(no subject)

[behindthec]

continued from HERE.


+++


La Campanella doesn't have a story; not a real one. Not like the cello prelude, not like his and Ryan's Chopin. It's eerie, it's passionate; no resolution, just defiance. It's chaotic but settled in its chaos, somehow: Brendon's current state fighting with the state he'd kill to reach. He doesn't often have so much emo that he needs to escape it, but Ryan's closed himself in his room, lights off, and Brendon can't, he can't just sit here with twenty different kinds of cabin fever and not lose his mind over and over again until he forgets he ever had it in the first place.

It was the night he came out to his parents, a year and a half ago, when he wasn't sure he'd ever see them again. He went home and he wouldn't let Ryan or Spencer come with him, wouldn't answer Jon's inquiring texts or Pete's grainy Sidekick photos of a rainbow sign he'd made proclaiming "I LOVE MY BIG GAY FRONTMAN." Shane took one look at him, pulled him into a hug, and took him by the hand into the music room, sitting him down at his piano and rifling through Brendon's stack of sheet music he'd always meant to learn and never did. He pulled out Liszt, and Brendon scoffed as Shane flipped to the page and set it down in front of him. "Learn this," he'd told him. Brendon asked why, and Shane said, "It's messy. The notes chase each other and never reach, never get answers, but it's beautiful. The chaos is the beauty."

It sounded like a load of Buddhist bullshit at the time, but it worked. Still, Brendon isn't so sure there's anything beautiful about his chaos now as he sits alone in the music room, enveloped by the black windows and emptiness of night just outside with only the lamp atop the instrument to light his way, but he pounds the fuck out the keyboard, shivers as it echoes, feels the aching strain in his fingers as he trudges through the intricacies of the melody, forcing himself to start over if he makes a single mistake.

His fourteenth run is smooth to the end and he's sweating through the piece's rolling climax, eyes shut as his fingers fly by memory over the keys, so fully wrapped in it that by the time it ends, he's forgotten what silence feels like.

When he opens his eyes, Ryan's standing in front of him.

From the looks of him, he'd forgotten too.

He's wrecked, and beauty in chaos finally makes sense.

His eyes are red-rimmed, hair sticking up everywhere, mouth flushed like he'd been biting his lip to keep the sobs where Brendon couldn't hear them. He's in his plaid pajama pants, half falling off like always, always, like everything's the same; but he hasn't bothered with a shirt, and now he looks like he wishes he had, shoulders hunched nervously over his chest, bare save for the tiny silver om symbol that's been on a chain around his neck since California. His hands are clasped in front of him, fingers twisting around one another, and Brendon aches to go to him, to pull him into his arms and just hold him despite his own pain, protect him from whatever's in his head that's done this to him.

But he can't. He can only stare, terrified his touch will be rejected, because twice in one night is too much.

Ryan isn't much better off. He stares back, hands finally releasing and falling to his sides, limp, as he takes his first step forward.

It seems like forever for him to get to where Brendon can touch him (can, but doesn't), one slow step after another like he's walking down the aisle or death row, Brendon can't tell which, but suddenly he's right there, close enough that the wide, loose legs of his pants brush against Brendon's knee, and their eyes haven't broken.

Ryan tries to smile but his breath is too short for the effort. Instead, he swallows, and his lips slowly part.

"I changed my mind."

Just like that. Brendon's heart pounds out a thousand beats at once and skips them all, and his stomach plummets, only to spring back up, jumbled and skittish.

He doesn't pull his eyes away from Ryan's, just keeps them locked there in case there's anything more he needs to read, but the way Ryan's looking at him, he's pretty much an open book.

He's begging for trust, and Brendon wants to say, You have it.

He can't.

He can only lean forward, hands shaking as they reach to touch Ryan's hips, sliding up the worn fabric until they're cupping the bare skin on his waist, and Brendon lets his head drop forward, the side of his face pressed into the velvet soft of Ryan's stomach. He can feel a heartbeat somewhere higher up, and he closes his eyes, soaking it in.

Ryan exhales above him, shaky, as his hands come up to tangle in Brendon's hair, stroking gently and rubbing at his head, soothing circles and broad, comforting strokes, until Brendon turns his face inward, pressing his mouth against the skin. He's not really kissing, just mouthing openly at any inch of skin he can reach, memorizing the feel of it, the smell of Ryan this close, even though he knows, oh god, somehow he knows there's no rush, no need to memorize: this won't be his only chance. Just the thought has his lips stretching into a smile against Ryan's skin; and Ryan's answering response as he feels the reaction, his fingers tightening in Brendon's hair just enough to remind himself he's allowed, that Brendon's actually going to let him.

He whispers, "Brendon," and Brendon comes undone.

His hands are already wandering and he knows it's probably too fast, too soon, but Ryan's not stopping him and his movements are slow and liquid, enough of an excuse for how his fingers are tugging on the drawstrings of the plaid flannels, picking at the knot until it comes open, and the pants just. Fall.

