Back To The Place [5/8]
Mar. 18th, 2009 07:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
behindthecTitle: Back To The Place [5/8]
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lolab
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Fiction as far as I know.
Dedication:alphabetatoast for cello!fic; redorchids for the beautiful lyrics (more to come); livinglifeloud and stereotypeloser for nitpicking the French with me.
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: Hey, try to guess which Traumatizing Sex Tale was stolen from Colin's real life! Anyway, hold your patience a little longer. Chapter 6 is... something-er. By the way, this now exists.
Please visit the master post for previous chapters, notes, track listing, etc.
5.
Maybe he's going crazy. Ryan always said he would.
There's piano, live from somewhere, soft but clear, and Brendon looks down at his hands: he hasn't touched the keys all day. Ryan hasn't in months, Jon's glued to Brendon's side, and Spencer doesn't play.
Maybe today's all a dream.
Brendon never would've thought he'd wish into a dream the day Ryan Ross kissed him, but after said kiss, there may be nothing that surprises him ever again.
The music stops.
Spencer's hunched over the kitchen table with a cup of murky looking coffee, sparing Jon a halfhearted glare at having to make his own, inferior and tasteless to Jon's magic brew; but his eyes choose Brendon as their destination, softening as Brendon stares back, taking in Spencer's tired face and limp, scruffy hair, frustrated fingers having raked through the strands one time too many.
He -- motherfucker, he knows.
Brendon doesn't know if he's mad at Ryan for telling, mad at Spencer for knowing, or mad at himself for being too tired to be mad at anyone.
"I'm... uh, shower," Jon mumbles, squeezing Brendon's fingers and slipping from the room, cupping one hand gently over Spencer's shoulder as he leaves.
"Music room," Spencer says to his coffee.
"What?"
"Ryan. That's where he is."
Brendon swallows. "I wasn't -- I didn't."
But he was, and he did, and Spencer looks up, and he knows.
Brendon hangs his head and just, walks, lets his feet shuffle him across the floor, listless, toward the living room.
"Bren."
It's soft, softer than his eyes, even his touch, as Brendon feels a hand on his hip, guiding him back around until he and Spencer are eye to eye. Brendon looks down into sharp blue, just dark enough to lose himself, but bright enough to remind him he can't. He remembers how bright they looked in the dark, just the two of them in the hotel room after the club, no drama, just smiles; heated breaths and shallow gasps, Just tonight? Just tonight -- and he wonders, suddenly, how much easier his life might've been if he could've just fallen in love with Spencer or Jon instead.
Spencer slips his hand into Brendon's, squeezing. It's gentler than Jon's touch, in intent, but all the same harder, tighter; drummers tend to have a skewed awareness of their own strength.
Brendon squeezes back with all he's got.
"It'll be fine," Spencer says.
Sometimes, Brendon thinks, lies are underrated.
The notes start up again, quieter, when Brendon reaches the door of the music room. Distantly registering Chopin, he pushes inside and there's -- well, perfection is the word his brain offers, and even though said brain is tired and frayed, nostalgic and romantic and sad, he's not about to fight it.
It's nothing special, to anyone else: it's just a boy -- a man, they're adults now, sometimes it's hard to remember when you feel this small and helpless -- at the piano, tree-length spine curved slightly in concentration, head bent over the keys as he glances back and forth from his fingers to the open book. He sighs, pausing and repeating the same measure over and over with a forced deliberation, altering the tempo or the rhythm; but he isn't satisfied, and each time the line of tension drawn between his shoulders grows thicker, tighter.
"It's C," Brendon says quietly.
Ryan's posture straightens, but he doesn't turn around, just stares straight ahead out the window, past the night-blackened glass, catching Brendon in the reflection.
Brendon takes the silence as allowance, stepping forward and breathing out relief when Ryan slowly slides over on the bench, making room for him. He slips into the space, trying to make himself as small as possible, not to let their bodies touch, and lifts a hand to the book.
"See, the little square with the lines -- that means you don't play it sharp, it's just regular C."
Ryan sighs. "I always forget that. I'm used to playing by ear."
"'S'okay." Breathe, in, out, they're talking. They're talking music, and everything's fine. Spencer was right, it's fine. "It sounds really fucking good, though."
Ryan shrugs, shoulders hunching further as he curls in on himself, eyes on the keys.
"I didn't know you were learning this."
"You told me to," Ryan says.
"I -- what?"
Ryan turns, and something about eye contact always makes you feel twenty times closer to the person than you actually are. "Like... right after we met? When I told you I wanted to learn, study something classical. You said I should try Chopin. Said it would like, 'suit me' or something."
Brendon doesn't know whether to cry or sing out; to think that Ryan remembered. Remembered something so small, so long ago, even though he realizes it wasn't small at all, and now it feels like yesterday.
"It does," he says softly. "Chopin's kind of... sad, sometimes. Romantic without meaning to be... it's gentle, soft. Sometimes people don't realize how much there is to it because it's quiet, because it sounds nice, fades easily into the background. But there's a lot going on under the surface that you don't really see or feel until you play it."
He doesn't know where the words are coming from; maybe it's just music, a language on its own, separate from English, separate from the part of his brain filled with empty, human words, all the things he wants to say to Ryan and can't.
Maybe... maybe this says more.
"Music is everything to you, isn't it?" Ryan says without looking up.
Brendon blinks back a sudden prick behind his eyelids. "Not everything."
Ryan stares at the keys, bottom lip caught mercilessly between his teeth.
"Hey, let's try -- " Brendon shifts his position a bit, hands hovering over the keys as his eyes scan the sheet music. "This version's got the second piano."
"What?"
"There's an arrangement that -- see this part, below the first bar line -- it's for a second piano, or a second pair of hands -- I can play it in the lower octaves. It sounds amazing, you wanna try?"
For a moment, Ryan's still, like he's considering whether or not this means anything it shouldn't.
In the end, he nods.
"'Kay." Brendon's voice is low, soft, so as not to disturb the piece they're about to bring to life, or the delicate balance they're both teetering in -- at least if they fall, maybe the music will catch them. Their hands hover in place, and Brendon watches Ryan stroke out the first note before he joins in. It feels like the same thing he always waits for, Ryan's lead, simply for the opportunity to follow.
The concerto movement springs tenfold from the instrument as four hands sink into the keys, richer and fuller, the sounds vibrant, lush, vibrations resounding through their fingers and all through their bodies, and Brendon's eyes drop shut as they near the climax, everything suddenly too much. The music filling every atom of oxygen in the air until they're breathing it, tasting it; the press of Ryan's hip against his, the way their forearms brush as their notes overlap; and, almost as an afterthought, the beaded bracelet bearing Brendon's name that is still, still circled around Ryan's wrist, just as one similar, bearing Ryan's name, is wrapped around Brendon's, an old gesture in half jest and veiled intent -- still, after all these years, enough years for them to forget how much it was never allowed to mean.
So, what, we belong to each other now?
Yeah. You're stuck with me.
Brendon never forgot.
He was sure Ryan would take it off after a few hours of indulgence, before the night's show, but he never did, and Brendon swore he'd never let himself ask why.
The memory fades with the music, and it's long moments before Brendon opens his eyes. For some reason he expects to see Ryan staring at him, waiting so he can tell Brendon everything he wants to hear, explain himself and the kiss and the universe, and Brendon will take him up to his bed and make love to him with all the cliches, all the nonsense and impossible perfection it's bound to be.
Ryan's still staring at the keys.
"That was beautiful," he whispers, and it sounds like an answer.
"It was," Brendon breathes, eyes on Ryan.
When Ryan turns, the angle changes everything, his eyes shining precariously, the muscles of his forehead bunched together. He looks like an apology.
Brendon squeezes his fists together to keep from reaching out. "Can we talk?"
Ryan's breath spills out slowly, imperceptibly if they weren't so close. "I think... we should... maybe... just -- "
-- forget it.
Brendon feels his jaw clench, teeth pressing hard together as his eyes fall to his lap.
"Bren -- I just. It was -- "
-- a mistake.
"Please," Ryan whispers. "I think it's for the best."
Because there's nothing left to do, Brendon nods.
"Brendon, I love you. You know I -- "
His voice is weakening, cracking and high-pitched and, he can't. Brendon can't sit here and watch Ryan break down and refuse to talk and. He can do a lot, tolerate a lot, keep his strength for a lot, but this, he can't.
"It's okay," Brendon says, pulling himself to his feet. "I'm just. It's late. I'm. Bed."
"Brendon."
When he turns around, Ryan's on his feet, inches away and that stubborn one inch taller, and Brendon doesn't get a chance to be blindsided by the pain in Ryan's face because Ryan's face is suddenly pressed into his shoulder, arms wrapped vice-like around him.
Because there's nothing left to do, Brendon squeezes back, tight the way Ryan likes. Ryan never wants anyone to act like he's too fragile, like he's going to break, so Brendon hugs him the way he hugs Spencer, or Jon, or Shane, or Zack. The only difference is, with the others, Brendon doesn't feel like he's the one about to break.
Ryan responds, tightening, and Brendon can feel the beaded outline of Ryan's bracelet digging into his back.
Because there's nothing left to do, Brendon whispers, "I love you too."
+++
Waking up with a raging boner is nothing out of the norm for Brendon. If you figure it, okay, he spent the first two years of puberty completely repressed, only jerking off eight times and every time feeling so guilty he was terrified to leave his room for fear everyone would know, like there'd be an "I Heart Autoeroticism" sign on his forehead framed in neon lights, visible to everyone but him. Add that to the fact that he's only twenty-two to begin with, and there's probably some mathematical formula for this, maybe, but the point is, all the horny is completely justified.
Waking up with a raging boner in Ryan's bed, well. That's a little weirder, but it's not like it's never happened. Six years sharing buses, hotel rooms, and the cot in Spencer's basement, coupled with the fact that he's been resigned to an ongoing boner with Ryan's name on it for every last one of those years -- well, there's probably another formula for that too, but the law of probability is pretty basic.
Waking up with a raging boner in Ryan's bed with sex noises drifting into his ears from the adjoining bathroom... this is new.
This is the sound of running water, the indistinct layer of steam creeping into the bedroom, thick and hot, carrying the scent of Ryan's shampoo and the tiny, barely audible sounds that only Brendon would ever pick up, but dear god, they're there.
Brendon sits up in the bed, propped on his elbows, torn between relieved and disappointed to find himself still fully clothed, and turns his head to peer out the window, like he's trying to make sure this is all real -- because this is seriously straight out of one of his lamer, less original fantasies. But everything's traitorously intact: He can make out the trees reaching high above the cabin, strips and slices of sunlight stretching through the glass and settling haphazardly across the room, the bedspread, the dresser, the walls, Ryan's copy of Being Zen on the nightstand. Brendon squints through the brightness, imagining the lake just below the line of the window, the tire swing by the shore and the hammock filled with pine needles; the dock that sways amiably when anyone walks across it; and the little rowboat they use to paddle out to the tiny scrap of an island when they're too lazy to swim.
