely, if ever.

But he sighs, complying.  "I love you.  Now shut up and eat."

Brendon obeys, for forty whole seconds.  "What's the worst thing you ever got in trouble for?"

"I dunno.  Cheating on a test, probably."

"You?!"  Brendon grins, stabbing a strawberry and swirling it around in the rapidly melting whipped cream.  "Mr. Honor Roll?  Seriously?"

Ryan shrugs.  "I'd... had a bad week.  Didn't have time to study.  Couldn't bear failing it."

"Oh.  Well.  Y'know, that's.  That's different, Ry.  That's okay."

Because he remembers, everyone remembers, that a "bad week" didn't mean he got into an argument with a friend or that some girl dumped him.  A bad week was at home, with his father, and involved boatloads of alcohol.

"Yours?" Ryan questions, drowning a bite of toast with orange juice.

"Smoking pot.  Hands down."

Ryan snorts, and it just all happens so fast the way it does in the movies and bad sitcoms, the orange juice comes out of his fucking nose, spraying the table and Brendon's shirt and everything in between. But Brendon could care less because this is pretty much the greatest thing that's happened on tour so far, and he's laughing like he'll never stop.

"I -- I'm sorry," Ryan chokes, because he's laughing too and shit, this should really not be so funny because they're not twelve but, okay, they're not forty either, so maybe it's all right.

"Oh my god," Brendon sighs, holding out the material of his shirt.  "I just.  Ryan.  That was.  That was awesome.  Seriously.  Thank you."

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," Ryan grins, rising to his feet and heading for the bathroom, Brendon close on his heels, because Brendon would follow him anywhere.

The bathroom is only marginally frightening, considering its home, and Brendon spends a good minute admiring his battle stains in the mirror while Ryan soaks a handful of paper towels.

"Looks good," Brendon decides.  "Goes well with the lavender hoodie, I think.  Very spring-themed."

"Come here, you big fag," Ryan smiles, backing Brendon up against a wall and dabbing at the stains with paper towels, and he's so close that Brendon finds it really hard to look anywhere else but his face.

And if he does look anywhere else, it'll be obvious that he's searching for somewhere else to look, and that's just... fuck, okay.

...But more importantly, he realizes, there is pretty much no reason whatsoever for Ryan to be doing this for him.  Ryan would never do this for him and hey, that's a good point, why is Ryan doing this for him?

He's caught up in wondering, an often dangerous pastime for Brendon Urie, and as he's caught up in it, his eyes are set right back on Ryan's face, watching Ryan's focus and concentration as he carefully pokes at the stains so as not to spread them, and when Ryan finally looks up... there's something there.  Ridiculous unbidden Beauty and the Beast lyrics swarm in Brendon's head, but seriously, okay, because there is something there that wasn't there before.

Ryan swallows, making no attempt to break their gaze.  "Um.  I think I got most of it."

"Uh-huh."

"Just need to, uh.  Put it in the wash."

"Yeah."

"...Yeah."

And really, what in the name of god could possibly happen at this point but Ryan pressing his lips against Brendon's, no hesitation, no question, just a full-blown unabashed fucking kiss that can't possibly be mistaken for anything else, not flirtation, not friendship, not sympathy, not even drunkenness.  It's a kiss, a real one, and they're kissing, up against the wall of the bathroom at the IHOP in the middle of nowhere and Brendon thinks Ryan kind of tastes sweet, like toast and butter and it makes him feel so fucking safe that his insides sort of melt.  Ryan's hands are cupping his face, gentle and protective, and Brendon's hands have found Ryan's hips ("found," as though they needed any guidance or direction, for fuck's sake), his thumbs slowly tracing circles over the skin above Ryan's jeans.  It's not frantic, it's not rushed, it's not drenched in heady desire and uncontrollable urges, it just... is.  It's Brendon and Ryan and it's been four years waiting for this, and it's.  It's inevitable, that's what it is.  And it's fucking perfect, in that stupid pathetic way that kisses almost never are.

And it could be minutes or hours that pass, neither knows and neither cares.

But when they break apart, having entirely forgotten about oxygen for god knows how long... something on Ryan's face tells Brendon this was not a bad thing.  Not in the least.

"So," Brendon whispers, resting their foreheads together.  "You love me."

Ryan's eyes fall shut, but his lips are curled.  "Yeah.  I do."

Brendon closes his eyes then, because it's too much.  Beautifully, incredibly so.

"I love you too."

"I know, you freak."

"Oh."

Ryan lets out one short breath of laughter.  "You really have no idea how happy you make me, do you?"

"I."  Because.  Fuck.  Okay.  "No.  I didn't."

"Well, you do," Ryan states, closing the space between them once more, words no longer needed, if they ever were.

And Brendon was right: it's enough.




[fin.]