(no subject)

[behindthec]

continued from here.


+++



It's the best hangover ever.

No, it is. Ryan's awake first and cooks up a pile of hashbrowns, extra greasy to settle their stomachs, and Brendon will never know what makes fried food such a good counter-hangover, just that it's one of life's sweetest natural wonders.

Then Ryan announces a yoga-free day and Brendon collapses gratefully on the sofa with a groan, making extra effort to slacken his posture as much as possible, knowing the freedom won't last, and by the next morning it'll be all lengthened spines and taut stomachs as usual.

Halfway through a Simpsons marathon -- in which the pit of laziness had dug itself so deep that Brendon, slumped against Ryan's side, complained for twenty minutes how badly he had to pee but refused to get up and actually do it -- Pete sends them a text, friendly and casual like they weren't engaged in war a scant twelve hours ago, that says, you guys shoudl cover bohemian rahpsody on ur nxt tour. boss's orders.

Ryan rolls his eyes and types back, thx for the confidence but no one plays that live, dumbass. not even queen.

that would be b/c mercury's dead. watch ur tenses, Pete responds, and Ryan visibly seethes.

"I can't believe he called you on grammar," Brendon gasps in awe for the third time, as Ryan types back another furious protest.

Pete concludes, spoils of war. have preliminary arragnement ready by 10pm 2nite or i post recordings of last nights phone convos on my blog. yes i have them.

"He's lying," Ryan scoffs.

Brendon swallows hard. "Do you really want to find out?"


+++


It starts as a mess, frayed nerves and daunting expectations, but by the end of the day Brendon starts to feel like they've won instead, because it's not like he hasn't begged the band a hundred and one times to cover this, and he'd learned most of the piano by ear by the time he entered high school. He even gets in about two hours' worth of gushing over Freddie Mercury before Ryan politely interrupts to inform Brendon there is probably enough room in his grave for two, if Brendon doesn't shut the fuck up and track the drums already.

The best part is that it feels like old times, fucking around with the ghetto inner workings of GarageBand, fighting to find the right sound, the right take -- so unlike the professional studio milieu that's spoiled them for years. It takes them back, and Brendon feels younger, even freer, despite the limitations of their resources; and despite the pressure, Ryan's smiles come easier, brighter; disputes are fewer, more manageable, and Brendon wonders how things might have been different, then, if they'd known what they know now. If they'd known each other as they do now.

In a way, it's the first time the contrast has ever really hit him with this much force, this much clarity -- how far they've come.

By dinnertime they have a file, one delicious, six-minute file, rough but workable, and Brendon's voice is shot, fingers practically bleeding, but they did it, they own it, it's part of them, and no matter what Pete says, victory is theirs.

They should've known it wouldn't be that easy.

videochat, Pete requests, succinct and non-negotiable, and Ryan swears a blue streak.

"Hey, fuckers," Pete grins wide, toothy and pixelated on the laptop screen, and Brendon recognizes the muted, low-lit surroundings of a club.

"Where are you?" Ryan asks.

"In my office at Angels and Kings."

"Don't you have, like, businesses to run, kids to raise?"

"I'm in Chicago all week. Come on, show me what you got."

Brendon clears his throat, microphone in place as he takes his seat by the piano, and turns one last time to the computer. "I'd just like to announce we both hate you. And Twitter. Long live Queen."

And it's half pointless like this, just Ryan on guitar and Brendon on piano, both in low-hung pajama pants and faded band tees (Brendon even having squeezed into his old Queen shirt from junior high, the one he'd hidden from his parents for three years), hair sticking up in all directions, with only pre-recorded tracks of bass and drums to back them up. But it doesn't seem to matter once they launch into the music, voices worn but harmonies thriving, all exhaustion set aside for passion, and in more moments than not, Brendon finds it hard to sing for how hard he's smiling, and Ryan meets him, their eyes locking like they would on stage, drawing them into each other, into the music, and it's not perfect, but it is, all the more so for its messy realism, the raw energy they could only ever get from this, from each other.

They're so wrapped up in it as they finish that it's a good ten seconds before they register the monstrous applause thundering through the laptop speakers, nearly blowing them to bits.

Wide eyes jerk toward the screen, and Pete, manic grin and all, is slowly sliding out of frame as he shifts the computer to reveal the entirety of the club, hundreds of people packed into the tiny space, crammed into the frame, cheering their performance. Brendon recognizes a few faces, Bill and Mike and Siska, Nick and De'Mar, Tom, Jon and Spence (fucking traitors), but mostly it's strangers, fans off the street, and sweet mother of god, Pete planned this.

Ryan turns to Brendon, jaw gaping open and face snow-white.

Pete reappears in the frame before they can react. "Thanks, guys," he yells over the cheers. "Victory's sweet, but this is sweeter. Love you."

