Back To The Place [2/8]

[behindthec]

Title: Back To The Place [2/8]
Author: lolab
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Fiction as far as I know.
Dedication: j_plash for finding the interview for me originally, selectivelyurie for finding it again because I'm lazy, alphabetatoast for helping me pick a song, and redorchids, just 'cause. :)
Summary: Maybe that's what makes life interesting, the collision of endless questions and answers, and those precious moments of triumph when we can match the right ones together. Once upon a time, Panic went to a cabin in the mountains to write an album they never made. One night there, something happened that Ryan tried to forget. Two years later, he still hasn't.
Notes: Thanks for the overwhelming response to chapter 1. ♥ I realized after the fact that I subconsciously modeled "town" after my city's own historic square, if you want a visual; and some pics I took myself. And please ignore Brendon's philistine opinion on the CD referenced; it's gorgeous. Also, this may prove helpful.

Please visit the master post for previous chapters, notes, track listing, etc.






2.



When you look back on something that changed your world, you can't help but run over every moment in your head that led up to it, searching for some sign of its coming. But looking back, no matter how closely or intensely, Brendon will never be able to pinpoint what snapped in their little corner of the universe to the point of upturning it altogether.

When Brendon wakes up, it's to the sound of Spencer and Ryan arguing over breakfast duties, and Jon in the adjoining room, absently and a little wistfully strumming through the bass line from the fourth song on the album that, as of twelve hours ago, was unanimously voted out of existence.

Brendon pulls on a pair of drawstring pants and an undershirt, twists himself around to crack his lower back, and pads downstairs, sitting by the window to chomp on an apple while he stares out at the lake, not daring to reach past Ryan for the box of Pop Tarts with Ryan informing Spencer just where he can stick that spatula and Spencer looking like he might spontaneously combust.

The lake is dark gray this time of morning, a layer of fog hovering over the still plane of water. It looks peaceful, settled, and Brendon wishes he were as lucky.

Jon switches tunes and starts playing the kite song, which had been Brendon's favorite. He doesn't regret their decision, but watching their hard work dissolve behind them is going to sting for awhile. Three more days and they'll be back in Vegas with nothing to show but a half-burnt guitar and some video footage of their unglamorous descent into madness. At least it's black and white, so it'll be artsy madness.

He snags a case of Red Bull, a couple bottles of water, and a bag of chips, and holes himself up in the music room with a specific agenda of none at all. He sends the other three a mass text proclaiming, fuckin aroudn, pls not disturb unless necesary? thx; he doesn't get any responses, but no one bothers him either, and by late afternoon he's written a -- a something. He wasn't trying, but it happened, and now it exists. It's short, it sounds sweet and light, and he wonders if anyone besides his band will break through the layers. As a joke, he scribbles "Folkin' Around" at the top of the page and sticks his pen behind his ear.

He's so close to done, only one line away, he can feel it, but he's stuck. Every time his eyes catch on the words, I've never been more scared to be alone, he can't force himself past the glaring truth, and his mind narrows around the fear.

"You still alive?"

He jerks around at the voice, having been so lost in his head that he'd missed the creak of the hinges as Ryan had carefully poked his head through the door. Ryan's smiling down at him, carefully, like he's afraid Brendon might yell at him to leave, but he looks tired and hopeful and Brendon's lips are curling up before he's even fully registered the new presence.

"Hey. Get in here before I lose my mind."

Ryan steps inside, taking one look at the mess of chip crumbs on the floor and the six empty cans of Red Bull littering the space around Brendon's feet, and raises an eyebrow. "Too late."

Brendon's face contorts playfully, one foot extending to poke at Ryan's leg. "Ready to go home?"

Ryan nods, folding himself neatly on the floor beside Brendon, Indian style, hands in his lap and back slumped against the wall, their heads inclined to one another. Brendon blames Shane's presence, subtly infusing them all with his cinematography bug, for the image in his head: how he and Ryan might look from a lens across the room in their mirrored postures. He idly ponders negative space; whether the lines of their faces would make the shape of a vase.

But once they're close, the artistic side of his brain slows to a halt and reality takes the reins as he studies Ryan's face. There are dark circles where there weren't before; little jagged, razor-thin red lines shooting out across his eyes, bloodshot and dulled. Brendon remembers how those eyes looked on their first day here, shining and wide and confident, and a weary ache settles in his chest.

His reaction must be visible, because Ryan curls in further on himself like he's been caught, eventually closing his eyes and crumpling until he's fitted against Brendon's side, head on Brendon's shoulder. Brendon can smell his shampoo, and he's glad the position traps his arm under Ryan's weight, or it would be too easy to reach up and touch, touch too much, touch everywhere. Brendon doesn't think he's very skilled at solving anybody's emo; the only thing he knows is physical comfort, but the boundaries of it have always tended to blur and stretch, dissolve mockingly, whenever Ryan's around.

"You okay?"

Ryan sighs against his shoulder, hot breath filtering through the thin fabric of his shirt. "We failed."

The ache in his chest flares, shoving a rough breath out of its way. "We didn't."

Ryan shrugs.

"Listen. Hey," Brendon prods, trying to lighten his voice. "When Edison was working on the light bulb, he fucked up like, eight hundred times before he got it right. And everyone was like, 'Dude, aren't you like, all discouraged?' And Edison's like, 'Are you shitting me, man? I made progress! I discovered eight hundred things that don't work!'"

Ryan lifts his head, eyes squinty from being shut, with a bemused crease sunk into his forehead. "Edison said 'shit'?"

Brendon laughs. "Duh."

Ryan allows himself a smile, snuggling back against Brendon's side. "Play me something?"

Brendon twists his head a little, just enough to press a carefully orchestrated friends-only kiss to the top of Ryan's head. He's been doing it for so long it doesn't even take effort now, and he almost forgets how hard it once was, not to let his lips linger.

"Anything. What do you want?"

"Beatles?"

"Way to narrow it down," Brendon teases as he repositions his guitar, feeling the dull ache return to his muscles from having held the position all day. He doesn't let himself think too hard, just lets his mind flow and wander and turn inside out and back again, knowing the right song will slip to the forefront, like always.