It's all painfully real. Then it's back: from the bathroom, muted through the rush of water, a high-pitched, disconnected sort of squeak-moan that Brendon, if his brain were anywhere in that place, could use as blackmail forever.
But Brendon's brain is not in that place. Brendon's brain has relocated south. Permanently. We're talking retirement condo in Key West.
Motherfucking Ross.
It's silent after that but Brendon's legs are already dragging him out of bed, across the soft pad of carpet. The bathroom door is cracked, pulled to the edge, but Brendon's hand is pushing it open without permission, and he's at once grateful for the support of the doorframe when the image hits him.
His fingers are gripping the white wooden molding of the frame hard enough to break it off, knuckles instantly colorless as his eyes adjust to the haze of steam swirling up through the shower and above the top of the glass sides, a teasing veil to the sight within: Ryan's body stretched long, one arm high above his head and braced against the wall beside the chrome showerhead, fingers curling in vain against the silver-gray ceramic tiles. Brendon's eyes trail over the peach-colored line of his body, down over the slight slump of his shoulders, head bent low to his chest, intensifying the curve of his neck, mouth open and flaming red in the water's heat, eyes shut to the outside world. Down, down further, over the jut of his hips and the delicate arch of his lower back, the S-curve where it meets his ass, and his other hand...
Oh sweet Jesus, his other hand.
There's nothing to see clearly through all the steam, but it's clear enough. Long, heat-loose fingers curled around his erection, stroking slow and lazy, almost teasing, and Brendon is pretty damn sure this has just ruined him for every other fantasy stored in his stockpile, forever and ever amen.
His conscience, mocking him in its lack of use, allows him about five good seconds of staring before something snaps inside him -- something in the form of another tiny, breathy moan from the shower -- that sends Brendon into hyperawareness and running back to -- the bed, Ryan's bed of all places, what the fuck -- scrambling back under the covers to hide his guilt.
Brendon is so, utterly, completely pathetic.
And also very, very fucked.
He spends the next five minutes in clear, Zen-like (ha) focus, eyes clamped shut until they hurt from the effort, fists clenched tightly at his sides, using the kind of focus energy he uses for performing, willing the most disgusting thoughts to fill his mind, ease his dick back into submission. He thinks of the time he walked in on his sister having sex, thinks of the time Dylan found the leftover birthday cake and graciously decided to give it back, all over the carpet. He thinks of Two Girls One Cup (thanks for nothing, Beckett), about cleaning his bathroom, and the time his brother dared him to eat a worm and he did.
It works. His own maturity impresses him (maturity or disturbing repertoire of gross experiences; either way), and he breathes. Long and hard and, oh, words.
But he feels almost normal by the time Ryan emerges, towel wrapped low around his hips, looking startled to find Brendon awake. Something flushes in his cheeks that isn't from the heat, and he blinks.
"Hey."
"Hey," Brendon echoes.
Ryan swallows. "Um. Did I... wake you?"
The quip forms in Brendon's mind like a nasty, prearranged impulse, and he turns onto his side away from Ryan, snuggling down into the pillow and biting his lip.
"Nah, I was already up."
+++
"Un, uh, drink, monsieur?"
Ryan's smiling before he even looks up, squinting over the tops of his ungodly huge sunglasses as he sets down his guitar, accepting the proffered glass with a chuckle.
"Une," he corrects.
"Huh?"
"Une boisson. A drink. 'Boisson' is feminine."
"Psh, you're feminine."
Ryan's foot extends a little awkwardly from where he's sprawled on the dock to kick at Brendon's leg, before Brendon whimpers and sits down next to him, legs dangling over the wooden edge until his bare feet hit the cool water. He briefly considers bursting into another round of "Stacy's Mom," replacing every mention of "Stacy" with "Spencer," but the first three times he'd done it since wartime with Pete and Patrick, Ryan had hit his arm hard enough to bruise and, well, Brendon only has so many arms.
"Since when do you know French?" he muses, sipping the Sprite-vodka-lemonade mix he'd whipped up, closing his eyes against the warm sun as the ice cubes clink together in the glass. "Like you weren't pretentious enough already."
"Had to have four years of a foreign language at my high school, asshole. Unlike your inferior education."
"Hey, I can say 'fuck you' three different ways in Spanish."
"Classy."
"All right then." Brendon turns his head, narrowing his eyes as he grins. "You're so classy, say something in French. Something real."
Ryan rolls his eyes. "No."
"Come on."
"I don't remember any."
"Liar."
"Nag."
"Please?" He's working his puppy eyes now, but it's a weak effort, a last resort; he knows Ryan's immune by now. "One sentence?"
Ryan sighs. "Are we writing music or not?"
Brendon sighs back, harder, just for show. "Can't believe you brought your acoustic out on the dock. One little slip and..."
To demonstrate, he shoves gently at Ryan, watching him instinctively brace his weight with his free arm.
"I will kill you and dump the body in the lake," Ryan informs him casually. "Weigh it down with rocks. No one'll know."
They share a smile, and unbidden in Brendon's mind rise the words I love you.
Luckily, they stay there.
"What were you playing?" Brendon asks.
Ryan shrugs. "Nothing. Just... crap. I can't get it, it doesn't sound right."
"Show me the lyrics."
It's the strangest pause in the world, because Ryan hasn't kept his lyrics secret since a week after they met. Brendon had always figured once they'd opened that door, there was no shutting it, no going back. It's such a small catalyst to ignite the twinge of rejection that surges through him, but.
But it's Ryan.
That's explanation enough -- and yet, never is.
"I don't really have any," Ryan mumbles.
"You never write music without lyrics."
Ryan shrugs again.
"Dude, I -- what the hell? You've never -- lemme see. Please?"
Ryan's eyes meet his, suddenly, bright golden amber in the bright afternoon sun, dark and liquid in hot contrast to the pale, smooth planes of his bare torso. Brendon can see his fingers tightening around the notebook laid open on the wooden surface by his side, and finally, they squeeze around the edge, handing it to Brendon as his eyes drop.
"It's just. A couple lines, it's nothing."
Tenting one hand over his eyes to block the sun, he reads, slowly, the first quick scan over the text making him realize how little there is, and how much he'll want to savor it.
He reads it twice, three times -- letters first, words second... and finally, with a vague, churning lump rising in his chest, meaning.
Dancing in silence across burning coals
"I'll never say no, if your lips do the asking."
He looks up, and it's surprising to see Ryan watching him, his face somehow dark despite the glare of the sun. Ryan generally stares at the floor when he shares his lyrics, waits for the first approving Yeah, it's great or even a Well, it's a start. He doesn't mind a negative reception; any reaction is acceptable, but his instinct is to freeze and panic until he gets one, any at all.
Brendon swallows, the first to look away. "What does it mean?"
"Who knows, what does any of our stuff mean?" Ryan lies.
But Brendon has enough instinct of his own, enough that it's digging a mantra into his brain even before he can think: Not now. Not now.
"Play me the bit you were playing before."
Ryan does, and it's a simple progression, less ornate than their usual style -- maybe, Brendon muses, to compensate for the complexity of the lyrics, because he knows fully well these aren't random pretty words spilled onto paper in the haze of drugged-out bliss. The music's pretty, though, but Ryan's right: something's off.
"Can I -- " Brendon extends his hands hesitantly toward the instrument, and Ryan surrenders it, their fingertips brushing as the guitar transfers hands. "I just thought... maybe if you made the fourth a minor, like, harmonic, instead... it might..."
He plays his revision, trying to recall the patterns of Ryan's notes, and when he finishes, Ryan's looking at him like he wants to kiss him.
And -- ah. Because that's. Not just an expression anymore.
Not with them, not ever. Not for two years, at least.
Brendon shrugs, feeling his face flush, but it's not the sun. "Maybe. I dunno. Just an idea."
He sips his drink, scratches the back of his neck, wrinkles his nose against the sun, and even plucks out another couple of notes, random, pointless, to pass the seconds.
Ryan's still staring.
Brendon isn't strong enough for this.
Finally he smiles, light, trying to break the shell, the fucking... barricade, whatever. "What?"
Something darts across Ryan's eyes; a sudden awareness, maybe, or a closing-off. Some things Brendon still can't tell, but soon enough Ryan blinks, blinks it all away and swallows, eyes still sharp on Brendon's.
"J'ai tellement peur de ce que tu me fais sentir."
Brendon blinks back. "What?"
Another flash over his eyes, and they widen, like he's snapping out of a trance, not sure of what he's been doing all the while. "Nothing."
"Dude!" Brendon grins. "Come on, you can't just -- tell me what it means!"
Ryan shakes his head, staring down at the hot, faded wood of the dock, running his fingers over one of the planks.
"That is so not fair," Brendon gasps.
"I don't remember what it means."
It's such a bad lie that Brendon knows he must be desperate, silently begging Brendon to let it drop, and it goes against all his willpower to do it, but it's Ryan, and... for as much of his willpower as Ryan steals, he also inspires it, strengthens it, in double.
"It's good." Ryan nods at the guitar. "I like it, what you did. It's perfect."
Brendon shrugs. "It's your words."
"What?"
"Your words make it... whatever it is. I can't write music without your words. Nothing meaningful, anyway. Little ditties here and there, but... not real stuff. Not without you."
"I love your little ditties," Ryan protests.
Brendon smirks. "That sounds so dirty."
Ryan smiles.
And like that, it blows over. All the dense, darkening clouds over their heads, they drift off as easily as they come; they've been doing it for days, weeks, maybe years, and Brendon is starting to wonder when the storm is going to hit, and whether or not they'll make it to the other side.
+++
Everyone says it's Ross who's the eighty-year-old grandpa, but right now, Brendon feels like his best buddy on bingo night at the old folks' home.
Sorry; the assisted living community.
Right now it feels like the only thing missing from his lap is -- well, Ryan (hey, self awareness is a virtue), but -- like, a cat. He misses the dogs, suddenly, Dylan and Bogart and Coppola (Shane had insisted). Still, there's a fair bit of warmth filling him up as he pages through the photo album he'd completely forgotten had been at the bottom of his suitcase. It's one of those big, thick ones (heh, where's Pete when you need someone to laugh at your bad jokes), a gift from his parents before they'd left on the first tour. He's filled it up with candids and Polaroids, tons from Tom and later, Jon, but he hasn't added anything to it in months. California wasn't... a bad experience, but it wasn't anything he'd care to remember. The music was good, and the album, but it was lonely, a lot. Ryan and Jon were gone for a good bit of the time, bonding and scalding themselves with bonfires and in general failing at every aspect of life they could get their hands on, but it was good for them. Brendon knew they needed it. That Ryan needed it -- someone who would just sit there with him, hour after hour, day after day and never judge, never say anything Ryan didn't need to hear.