Suddenly there's navy blue satin under his fingers and he leans back, just enough to validate it with his eyes, and smiles for real.

Ryan's far above him but Brendon can swear he feels him smile back as Brendon starts to slide his lips over the fabric, nothing obscene, just reverent, breathing hotly against Ryan's dick, already twitching beneath its confines.

He hears his name again, an octave higher, and pulls himself to his feet, his hands slipping into place around Ryan's waist as they stand pressed together, only their faces apart, wide eyes on wide eyes, breath on breath.

Ryan's hands cover enough space to feel like they're everywhere, one curled around Brendon's neck just as before, the other cupping his face, thumb stroking along his jaw, but when his eyes lose focus and his tongue dips out over his lip, it's for words and words only.

"You..."

It doesn't sound like there's anything else coming, but Brendon knows different. "It's okay. Say it."

Ryan's eyes drag back up to his, darting between them. "You make me feel like I'm falling."

Something feels like it's sliding into place, but Brendon can't tell what.

He whispers, "I'll catch you," and kisses him.

It's Ryan who leads this time but there isn't much of a battle for it, just a following, and as desperate as it is, it's slower than Brendon would've thought, like they have nowhere to be and nowhere to run, even if they wanted. But Ryan isn't running, just using his leverage to pull Brendon close until neither can breathe, his other hand sliding down Brendon's cheek to grip his shoulder, squeezing tight against his t-shirt. Brendon just holds on, too focused on staying upright do to much else, thumbs rubbing circles over Ryan's hipbones: an anchor.

They kiss and they kiss and they kiss, just right there, hips pressed into the side of the piano and windows bare all around them, for all the woods to see. A whole new rush builds when Brendon realizes he's figuring out what Ryan likes, how he likes to kiss, be kissed; how he likes to touch; what press of Brendon's fingers will have him pushing closer, whimpering into his mouth, and Brendon's eternally grateful that it's actually a surprise, after so many years of entertaining every fantasy his mind could contrive for this. Despite them all, it's nothing like he imagined, and a thousand times better.

A pleasant ache starts to settle into his jaw as their tongues move over one another, and it could be hours that they've been here or only minutes; Brendon's out of practice, but he doesn't have much chance to adjust because Ryan's mouth is suddenly gone. He only gets in a good half second of panic before he opens his eyes, just in time to see Ryan dropping to his knees, fingers pulling at Brendon's fly until the zipper's down and Ryan eases him out, fingers closing hot and sure around him, and Brendon. Brendon just keens.

"Fuck," he hisses as Ryan starts to stroke him, light and testing. "Ryan -- fuck."

"Later," Ryan hums absently, ducking his head to slide his tongue up the shaft in a broad, fiery line of wet-hot.

Brendon makes some ungodly noise and flails one hand until it hits the piano, a sharp sting against the wood, but he holds onto the edge like a life preserver and grips hard, his hand already slipping from sweat, the other falling to rest in Ryan's hair, stroking gently through the mess of strands.

"Um." Ryan looks up at him, eyes blown. "I've never -- "

"You don't -- "

"I want."

Brendon blinks. "I -- okay."

And he doesn't even care that he sounds more like one of the mice from Cinderella than a twenty-two-year-old man, because Ryan's mouth is on his dick and wow, apparently, some people are born for this. Because Ryan? Was born for this.

"Holyfuckingshit," Brendon splutters, trying to divide his willpower between not coming right the fuck now and not yanking on Ryan's hair. It's hard, god, it's so hard because Shane's the last one who did this and he used to love when Brendon pulled his hair, so the sense memory is killer. And it's not like Ryan's helping matters, sliding all the way down to where his hand's gripping the base and sucking tight, humming softly around him, pleased, whenever Brendon makes a noise. He's sloppy and wet and uncoordinated about it like all first-timers are, but that just so happens to be Brendon's favorite technique: none at all, just messy and reckless until he falls apart without warning.

And oh, fuck, warning.

"Ryan -- shit, stop, I'm gonna -- "

Ryan pulls off but only to get his bearings, to shoot Brendon a meaningful look, grab hold of his hips and shove him back against the piano, pinning him in place as Ryan sinks back down, hollowing his cheeks and circling his tongue over the head once, twice. Brendon looks down at the last second, dizzy in his own rushing climax, to see Ryan's free hand pressing hard against his own crotch to keep from coming, and that's it, it's over.

And Ryan just fucking takes it -- he chokes on it, a little, but he doesn't pull off, just lets Brendon fill his mouth until Brendon's nerves are so shot he has to push at Ryan's head, only now just realizing his control had zoomed straight to hell, because his fingers are curled tight in Ryan's hair, shaking under his own grip.

"Sorry, sorry," he stutters, releasing him, breathless as Ryan climbs to his feet, tucking him gently back into his jeans, but Ryan just shakes his head, cups Brendon's face in his hands, and kisses him.

And -- and oh.

