behindthec | (no subject)

+++

continued from here.

It's totally unfair.

"It's totally unfair."

Ryan glances up from his lawn chair, lifting a hand to lower his bug-eyed sunglasses and offer Brendon a moment of his precious attention. "Do you ever have an unexpressed thought?"

Brendon narrows his eyes. "I'm having one now."

Ryan smirks. Replacing his sunglasses, he rearranges the position of his Ayn Rand book in front of him and shuffles into a better spot in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, his wide straw hat shading the parts of him not drenched in 8,000 SPF sunscreen. His free hand reaches down for the spiked lemonade awaiting him on the ground, a lemon wedge perched on the rim of the glass, and he takes a sip. Dainty and languid, careful not to spill any on the fluttery scarf draped loosely around his neck, fabric swooping down over his bare chest. Brendon would laugh oh so hard if this weren't oh so unfair.

"Dude, seriously," he huffs. "You make me sit in the passenger seat the whole way up here, and now I have to wash the car, alone?"

"It's your car," Ryan points out snootily, using one creepily long finger to turn a page. "Which you insisted on taking up here. Which you chose to drive through a mud puddle yesterday for kicks and got the doors glued shut with caked-on dirt. This is the dictionary definition of fair, Brendon."

Brendon still isn't convinced, but there's one way to fix the skewed lack of justice in this situation: crank on the hose and aim it at Ryan.

And oh, god, he does, before he can really weigh the consequences, but whatever they are will be worth it, watching him splutter and flail until his lawn chair closes in on him, leaving him folded nearly in half and drenched as he tosses his book to the side, overturning his lemonade in the process, and Brendon's still struggling to recover oxygen from his laughter by the time Ryan makes it to his feet, tearing off across the soft, dirt-path driveway and chasing Brendon around the car. Which, admittedly, is probably not the smartest move because Brendon's still got the hose and he knows it, he's using it over his shoulder even as he skitters around the car, trying not to slip in the increasingly wet ground around them as he shrieks and cackles over Ryan's obscene threats.

But Brendon's a little giddy on victory and maybe doesn't have the clearest judgment at the moment, either, because shockingly, the hose actually does have a fixed length, and once Brendon reaches it, mid-run at top speed, it jerks him backwards like a leash, slipping out of his fingers but not in time to keep his feet from flying out from under him.

He lands flat on the ground butt-first with a surprised "Ohf!", and when he opens his eyes, Ryan's looming over him, hose in hand. Brendon must look pitiful enough on his own, covered in mud and pine needles, because Ryan doesn't venture any more retaliation than a triumphant smirk.

"Way to go," he offers, extending a hand.

Brendon reaches up, innocent puppy eyes and all, and he's seen too many movies that don't allow him to do anything in this moment but take hold of Ryan's hand and yank him right down.

"You fucking -- Brendon!"

Brendon goes for the kill, grabbing at Ryan's most ticklish spots until they're both sufficiently bathed in mud, the hose still running contentedly at their feet.

"You -- will -- help me!" Brendon insists, only relenting when Ryan starts to actually whine, resorting to hair-pulling and kicking, and an implicit truce arises.

"Whatever," Ryan grumbles.

Standing and snatching up the hose, he points it at the car for a few moments, bored, while Brendon pulls himelf to his feet and looks down at his clothes, assessing the damage. It catches Ryan's notice, and he takes the opportunity to aim the hose at Brendon, more as a gesture of good will than anything else. Brendon smiles, letting his head fall back, arms and legs spread as the cool water washes over him.

"Loser," Ryan mutters, but he's smiling when Brendon opens his eyes.

Brendon beams back, reaching down to dip his arm in a giant bucket of soapy water and emerging with a large sponge in tow.

"I think this is the first time I've actually washed a car by hand since like, high school," Ryan muses.

Brendon chuckles. "Not surprised, princess."

"Shut up."

"Dude, oh my god," Brendon grins, stretching his arm out to reach over the roof of the car. "Weirdest place ever, right -- last summer me and Shane took his old Nissan through the car wash but like, it got stuck, and the attendant took forever to fix it and the suds were like all over the car so no one could see in. So he's like, 'I'm totally gonna suck you off,' and I'm like, fucking sweet, and he did. Oh my god, it was awesome."