Still, he doesn't mind that the pages end with their last tour; that palm trees and beaches are absent, even Disneyworld. He'll go back, someday. With someone he loves.
Because, ew, Brendon is apparently a total disgusting fucking romantic.
He huffs and flips a page, smiling down at the splay of photos from the day he "styled" Spencer's hair.
"Oh my god, the book!"
Ryan's face lights up as he appears over Brendon's shoulder, plaid pajama pants (Spencer's, from like, tenth grade) balanced precariously low on his hips and an oversized t-shirt (Dan's) hanging off one slender shoulder. He scrambles quickly around to the couch, folding up his miles of limbs until he's scrunched against Brendon's side, a cup of tea steaming from his hands.
"I haven't seen this in ages," he sighs, wistful. "Can we start at the beginning?"
Brendon smiles to himself, warmth flooding his bones as he feels Ryan press against him, heated from the shower, smelling like green tea and Irish Spring and... oddly enough, Brendon's shampoo.
Ryan giggles as he flips back to the first page: them and Spencer and Brent, maybe a month after Brendon's arrival, all dressed up in stuff Brendon's pretty sure they snagged from Spencer's dad's closet, brandishing guitars and drumsticks like they were already something big.
"Your hair!" Ryan wails.
"Your acne," Brendon counters.
"Whatever, I still got pussy."
"I could have! I was repressed!"
"Uh-huh. Wasn't nobody repressin' your dick."
Brendon sighs. "Sadly, no."
Ryan chuckles, pressing closer and reaching out to turn the page.
"God, I was hot then," Brendon muses, tracing a finger over a shot from 2006, the glasses-scarf-jacket ensemble that scored him more ass that year than any other to date.
Ryan laughs. "You really were. What happened?"
"What happened?! I tried to accommodate your stupid hippie-sixties phase, that's what happened!"
He pokes Ryan in the side, and Ryan giggles, staring down at the picture. "Yeah... this was a good look on you. Even if you did kinda look like a back-to-school ad for Target."
Brendon smiles. "You make me sound like a Barbie."
"Hmm... Fall Fashion Brendon? Complete with interchangeable scarves?"
"Only you could make 'interchangeable scarves' sound normal." Brendon rolls his eyes. "Oh, but dude, dude, can you imagine if they made Barbies out of us?!"
"...This conversation has gone too far."
"No, man, it would be awesome!" Brendon shifts in his seat to accommodate the sudden burst of passion. "Just think, yours could come with like, eighty-three scarves. And Spencer's could have like, a zillion shoes. And Jon would have like twenty pairs of flip-flops. And a detachable beard!"
Ryan sighs, idly flipping another page. "I just get this sinking feeling you'd end up taking all their clothes off and leaving them in compromising positions around the bus."
Brendon grins. It's true. "I just think their lack of genitalia intimidates you."
"...I think it would intimidate me more if they had genitalia."
"Whatever, you're just afraid they'd make your dick too small."
"They would!" Ryan whines. "If they made it to scale, no way mine would fit in those tight little Ken Doll pants."
"Yeah, me neither."
He doesn't miss Ryan's slow, subtle eyebrow raise, but it's not like Ryan's trying to hide it.
"Oh come on, don't even!" Brendon huffs, shoving at him.
"I wasn't!" Ryan protests, giggling and curling into himself against the shove. "I wasn't, sorry!"
Brendon huffs, unconvinced, and sharply turns another page, just for effect.
"Dude, I. Oh, Jesus." Ryan takes a breath, forces it out fast. "Okay. Look. Being completely objective and heterosexual about this, you have a very nice dick."
Brendon's gaze narrows, still dubious, because hey, Ryan hasn't even seen him hard, and Brendon's totally a grower. But Ryan just rolls his eyes, turning back to the book and flipping the page.
"Besides," Ryan shrugs, voice low, "it's not the size that matters, it's how you use it."
He looks up to find Brendon smirking smokily, one eyebrow quirked as his voice drops: "Trust me, Ross, I know how to use it."
Ryan smiles but bites his lip against it, turning back to the photos. "I know."
"...Do you, now?"
He shrugs, cheeks flushed as he works to fight the grin. "I heard you and Jack."
For a second Brendon has no reaction, at least none that he can let out -- because just the thought of Ryan listening, Ryan hearing them, Ryan hearing him come, is about all he needs for a blissful, mind-numbing heart attack right about now. He stops it before it can go any further, before he can fantasize about the sounds turning Ryan on, about Ryan thrusting a hand down his pants to wrap his fingers around...
Right. Stopping.
"I don't remember this one."
It takes a moment for Ryan's voice, mellow and deadpan as ever, to snap Brendon back to reality, following Ryan's eyes to the page laid open across their laps. He doesn't have to ask which picture drew the reaction, and suddenly nothing, no fantasy in any of his forbidden stores, could seduce the blush that's heating his face now as he stares down, at himself, at Ryan, on the page. There's nothing explicit, nothing blatantly incriminating about the shot; it's the subtleties that betray it: the tangle of their fingers between their bodies on the lounge sofa; the look in Brendon's eyes as he gazes at Ryan, the smile he knows, oh god, he knows he only ever offers to Ryan, but he'd never imagined it was this obvious. Maybe Ryan doesn't remember, but Brendon does. He remembers it had been Ryan to join their hands; he remembers the streak of pure fucking happiness that had snaked warmly through his veins as Ryan turned to him, his smile indulgent but so, so real, slipped his hand into Brendon's and whispered, "Happy Birthday, hot stuff."
There's nothing, nothing in the world to mistake for the look in Brendon's eyes. It's there, simple, plain as day for the whole god damned world to see.
The thing is, nothing's changed: it's the exact same way he looks at Ryan every fucking day.
Brendon swallows hard, flipping the page. "Me neither."
+++
"Help me."
Spencer sighs, and Brendon can hear the typing stop; the unmistakable clap of the laptop falling shut. "All right, what?"
"Tell me, fucking tell me you took French in high school."
"I... took French in high school."
"But did you?! Really?"
"Well, yeah, of course!" Spencer laughs. "Would've been stupid not to; I copied Ryan's notes for three years. So what?."
"Spencer, I love you."
"Brendon, you're weird."
"I need you to translate."
"Ugh, I'm looking up Halo cheats, I'm so fucking close to beating Tom it's not even funny, and Jon's fucking helping him, it's so mean. Make Ryan translate."
"I can't, he won't tell me what it means!"
Spencer chuckles like he knows the joke, and Brendon knows he's already on Ryan's side, just like that, automatic. "Sucks. So what'd he say?"
"I don't know! If I knew I'd, like, Google it!"
"Then how the fuck am I supposed to help you?!"
"I -- I dunno, help me sound it out. I kinda remember what it sounds like. Sort of. Maybe."
There's a dead silence, before Spencer says, in all sincerity, "I hate you."
Brendon smiles. Winning is awesome, but winning with Spencer is glory.
It's ten minutes, three look-ups in Spencer's pocket French dictionary that he hasn't used "since eleventh grade, Jesus fuck, Brendon," and four rounds of panic flare-ups in Brendon's chest, convinced Ryan's going to come home early saying he couldn't find anything on the grocery list (wouldn't be the first time), but it's like a light bulb over his head and a breath of coveted fresh air all at once when Spencer finally echoes a phrase that Brendon's mind registers instantly as Yes.
"Is that -- " Spencer's voice is small, uncertain in a way Brendon's never heard. "Is that it?"
"Yeah, fuck, yeah, that's it, you're awesome! What does it mean?"
The dead silence comes to life somehow, like it's breathing, thriving on its own, louder than words, louder than screaming.
"...Spence? Come on, tell me."
"...I can't."
"What the fuck?!"
"Brendon, I... I... he said this to you?"
"Oh my god, do you have a death wish? Fucking tell me!"
"I can't," Spencer chokes. "I -- that'd be like -- like... spilling Ryan's secrets. I can't. He didn't mean for you to -- I'm sorry. It's not for me to tell. I can't."
Brendon doesn't answer. Some times are easier than others to accept that certain parts of his life are just always going to be more eternally fucked than the average person's, but this. This. Is just. It's twenty different kinds of unfair, all of them new and unfamiliar, and it's not a game anymore; it's lies. It's secrets and lies and the frustrated sting of tears behind his eyes, and this isn't like Ryan, it's just what they fought over, keeping things from each other that aren't supposed to be kept.
"Hey," Spencer sighs, softening his voice. "Look, it's not -- Ryan's not trying to be a bitch, okay? And it's nothing bad, it's just. Look. I -- I've got something you can say to him. That's all I can do. I mean, you'll have to memorize it; can you?"
Brendon grips fistfuls of his jeans and squeezes, eyes pressed tightly shut. "Try me."
+++
Brendon is a firm believer that stubbornness, applied appropriately, is a virtue.
He doesn't want to let it go. He just wants it to... go.
It gets easier the more he lets Spencer's words play over in his head -- It's nothing bad -- but that's only a fleeting comfort, every time, because his mind beelines to Then why won't he tell me? and more or less dead-ends there, only with a few more expletives and exclamatory punctuation.
He lets other thoughts take over after awhile, when they arise: Ryan pressed against him, the photo album on their lap, their quiet, just-for-each-other voices and soft laughter filling the warm, heavy air between them. The way Ryan had looked at him before it came out, all foreign and accented, fucking meaningless to Brendon but everything to Ryan. He'd looked pained, like he wanted nothing more than to work up the nerve to say it in English, and that one strikes all the right nerves, because if there's anything Brendon knows like the back of his own hand, it's the pain of being plagued by the simple combinations of words you can't say.
He can hear the front door open downstairs, but he doesn't uncurl himself from the foot of Ryan's bed. It feels as much his bed now as Ryan's, and some dim corner of his brain warns danger, but when Ryan clasps his hand night after night and whispers, "Stay," in that secret shred of time just before the night closes in on them, Brendon's only human.
Footsteps climb the stairs, and a rustling of plastic grows loud enough for Brendon to identify as shopping bags, before Ryan's shuffling into the room, dumping the items on the floor.
"Hey. You okay?"
Brendon looks up, accusations pushing toward the tip of his tongue and dying there as Ryan leans down to run a hand through Brendon's hair, brow knit in concern.
"Fine," Brendon mumbles, voice gravelly from the hours out of use.
Ryan pushes the bags around with his feet, making room to kneel at the side of the bed as he slides his hand down to Brendon's face, touching and pressing in patches. "You're all flushed. You feel warm."
Brendon leans into the touch, smiling as Ryan's cool palm cups his cheek. "'M fine."