He's surprised when it's an image that strikes him first, instead of music: last week's stoned rooftop sing-along, cabin tradition, weekly and non-negotiable. Brendon remembers Ryan's voice, slurred and giddy and warm in his ear as he'd lain on his side while Brendon sprawled out on his back, staring up at the stars as he belted "Across The Universe" at the top of his smoke-laden lungs. Ryan was trying to remember what the chant meant in translation; Spencer couldn't remember either. Jon did, but he was having more fun not telling. Brendon was having trouble remembering his own name, so he spent his energy inventing ridiculous translations including "I have a giant wang-doodle," earning him bonus points from Jon for a Willy Wonka reference. Ryan had laughed so hard he almost fell off the roof until Brendon caught hold of him, strong hands curled around his arms as they giggled in each other's faces, too close but never enough. With blown pupils zeroed in on Brendon's, Ryan had murmured, "Don't ever change," soft and secret, too quiet for the others to hear, before passing out in Brendon's arms, a smile still on his lips as he slept.

The memory has his fingers locating the chords like they were headed there all along. Slowly, the music fills the small space around them, and Ryan hums his approval against Brendon's shoulder.

And for all that's gone wrong over the past two months, all the two steps back for every step forward, there's nothing in this moment that doesn't feel perfectly, beautifully right. Brendon lets it wash over him as he sings, eyelids fluttering shut, and he doesn't even realize Ryan's pulled away until he hums out the last Jai guru deva om, letting it fade like smoke from his lips.

When he opens his eyes, his world has changed.

Ryan's eyes are moon-wide and zoom-lens close, watching Brendon like he's never seen him before -- like maybe Ryan just wished for a purple octopus on a whim, and the purple octopus appeared, and the purple octopus is Brendon.

It doesn't make any sense but nothing does, and Brendon even starts to wonder if common speech would still prove functional, because it feels like the universe has turned upside down, backwards, and mirrored. He's just opening his mouth to find out, when Ryan invades his space, lifting the guitar off his lap and setting it gently on the floor before crawling forward, cupping Brendon's face in his hands, and joining their lips.

Brendon feels frozen, but as it turns out, despite years of tedious practice, of forcing himself to move past All Of This, his body has apparently rejected it all, doesn't know how not to respond, because even though he's sure his nervous system has shut down, he can feel his lips moving, molding around Ryan's, coaxing him closer. He can feel his hands coming up to Ryan's hips, just resting because he can; he can feel Ryan climbing forward into his lap, settling close, deepening the kiss until it's not just a kiss, it's kissing, thumbs stroking softly over Brendon's face as their tongues twine, push, pull, search. It doesn't feel like a first kiss, yet it feels like his first ever: slow and impossibly real, not frantic, but like some underlying current humming with an electricity that rivals anything Edison invented.

"Dinner!"

Ryan jerks away, lips swollen red and eyes blown, and in an instant, Brendon's world shifts back.

Only, it's like those movies where you go back in time, and even if you're only there for a moment, your mere presence changes the course of events so drastically that by the time you return to your own time, it's no longer the world you came from.

Spencer's cheerful, far-off voice is still ringing in his ears as they watch each other, panting. Brendon can hear him and Jon laughing over something in the kitchen; the clink of pots and pans, cabinets opening and shutting. He can feel the early-evening wave of sun soaking over them through the music room's endless windows, warm and blinding, and he wonders how everything can be the same when clearly nothing is.

Ryan doesn't make a scene, but he crawls off Brendon's lap too fast not to be obvious. Their eyes are still locked as they stand up together, carefully maintaining a distance. Brendon tries to open his mouth, but speech still doesn't make any sense (the first of many signs everything's changed), and all that comes out is a choked, "Ryan."

Ryan swallows hard, finally wrenching his eyes away to focus on the stripes of his socks poking out beneath the cuffs of his jeans.

"Dinner," he whispers.

"Ryan."

"Dinner," Ryan repeats. He nods his head once -- assurance, like he's made a decision -- and reaches one hand blindly for the doorknob.

Brendon can't, can't, can't stop himself from acting, from scrambling forward until one hand closes around Ryan's wrist, and instantly he feels Ryan go boneless under his touch, but everything in Ryan's eyes is begging him, please.

Brendon tries, but he can't ignore the implied don't that clearly follows.

"Dinner," Ryan says again, his voice almost normal, and Brendon releases his arm, watching him slink through the door.

Warm, sensory evidence of roast chicken and mashed potatoes carries heavily through the open door, smells that should be comforting but only conspire to convince Brendon this moment never happened; that everything's the same; that he imagined it; that he can't still taste Ryan on his lips, feel him beneath his fingers.

A lyric stains into his mind, Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns. He scoffs. Frustration prickles behind his eyes, and the worst part of his brain tries to tell him, Love is not enough.

He knows it's a lie.

In a rush of inspiration, he retracts the pen from behind his ear and snatches his notebook off the floor, scribbling a final sentence into the margins before forcing himself from the room.


+++


"Do you want to know when I fell in love with you?"

There's nothing worse than a dream that ends precisely the moment it shouldn't, but Brendon's all kinds of cursed, and those sorts of dreams tend to be his staple. He blinks his eyes open, frowning at the sun pouring shamelessly through his window, and mentally kicks himself for forgetting to draw the curtains before bed. In consolation, it was a motherfucking weird-ass dream; he and the guys had been stranded on some deserted island after a plane crash, and he couldn't remember much now, but there was a waterfall and apparently Ryan was about to confess his love, for Christ's sake. Surely the universe could've allowed him five more blissfully unconscious minutes.

But that's all par for the course, in Brendon's world; the crazy part is that when his senses return to him, he realizes he hasn't been imagining the soft lull of waves against the shore, because they're totally in his ears, right now, and unless the thin mountain air is toying with the oxygen supply to his brain, this is really, really not normal.

He barely remembers to pull on pants (a shirt is just too much work before noon), stumbles a little on his way down the stairs when the sounds grow louder, and there's that moment of fused relief and deflation when he spots the little green power light on the stereo in one corner of the living room. As he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he spots a jewel case boasting Sounds of the Seaside on the cover, lying diagonal across an end table. The sun rays blanketing the room reflect off the clear plastic, too bright, too sharp -- but it's not the light that blinds him.