The hose is hanging limp in Ryan's fingers as he stares, frozen to the spot. "What?"

Brendon halts, sponge dripping onto his bare feet. "What?"

"I -- the fuck? You and -- Shane? You guys -- ?"

Oh.

...Oh.

"...Oh."

"The fuck?" Ryan repeats, his voice thin and eyes searching. "You never -- he just randomly gave you a blow job?!"

"Um." Brendon swallows, shrugging awkwardly. "Not... randomly. I mean. It wasn't... the first time."

"What?! You guys -- you were -- you never fucking told me!"

Brendon sighs, dropping the sponge back into the bucket. "Dude, come on. That's so hypocritical. You're like the most secretive person I know."

"Brendon, I tell you when I'm in a relationship, Jesus Christ!"

"It wasn't -- it wasn't like -- dude, 'cause I knew you'd be all critical! You always are. Even when I was like, sort-of-barely-whatever dating Sarah, the only woman like, ever, to actually restore my faith that all females aren't, y'know, screaming fourteen-year-olds, you still had to find something wrong with her. You're always critical of my relationships, man, always."

"Oh," Ryan huffs, "all, like, two and a half of them."

Brendon blinks. "Way to drive it home."

"Brendon -- "

"See?! You just proved my point. I didn't want to tell you and suffer through all your crap till I knew it was solid, till it turned out to be something, I dunno, long-term. Which it didn't, so nothing lost!"

"Well if I'd known," Ryan snaps, shoving the hose to the ground, "I could've told you that from the beginning! You and Shane are totally wrong for each other as a couple!"

"Oh, really, Ryan? Okay, so why don't you just tell me who I should date, or fuck, or walk around L.A. with, or whatever, okay?"

Ryan sighs, eyes rolling high. "You're so immature, Brendon, you ever think maybe that's why you can't handle a relationship?!"

"Oh, says the guy who fucking cheated and still expects me to go out on stage every night and sing about some slut who did the same to him!"

Ryan's eyes turn cold, dark, automatically shutting off, and Brendon knows he's gone too far but he can't bring himself to care, not with the anger rising up in his chest, the pain and defensiveness, because Ryan hit home, too, and it's not fair.

"Fuck you," Ryan whispers.

"No, fuck you, Ross, okay, at least I didn't stay in a relationship because it was 'easy' like some of us; I fucking knew when to get out and I did it, like a god damned adult!"

He spins on his heel and storms into the cabin, muddy feet and all, dripping onto the carpet and the hardwood and the stairs all the way up to his room, but waiting until his door slams shut behind him before he lets himself acknowledge the hot prickle behind his eyes, only crashing down around him when he slumps down the door, the wet skin of his back pressed hard against the wood, and nothing, nothing left in the world is fair.

+++

Brendon skips dinner, and hopes that's signal enough that he's distraught, because Uries haven't skipped a meal since like, the 14th century, and back then Brendon's pretty sure it was like, rotten veal liver or something. He only leaves his room to pee, once, and doesn't even venture downstairs to delve into his stash of candy. The only thing of use in his bedroom is his iPod, and he listens to it forever, hooks it into the wall when the battery dies and puts on albums filled with Marilyn Manson, still lingering in his playlists since that one musically rebellious semester his junior year, before he remembered music is supposed to have notes, and that Manson didn't really make him feel better about being forced to go to church, in the end.

But it sure as fuck makes him feel better now.

Or, maybe a lot worse. But it feels good to have someone to be angry with.

This isn't like them; they'll cool off for half an hour in their respective lairs, but it's always over soon enough. They fight, they get over it. But it never gets personal, not this far; at least not for a long time. It's always music, the band, but never this. It's not that Brendon didn't mean it, but he didn't mean it so harshly. And he's got no idea whether Ryan meant it or how much, and he's too afraid to ask.