"You want a cold washcloth? Advil? Some water?"
"I love you."
And it's.
It's.
It's... happened, Brendon realizes with a sinking flutter in his stomach; he's finally reached the breaking point, and it's starting slow, little jagged cracks in the ice, and this is the first.
He knows it won't take many more before the surface splits, before he goes plunging into the icy water, fighting for breath and hoping someone will pull him out.
But Ryan, Ryan's so good, only falters for a blink, maybe two, something flashing over his face and disappearing before he smiles, gentle and sweet and vulnerable and everything Brendon fell in love with, everything Ryan never shows, everything he doesn't let himself become.
"Love you too," he whispers.
"I'm fine," Brendon repeats, pulling himself up halfway until he can drag himself to the head of the bed, sprawled properly, long-ways across the mattress. "Just tired. And kinda freaked out. I don't like you driving alone around here when it's dark."
"Well, I got sick of you bitching about not having any more Oreos," Ryan counters, digging a few items out of a bag and tossing said Oreos onto the bed. "Oh, and I got this, so don't use it, it's mine."
He holds out a pump bottle of moisturizing face wash, and Brendon bursts out laughing.
"Shut up! It says 'for men'!"
"Yeah, gay men, who iron their gay jeans and put on gay foundation and gay lip gloss before they go out to gay it up in big gay clubs."
Ryan's eyes shrink to slits. "You would know."
He spins around to stalk off to the bathroom, but Brendon shoots a hand out, catching a shirt tail. "Wait, wait, lemme see that."
Ryan reluctantly holds out the bottle, huffing while Brendon squints at the label before launching into an epic laughter sequel.
"Fuck you!"
"Dude, no, no, it's -- oh my god." Brendon clutches his tummy, pulling himself up until he's seated cross-legged, somehow managing to take up most of the bed. "One time I was at this party, and some guy and I were going at it -- "
"Do I really want to hear this?"
"Yes! 'Cause like, we were in the bathroom, and -- "
"Oh my god, was this that time you abandoned me and that creepy chick with all the tattoos tried to take me home with her?"
"Um." Brendon scratches his chin. "Possibly. But this guy was so hot."
"Well, clearly, you're forgiven."
"No, but dude," Brendon plows forward, unfazed, "we were so drunk, and there were all these bottles of lotion on the counter and we didn't have any lube, so he like, reaches out for the nearest bottle and starts, y'know, and all of a sudden it like, burns like fuck, and I'm like, what the fuck did you use, and we look, and it's totally that shit you've got in your hand right now."
Ryan grins. "That's disgusting."
"Fuck disgusting, it hurt like hell! All those fucking little exfoliating beads or whatever. That shit's the devil."
"I'll be sure to keep it away from your ass," Ryan promises, plopping down on the bed and flipping off the light, leaving them in the dusky desk lamp glow. "I dunno if that's worse than the time I was at this girl's house in high school, and she's all like, 'get naked, I'm gonna go freshen up' or whatever, so she goes into the bathroom, and I take off my clothes and then her brother comes home, who's like this... fucking huge-ass football player, and he's screaming at me to get the fuck out, and I end up in her backyard naked and like, all of my clothes are in her room."
"That's awesome!" Brendon laughs, letting his body fall back against the pillows, arms folded beneath his head. "Oh, but dude, nothing beats this one guy who yelled 'Tada!' every time he came."
"Are you kidding me?!" Ryan drops down beside him, laughing recklessly as he rolls onto his side until they're face to face.
"Crazy, crazy people," Brendon sighs, grinning.
"'Kay, I've got one that's just gross."
"Yay!"
Ryan smiles affectionately. "So, first time I ever went down on a girl -- "
"Oh, ew."
"Yeah, well, it was like, totally dark, so afterwards I go into the bathroom to clean up, and I turn on the light, and apparently she'd like, started her period 'cause my face was like, covered in blood, I looked like fucking Hannibal Lecter -- "
"Dude, that's disgusting!"
"I know! I was like, screaming until I figured it out, I thought she was dying or something."
"Oh my god, you're such a tool."
"Whatever."
"See -- " Brendon props himself up on his elbow. "This is why I love guys. That's just traumatizing."
Ryan smirks. "So who was your first? Who... lured you into sodomy?"
Brendon chuckles. "How do you not know this? Oh my god, Tom."
"I -- Jon's Tom? Dude, serious?"
"Fuck yeah. Jesus, that guy can fuck. Best kept secret on the label."
"That's." Ryan blinks, eyes trailing dazedly to the window. "Huh."
"What about you?"
"Never fucked a guy, dumbass."
"First girl, twatface."
"Oh. Some blonde before Tara. Stephanie."
Brendon smiles fondly. "You and your god damned blondes."
Ryan shrugs, plucking at a thread on the comforter. "It's... probably some lame Oedipal complex, I guess. My mom was a blonde. Is. Whatever."
"Oh. I -- sorry, I didn't..."
"'S'okay." Ryan smiles. "I'm done with blondes now."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I've decided they're bad luck. Or, whatever, maybe that's just girls in general."
Brendon's heart absolutely doesn't skip a beat. Nor does he indulge any little spark of hope that flares up in his chest. He's not seventeen again, he's not. He's mature now; he's wise. Or at least jaded.
Realism blows.
"I dunno, I still like some girls," Brendon muses. "Sarah was cool. It was nice, y'know, hanging out with someone who just saw... me. And liked me. Who wasn't just trying to get in my pants... who didn't just look at me and see Panic's frontman; she was great. I think I just... in the end, it'll be guys for me. There's this really specific, intense connection in same-sex relationships that you just... can't get anywhere else."
He hadn't thought of it as some sort of speech, but the silence feels louder and heavier when he stops, and Ryan's looking at him like Brendon's been quoting Palahniuk and Wilde and Shakespeare all in the same sentence.
Ryan says, "Oh."
Realism blows, but it's safe. There are boundaries.
"Ever kissed a guy?"
...But boundaries are meant to be pushed.
Ryan blinks, trying to keep hold of Brendon's gaze but it's breaking at every turn, crumbling until it finally settles on the pillow, defeated.
"I mean -- " Brendon amends, feeling his face heat all over again, "besides, y'know." Me, oh, hey, remember that?
Ryan shrugs. "Yeah, a few times."
"Ever done more?"
"I... no."
Brendon swallows. "Ever... wanted to do more?"
And really, it's times like these he needs to take a moment to remind himself that his mouth actually does have an off-switch, and not every word that begs for release should get it.
Ryan stares at him, hard, for a long time -- not warning, not challenging, just... hard. Like he's not even really looking at Brendon, just staring to ground himself, trying to read whatever code Brendon's put out there to be cracked.
"Sometimes," he says at last. "Girls are... easier. All over, just, easier. No one'll look at me weird when I'm with a girl. No paparazzi will stalk me if I have dinner with a girl. As long as I date girls, the band will still be about the music. If I started sleeping with a guy, every interviewer in the world would try to connect every question, every lyric to where I put my dick. I don't want -- I couldn't take that. It's not fair, not for us, not for the band."
"So..." Brendon forces himself to pause, to let all the overactive gears in his brain settle, even a little. "So that's why you date girls, 'cause you don't want to be known as the gay songwriter?"
"I -- no. I like girls, girls are great. I'm... not afraid of being hurt by a girl, not really. It'd be losing a lover, but... not like losing a best friend, y'know? I could never be best friends with a girl. And they're not afraid of emotions, so they're not afraid of my emotions. I can talk about things with them that most guys wouldn't want to hear about. Stuff, y'know, like... the kind of stuff we talk about."
"...So, you're straight?"
It's not even logical progression as questions go, and Brendon almost wants to kick himself for asking outright, because they don't do this, none of them, they -- they never. Even when they all knew, knew Brendon was fucking guys, they never asked, never said a word until he sat down one morning with his bowl of Froot Loops and said, "So, I like dudes," and even then, the only word they offered was, "Duh."
But it's -- this is better. It'll be better, in the end, a straight answer, final -- no more dreaming, no false hopes to hold him back.
"I." Ryan swallows, his breath quickening as he shrugs, squirming awkwardly on his side of the bed. "I'm just. Just because girls are easier doesn't mean I. I don't..."
"So... you're bi?"
He finally lifts his eyes, his fingers abandoning the loose thread, and locks his gaze to Brendon's. "Um, like, serious? I mean, jeez, I figure you of all people wouldn't be so hung up on labels. Are they really that important?"
"I -- no, that's not what I -- I'm sorry, I didn't mean -- no."
"Then what? What are you trying to figure out?"
"I'm trying to figure out what was going through your head two years ago when you kissed me."
Brendon can almost hear it, the resounding boom as the impact strikes -- a long, forked line splitting the ice under their feet, the surface fighting to stay intact under the relentless thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat.
Ryan looks away, forever and a day; silent and then some.
"I'm not sure, Bren."
In all honesty it's the best answer Brendon could've hoped for, beneath all his jaded realism.
"If you ever figure it out... let me know?"
Ryan looks up, their eyes catching, and somewhere below, his hand slips into Brendon's. The slide is so subtle, so unobtrusive that it feels like it's belonged there all along; that Brendon had been incomplete without it, without Ryan's fist pressed into the cave of his palm, their fingers overlapping just enough to touch, but not take.
"Yeah. Yeah, I will."
It's an end. It's the kind of end that suits them: incomplete, open, never resolved, with closure always a distant fantasy.
Brendon even thinks it's enough; thinks of how much better it is than all the alternatives, all the answers he could've received tonight, and when Ryan flips off the light and disappears into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, Brendon thinks of the ice, and how some things can hold up even with cracks, with holes, and still function.
But something snaps when Ryan crawls into bed, the pitch-black air begging for release, for rebellion, for secrets, and Brendon can't stop the words from tumbling out, hushed and rushed in one breath that may be his last:
"Qu'est-ce que je te fais sentir?"
For a moment Ryan's so still Brendon almost deflates, thinking he's already asleep, but finally he turns, shifting under the sheets until they're face to face, and the wide gloss of his eyes is all Brendon can see.
"What did you say?" Ryan whispers.
"I -- I dunno what it means. Spencer wouldn't tell me. He wouldn't tell me anything, he just said I should say it. I'm sorry, I don't -- "
Slowly, quietly, Ryan sighs, and Brendon follows.
"You're not gonna tell me, are you?" Brendon whispers.
They're near enough to each other that Brendon can feel each breath released, their texture and speed, the soft scent of mint that suddenly grows stronger, closer, until it's not just air, it's the press of Ryan's lips, paper-light and wispy against his own -- easy enough, in the dark, to pretend it was never there.
"Good-night, B."
He shifts, rustling the bedcovers until he's twisted around to his other side, until the liquid of his eyes is gone, and all Brendon can see is dark.