When his sleep-hazy line of vision widens, Ryan enters it, subtle and unobtrusive except for how Brendon's breath goes short and sharp at the sight: Ryan in nothing but his boxer briefs and a tank top, bent into a triangle over a blue mat on the floor, ass sticking up in the air and head hanging low in some pose Brendon remembers from Ryan's unwarranted ramblings as down-something-dog. His tenuous consciousness leads him aboard a train of thought that beelines from dog to doggie style to Ryan's ass sticking up in the air, and Brendon has full-on porno stills in his head before he's finished rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

He congratulates himself that a certain lower portion of his anatomy doesn't beat him to that fully awakened state, and granted, it probably has something to do with the bowl he smoked last night and chased with however many beers, but hey. Minor details.

It's nothing he hadn't seen in California, he reminds himself as he shuffles around the room, but it's different now, without Spencer on the phone in the next room, or Jon typing away on his laptop. It's just them, just Ryan to be watched, and Brendon to watch him. He finds himself encircling Ryan like some sort of prey, lips twitching happily as the morning's first rush of teasing insults begins to stir in his mind, because if he can focus on the fact that this is motherfucking hilarious, because it is, maybe he can forget the tingling heat liquefying low in his belly.

He ends up in a patch of sun by the armchair, lets it drench him, and he's just opened his mouth when Ryan beats him to it.

"Don't," he says quietly, voice heavy and scratchy in the awkward position.

Brendon blinks. "What?"

"You can make fun of me when I'm done, but not now, please."

"I -- " Brendon drops down into the armchair, trying to swallow down the cheap shots lodged in his throat. "I wasn't."

Ryan cranes his neck to look up at him, eyes veiled behind his hair, and he smirks, knowing but tolerant. Brendon smiles in return, appreciative of what an indulgence it is that Ryan would break from his yoga trance to even acknowledge another's presence.

Ryan drops his head back down, lets it bob a little as it hangs between his shoulders, and Brendon folds his legs up on the chair with him, knees to his chest. He's awake enough now that he can appreciate what he's seeing on a level beyond the physical response of his own pesky hormones. There's an indisputable art to it, the way Ryan glides through the poses, the lines of his body bending and flexing and so far from the sunken, slouching frame Brendon has known all these years, always reluctant to stand upright for fear of being seen, judged. Ryan's nothing like that now, his limbs and spine stretched long, falling into graceful arcs as he guides his body through the postures, and Brendon doesn't, almost almost doesn't, imagine how well his fingers would fit over the curve of Ryan's neck (how well they have, the few times Ryan's allowed it in front of thousands, only in front of thousands); how his tongue would feel pressed into the little dimples at the base of Ryan's spine, just above his...

So Brendon is maybe a little fucked.

The comforting part is that it's nothing new; he's been fucked for six years and he's learned to deal. What rips a sigh from his chest, long and discouraged, is how hard he's worked to un-fuck himself, how much effort it's taken, and how convinced he'd been that he'd succeeded -- only to find that all it takes to slip and fall is some one-on-one in the middle of nowhere: more contact, fewer boundaries. Less to do, more to see. The mind-softening buzz of sunlight over his skin, and no one telling him no.

Not even Ryan.

He doesn't know what makes him do it -- maybe boredom, maybe curiosity, maybe he's still just chasing after some fraction of admittance into Ryan's world, but he finds himself on the floor, spreading out on a rectangle of carpet beside Ryan's mat, trying to twist into the same position Ryan's holding. He knows Ryan sees him, and for a few moments he just follows in silence, watching Ryan's every move and striving to imitate, but when they launch into a balancing pose, Brendon's early morning uselessness takes over and he wobbles helplessly, half on his way to the floor before Ryan's hand ducks out to curl around his bare shoulder, pulling him back upright.

"You haven't done the warm-up," Ryan tells him. "You shouldn't. You'll pull something."

Brendon smirks. "I'm trying to better myself here, Ross."

"You can better yourself tomorrow morning, if you want. Eight a.m. sharp."

Brendon huffs. "No betterment is worth my beauty sleep."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "I think you're a few hours short today."

Brendon flips him off but Ryan smiles before he contorts himself back up, his breaths long and deep, eyes falling shut in the pose and fingers spread wide as he extends one arm high above his head, effectively evaporating every last grip of tension from his shoulders.

Brendon watches him for another minute over the lull of waves chasing each other across the shore, waiting to ensure Ryan's lost far enough in himself before Brendon reaches quietly over to the sofa, snatching up his Sidekick and setting an alarm for seven-fifty.


+++


"One..."

"Two..."

"Three."

The third word sounds in unison, the fusion of their voices that has become all too familiar over the years: from blow-ups to duets, but in the end, always joined, always one.

Brendon smiles, whipping his DVD case out from behind his back as Ryan does the same, and their eyes lock to each other's selections.

"Damn it!"

"Are you kidding me?! Subtitles?!"

Ryan frowns, hugging El Orfanato closely to his chest. "It won like, thirty awards! It's compelling and haunting! And it's just Spanish, you took Spanish in high school!"

Brendon's mouth opens and closes for a few flabbergasted seconds, like a fish, trying to form words but, but, seriously, just, "Die Hard! Die Hard, Ryan!"

Ryan straightens his posture. "There's ghosts..."

"There's shit getting blown up!"

Ryan shakes his head, slowly and sadly. "You are seriously the worst gay man ever."

"And you're the worst straight man ever."

Ryan lifts his chin haughtily, shaking his hair out of his eyes and, Jesus, case in point. "Fight you for it?"

"Fine." Brendon holds up a fist for rock-paper-scissors. "One, two -- "

"Oh, come on," Ryan smirks. "We can settle this like men."

Brendon's eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. "...Should I bring my dueling pistols or my sword?"

Ryan smiles at the Bridget Jones ref, and ha, he remembered. Score one for Brendon's gay, and negative one for Ryan's straight.

"Fine, maybe not the worst gay man ever."

Brendon grins.

Ryan shrugs. "I'll arm-wrestle you for it."

Brendon barks out a laugh, dropping instantly to the floor and sprawling out on his stomach, one elbow bent in front of him. "Get your ass in gear for two hours of explosions."

"Mm-hmm," Ryan indulges absently, yawning as he drops down to mimic Brendon's position in front of him, holding out an arm and clasping their fingers together. "Ready?"