The image freezes; iChat emits a beep, and he's gone.

Slowly, Ryan sets down his guitar, bending shaky legs until he's curled up on the floor beside the piano bench, and leans over to rest his head on Brendon's thigh.

"Can we sue for that?"

Brendon laughs. "Come on, it was awesome."

"So embarrassing."

"Dude, we were great! You were great! You fuckin' rocked that solo, man, and everyone saw it!"

Ryan looks up, hair falling out of his eyes. "Yeah?"

"Dude, yeah."

Ryan watches him for a second, his smile stretching wide as he lifts his head, pulling himself up to his knees and bracing his hands on either side of Brendon's thighs on the bench, eyes zeroed in on Brendon's like he's the only thing left in the world for Ryan to see.

And it's --

It's there.

Time doesn't exist and it's two years ago, and they're there.

And Brendon -- he can't.

He can't, not again. Not that.

Ryan's closer, and then all Brendon can see are his eyes, and maybe that's all he's ever seen, just Ryan's eyes, watching them for the slightest shift, the barest hint that there might be anything mirrored from Brendon's own.

Ryan swallows; blinks.

Brendon says, "Come on, I'll make you dinner."

And it's.

It's like... a golf ball, rolling slowly, steadily toward the flag post, one straight line and it's so clear, you know it's going in -- but at the last minute it swerves, curling around the rim of the hole and rolling off into another direction, like it never almost-happened.

A thousand moments, a thousand dominos; remove just one, and the whole journey is lost.

Slowly, Ryan nods, and Brendon wonders what it would've been like to fall, instead of swerve.


+++


"I don't wanna brush my teeth."

That's as much warning as Brendon gets before Ryan flops face-down on the bed -- which, okay, not that a warning was really in order, seeing as it's Ryan's bed, but Brendon claimed it for an after-dinner nap and never really left, because it's squishier than his (to compensate for Ryan's lack of padding, per the original argument). But suddenly it's midnight and he's wasted -- he's spent -- the last two hours sprawled sideways across the mattress, head and arms and feet hanging off, debating with Shane via text over the propriety of Internet lingo in real-life speech.

Brendon types a quick, final b/c i said so dickface and clicks his phone shut, giving Ryan his attention. "Did I say you had to?"

"No, but I'll be all gross in the morning if I don't."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Open up. Lemme see." Ryan opens his mouth, grinning big, and Brendon pretends to inspect. "I don't see anything with legs, so you're fine."

"Your standards of personal hygiene are extraordinary."

"Yeah, did I mention I jerked off all over your pillow?"

Ryan smiles, not the tight-lipped, indulgent smile he would've once given, but a genuine one, one that tells Brendon he's accepted for who he is, lame-ass jokes and bad habits and all.

"You should smile like that more often," Brendon says softly.

"Why?"

"Because it's beautiful."

He says it with an underlying implication of "duh," like it's the most obvious fact in the world. And maybe it's just too easy -- the time of night, the quiet, the way they're looking at each other with some sort of implicit expectation neither is willing to state. It reminds him of last night, when he told Ryan he was pretty, but there was darkness and alcohol then and now they're sober, vision solid over the dim light from the desk lamp across the room, and it's not -- it's not okay, anymore.

Eventually, Ryan stares down at the floor. "Maybe I don't care about being beautiful."

Brendon shrugs. "Then smile because it makes me smile, and you've said I have the most beautiful smile you've ever seen."

Ryan eyes him suspiciously, lips quirking. "You're such sap; Jesus. When did I say that?"

"Ages ago, when you were drunk."

Ryan smiles. "I remember."

Brendon smiles back, but looks away, because he can't remember this with eye contact.

"You hear the crickets?" Ryan asks after a minute.

Brendon nods, pulling himself a little further off the bed and stretching an arm out toward the window, pushing the glass up as far as he can manage until the screen is bared, and the gentle, rhythmic chirping becomes clear, soothing and sleepy in the brush below.

"Worst memory?" Ryan asks.

Brendon considers it for a moment, but his mind has grown practiced in raking over his memories, his thoughts, his opinions, after the last couple weeks of this; the way they'll find themselves in silence, lost in the stillness of a moment, and launch into a series of random probing questions -- best memory, worst school experience, favorite meal, most embarrassing story. It's been like a new lens on an old camera, finding out things about each other they were surprised to realize they hadn't known in the first place.

Brendon takes a breath, releases it slow. "Coming out to my parents."

He can feel Ryan's eyes on him, and then, the press of Ryan's lips against his shoulder, brief.

"I thought I'd lost them. I mean. Like. I actually thought I'd lost my family, for good."

"Yeah," Ryan whispers, his hand rubbing small circles into Brendon's arm. "I remember."

"Yours?" Brendon asks.