Afternoon melts to evening, evening to night, and it's almost nine by the time his eardrums beg for a rest. He tugs the earbuds out and shuts off the device, turning on his side toward the window, away from the door.

It's another twenty minutes before the hinges creak, before the fresh oxygen from the hall swooshes in, light and airy. Ryan follows, judging by the dip in the mattress, and Brendon expects him to sit on the edge, tight and straight, as far away from Brendon as possible while he mumbles his apology.

But Ryan's nothing if not unpredictable these days, and Brendon startles when he feels a warm body press up against him, Ryan's gangly arms wrapping around him, face tucking into the back of Brendon's neck, and it's maybe the best thing he's felt in forever.

"'M sorry," Ryan whispers.

Brendon reaches up, squeezes his hand and doesn't let go.

It's such a relief to breathe again, to feel his muscles settle and relax, that he almost forgets everything he wanted to say.

He shifts a little, over onto his back, but Ryan stays plastered against him, adjusting himself as Brendon moves.

"It was just a few months, last summer," he starts softly. Ryan keeps quiet, nestled close. "It wasn't -- it didn't end badly, at all, it just. Reminded me of how fucking hopeless I am with relationships, and I just. Didn't want to be reminded of it. I knew you'd analyze it and pick it apart and I just wanted to not think about it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. And I'm sorry I... said stuff."

Ryan pulls back, just enough for their eyes to meet. "I'm sorry I'm a critical asshole. I'll try not to be." His head settles again at Brendon's shoulder, a sigh escaping him. "And, you're not hopeless, Bren. Just 'cause you haven't had a lot of relationship experience, that doesn't mean anything. I mean, look at me, I was with Keltie for two and a half years and now I'm alone, right back at square one."

"Yeah, but." Brendon shrugs, his forehead creasing. "You learned stuff from it. You learned... what works in relationships, what doesn't, how to work with each other and relate and all that shit."

"But... you learn that stuff in friendships, too. I mean. Look at us. In the beginning we were at each other's throats all the time, but now... we know each other. We can read each other and we know how to make things better, or worse if we're feeling pissy... We know how to calm each other down, and we certainly know how to push each other's buttons. It's not all that different."

"Yeah..." Brendon smiles, nudging him, "just a lot less orgasms."

Ryan smiles, and there's that kind of pause that would just be awkward with anyone else, but with them, it's comfortable silence, listening to the insects outside Brendon's open window.

"Did you..." Ryan starts, a little hesitant. "Did you guys have fun at least? You and Shane?"

"Yeah... yeah, we did. It was nice."

"Can I ask... what..."

Brendon shrugs. "We just... realized it wasn't gonna go any further, that we weren't gonna like, fall in love or anything, so we figured it was probably best to just... stop while we were ahead."

Ryan nods, thoughtful, curling his knees up. "Well it's kind of amazing that you're still best friends. I mean. Not a lot of people can just go back to where they were before."

"Yeah."

"I don't think we could."

"What?"

Ryan looks up. "You and me. If we... y'know. I can't imagine we could ever just go back to... friends."

Brendon tries not to read into it, but it's Ryan. There's never nothing to read into.

He glances down at his chest, at the way his t-shirt bunches up from his position. "That doesn't say much for our friendship. Why would you think that?"

"'Cause," Ryan shrugs. "I think we'd fall in love really hard. It's just the way we both are. And then... one of us would hurt the other, and then it would just be this, like, meltdown, like a shift in the universe. I don't think things could ever be normal again."

There's such a collision of emotion at his words; Brendon can't decide whether to be hopeful or terrified.

But when he says, "I'd never hurt you, Ryan," it feels like the world's ultimate truth; like he means it more than he's ever meant anything.

Ryan looks at him. "I wouldn't either."

"What makes you think we'd break up, anyway?" Brendon smirks, poking him, trying to keep it light and rhetorical, even though he feels like he might die if he doesn't get the answer.

Ryan smiles. "You'd get sick of me."