"Set. Go."

It's five short, dignity-drowning seconds before Brendon's arm hits the carpet, and Ryan laughs so hard he topples over.

"What the actual fucking fuck?!" Brendon shrieks after the first wave of shock subsides. "The fucking -- how did you -- you never beat me! You couldn't even beat Keltie!"

"Yoga," Ryan shrugs, his smile enough to shame Cheshire Cats the world over as he stares at Brendon upside down. "It's a beautiful thing, Urie."

"Fuck you!"

"Later. Now, subtitles."

"I hate you."

"Endless, endless words across the screen that you have to read..."

"Hate. You.."

Ryan shoves his DVD into the player and plops down on the couch beside Brendon with a grin so triumphant you'd think he'd won the olympics. Loser. One fucking round of arm-wrestling? Brendon will not be outdone; this bitch is goin' down. He just needs a plan.

He fixes a narrow-eyed leer on Ryan, warning and mysterious, before holding his head high and resigning his gaze to the television. But Ryan's not a jerky winner, at least not this time, and he snuggles against Brendon's side in apology.

Brendon doesn't mean to, but there's something different, something about Ryan that doesn't register as Ryan, and Brendon sniffs theatrically, leaning in toward Ryan's neck.

"...Dude, are you wearing perfume?"

Ryan stiffens a little, retreating back into his own space, eyes firmly on the screen. "It's lotion, asshole. The people who were here before us left it I think, or something, I don't know, it looked really expensive."

"I... why?"

"Because! The mountain air makes my skin all dry and itchy."

"Loser. What kind is it?"

"Coconut magnolia, shut up."

Brendon chuckles low and deep, letting it rumble comically up from his throat. "Such a girl, man."

"Says the fag who just lost at arm-wrestling to me."

Instead of choosing to supply him with an adequate comeback, Brendon's brain decides to sulk. He surrenders wearily.

Ryan pokes him as a gesture of truce, and Brendon plasters himself along Ryan's stupid, bony side.

It's not even halfway through the opening credits and Brendon's too busy translating everything, for fuck's sake, to even realize he's doing it, until Ryan reacts, jerking his head to the side to meet Brendon's eyes.

"...Did you sniff me again?"

"I -- no!"

"You like it!"

"No I don't, it's -- it's okay, it's nice! It smells okay."

"You love my pretty girly lotion."

"No. You know what I love? Bruce Willis saving the world."

"Too bad. Shut up and watch."

Brendon wants to correct it to 'shut up and read,' but Ryan shifts against him and Brendon finds himself slumped further, close enough that he can't pry himself away without being obvious, and it's all suddenly right there, Ryan and Ryan's shampoo and Ryan's deodorant and Ryan's aftershave and now... Ryan's fucking lotion, and Brendon doesn't want this, doesn't want anything else that makes him want, doesn't want anything more to solidify Ryan in his mind, programmed into his not-so-sub-conscious as one giant yes, yes, yes -- but it's here.

It's here, and he can't ignore it; he wonders how he ever did.

If he ever did.

Ryan nudges him, voice close to his ear so Brendon can feel the words as they're released. "We can watch Die Hard after if you want?"

Brendon's heart jumps and twists and three words tumble into his throat before he catches them.

He swallows them down with a lump and thinks, unequivocally, Fuck.


+++


"I dunno, man. This place looks kind of... hole-in-the-wall-ish."

"Yeah, exactly," Brendon chirps. "These are the kinds of places that have like, the world's best blueberry pie."

"...Or salmonella."

"Oh my god, don't be such a snob -- "

"Hello!"

They un-huddle themselves quickly enough, reprogramming their faces into looks of content non-suspicion as the bouncy old woman in an apron smiles brightly up at them.

"Hello!" Brendon echoes, grinning wide.

"Two?"

"Yes, please."

"Right this way."

Brendon glares at Ryan, hoping the See how nice? engraved into the look will sufficiently shut him up for the remainder of their stay. It is nice here, the quintessential town experience set in the heart of the main strip: quaint and homey with red checkered tablecloths, log-cabin walls, and vintage tin signs that have probably been around since long before they were vintage. Early evening sun beams comfortably through the thick wooden slats of the Venitian blinds, and from somewhere distant, Italian cafe music is stealing through the air, teasing their senses as it fuses with the aroma of pasta and fresh garlic.

"Anyway," Brendon whispers to Ryan as the woman weaves through the tables, leading them to their own, "we wouldn't be here at all if you hadn't burned down the kitchen."

"There's a -- !" Ryan glances around, lowering his voice. "There's a difference between burning dinner and burning down the kitchen, dickhead."

Brendon smirks. "Hypothetically, yes. When it's you? No."

Ryan pinches Brendon's hip, drawing an appreciative, overly pleased mewling noise in response. Ryan rolls his eyes in defeat; Brendon has won.

Their table's in a corner, away from most of the others, and there's a moment of oh fucking great when Brendon puts two and two together: isolated small-town mentalities versus his skinny jeans and bright pink Supras, coupled with the fact that Ryan, ironically, tends to scream "homo!" wherever he goes. It's nothing Brendon's not used to -- seems his life is always zooming between extremes of screaming fangirls and screams of "faggot" -- but he wasn't counting on it tonight.

"Here you go," the woman says cheerfully, still smiling as she gestures for them to sit and lays a menu in front of each seat. "I thought you might like to sit back here; you'll have a bit more privacy."

Brendon's eyes widen and dart upwards just in time to catch the wink in her eye, and he bites his lip against a burst of laughter before turning to Ryan, finding him comparably wide-eyed and amused.

"Can I start you boys off with some drinks?"

"Uh." Ryan clears his throat. "Some water, maybe, and two coffees, decaf?"

"Right away."

Brendon splutters into a fit of giggles as soon as she's gone, slumping into his seat and covering his head with the menu.

"Look, Ross, just 'cause I'm your arm candy doesn't mean I want you ordering for me. I am my own woman."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Why does everyone think we're a couple?!"

Brendon lowers his menu. "Who else thought we were a couple?"

"Condom guy, at the gas station!"

"Oh, yeah!" Brendon drops his head to the table as he remembers, his shoulders trembling from laughter.