Ryan's quiet for a moment, and Brendon's come to learn it's not because he's searching for an answer -- Ryan tends to have himself analyzed pretty well, catalogued and categorized for whatever sort of cross-referencing self-exploration may arise -- but rather, because he's searching for the words. Words are his gift, but they don't always come easily to him. Sometimes he has to go to them instead, find a way to let them in, work them around in his mind before he can release them again.

"When I was fourteen," he says, "my dad got... like, the drunkest he ever got. And he hit me a few times. It wasn't... it could've been a lot worse, but I was out of school for a week. It's the only time he was ever... that kind of drunk. He didn't speak to me for weeks after. Not 'cause he was still mad, just... because he felt so guilty. So ashamed. And I didn't know what to say to tell him it was okay, that I forgave him... so I didn't say anything."

Brendon just -- he can't. Words, oxygen, even thoughts escape him. Ryan doesn't -- doesn't do this, is never open like this. The things he's been admitting, the way he's been so afraid when he confesses, Brendon's started to wonder if some of these things Ryan's never even told Spencer. If maybe Ryan's waited years just for the right moment to let it all out -- and Brendon doesn't know why it's him, here, now... but he'll take it.

Ryan looks at him when he's silent for too long, eyes searching, but Brendon doesn't have words.

"What?"

"I -- I just." Brendon takes a breath, trying to focus on the crickets; the solid, grounding hum of their voices. "Whenever I think about you getting hurt, I -- I can physically feel it, like, something clenching in my chest, and I kind of can't... breathe properly."

Ryan's face softens. "That's because you love me."

Brendon meets his eyes before he can stop it, before he can think, This?? This, now, seriously, what?

"Um..."

"I mean," Ryan shrugs, looking away. "That's how I feel when I think of you in pain... or Spencer, or Jon."

"...Oh."

Ryan turns back, but there's a glint in his eyes this time, something significant enough to tear Brendon out of his disappointment, if only for now. "Weirdest place you ever had sex."

Brendon chuckles. "Oh, god... up against Academy's bus, while they were in it."

Ryan's eyes widen. "With who?!"

"Jack Marin."

"Ugh!" Ryan huffs, half amused, half indignant as he squares his shoulders, chin held high and eyes on the window. "I always knew Marin was a little whore."

Brendon snorts. "Uh... not so little, actually."

"Brendon!"

"Whatever, you asked," Brendon giggles. "You?"

Ryan sighs. "I dunno. Nowhere."

"Come on!"

"Nothing tops yours."

"Aw, come on, Ross, I bet you could top me."

And he doesn't even try to belittle it, doesn't even try to hide the way his eyebrow creeps upward, the way his lips curl into a smirk -- seductive, classic -- as Ryan turns to look at him.

Ryan smirks back. "Whatever, gas station bathroom with Jac."

"Gross, man. Talk about personal hygiene."

"Oh, but the side of a bus is clearly germ-free."

"Whatever. Kay, I'm gonna get really dirty. You ready?"

"...Uh-huh."

"Biggest kink."

"Oh, Jesus."

"Come on! I've answered all your stuff."

"That's just... no."

Brendon pokes him, grinning. "What, are you into really nasty shit like watersports?"

"Ew, no! That's disgusting."

"Then spill. No pun intended."

Ryan shrugs, ducking his head. "You go first."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Fine. Um. Okay."

Well fuck if Ryan wasn't right; it's embarrassing as hell.

But that's, maybe, vaguely related to the fact that at one point or another, he's imagined doing every last one of these with Ryan. Or to Ryan. Or. Oh, god.

But that's then, and this is now, and Ryan's watching him and Brendon can do this, he can.

"Uh... I..." He scratches nervously at his head. "I... like being tied up. I mean, I love topping, but... it's pretty hot to give up control sometimes."

Ryan smiles. "That's all? That's not so weird. I like that too."

Images, oh god, images.

"Well... that's not... all, per se... I'm kind of a slut for getting fingered, so."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Ryan swallow, slow and hard, his Adam's apple bobbing down and back up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Don't even have to be touched, I can get off just from that."

"Jesus, Bren."

His voice is tiny, choked and a little unsteady, like if it could topple over, it would, and Brendon can't look at him, holy shit.

"And, uh..." He's talking? Why is he still talking?! "I... kinda have a big thing for snowballing."

"...Which is?"

Oh, lord.

"Um." And Brendon, fuck, he can feel his face going hot, and why is he suddenly fifteen? He's twenty-two, a fucking rock star, and he can't articulate his favorite sex act? Brendon totally fails life forever. "It's, uh... when a guy comes in your mouth, but instead of swallowing, you kiss him, and..."

"...Oh."

"Yeah."

"That's pretty hardcore."