He's starting to think that even under the brightest sky, that's all he'll ever see.
Author:
lolabPairing: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Fiction as far as I know.
Dedication:
alphabetatoast for cello!fic; redorchids for the beautiful lyrics (more to come); livinglifeloud and stereotypeloser for nitpicking the French with me.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: Hey, try to guess which Traumatizing Sex Tale was stolen from Colin's real life! Anyway, hold your patience a little longer. Chapter 6 is... something-er. By the way, this now exists.
Please visit the master post for previous chapters, notes, track listing, etc.
5.
Maybe he's going crazy. Ryan always said he would.
There's piano, live from somewhere, soft but clear, and Brendon looks down at his hands: he hasn't touched the keys all day. Ryan hasn't in months, Jon's glued to Brendon's side, and Spencer doesn't play.
Maybe today's all a dream.
Brendon never would've thought he'd wish into a dream the day Ryan Ross kissed him, but after said kiss, there may be nothing that surprises him ever again.
The music stops.
Spencer's hunched over the kitchen table with a cup of murky looking coffee, sparing Jon a halfhearted glare at having to make his own, inferior and tasteless to Jon's magic brew; but his eyes choose Brendon as their destination, softening as Brendon stares back, taking in Spencer's tired face and limp, scruffy hair, frustrated fingers having raked through the strands one time too many.
He -- motherfucker, he knows.
Brendon doesn't know if he's mad at Ryan for telling, mad at Spencer for knowing, or mad at himself for being too tired to be mad at anyone.
"I'm... uh, shower," Jon mumbles, squeezing Brendon's fingers and slipping from the room, cupping one hand gently over Spencer's shoulder as he leaves.
"Music room," Spencer says to his coffee.
"What?"
"Ryan. That's where he is."
Brendon swallows. "I wasn't -- I didn't."
But he was, and he did, and Spencer looks up, and he knows.
Brendon hangs his head and just, walks, lets his feet shuffle him across the floor, listless, toward the living room.
"Bren."
It's soft, softer than his eyes, even his touch, as Brendon feels a hand on his hip, guiding him back around until he and Spencer are eye to eye. Brendon looks down into sharp blue, just dark enough to lose himself, but bright enough to remind him he can't. He remembers how bright they looked in the dark, just the two of them in the hotel room after the club, no drama, just smiles; heated breaths and shallow gasps, Just tonight? Just tonight -- and he wonders, suddenly, how much easier his life might've been if he could've just fallen in love with Spencer or Jon instead.
Spencer slips his hand into Brendon's, squeezing. It's gentler than Jon's touch, in intent, but all the same harder, tighter; drummers tend to have a skewed awareness of their own strength.
Brendon squeezes back with all he's got.
"It'll be fine," Spencer says.
Sometimes, Brendon thinks, lies are underrated.
The notes start up again, quieter, when Brendon reaches the door of the music room. Distantly registering Chopin, he pushes inside and there's -- well, perfection is the word his brain offers, and even though said brain is tired and frayed, nostalgic and romantic and sad, he's not about to fight it.
It's nothing special, to anyone else: it's just a boy -- a man, they're adults now, sometimes it's hard to remember when you feel this small and helpless -- at the piano, tree-length spine curved slightly in concentration, head bent over the keys as he glances back and forth from his fingers to the open book. He sighs, pausing and repeating the same measure over and over with a forced deliberation, altering the tempo or the rhythm; but he isn't satisfied, and each time the line of tension drawn between his shoulders grows thicker, tighter.
"It's C," Brendon says quietly.
Ryan's posture straightens, but he doesn't turn around, just stares straight ahead out the window, past the night-blackened glass, catching Brendon in the reflection.
Brendon takes the silence as allowance, stepping forward and breathing out relief when Ryan slowly slides over on the bench, making room for him. He slips into the space, trying to make himself as small as possible, not to let their bodies touch, and lifts a hand to the book.
"See, the little square with the lines -- that means you don't play it sharp, it's just regular C."
Ryan sighs. "I always forget that. I'm used to playing by ear."
"'S'okay." Breathe, in, out, they're talking. They're talking music, and everything's fine. Spencer was right, it's fine. "It sounds really fucking good, though."
Ryan shrugs, shoulders hunching further as he curls in on himself, eyes on the keys.
"I didn't know you were learning this."
"You told me to," Ryan says.
"I -- what?"
Ryan turns, and something about eye contact always makes you feel twenty times closer to the person than you actually are. "Like... right after we met? When I told you I wanted to learn, study something classical. You said I should try Chopin. Said it would like, 'suit me' or something."
Brendon doesn't know whether to cry or sing out; to think that Ryan remembered. Remembered something so small, so long ago, even though he realizes it wasn't small at all, and now it feels like yesterday.
"It does," he says softly. "Chopin's kind of... sad, sometimes. Romantic without meaning to be... it's gentle, soft. Sometimes people don't realize how much there is to it because it's quiet, because it sounds nice, fades easily into the background. But there's a lot going on under the surface that you don't really see or feel until you play it."
He doesn't know where the words are coming from; maybe it's just music, a language on its own, separate from English, separate from the part of his brain filled with empty, human words, all the things he wants to say to Ryan and can't.
Maybe... maybe this says more.
"Music is everything to you, isn't it?" Ryan says without looking up.
Brendon blinks back a sudden prick behind his eyelids. "Not everything."
Ryan stares at the keys, bottom lip caught mercilessly between his teeth.
"Hey, let's try -- " Brendon shifts his position a bit, hands hovering over the keys as his eyes scan the sheet music. "This version's got the second piano."
"What?"
"There's an arrangement that -- see this part, below the first bar line -- it's for a second piano, or a second pair of hands -- I can play it in the lower octaves. It sounds amazing, you wanna try?"
For a moment, Ryan's still, like he's considering whether or not this means anything it shouldn't.
In the end, he nods.
"'Kay." Brendon's voice is low, soft, so as not to disturb the piece they're about to bring to life, or the delicate balance they're both teetering in -- at least if they fall, maybe the music will catch them. Their hands hover in place, and Brendon watches Ryan stroke out the first note before he joins in. It feels like the same thing he always waits for, Ryan's lead, simply for the opportunity to follow.
The concerto movement springs tenfold from the instrument as four hands sink into the keys, richer and fuller, the sounds vibrant, lush, vibrations resounding through their fingers and all through their bodies, and Brendon's eyes drop shut as they near the climax, everything suddenly too much. The music filling every atom of oxygen in the air until they're breathing it, tasting it; the press of Ryan's hip against his, the way their forearms brush as their notes overlap; and, almost as an afterthought, the beaded bracelet bearing Brendon's name that is still, still circled around Ryan's wrist, just as one similar, bearing Ryan's name, is wrapped around Brendon's, an old gesture in half jest and veiled intent -- still, after all these years, enough years for them to forget how much it was never allowed to mean.
So, what, we belong to each other now?
Yeah. You're stuck with me.
Brendon never forgot.
He was sure Ryan would take it off after a few hours of indulgence, before the night's show, but he never did, and Brendon swore he'd never let himself ask why.
The memory fades with the music, and it's long moments before Brendon opens his eyes. For some reason he expects to see Ryan staring at him, waiting so he can tell Brendon everything he wants to hear, explain himself and the kiss and the universe, and Brendon will take him up to his bed and make love to him with all the cliches, all the nonsense and impossible perfection it's bound to be.
Ryan's still staring at the keys.
"That was beautiful," he whispers, and it sounds like an answer.
"It was," Brendon breathes, eyes on Ryan.
When Ryan turns, the angle changes everything, his eyes shining precariously, the muscles of his forehead bunched together. He looks like an apology.
Brendon squeezes his fists together to keep from reaching out. "Can we talk?"
Ryan's breath spills out slowly, imperceptibly if they weren't so close. "I think... we should... maybe... just -- "
-- forget it.
Brendon feels his jaw clench, teeth pressing hard together as his eyes fall to his lap.
"Bren -- I just. It was -- "
-- a mistake.
"Please," Ryan whispers. "I think it's for the best."
Because there's nothing left to do, Brendon nods.
"Brendon, I love you. You know I -- "
His voice is weakening, cracking and high-pitched and, he can't. Brendon can't sit here and watch Ryan break down and refuse to talk and. He can do a lot, tolerate a lot, keep his strength for a lot, but this, he can't.
"It's okay," Brendon says, pulling himself to his feet. "I'm just. It's late. I'm. Bed."
"Brendon."
When he turns around, Ryan's on his feet, inches away and that stubborn one inch taller, and Brendon doesn't get a chance to be blindsided by the pain in Ryan's face because Ryan's face is suddenly pressed into his shoulder, arms wrapped vice-like around him.
Because there's nothing left to do, Brendon squeezes back, tight the way Ryan likes. Ryan never wants anyone to act like he's too fragile, like he's going to break, so Brendon hugs him the way he hugs Spencer, or Jon, or Shane, or Zack. The only difference is, with the others, Brendon doesn't feel like he's the one about to break.
Ryan responds, tightening, and Brendon can feel the beaded outline of Ryan's bracelet digging into his back.
Because there's nothing left to do, Brendon whispers, "I love you too."
Waking up with a raging boner is nothing out of the norm for Brendon. If you figure it, okay, he spent the first two years of puberty completely repressed, only jerking off eight times and every time feeling so guilty he was terrified to leave his room for fear everyone would know, like there'd be an "I Heart Autoeroticism" sign on his forehead framed in neon lights, visible to everyone but him. Add that to the fact that he's only twenty-two to begin with, and there's probably some mathematical formula for this, maybe, but the point is, all the horny is completely justified.
Waking up with a raging boner in Ryan's bed, well. That's a little weirder, but it's not like it's never happened. Six years sharing buses, hotel rooms, and the cot in Spencer's basement, coupled with the fact that he's been resigned to an ongoing boner with Ryan's name on it for every last one of those years -- well, there's probably another formula for that too, but the law of probability is pretty basic.
Waking up with a raging boner in Ryan's bed with sex noises drifting into his ears from the adjoining bathroom... this is new.
This is the sound of running water, the indistinct layer of steam creeping into the bedroom, thick and hot, carrying the scent of Ryan's shampoo and the tiny, barely audible sounds that only Brendon would ever pick up, but dear god, they're there.
Brendon sits up in the bed, propped on his elbows, torn between relieved and disappointed to find himself still fully clothed, and turns his head to peer out the window, like he's trying to make sure this is all real -- because this is seriously straight out of one of his lamer, less original fantasies. But everything's traitorously intact: He can make out the trees reaching high above the cabin, strips and slices of sunlight stretching through the glass and settling haphazardly across the room, the bedspread, the dresser, the walls, Ryan's copy of Being Zen on the nightstand. Brendon squints through the brightness, imagining the lake just below the line of the window, the tire swing by the shore and the hammock filled with pine needles; the dock that sways amiably when anyone walks across it; and the little rowboat they use to paddle out to the tiny scrap of an island when they're too lazy to swim.