"So fucking embarrassing," Ryan hisses, throwing open his menu and huffing as he splays it out in front of him.

And it's. Yeah. It shouldn't but it does, it stings just a tiny bit, small enough to be embarrassed that it hurts at all: but, like a pin prick, small or no, it still penetrates.

Brendon looks up slowly through his lashes, but once he meets Ryan's eyes, warm and smiling beneath the annoyance, he's instantly lost, unable to gauge how obvious he's being. He can only hope it's minimal.

"I mean -- is that -- " he starts awkwardly, shrugging. "Would I really be that bad of a boyfriend?"

Ryan's face falls, hard and fast, his brow knit tight. "That's not what I -- "

Brendon smiles quickly, staring down at his menu and waving it off. "I know, it's okay."

"Brendon."

He doesn't react until he feels Ryan's hand sliding across the checkered tablecloth, fingers snaking around the bundles of silverware to close over Brendon's fist. Ryan's face is something new when Brendon looks up, something that doesn't look like Ryan at all, that maybe Brendon hasn't seen in years, or ever. It's a sort of wistful peace, his features kind and even, but not without something darker behind them.

Ryan squeezes his hand. "You'd be the best."

His brain hasn't evolved as much as he'd thought, because it's screaming predictably, Why, then why, why not, but even despite it, Brendon can't help but smile back.

"Here we go!"

The woman -- Ruth, per nametag -- reappears like a ninja, carrying their tray of drinks and beaming as she arranges them on the table. Ryan's hand releases Brendon's on instinct, but Brendon can't complain because he can still feel the warmth from the touch, and Ruth's approving smile is enough to make up for it anyway.

"Thank you," Ryan tells her.

She smiles down at each of them in turn. "Ralph told me I shouldn't say this -- " She looks over her shoulder, suddenly, and Brendon follows her line of vision to a surly old man at the cash register -- evidently her husband, judging by the way they've both morphed into mirror versions of each other after however many decades -- staring back at her with squinty, warning eyes. "But I just have to tell you, you two are the cutest couple I've seen in here all month."

Brendon bites his lip against a smile, staring down at the table, and his heart skips a beat when he hears Ryan answer, "Thank you, ma'am."

"Can I ask how long you've been together?"

Brendon looks up, eyes boring into Ryan's. He hadn't planned this far ahead.

"Uh." Ryan glances at him for clues, but Brendon's coming up blank. "Um, three years?"

"That's so lovely!" Ruth coos, somewhere over the pounding of Brendon's heartbeat, because whoa, this is too real for any of his own fantasies to reconcile. "How did you meet?"

Oh, lord.

But Ryan's smiling, eyes darting between Brendon and Ruth. "Um..."

"He rescued me," Brendon pipes up.

Ryan's eyes finally settle at that, but they settle on Brendon and Brendon isn't ready for it, the way they glaze over, the way Ryan's smile fades but not entirely, and not in a bad way. It fades because the game is over, because Brendon just crossed the line. Unwarranted, without permission, Brendon made it real.

He distantly registers Ruth's charmed gasp, but his eyes are on Ryan's and Ryan's are on his and it's totally a movie moment; all they see is each other -- but Brendon isn't thinking in cinematic cliches: this is reality.

Ruth takes their orders and Brendon snaps out of it long enough to request a veggie burger, even though he hasn't had the discipline to stay away from meat for years now. But Ryan orders a veggie burger, and Brendon remembers what it's like, sitting there with your inferior meatless sandwich while others around you are chomping on beefy goodness. If he can make Ryan happy, whatever it takes, he'll do it. It's a pretty simple philosophy, but the results are worth every effort, every time.

"The fuck was that?" Brendon asks, laughing.

"Hey, whatever," Ryan holds up his hands in defeat, smiling at his napkin, "I'm just tryin' to make an old woman happy."

Brendon huffs through his smile, but it's not like he's got much of an argument.

"So..." Ryan starts slowly, staring out through the blinds with a little quirk of something on his lips, index finger tracing little patterns into a pile of spilt sugar on the table. "I rescued you?"

"Well... yeah. From my family. My whole life. I mean, think of where I'd be now if you hadn't let me in the band. I'd be finishing up my mission somewhere, probably getting married to some chick I wasn't in love with."

"It's not because of me," Ryan counters, and while he seems to believe it, he can't hide the disappointment in his tone. "You're strong. You don't take shit, and you're the most talented person I know. You would've gotten out anyway, somehow."

"Maybe," Brendon shrugs, looking up. "But I wouldn't have been happy."

Ryan doesn't react immediately. Their eyes lock, and you'd think it would be awkward, in a moment where nothing is certain and everything is pushing boundaries you never realized you needed -- but there's nothing uncomfortable in the way Ryan finally smiles at him, lopsided and easy, nothing contrived for a camera or effected for another's benefit.

"I meant it," Ryan says softly.

"What?"

His eyes drop to the table, but the smile is intact. "You'd be the best."


+++


This is nuts.

Brendon hasn't been up before eight since tour, and that was only for bus call, where he could climb into his bunk and sleep; or interviews, where he could sit half-asleep and let Jon do the talking, because Jon is awesome.

But this? Essentially prepping his body for Cirque de Soleil, before the god damned soleil has even risen? Is nuts.

He stumbles downstairs half-asleep per the demands of his angry Sidekick alarm to find Ryan in the center of the living room, seated cross-legged on his mat, so clearly trying to pretend he isn't waiting. His face lights up when he sees Brendon, his smile brighter than the sun which is so not even up yet, and he scrambles to his feet.

"I got out my extra mat," he says.

Brendon rubs at his eyes, trying to focus on his surroundings. Beach sounds are gone, replaced by rainforest insects and Native American flutes. Well. At least it's not Gurmukhi this time; Ryan does love his turban-sporting Sikhs.

He treks down the last couple of stairs, planting his sleep-wobbly self in the middle of the room, and finally, truly notices Ryan's face for the first time: glowing, hopeful, confidence fighting fear. It's the Ryan he remembers from six years ago. The Ryan he fell in --

Okay. He's awake.

Ryan's eyes shine as he grabs Brendon's hand, leading him to the extra mat, and Brendon follows, because he'd follow him anywhere.


+++


It's a record.