Brendon laughs. "Dude, hardcore is like... fucking corset piercings, or like... suspension or some shit, or... I dunno, getting fucked with two dicks at once."

"That's possible?!"

"Uh, yeah. Snowballing's pretty vanilla as kinks go."

"Oh."

Ryan's staring at the floor, and Brendon can't tell from the angle if he's smiling, or if he just looks... disappointed, or horrified, or. Okay, aroused is probably not an option, but his cheeks are flushed and hey, Brendon can dream.

"Your turn."

Ryan sighs, resigned to his fate, and fixes his eyes firmly on the giant dust bunny on the floor beneath the bedspread. "Rimming."

"Uh, yes please?" Brendon laughs, nervous and stupid because he's fifteen again, Jesus. "Serious?"

"Yeah."

"Uh... giving, or... receiving?"

"Both."

"...I see."

Oh, god, does he ever see. He sees Ryan on his hands and knees, head resting on his folded elbows; he sees himself behind him, tongue pressing against --

"...And, uh." Ryan swallows again, and there seems to be this cloud of conflict on his face, like he doesn't really understand why he's still talking, either. "I... kind of... have a thing for... wrists."

"...Wrists."

"Yeah. Like." Ryan shifts, just a bit, closing his own fingers over one such wrist, squeezing lightly, his eyes darting up to Brendon's. "Y'know."

Brendon sort of dies a little.

He says, "Oh."

He can't stop looking. Ryan, Ryan's hands, Ryan's fingers, his wrist, the inky lines of his tattoos, the snaking veins raised over the flesh...

"Dude, don't -- " Ryan smiles nervously, ducking his head. "Don't stare at me, I've never told anyone that."

"I'm -- no, I'm not. I just. I hadn't... thought. I mean. I wouldn't have guessed."

Because it's like -- it's like this: Brendon had been living a life deprived of, say, weed, up to this moment. Knew it existed, vaguely, but never really gave it much thought. And now he's just had his first hit. And suddenly it's all he can think about, all he can narrow his focus to; all he wants, ever.

Ryan shrugs. The dust bunny, apparently, is enthralling.

"So you..." Brendon starts, awkward.

But Ryan looks at him, which only makes it worse, and at the same time easier, because it gives Brendon something to ground himself with, even if that something is Ryan's eyes. And he can feel it, physically, a hot jolt of freedom, the moment his brain disconnects with his body, and then his hand is reaching out -- just a few inches; they're close -- and closing around the wrist Ryan's released, Ryan's hands limp as they hang over the edge of the bed. He doesn't squeeze tight but he does squeeze, just a test. And it's a reeling sensation, the way Ryan's body goes taut, rigid and stiff and frozen, but it's weak, teetering, like he's fighting it, like all he wants to do is keen, melt into the touch, let it turn him to putty in Brendon's hands.

Ryan looks up, and the brain-body disconnect keeps Brendon from reading his eyes, but it's not like he can turn back now.

"So..." He smiles, just a little, just to take the edge off. "So this gets you -- "

Ryan's eyes drop, sharp. "Brendon."

And it's over -- a swerve that was almost a drop. Brendon jerks his hand away and bites his lip and prays to any god that will listen that he can crawl into a hole and die now, please, thanks.

But Ryan -- fuck, Ryan just looks up, gives him a crooked little smile like it's nothing.

"Not fair," he says pointedly, one eyebrow raised, and nudges Brendon's shoulder.

Brendon smiles back. "Sorry."

"You're such an asshole."

"I know."

He bumps Ryan's shoulder, reciprocal, and lets himself flop flat against the mattress. Ryan follows soon enough, their eyes closed as the crickets chirp away like nothing happened. At one point, someone gets up to turn off the light. They might listen for an hour, maybe two, Brendon can't tell. Just silence, and crickets. Sometimes the crickets will stop, for a breath or two, and they can hear other bugs. A distant ripple of the lake. Bullfrogs, rustling leaves. A raccoon, maybe. And it's kind of extraordinary that everything keeps going, keeps living -- even them. It's like they just keep pushing and pushing toward that point of no return, and falling short every time, falling back to where they were. But whatever ice they're skating on gets thinner every time, and every time they fall back, they make another crack in the surface.

Brendon's half asleep, and metaphors aren't much use after midnight, but it makes more sense than it should. Right now it's about the only thing left that makes sense at all.

"Brendon?"

"I know, I'm going, I'm going," Brendon mumbles, shifting and trying to work up the energy to pull himself off the bed, down the hall to his own room.

"No, I was just -- " Ryan's hand shoots out, closing around Brendon's wrist and sliding down to his fingers as Brendon starts to move. "I meant, stay. You can stay."

So Brendon stays.

He lies back down, carefully, closes his eyes against the darkness, and waits -- five minutes, ten, twenty -- for Ryan to let go of his hand.

He doesn't.