It's all painfully real. Then it's back: from the bathroom, muted through the rush of water, a high-pitched, disconnected sort of squeak-moan that Brendon, if his brain were anywhere in that place, could use as blackmail forever.
But Brendon's brain is not in that place. Brendon's brain has relocated south. Permanently. We're talking retirement condo in Key West.
Motherfucking Ross.
It's silent after that but Brendon's legs are already dragging him out of bed, across the soft pad of carpet. The bathroom door is cracked, pulled to the edge, but Brendon's hand is pushing it open without permission, and he's at once grateful for the support of the doorframe when the image hits him.
His fingers are gripping the white wooden molding of the frame hard enough to break it off, knuckles instantly colorless as his eyes adjust to the haze of steam swirling up through the shower and above the top of the glass sides, a teasing veil to the sight within: Ryan's body stretched long, one arm high above his head and braced against the wall beside the chrome showerhead, fingers curling in vain against the silver-gray ceramic tiles. Brendon's eyes trail over the peach-colored line of his body, down over the slight slump of his shoulders, head bent low to his chest, intensifying the curve of his neck, mouth open and flaming red in the water's heat, eyes shut to the outside world. Down, down further, over the jut of his hips and the delicate arch of his lower back, the S-curve where it meets his ass, and his other hand...
Oh sweet Jesus, his other hand.
There's nothing to see clearly through all the steam, but it's clear enough. Long, heat-loose fingers curled around his erection, stroking slow and lazy, almost teasing, and Brendon is pretty damn sure this has just ruined him for every other fantasy stored in his stockpile, forever and ever amen.
His conscience, mocking him in its lack of use, allows him about five good seconds of staring before something snaps inside him -- something in the form of another tiny, breathy moan from the shower -- that sends Brendon into hyperawareness and running back to -- the bed, Ryan's bed of all places, what the fuck -- scrambling back under the covers to hide his guilt.
Brendon is so, utterly, completely pathetic.
And also very, very fucked.
He spends the next five minutes in clear, Zen-like (ha) focus, eyes clamped shut until they hurt from the effort, fists clenched tightly at his sides, using the kind of focus energy he uses for performing, willing the most disgusting thoughts to fill his mind, ease his dick back into submission. He thinks of the time he walked in on his sister having sex, thinks of the time Dylan found the leftover birthday cake and graciously decided to give it back, all over the carpet. He thinks of Two Girls One Cup (thanks for nothing, Beckett), about cleaning his bathroom, and the time his brother dared him to eat a worm and he did.
It works. His own maturity impresses him (maturity or disturbing repertoire of gross experiences; either way), and he breathes. Long and hard and, oh, words.
But he feels almost normal by the time Ryan emerges, towel wrapped low around his hips, looking startled to find Brendon awake. Something flushes in his cheeks that isn't from the heat, and he blinks.
"Hey."
"Hey," Brendon echoes.
Ryan swallows. "Um. Did I... wake you?"
The quip forms in Brendon's mind like a nasty, prearranged impulse, and he turns onto his side away from Ryan, snuggling down into the pillow and biting his lip.
"Nah, I was already up."
"Un, uh, drink, monsieur?"
Ryan's smiling before he even looks up, squinting over the tops of his ungodly huge sunglasses as he sets down his guitar, accepting the proffered glass with a chuckle.
"Une," he corrects.
"Huh?"
"Une boisson. A drink. 'Boisson' is feminine."
"Psh, you're feminine."
Ryan's foot extends a little awkwardly from where he's sprawled on the dock to kick at Brendon's leg, before Brendon whimpers and sits down next to him, legs dangling over the wooden edge until his bare feet hit the cool water. He briefly considers bursting into another round of "Stacy's Mom," replacing every mention of "Stacy" with "Spencer," but the first three times he'd done it since wartime with Pete and Patrick, Ryan had hit his arm hard enough to bruise and, well, Brendon only has so many arms.
"Since when do you know French?" he muses, sipping the Sprite-vodka-lemonade mix he'd whipped up, closing his eyes against the warm sun as the ice cubes clink together in the glass. "Like you weren't pretentious enough already."
"Had to have four years of a foreign language at my high school, asshole. Unlike your inferior education."
"Hey, I can say 'fuck you' three different ways in Spanish."
"Classy."
"All right then." Brendon turns his head, narrowing his eyes as he grins. "You're so classy, say something in French. Something real."
Ryan rolls his eyes. "No."
"Come on."
"I don't remember any."
"Liar."
"Nag."
"Please?" He's working his puppy eyes now, but it's a weak effort, a last resort; he knows Ryan's immune by now. "One sentence?"
Ryan sighs. "Are we writing music or not?"
Brendon sighs back, harder, just for show. "Can't believe you brought your acoustic out on the dock. One little slip and..."
To demonstrate, he shoves gently at Ryan, watching him instinctively brace his weight with his free arm.
"I will kill you and dump the body in the lake," Ryan informs him casually. "Weigh it down with rocks. No one'll know."
They share a smile, and unbidden in Brendon's mind rise the words I love you.
Luckily, they stay there.
"What were you playing?" Brendon asks.
Ryan shrugs. "Nothing. Just... crap. I can't get it, it doesn't sound right."
"Show me the lyrics."
It's the strangest pause in the world, because Ryan hasn't kept his lyrics secret since a week after they met. Brendon had always figured once they'd opened that door, there was no shutting it, no going back. It's such a small catalyst to ignite the twinge of rejection that surges through him, but.
But it's Ryan.
That's explanation enough -- and yet, never is.
"I don't really have any," Ryan mumbles.
"You never write music without lyrics."
Ryan shrugs again.
"Dude, I -- what the hell? You've never -- lemme see. Please?"
Ryan's eyes meet his, suddenly, bright golden amber in the bright afternoon sun, dark and liquid in hot contrast to the pale, smooth planes of his bare torso. Brendon can see his fingers tightening around the notebook laid open on the wooden surface by his side, and finally, they squeeze around the edge, handing it to Brendon as his eyes drop.
"It's just. A couple lines, it's nothing."
Tenting one hand over his eyes to block the sun, he reads, slowly, the first quick scan over the text making him realize how little there is, and how much he'll want to savor it.
He reads it twice, three times -- letters first, words second... and finally, with a vague, churning lump rising in his chest, meaning.
Dancing in silence across burning coals
"I'll never say no, if your lips do the asking."
He looks up, and it's surprising to see Ryan watching him, his face somehow dark despite the glare of the sun. Ryan generally stares at the floor when he shares his lyrics, waits for the first approving Yeah, it's great or even a Well, it's a start. He doesn't mind a negative reception; any reaction is acceptable, but his instinct is to freeze and panic until he gets one, any at all.
Brendon swallows, the first to look away. "What does it mean?"
"Who knows, what does any of our stuff mean?" Ryan lies.
But Brendon has enough instinct of his own, enough that it's digging a mantra into his brain even before he can think: Not now. Not now.
"Play me the bit you were playing before."
Ryan does, and it's a simple progression, less ornate than their usual style -- maybe, Brendon muses, to compensate for the complexity of the lyrics, because he knows fully well these aren't random pretty words spilled onto paper in the haze of drugged-out bliss. The music's pretty, though, but Ryan's right: something's off.
"Can I -- " Brendon extends his hands hesitantly toward the instrument, and Ryan surrenders it, their fingertips brushing as the guitar transfers hands. "I just thought... maybe if you made the fourth a minor, like, harmonic, instead... it might..."
He plays his revision, trying to recall the patterns of Ryan's notes, and when he finishes, Ryan's looking at him like he wants to kiss him.
And -- ah. Because that's. Not just an expression anymore.
Not with them, not ever. Not for two years, at least.
Brendon shrugs, feeling his face flush, but it's not the sun. "Maybe. I dunno. Just an idea."
He sips his drink, scratches the back of his neck, wrinkles his nose against the sun, and even plucks out another couple of notes, random, pointless, to pass the seconds.
Ryan's still staring.
Brendon isn't strong enough for this.
Finally he smiles, light, trying to break the shell, the fucking... barricade, whatever. "What?"
Something darts across Ryan's eyes; a sudden awareness, maybe, or a closing-off. Some things Brendon still can't tell, but soon enough Ryan blinks, blinks it all away and swallows, eyes still sharp on Brendon's.
"J'ai tellement peur de ce que tu me fais sentir."
Brendon blinks back. "What?"
Another flash over his eyes, and they widen, like he's snapping out of a trance, not sure of what he's been doing all the while. "Nothing."
"Dude!" Brendon grins. "Come on, you can't just -- tell me what it means!"
Ryan shakes his head, staring down at the hot, faded wood of the dock, running his fingers over one of the planks.
"That is so not fair," Brendon gasps.
"I don't remember what it means."
It's such a bad lie that Brendon knows he must be desperate, silently begging Brendon to let it drop, and it goes against all his willpower to do it, but it's Ryan, and... for as much of his willpower as Ryan steals, he also inspires it, strengthens it, in double.
"It's good." Ryan nods at the guitar. "I like it, what you did. It's perfect."
Brendon shrugs. "It's your words."
"What?"
"Your words make it... whatever it is. I can't write music without your words. Nothing meaningful, anyway. Little ditties here and there, but... not real stuff. Not without you."
"I love your little ditties," Ryan protests.
Brendon smirks. "That sounds so dirty."
Ryan smiles.
And like that, it blows over. All the dense, darkening clouds over their heads, they drift off as easily as they come; they've been doing it for days, weeks, maybe years, and Brendon is starting to wonder when the storm is going to hit, and whether or not they'll make it to the other side.
Everyone says it's Ross who's the eighty-year-old grandpa, but right now, Brendon feels like his best buddy on bingo night at the old folks' home.
Sorry; the assisted living community.
Right now it feels like the only thing missing from his lap is -- well, Ryan (hey, self awareness is a virtue), but -- like, a cat. He misses the dogs, suddenly, Dylan and Bogart and Coppola (Shane had insisted). Still, there's a fair bit of warmth filling him up as he pages through the photo album he'd completely forgotten had been at the bottom of his suitcase. It's one of those big, thick ones (heh, where's Pete when you need someone to laugh at your bad jokes), a gift from his parents before they'd left on the first tour. He's filled it up with candids and Polaroids, tons from Tom and later, Jon, but he hasn't added anything to it in months. California wasn't... a bad experience, but it wasn't anything he'd care to remember. The music was good, and the album, but it was lonely, a lot. Ryan and Jon were gone for a good bit of the time, bonding and scalding themselves with bonfires and in general failing at every aspect of life they could get their hands on, but it was good for them. Brendon knew they needed it. That Ryan needed it -- someone who would just sit there with him, hour after hour, day after day and never judge, never say anything Ryan didn't need to hear.