Six whole days, and he hasn't smoked up or had a single drink since the first night, just to be considerate. And to keep Ryan from drooling lustfully on furniture that isn't theirs. There's got to be some kind of award for this. Brendon makes a mental note to Google it.

"Come on, man."

"Stop it."

"One joint?"

"I am immune to your peer pressuring shenanigans."

Brendon blinks. "You are old, and also, not fun anymore."

Ryan shrugs, stretching out long and cat-like in the hammock while Brendon struggles to stuff giant batteries into the portable CD player perched in the grass-cum-sand just above the shoreline of the lake.

"I just don't think mind-altering substances are needed to have a good time," Ryan declares. Brendon's pretty sure it's verbatim from a high school anti-drug campaign.

"Seriously," Brendon sighs, popping Ryan's scratched up old Blink CD into the machine (belated, guilty-pleasure celebration of their reunion had been the evening's unanimous vote), before turning his attention to the little baggie of grassy glory, setting to work. "Who are you and what have you done with Ryan?"

"Ryan isn't home right now," Ryan croaks ominously in his best Shining voice, and Brendon beams.

"All The Small Things" blares into the open air, as if reminding them both exactly who and where Ryan is: Ryan smiles despite himself, eyes falling shut to give his ears full attention to the music. He looks instantly younger, sillier and dorkier, like he's right back in high school with Spencer, and Brendon can't help but think how much freer he'd be still with a couple of beers behind him, a few lungfuls of smoke. Brendon knows Ryan has a point; they can totally rock out without the help of a bottle or a bong, and probably should more often, but if such blessings are available, why the hell not, while they're still young and have enough brain cells to spare?

"Come onnn," Brendon pleads, perching the newly lit joint in his mouth and crawling over to Ryan on his knees. His fingers tangle in the net of the hammock, shaking it desperately, just enough to rattle him but not enough to tip him over. Ryan flails anyway. "Come on, Ross. Pwease?"

Ryan sighs, but his eyes have zeroed in on the little object between Brendon's lips, and Brendon can hear Ryan's breath deepen, chasing a hint of the smell.

"Sooo good," Brendon breathes, his voice all sex and drugs, before exhaling a warm whoosh of smoke into Ryan's face.

"I." Ryan swallows, oh so hard as he stares at the joint. "I can't ever hope to achieve enlightenment by filling my body with impurities."

Brendon laughs so hard he falls over, and Ryan, to Brendon's delight, looks disappointed only to have lost the contact high.

"Are you shitting me, man?" Brendon cries. "That is like, the most ridiculous thing you have ever said in your entire life."

Ryan huffs.

"Seriously, are you serious right now?" Brendon goes on, well aware he's starting to approach the initial, babbling stage of his high. "Like, I don't really fucking care about being enlightened, I kinda just wanna get high. With my bestest friend. Ever. So come on. Smoke up with me pleeease?"

"Brendon..."

"Come on, it doesn't count if you're out of your zip code!"

Ryan does laugh at that, and he reaches a hand out, not touching Brendon but waving vaguely to order him closer. Brendon scrambles back to the hammock, sitting patiently on his heels.

"Shit," Ryan stutters weakly, breath shortening as Brendon breathes another puff into his face. "That's Beckett's, isn't it?"

"Mm-hmm."

"The stuff he gets from Jack, or the stuff he gets from Tony?"

"Tony."

"Fucking hell," Ryan chokes, reaching out to grab hold of Brendon's t-shirt and yank him close enough to pry the joint from his lips.

Brendon had never expected success to come so easily or feel so fucking sweet, but he's not about to stare at a gift horse's ass, or whatever it is. He's maybe a little stoned. The giddy shock of his triumph has him back on the ground, rolling over in giggles, but he makes sure to cling to enough sobriety that he can watch Ryan's reaction as he takes his first drag in over two months, eyes drifting shut and head tilted back in pleasure, neck exposed and Adam's apple straining against the skin as he traps the smoke in his lungs, holding it greedily until he starts to cough, and releases the gray swirls with no small dose of reluctance.

He leers dazedly down at Brendon, lips stretched into a sloppy, contented grin. "This is better than sex."

Brendon raises an eyebrow. "You sooo have not been having the right kind of sex, dude."

"Mm," Ryan hums, peering down at Brendon through the smoke, and it's astonishing how quickly he falls back into habit, the haughty, self-important way he balances the joint between his fingers; his chin held high, as if showing off his own pleasure. "And I suppose you're here to fix that? Take me to new heights of quivering ecstasy?"

Brendon smiles, watching him for a moment, slowly, through the rising warmth in his veins, just heated enough to coax out the words: "I once had Spencer begging for my mouth."

"What the fuck?" Ryan splutters, choking through his inhale and passing the joint back to Brendon after sparing it a brief look of reproach. "Seriously, what the fuck?"

Brendon shrugs, chuckling easily. "Last time we were here, that day we kept fucking up the gingerbread song and none of us could get it right and you kept yelling at us? He was really fucking stressed, I found him in his room, he was about to, like, implode. So I was just like, look, I'm good, I'll do it for you, you want? And he kinda flipped out at first but then I licked my lips and he was like, uh, sure, go for it. So I blew him."

To conclude, Brendon stretches out on the blanket, arms raised high over his head, and takes another drag, followed by a warm yawn. Ignoring Ryan's slack-jawed stare is a blast.

"You are full of shit," Ryan concludes. "That's fucking ridiculous."

Brendon meets his eyes, grinning. "Ask him."

Ryan arches his hips off the hammock, extracting his phone from his back pocket, and launches into a fury of texting. Brendon grins up at the stars through the cloud of mosquitos swarming around the lowest-hanging branches of the hammock's support trees. His eyes drift shut, his body settling happily into the sounds of insects and Ryan's fingers moving over the tiny keys.

After a few moments, Ryan's phone dings, and Ryan gasps furiously as he reads the text before shoving the phone at Brendon. Brendon scrolls up to see Ryan's original text, wtf u fucking asshole u never told me bden gave u head, before reading Spencer's response:

AHAHAHHAHA jealous?

Brendon cackles.