He smiles back. "Would've already gotten sick of you by now, dumbass. Face it, Ross, you'd be stuck with me. We'd be that old couple who sits on their porch and yells at kids to get off their lawn." Ryan laughs, his tiny body shaking against Brendon's. "And hey, you're halfway there already, with your scarves and grandpa hats and -- "

"Shut up!" Ryan squeaks, shoving Brendon with his own pillow. Brendon struggles weakly for a moment, only stopping when Ryan's smile is bright enough to compensate for the room's dim lighting. It falters though, fading as all of Ryan's smiles inevitably must. "So... no more unnecessary secrets?"

"Deal."

It seems enough to satisfy Ryan, who settles back down until one bony knee is bent and draped halfway over Brendon's, his hand fisted at Brendon's side, breath even and warm as it releases against Brendon's t-shirt.

"Tell me your biggest secret," Ryan mumbles into his shirt.

Brendon smiles to himself, not letting his mind acknowledge how much that would mean. Instead he just smiles and says, "Can't," and holds his breath until he's convinced Ryan won't press it.

"You want to tell me yours?" Brendon asks after a silence, and it's a long shot, but he wants to give Ryan the opportunity if it was confession he was after; and part of Brendon desperately just wants to know.

Ryan shrugs, and he's quiet long enough that Brendon thinks it's over, maybe this isn't going anywhere after all, until Ryan opens his mouth, lips soft against Brendon's shirt.

"I feel like my dad's suicide was my fault."

Brendon stiffens instinctively, hand tightening around Ryan's, not even realizing their fingers were still entwined, and is half convinced he actually heard his own heart shatter.

"Ryan."

"Like, no, I -- I know logically it's unfair, like, to myself, but. I feel guilty. I feel like I just made his life harder."

"Ryan, I. Jesus, all kids make their parents' lives harder. But -- they also make their lives so much more beautiful, and it's the parents' choice to decide which they're gonna focus on. Not -- like, not to say anything against your dad. I mean, I'm not excusing his actions either but like... he was in a lot of pain, and sometimes when you're in a lot of pain you can't see the good. I think... maybe he was too afraid that he wasn't going to be a good father. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, y'know?"

Ryan nods against him, and Brendon shivers, feeling a world of worry swell up in him, imagining what other horrible thoughts Ryan might be hiding, what other guilt or fear could be pent up in his tiny, precious little self.

"Fear is so scary-powerful," Brendon whispers, half to himself. "Never, ever let it win, Ryan. Promise me."

"I promise."

And Brendon won't realize till later how much that means, that Ryan would promise him something that meaningful just because Brendon asked. That Ryan never promises anyone anything; scarcely believes in promises, in forever, in permanence. In himself.

Brendon wonders when it changed. What changed it.

If... maybe he...

His mind stops.

He's never hoped that far, and he won't start now.

+++

Brendon's always loved the cabin like this, in the middle of the night when everyone's asleep. There aren't many parts of his life that are silent, or still -- at least not for long, before some diversion or noise or crowd interrupts -- not even his own house is quiet. Always pets or roommates, stray visitors at odd hours, or even just noises of the streets outside. But here everything is still. Everything sleeps, and it's one of those precious few moments Brendon feels at peace.

He doesn't plan to wake up, but it happens here sometimes, not used to sleeping in such absolute silence, save for the insects if his window's left open. He shuffles downstairs, his half-awake brain begging for bread, delicious bread, oh god bread forever, BREAD! -- a simple but powerful request, and he's already in the kitchen, one arm reaching out prematurely for the fridge door, when the shadows shift and the fridge light appears and a figure jumps back.

"Jesus!"

"Nah, it's jus' me," Brendon slurs, yawning and rubbing at his eyes until he can see --

Until he can see.

Oh, Jesus indeed.

Ryan's Ryan, that much is certain, it's not a burgler, and, haha, Brendon suddenly has awesome images of Burlger Ryan, some epic faily character in a Woody Allen movie, but none of those images -- not one -- compares to the one in front of him now, the real image, the one that's burned itself into his mind for all eternity with a single glance.

Ryan's in underwear.

Scratch that. That would be half normal.

Ryan's in girls' underwear.