Still, he doesn't mind that the pages end with their last tour; that palm trees and beaches are absent, even Disneyworld. He'll go back, someday. With someone he loves.
Because, ew, Brendon is apparently a total disgusting fucking romantic.
He huffs and flips a page, smiling down at the splay of photos from the day he "styled" Spencer's hair.
"Oh my god, the book!"
Ryan's face lights up as he appears over Brendon's shoulder, plaid pajama pants (Spencer's, from like, tenth grade) balanced precariously low on his hips and an oversized t-shirt (Dan's) hanging off one slender shoulder. He scrambles quickly around to the couch, folding up his miles of limbs until he's scrunched against Brendon's side, a cup of tea steaming from his hands.
"I haven't seen this in ages," he sighs, wistful. "Can we start at the beginning?"
Brendon smiles to himself, warmth flooding his bones as he feels Ryan press against him, heated from the shower, smelling like green tea and Irish Spring and... oddly enough, Brendon's shampoo.
Ryan giggles as he flips back to the first page: them and Spencer and Brent, maybe a month after Brendon's arrival, all dressed up in stuff Brendon's pretty sure they snagged from Spencer's dad's closet, brandishing guitars and drumsticks like they were already something big.
"Your hair!" Ryan wails.
"Your acne," Brendon counters.
"Whatever, I still got pussy."
"I could have! I was repressed!"
"Uh-huh. Wasn't nobody repressin' your dick."
Brendon sighs. "Sadly, no."
Ryan chuckles, pressing closer and reaching out to turn the page.
"God, I was hot then," Brendon muses, tracing a finger over a shot from 2006, the glasses-scarf-jacket ensemble that scored him more ass that year than any other to date.
Ryan laughs. "You really were. What happened?"
"What happened?! I tried to accommodate your stupid hippie-sixties phase, that's what happened!"
He pokes Ryan in the side, and Ryan giggles, staring down at the picture. "Yeah... this was a good look on you. Even if you did kinda look like a back-to-school ad for Target."
Brendon smiles. "You make me sound like a Barbie."
"Hmm... Fall Fashion Brendon? Complete with interchangeable scarves?"
"Only you could make 'interchangeable scarves' sound normal." Brendon rolls his eyes. "Oh, but dude, dude, can you imagine if they made Barbies out of us?!"
"...This conversation has gone too far."
"No, man, it would be awesome!" Brendon shifts in his seat to accommodate the sudden burst of passion. "Just think, yours could come with like, eighty-three scarves. And Spencer's could have like, a zillion shoes. And Jon would have like twenty pairs of flip-flops. And a detachable beard!"
Ryan sighs, idly flipping another page. "I just get this sinking feeling you'd end up taking all their clothes off and leaving them in compromising positions around the bus."
Brendon grins. It's true. "I just think their lack of genitalia intimidates you."
"...I think it would intimidate me more if they had genitalia."
"Whatever, you're just afraid they'd make your dick too small."
"They would!" Ryan whines. "If they made it to scale, no way mine would fit in those tight little Ken Doll pants."
"Yeah, me neither."
He doesn't miss Ryan's slow, subtle eyebrow raise, but it's not like Ryan's trying to hide it.
"Oh come on, don't even!" Brendon huffs, shoving at him.
"I wasn't!" Ryan protests, giggling and curling into himself against the shove. "I wasn't, sorry!"
Brendon huffs, unconvinced, and sharply turns another page, just for effect.
"Dude, I. Oh, Jesus." Ryan takes a breath, forces it out fast. "Okay. Look. Being completely objective and heterosexual about this, you have a very nice dick."
Brendon's gaze narrows, still dubious, because hey, Ryan hasn't even seen him hard, and Brendon's totally a grower. But Ryan just rolls his eyes, turning back to the book and flipping the page.
"Besides," Ryan shrugs, voice low, "it's not the size that matters, it's how you use it."
He looks up to find Brendon smirking smokily, one eyebrow quirked as his voice drops: "Trust me, Ross, I know how to use it."
Ryan smiles but bites his lip against it, turning back to the photos. "I know."
"...Do you, now?"
He shrugs, cheeks flushed as he works to fight the grin. "I heard you and Jack."
For a second Brendon has no reaction, at least none that he can let out -- because just the thought of Ryan listening, Ryan hearing them, Ryan hearing him come, is about all he needs for a blissful, mind-numbing heart attack right about now. He stops it before it can go any further, before he can fantasize about the sounds turning Ryan on, about Ryan thrusting a hand down his pants to wrap his fingers around...
Right. Stopping.
"I don't remember this one."
It takes a moment for Ryan's voice, mellow and deadpan as ever, to snap Brendon back to reality, following Ryan's eyes to the page laid open across their laps. He doesn't have to ask which picture drew the reaction, and suddenly nothing, no fantasy in any of his forbidden stores, could seduce the blush that's heating his face now as he stares down, at himself, at Ryan, on the page. There's nothing explicit, nothing blatantly incriminating about the shot; it's the subtleties that betray it: the tangle of their fingers between their bodies on the lounge sofa; the look in Brendon's eyes as he gazes at Ryan, the smile he knows, oh god, he knows he only ever offers to Ryan, but he'd never imagined it was this obvious. Maybe Ryan doesn't remember, but Brendon does. He remembers it had been Ryan to join their hands; he remembers the streak of pure fucking happiness that had snaked warmly through his veins as Ryan turned to him, his smile indulgent but so, so real, slipped his hand into Brendon's and whispered, "Happy Birthday, hot stuff."
There's nothing, nothing in the world to mistake for the look in Brendon's eyes. It's there, simple, plain as day for the whole god damned world to see.
The thing is, nothing's changed: it's the exact same way he looks at Ryan every fucking day.
Brendon swallows hard, flipping the page. "Me neither."
"Help me."
Spencer sighs, and Brendon can hear the typing stop; the unmistakable clap of the laptop falling shut. "All right, what?"
"Tell me, fucking tell me you took French in high school."
"I... took French in high school."
"But did you?! Really?"
"Well, yeah, of course!" Spencer laughs. "Would've been stupid not to; I copied Ryan's notes for three years. So what?."
"Spencer, I love you."
"Brendon, you're weird."
"I need you to translate."
"Ugh, I'm looking up Halo cheats, I'm so fucking close to beating Tom it's not even funny, and Jon's fucking helping him, it's so mean. Make Ryan translate."
"I can't, he won't tell me what it means!"
Spencer chuckles like he knows the joke, and Brendon knows he's already on Ryan's side, just like that, automatic. "Sucks. So what'd he say?"
"I don't know! If I knew I'd, like, Google it!"
"Then how the fuck am I supposed to help you?!"
"I -- I dunno, help me sound it out. I kinda remember what it sounds like. Sort of. Maybe."
There's a dead silence, before Spencer says, in all sincerity, "I hate you."
Brendon smiles. Winning is awesome, but winning with Spencer is glory.
It's ten minutes, three look-ups in Spencer's pocket French dictionary that he hasn't used "since eleventh grade, Jesus fuck, Brendon," and four rounds of panic flare-ups in Brendon's chest, convinced Ryan's going to come home early saying he couldn't find anything on the grocery list (wouldn't be the first time), but it's like a light bulb over his head and a breath of coveted fresh air all at once when Spencer finally echoes a phrase that Brendon's mind registers instantly as Yes.
"Is that -- " Spencer's voice is small, uncertain in a way Brendon's never heard. "Is that it?"
"Yeah, fuck, yeah, that's it, you're awesome! What does it mean?"
The dead silence comes to life somehow, like it's breathing, thriving on its own, louder than words, louder than screaming.
"...Spence? Come on, tell me."
"...I can't."
"What the fuck?!"
"Brendon, I... I... he said this to you?"
"Oh my god, do you have a death wish? Fucking tell me!"
"I can't," Spencer chokes. "I -- that'd be like -- like... spilling Ryan's secrets. I can't. He didn't mean for you to -- I'm sorry. It's not for me to tell. I can't."
Brendon doesn't answer. Some times are easier than others to accept that certain parts of his life are just always going to be more eternally fucked than the average person's, but this. This. Is just. It's twenty different kinds of unfair, all of them new and unfamiliar, and it's not a game anymore; it's lies. It's secrets and lies and the frustrated sting of tears behind his eyes, and this isn't like Ryan, it's just what they fought over, keeping things from each other that aren't supposed to be kept.
"Hey," Spencer sighs, softening his voice. "Look, it's not -- Ryan's not trying to be a bitch, okay? And it's nothing bad, it's just. Look. I -- I've got something you can say to him. That's all I can do. I mean, you'll have to memorize it; can you?"
Brendon grips fistfuls of his jeans and squeezes, eyes pressed tightly shut. "Try me."
Brendon is a firm believer that stubbornness, applied appropriately, is a virtue.
He doesn't want to let it go. He just wants it to... go.
It gets easier the more he lets Spencer's words play over in his head -- It's nothing bad -- but that's only a fleeting comfort, every time, because his mind beelines to Then why won't he tell me? and more or less dead-ends there, only with a few more expletives and exclamatory punctuation.
He lets other thoughts take over after awhile, when they arise: Ryan pressed against him, the photo album on their lap, their quiet, just-for-each-other voices and soft laughter filling the warm, heavy air between them. The way Ryan had looked at him before it came out, all foreign and accented, fucking meaningless to Brendon but everything to Ryan. He'd looked pained, like he wanted nothing more than to work up the nerve to say it in English, and that one strikes all the right nerves, because if there's anything Brendon knows like the back of his own hand, it's the pain of being plagued by the simple combinations of words you can't say.
He can hear the front door open downstairs, but he doesn't uncurl himself from the foot of Ryan's bed. It feels as much his bed now as Ryan's, and some dim corner of his brain warns danger, but when Ryan clasps his hand night after night and whispers, "Stay," in that secret shred of time just before the night closes in on them, Brendon's only human.
Footsteps climb the stairs, and a rustling of plastic grows loud enough for Brendon to identify as shopping bags, before Ryan's shuffling into the room, dumping the items on the floor.
"Hey. You okay?"
Brendon looks up, accusations pushing toward the tip of his tongue and dying there as Ryan leans down to run a hand through Brendon's hair, brow knit in concern.
"Fine," Brendon mumbles, voice gravelly from the hours out of use.
Ryan pushes the bags around with his feet, making room to kneel at the side of the bed as he slides his hand down to Brendon's face, touching and pressing in patches. "You're all flushed. You feel warm."
Brendon leans into the touch, smiling as Ryan's cool palm cups his cheek. "'M fine."
"You want a cold washcloth? Advil? Some water?"
"I love you."
And it's.
It's.