"Write back 'I hate you'," Ryan orders, stealing the joint back while Brendon is busy typing. Another moment, another ding, and Brendon's increasingly foggy vision squints at the words.

btw it wasnt head, that bitch can deepthroat

Brendon lets the phone slip between his now boneless fingers, his body limp as he's consumed by silent laughter. He dimly registers Ryan leaning carefully over the side of the hammock to snatch up the phone, and soon enough Brendon hears a dial tone, and Spencer's voice.

"'S'up, bitches."

"You're on speaker," Ryan announces dully. "He told me you begged for it."

Spencer laughs, and in the background, someone -- Jon?! -- laughs harder. "I kinda did, when he started teasing. Seriously, Ryan, have you seen his mouth?"

"Thanks, man!" Brendon salutes from the ground.

"Is Jon there?!" Ryan shrieks.

"Yep," Jon chirps. "I stole Spence 'cause you guys abandoned him."

"Yeah, I was really lonely, you asshats," Spencer adds. He sounds delightfully drunk.

"Well, why don't I just send Brendon over? I'm sure he'll make you feel better."

Jon laughs so hard the phone starts to vibrate from the resonance, and it sounds like Spencer has fallen over. "Dude, dude," Jon's calling to the floor, "tell 'em about the time we made out on New Year's Eve and Haley and Cassie watched."

Somewhere in the background, Cassie is yelling something that sounds like approval, or possibly encouragement for round two.

Ryan glares at his phone. "I'm hanging up."

And he does, and Brendon doesn't say anything, because he can't fucking breathe, and it's awesome.

"Am I seriously the only one who hasn't gotten any action from my own band?!" Ryan demands.

"Hey," Brendon grins lewdly, "we can fix that right now, Ross."

Ryan rolls his eyes, sighing as he nestles back into the hammock. His eyes settle contemplatively on the treetops above, at the little blinks of stars through the branches. "Jesus. I thought the craziest thing you'd ever done was getting folded into the pull-out sofa."

"Dude, no. The craziest was when Travis dared me to shave my head and I did."

"...Oh yeah. You're a dumbass."

"Um, says the guy who once thought combining a faux-hawk with a mullet was the sweetest move ever."

"It wasn't a mullet, it was a fringe!"

"Whatever, redneck."

"Blow me."

"Sorry, I only get on my knees for drummers."

It's a tiny flash of nothing, just Ryan's arm flailing out over the side of the hammock to whack at any part of Brendon he can reach, but the movement tips the white netting to just the right degree and he's instantly dumped overboard, landing flat on top of Brendon.

"Holy sh-ommph," Brendon huffs, his body betraying any attempts to regain oxygen by falling straight back into giggles. "Jesus, watch it, my balls are like, right there."

"Sorry, sorry!" Ryan laughs, rolling off to the side and patting Brendon's hip consolingly. One great thing about stoned Ryan is he tends to forget grudges almost as soon as they're formed. His hand keeps rubbing little circles into Brendon's hip as he smiles down, but when he tries to prop himself up, his balance fails and his hand slips right between Brendon's legs.

"Jesus fuck, Ryan -- "

"Oh my god, I'm sorry!" Ryan squeals, collapsing onto Brendon's chest as he vibrates through his laughter, but his hand seems to have gone limp, making no effort to move from where it's settled loosely against, Jesus Christ, Brendon's dick.

Brendon grits his teeth, eyelids fluttering. "...Ryan."

"Oh, right!" He retracts his hand quickly, fisting his fingers into Brendon's t-shirt instead as he giggles into Brendon's shoulder. "Sorry, I'm sorry, shit, I'm stoned. Weed is awesome. I love weed. Why did weed ever go away?"

"Um, because you went all Zen-freaky."

"Oh yeah. Hey, I'm sorry I like, cupped you. That was very... not cool."

"Uh, it's all good..." Brendon smiles nervously. "I mean, hey, y'know, knock yourself out."

Ryan lifts his head enough to smile at him, eyes unfocused and blissful. "You're such a whore."

"You're such a tease."

Ryan watches him with a careful consideration, before another smile sweeps over the first, wider but simpler, and he settles back against Brendon's shoulder.

"What?" Brendon asks softly.

Ryan presses closer. "Don't ever change."


+++


On the seventh day, Ryan rested.

Or, that was the plan. And Ryan, the little fucker, totally does sleep in, but by the end of the week Brendon's internal clock has already already reprogrammed itself for Yoga! Ass crack of dawn! Ryan's a psycho! (and no, really, that's how it's titled in his Sidekick), and he finds himself awake at eight a.m. sharp.

He drags himself downstairs because his body's already thrumming with energy despite the early hour, and he doesn't know what to do with it. This isn't normal. Maybe he should see a doctor. Either way, he's not about to do yoga by himself because Ryan would totally find out and he'd be condemned to it forever, so instead he flips on the TV and channel-surfs to VH1.

Beyonce greets him vibrantly, prancing around in black and white and sending out a cheer to the world of singletons. Brendon frowns. No matter how many times he watches this video (oh, shut up), he never feels empowered. Being alone blows.

Still, it's contagious, the prancing, and Brendon soon finds his hips moving of their own accord, side to side, lips mouthing the words as his head bops to the beat. It's only seconds before he's shoving an ottoman out of the way and letting the music carry him around the room, following the dancers' movements, and it's not like he's ever done this sober, but he's seen it enough times to pretty much know what he's doing. He wiggles around like a pro, shakes his ass, just getting into it when he hears a low, rumbling chuckle behind him.

He spins around so fast he almost runs into the side of the sofa, and there's Ryan at the bottom of the stairs, leaning sleepily against the railing, arms crossed over his chest and grinning stupidly, and Brendon suddenly feels heated and exposed, in nothing but a pair of bright American Appareal undies, skin flushed from the sudden exertion.

He crosses his arms right back, smirking at Ryan with every bit of his dignity in place. "Yeah? And?"

Ryan sighs, shaking his head as he steps into the room. "Brendon, Brendon, Brendon."

Brendon huffs, cocking one hip to the side.

"Never thought I'd say this," Ryan starts dramatically, "but, I gotta kick you out. You're too gay for my band."

"Oh?" Brendon queries, sauntering forward with all the gay he can muster. "I'm. Too gay for your band," he starts singing, if it even resembles anything of the original song. "Too gay for your hand. Too gay for this land."