It's hard to tell in the dark but they look simple enough, satiny dark blue, no frilly nonsense or bows or thongs, just a tiny strip of lace around the edges. It doesn't look like the itchy kind of lace, though, but soft, like the rest of the material, hugging the hipbones that jut out over the top of the fabric.

"Um."

"Oh my god, you did not just -- "

"What!"

"Brendon, you pinched yourself."

"Dude, this is -- you're -- "

"You're not dreaming -- oh my god, you dream about this?!"

"I -- no! No! But dude! This isn't normal, okay!"

Ryan frowns, wrapping his arms protectively around himself and backing up against the counter. "I'm not a freak."

"Oh my god, no, not -- " Brendon rolls his eyes, regrettably wide awake. "That's not what I -- dude, no. I just meant, it's not normal for you, like, this is like, new. I was -- " And he can't help it, oh god, he's laughing. "I was just -- " Laughing! "-- surprised."

He really, honestly expects to be punched, or yelled at, at least, but Ryan breaks into a smile with him, burying his face in his palms as he chuckles.

It doesn't last, and they're silent again after a moment, but Ryan's face is calm, unthreatened as he shrugs, smirking: a little sheepish but all coy. "I'm allowed a couple secrets."

Brendon bites his lip against another outburst, still smiling. "Fair enough, fair enough."

...So.

"So... like..."

"It's not a thing," Ryan establishes.

"Right, no, okay."

"Like, I don't... get off on it or anything, it's just..."

"I -- okay. That's. Okay."

A pair of toast slices pop up from the toaster, only then reminding Brendon of why he's here and why Ryan must be here too, obviously; midnight cravings cultivated by life on a bus -- and oh, hey, BREAD.

And just like that, the issue... isn't one.

Ryan butters the toast methodically, handing one slice to Brendon, who hops up on the counter and wolfs it down in one bite. Ryan reopens the bread bag and stuffs another two slices in, leaning lazily back against the counter while he waits, chomping quietly on his own piece.

"So..."

"You can ask, Brendon," Ryan smiles at the floor.

"No, I just, y'know." Why is he still talking? He can ask. He's totally going to ask. "So like... it's just... yeah, okay, I'm asking."

Ryan shrugs, turning the butter knife over in his hand, sliding one finger over the handle, a little nervous but barely. "It's like... it sounds really lame, but it kind of... reaffirms my own masculinity."

...Leave it to Ryan to make this impossible to understand.

"Um. Wearing chicks' panties makes you feel like a man?"

"Not... exactly," Ryan protests, but he's smiling. "It's like... when I'm feeling especially weak, or powerless. Like I was earlier... it helps. Like, it makes me feel stronger, knowing I'm not a woman -- which is, god, like, totally, primitive sexist alpha-male bullshit, and completely embarrassing that it even works, but. It just. It does. Somehow. I don't know."

His eyes are wide and searching for reassurance when he looks up at Brendon, who's trying not to think about the fact that primitive sexist alpha-male bullshit is actually weirdly hot. Especially on Ryan.

"That's actually pretty cool," he says.

Ryan shrugs.

"And dude, like, that's totally a band name. Primitive Sexist Alpha-Male Bullshit."

"Yeah? What genre were you thinking, like... screamo?"

"Nah, nah, it'd have to be like..." Brendon narrows his eyes in focus, automatically shoving a new piece of toast down his throat when Ryan presents it to him. "Like, post-punk heavy metal grunge rock."

Ryan laughs. "Is that a real genre?"

Brendon grins at him, teeth covered in toast mush. "It should be."

"We'll make it one."

"Hell yeah, next album."

They bump fists to seal the deal, man to man, and everything should be upside down in this moment, but somehow it's not. Somehow, everything's so much the same Brendon wonders if any of this happened at all.

If anything's changed, it's how hard he's fallen.

How hard he's falling still.

And he's still living in doubts, doubts from forever ago, but with Ryan's eyes on him the way they are now, laughing and affectionate, trusting, he starts to think maybe, once he's done falling and hits bottom... Ryan might actually be there to catch him.

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LOVE IT!
When i saw you posted a new chapter i was STOKED and you didn't let me down :D
can't wait for the next one!!!

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