It's... happened, Brendon realizes with a sinking flutter in his stomach; he's finally reached the breaking point, and it's starting slow, little jagged cracks in the ice, and this is the first.
He knows it won't take many more before the surface splits, before he goes plunging into the icy water, fighting for breath and hoping someone will pull him out.
But Ryan, Ryan's so good, only falters for a blink, maybe two, something flashing over his face and disappearing before he smiles, gentle and sweet and vulnerable and everything Brendon fell in love with, everything Ryan never shows, everything he doesn't let himself become.
"Love you too," he whispers.
"I'm fine," Brendon repeats, pulling himself up halfway until he can drag himself to the head of the bed, sprawled properly, long-ways across the mattress. "Just tired. And kinda freaked out. I don't like you driving alone around here when it's dark."
"Well, I got sick of you bitching about not having any more Oreos," Ryan counters, digging a few items out of a bag and tossing said Oreos onto the bed. "Oh, and I got this, so don't use it, it's mine."
He holds out a pump bottle of moisturizing face wash, and Brendon bursts out laughing.
"Shut up! It says 'for men'!"
"Yeah, gay men, who iron their gay jeans and put on gay foundation and gay lip gloss before they go out to gay it up in big gay clubs."
Ryan's eyes shrink to slits. "You would know."
He spins around to stalk off to the bathroom, but Brendon shoots a hand out, catching a shirt tail. "Wait, wait, lemme see that."
Ryan reluctantly holds out the bottle, huffing while Brendon squints at the label before launching into an epic laughter sequel.
"Fuck you!"
"Dude, no, no, it's -- oh my god." Brendon clutches his tummy, pulling himself up until he's seated cross-legged, somehow managing to take up most of the bed. "One time I was at this party, and some guy and I were going at it -- "
"Do I really want to hear this?"
"Yes! 'Cause like, we were in the bathroom, and -- "
"Oh my god, was this that time you abandoned me and that creepy chick with all the tattoos tried to take me home with her?"
"Um." Brendon scratches his chin. "Possibly. But this guy was so hot."
"Well, clearly, you're forgiven."
"No, but dude," Brendon plows forward, unfazed, "we were so drunk, and there were all these bottles of lotion on the counter and we didn't have any lube, so he like, reaches out for the nearest bottle and starts, y'know, and all of a sudden it like, burns like fuck, and I'm like, what the fuck did you use, and we look, and it's totally that shit you've got in your hand right now."
Ryan grins. "That's disgusting."
"Fuck disgusting, it hurt like hell! All those fucking little exfoliating beads or whatever. That shit's the devil."
"I'll be sure to keep it away from your ass," Ryan promises, plopping down on the bed and flipping off the light, leaving them in the dusky desk lamp glow. "I dunno if that's worse than the time I was at this girl's house in high school, and she's all like, 'get naked, I'm gonna go freshen up' or whatever, so she goes into the bathroom, and I take off my clothes and then her brother comes home, who's like this... fucking huge-ass football player, and he's screaming at me to get the fuck out, and I end up in her backyard naked and like, all of my clothes are in her room."
"That's awesome!" Brendon laughs, letting his body fall back against the pillows, arms folded beneath his head. "Oh, but dude, nothing beats this one guy who yelled 'Tada!' every time he came."
"Are you kidding me?!" Ryan drops down beside him, laughing recklessly as he rolls onto his side until they're face to face.
"Crazy, crazy people," Brendon sighs, grinning.
"'Kay, I've got one that's just gross."
"Yay!"
Ryan smiles affectionately. "So, first time I ever went down on a girl -- "
"Oh, ew."
"Yeah, well, it was like, totally dark, so afterwards I go into the bathroom to clean up, and I turn on the light, and apparently she'd like, started her period 'cause my face was like, covered in blood, I looked like fucking Hannibal Lecter -- "
"Dude, that's disgusting!"
"I know! I was like, screaming until I figured it out, I thought she was dying or something."
"Oh my god, you're such a tool."
"Whatever."
"See -- " Brendon props himself up on his elbow. "This is why I love guys. That's just traumatizing."
Ryan smirks. "So who was your first? Who... lured you into sodomy?"
Brendon chuckles. "How do you not know this? Oh my god, Tom."
"I -- Jon's Tom? Dude, serious?"
"Fuck yeah. Jesus, that guy can fuck. Best kept secret on the label."
"That's." Ryan blinks, eyes trailing dazedly to the window. "Huh."
"What about you?"
"Never fucked a guy, dumbass."
"First girl, twatface."
"Oh. Some blonde before Tara. Stephanie."
Brendon smiles fondly. "You and your god damned blondes."
Ryan shrugs, plucking at a thread on the comforter. "It's... probably some lame Oedipal complex, I guess. My mom was a blonde. Is. Whatever."
"Oh. I -- sorry, I didn't..."
"'S'okay." Ryan smiles. "I'm done with blondes now."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I've decided they're bad luck. Or, whatever, maybe that's just girls in general."
Brendon's heart absolutely doesn't skip a beat. Nor does he indulge any little spark of hope that flares up in his chest. He's not seventeen again, he's not. He's mature now; he's wise. Or at least jaded.
Realism blows.
"I dunno, I still like some girls," Brendon muses. "Sarah was cool. It was nice, y'know, hanging out with someone who just saw... me. And liked me. Who wasn't just trying to get in my pants... who didn't just look at me and see Panic's frontman; she was great. I think I just... in the end, it'll be guys for me. There's this really specific, intense connection in same-sex relationships that you just... can't get anywhere else."
He hadn't thought of it as some sort of speech, but the silence feels louder and heavier when he stops, and Ryan's looking at him like Brendon's been quoting Palahniuk and Wilde and Shakespeare all in the same sentence.
Ryan says, "Oh."
Realism blows, but it's safe. There are boundaries.
"Ever kissed a guy?"
...But boundaries are meant to be pushed.
Ryan blinks, trying to keep hold of Brendon's gaze but it's breaking at every turn, crumbling until it finally settles on the pillow, defeated.
"I mean -- " Brendon amends, feeling his face heat all over again, "besides, y'know." Me, oh, hey, remember that?
Ryan shrugs. "Yeah, a few times."
"Ever done more?"
"I... no."
Brendon swallows. "Ever... wanted to do more?"
And really, it's times like these he needs to take a moment to remind himself that his mouth actually does have an off-switch, and not every word that begs for release should get it.
Ryan stares at him, hard, for a long time -- not warning, not challenging, just... hard. Like he's not even really looking at Brendon, just staring to ground himself, trying to read whatever code Brendon's put out there to be cracked.
"Sometimes," he says at last. "Girls are... easier. All over, just, easier. No one'll look at me weird when I'm with a girl. No paparazzi will stalk me if I have dinner with a girl. As long as I date girls, the band will still be about the music. If I started sleeping with a guy, every interviewer in the world would try to connect every question, every lyric to where I put my dick. I don't want -- I couldn't take that. It's not fair, not for us, not for the band."
"So..." Brendon forces himself to pause, to let all the overactive gears in his brain settle, even a little. "So that's why you date girls, 'cause you don't want to be known as the gay songwriter?"
"I -- no. I like girls, girls are great. I'm... not afraid of being hurt by a girl, not really. It'd be losing a lover, but... not like losing a best friend, y'know? I could never be best friends with a girl. And they're not afraid of emotions, so they're not afraid of my emotions. I can talk about things with them that most guys wouldn't want to hear about. Stuff, y'know, like... the kind of stuff we talk about."
"...So, you're straight?"
It's not even logical progression as questions go, and Brendon almost wants to kick himself for asking outright, because they don't do this, none of them, they -- they never. Even when they all knew, knew Brendon was fucking guys, they never asked, never said a word until he sat down one morning with his bowl of Froot Loops and said, "So, I like dudes," and even then, the only word they offered was, "Duh."
But it's -- this is better. It'll be better, in the end, a straight answer, final -- no more dreaming, no false hopes to hold him back.
"I." Ryan swallows, his breath quickening as he shrugs, squirming awkwardly on his side of the bed. "I'm just. Just because girls are easier doesn't mean I. I don't..."
"So... you're bi?"
He finally lifts his eyes, his fingers abandoning the loose thread, and locks his gaze to Brendon's. "Um, like, serious? I mean, jeez, I figure you of all people wouldn't be so hung up on labels. Are they really that important?"
"I -- no, that's not what I -- I'm sorry, I didn't mean -- no."
"Then what? What are you trying to figure out?"
"I'm trying to figure out what was going through your head two years ago when you kissed me."
Brendon can almost hear it, the resounding boom as the impact strikes -- a long, forked line splitting the ice under their feet, the surface fighting to stay intact under the relentless thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat.
Ryan looks away, forever and a day; silent and then some.
"I'm not sure, Bren."
In all honesty it's the best answer Brendon could've hoped for, beneath all his jaded realism.
"If you ever figure it out... let me know?"
Ryan looks up, their eyes catching, and somewhere below, his hand slips into Brendon's. The slide is so subtle, so unobtrusive that it feels like it's belonged there all along; that Brendon had been incomplete without it, without Ryan's fist pressed into the cave of his palm, their fingers overlapping just enough to touch, but not take.
"Yeah. Yeah, I will."
It's an end. It's the kind of end that suits them: incomplete, open, never resolved, with closure always a distant fantasy.
Brendon even thinks it's enough; thinks of how much better it is than all the alternatives, all the answers he could've received tonight, and when Ryan flips off the light and disappears into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, Brendon thinks of the ice, and how some things can hold up even with cracks, with holes, and still function.
But something snaps when Ryan crawls into bed, the pitch-black air begging for release, for rebellion, for secrets, and Brendon can't stop the words from tumbling out, hushed and rushed in one breath that may be his last:
"Qu'est-ce que je te fais sentir?"
For a moment Ryan's so still Brendon almost deflates, thinking he's already asleep, but finally he turns, shifting under the sheets until they're face to face, and the wide gloss of his eyes is all Brendon can see.
"What did you say?" Ryan whispers.
"I -- I dunno what it means. Spencer wouldn't tell me. He wouldn't tell me anything, he just said I should say it. I'm sorry, I don't -- "
Slowly, quietly, Ryan sighs, and Brendon follows.
"You're not gonna tell me, are you?" Brendon whispers.
They're near enough to each other that Brendon can feel each breath released, their texture and speed, the soft scent of mint that suddenly grows stronger, closer, until it's not just air, it's the press of Ryan's lips, paper-light and wispy against his own -- easy enough, in the dark, to pretend it was never there.
"Good-night, B."
He shifts, rustling the bedcovers until he's twisted around to his other side, until the liquid of his eyes is gone, and all Brendon can see is dark.
He's starting to think that even under the brightest sky, that's all he'll ever see.
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Date: 2009-03-19 12:30 am (UTC)