Ryan looks close to laughing, but he bites it back, giving Brendon a once-over. "Nice panties."

"They're not panties!"

"They're pink, that's automatic panties, right there."

"They're not pink, they're magenta!"

Ryan snorts. "Right. And you're not gay, you're just... phallically inclined."

Brendon diplomatically allows Ryan several seconds to plan his escape, but Ryan's apparently too dumb to sense what's coming, and when Brendon snatches up a throw pillow and sideswipes him with it, Ryan actually topples over onto the couch.

"Teach you to -- walk in on me while I'm -- getting my groove on!" Brendon threatens between blows with the pillow. He snatches another one from the floor and works it easily into his assault, and Ryan's too sleepy and giggly to fight back, resigning himself to the attack.

"You're gonna make me pancakes," Brendon decides, finally retracting his pillows.

"Fuck you, I am not."

"You owe me pancakes, motherfucker."

"How?!"

"I woke up without my alarm for yoga that we are not doing this morning!"

Ryan falls back against the cushions, his eyes crinkled up in laughter. "We can still do it."

"Fuck that shit, I want pancakes." Brendon whacks him again, the corner tassles of the cushion sweeping over Ryan's hair. "Go."

"I'll burn down the kitchen!" Ryan protests, even as he's climbing to his feet and padding toward the kitchen.

"I'll supervise."

"Brendon, you couldn't supervise a corpse."

"Well, we'll soon find out, if you don't make me some pancakes."

"Threats!"

Brendon follows close on his heels, bouncing up and down with his hands on Ryan's shoulders as he guides him the rest of the way. Ryan's smiling as he digs out the mixing bowl and a pan, and Brendon doesn't think about anything, not how this is over his head, not how he's so far in there's no room left to escape. He doesn't think of Shane's words, because no matter no matter what's holding him up, in the end it's still Ryan who'll bring him down.

In the end, he'll fall every time.


+++


Drumming is exhausting. No wonder Spence needed a blowjob.

But it was good, for two hours it was really, really good: just Brendon behind the old kit in the music room while Ryan retreated upstairs to write; just Brendon pounding the hell out of it and letting it steal all the tension he hadn't known was there until it just. Wasn't.

He's three steps from his bedroom when he hears Ryan's phone chime softly from the table in a corner of the hallway. He picks it up, flipping it open to see 1 new message from Spencer.

It's not a conscious attempt to pry; they've all read each other's emails, opened each other's mail at one point or another without conflict; their slight leaning towards co-dependency as a band is something they've come to accept; but he still isn't expecting the words laid out in glowing black font.

It doesn't make sense, the message, and he scrolls up the trail of texts to find the first.

found what you're looking for yet?

still not sure what that is, Ryan had replied.

yes you are. thats why youre scared to find it

Something is jumping around in Brendon's chest, heating his cheeks, but he can't break it down enough to make sense of it. It could mean anything and everything and nothing; maybe there's a bug in Ryan's room and he can't figure out where it went. Brendon wouldn't put it past him.

He closes the phone, shuffling down the hall to Ryan's room and rapping lightly on the open door. "Hey."

Ryan's bunched up on his bed, knees to his chest and his notebook resting atop them. He smiles, his eyes bright under the lull of soft light from the desk lamp across the room. "Hey."

"Um, I think you have a message."

"Oh, thanks. Just leave it on the dresser."

Brendon nods, setting the phone down and turning back to the door. "Sleep well."

"Hey."

Brendon turns around, and Ryan's already laying his notebook aside, shimmying down until he's flat on the bed.

"C'mere, you have to see this."

Brendon steps forward, crawling onto the bed and sprawling out before he realizes what he's been called to see. "Oh, fuck, I totally forgot."

"Right?"

"Awesome."

His eyes relax as they settle overhead on the massive, ceiling-wide skylight above the bed. He hadn't spent much time in Ryan's room last time, hadn't really been invited to, and it was too easy to forget the view from here at night, the blanket of stars set against a crystal-clear backdrop the definition of midnight blue, cloudless and infinite.

"Isn't it weird," Ryan starts, "how nothing lasts?"

"Jeez, Ross. Morbid much?"

Ryan pinches him. "I mean, seriously. Even stars burn out. The ones we're looking at right now could've died ages ago."

"Yeah." Brendon shrugs, the motion causing his t-shirt to bunch up, and the skin above his waistband feels suddenly cold. "Y'know, just 'cause nothing's lasted so far in your life doesn't mean nothing ever will."

Ryan turns to look at him, smiling. "Am I that transparent?"

"Yes." Brendon smiles back. "I know when you're thinking about her. When all the little gears are working in your head, trying to figure out all the reasons you fucked up."

Ryan sighs. "She was so... I don't know, she made it so easy. She never expected me to be anything I wasn't, never asked me to be anything I couldn't... never wanted more from me than what I could give. It was easier being with her than being alone."

"So why'd you end it?"

"I..." He pauses, and Brendon can feel how he's searching for the right words, trying to extract as much truth as he can. "Just because it was easy doesn't mean it was right."

Brendon nods. "Okay. Good."

Up high, a shooting star streams across the square of sky above them, and Brendon thinks of how alive it looks, how free. How clearly it seems to know where it's headed.

"Do you believe in the afterlife? Like, reincarnation?" he asks.

"I... think I kind of have to," Ryan says. "I mean... god, if I died today... there's too much I still want to do, too many opportunities I've missed. Things I'm... not ready to let go of yet."

Brendon draws a slow, even breath, as quietly as he can, and turns to face Ryan's profile. "Things, or people?"

Ryan turns to him. "You'd be there."

"I'd be where?"

"In the next life. I'd find you."

"Yeah?"

Ryan smiles softly. "Well, we've gotta keep the band together."

"Hey now, I dunno if I want to spend two lifetimes in your little emo circus. I think next time I'll be a French courtesan."

Ryan laughs. "Very classy."

Brendon grins. "And you'd be the British bohemian who rescues me off the streets, right?"

"Well obviously, since I'm so good at rescuing you."

Brendon's smile softens, and it feels full circle when the words come to him -- or at least, part of the circle. He doesn't think they've made it all the way around yet.

He brushes one finger over the inside of Ryan's wrist, light and barely there, and says, "Don't ever change."