Ryan didn't just remember, he fucking did it, he's doing it, pushing Brendon's come into his mouth until their tongues are meeting through it, swirling it around between them as they swallow. Somewhere through it, Ryan's fingers snake down their bodies to find Brendon's hand and bring it up, pressing it back into his hair until Brendon gets the message and tangles it there on his own, tugging gently to move Ryan where he wants him, and Ryan moans into it, his body pressing hard against Brendon's in response.

Ryan is seriously the best ever.

But there's a record shortage of oxygen and they can only kiss for so long before their lungs are close to bursting. It's more reckless panting than breathing when they finally pull back, but Brendon can't complain. Their noses brush, faces dipping in for short, pecking kisses, eyes half-lidded and lips stretched into matching smiles.

"Hi," Brendon whispers, hands splayed across Ryan's back.

"Hi," Ryan grins, his voice raw, all rough and gravelly from, oh god, that. "Way to break the ice, huh?"

Brendon huffs out a laugh, and somehow it sets his whole body shaking, shivering like he's cold, but it feels like he's on fire.

"Hey," Ryan whispers, squeezing his arms. "Hey. I'm here. I'm here."

Brendon closes his eyes and nods. This is going to take some getting used to.

"I think," Brendon pants after a moment, inhaling slow, "you should get your ass upstairs. Like, now."


+++


Upstairs is... different.

It's so backwards and stupid, so just like them, that the nerves would set in after Ryan's had Brendon's dick in his mouth, but it's okay. It's okay because Brendon's shoving Ryan towards his bedroom, grinning stupidly at each other as Brendon disappears into his own room for tools of the trade. He doesn't know what he's expecting when he gets back; it's not like Ryan's sprawled out naked on the bed. He's just -- he's there, standing in the middle of the room, waiting for Brendon, his body framed by the soft light from the bathroom, and suddenly, everything's kind of stunningly real.

Eyes locked, he reaches past Ryan to toss the items on the bed, turns back around. He's still in his unzipped jeans, and Ryan's still in his underwear, and the light's lower, but he feels more exposed than he did downstairs. It must show in his face, his emotions always do, because Ryan reaches out, takes his hand and pulls him in close, gracelessly yanking Brendon's t-shirt over his head before fitting their bare chests together.

"Hey," Ryan breathes, tilting his head to mouth at Brendon's neck; open, wet kisses that trail down over his shoulder, his collarbone, before his tongue dips into the hollow at the base of his neck, then slides up his throat, over his Adam's apple and the five o'clock shadow budding across his jaw. "I want you."

Brendon's eyes fall shut, fingers skating up and down Ryan's sides, itching to tighten, to claim. "Yeah?"

"Mmm."

"What do you want?"

Ryan reaches down, palms him through his jeans. "I want you to fuck me."

He's still nibbling at Brendon's neck and Brendon just comes apart, shuddering under the touch and the words, the glaring reality of them, and there must be more bubbling to the surface than he realizes, because Ryan pulls back, studying his face.

"You okay?"

"I. Yeah. Just a little. Overwhelmed."

Ryan frowns, cradling his face. "Why?"

"Because it's you."

And logically it makes no sense; it's exactly why he shouldn't be freaked out; they've been crawling to this point for six years, and it's not like they have anything left to be embarrassed about. Ryan's seen him dance naked and sing Backstreet Boys on Pete's dining room table. He stayed in bed with him all night when Brendon came down in cold sweats after his first cocaine high. He's heard him have sex; hell, he's seen him throw up in the back lounge, for fuck's sake. This isn't the apocalypse, it's not even marriage; it's sex.

Only, it's sex he's been waiting six years to have.

Ryan kisses him, soft and quick. "Okay. It's okay. We don't have to..."

"Ryan, fuck, I want to."

Ryan blinks. "Yeah?"

There isn't a word powerful enough for how much Yes this is, so Brendon doesn't try. He bites his lip and swallows, stepping back and dropping his hands to his sides.

"Lie down."

Ryan's eyes are instantly dark as it sinks in, and he's backing up to the bed, quick to follow orders. A thrill surges through Brendon as it happens and he tries not to let his mind entertain the fact, imagine how much he wants to play with it. Instead, he follows, waits until Ryan's spread out on his back before stepping forward, undoing his pants the rest of the way and shoving them down over his hips before kicking them off his ankles.

Ryan stares. Ryan stares like he's been waiting six years to stare, without having to hold up the pretense of disinterest. He stares like he's waited as long as Brendon has, and the thought is impossible, but it's there.

Brendon's hard all over again as he steps forward, crawling on top of Ryan and reaching beneath the waistband of his underwear, only just now realizing he still hasn't seen Ryan naked -- at least not like this. The realization comes a moment too late, once he's already slid the panties off and away, leaving only Ryan, just as hard, flushed and leaking onto his stomach, and motherfucking gorgeous.

He tries to say twenty different things but only a gasp comes out, and at the same moment Ryan reaches up and tugs him down, their mouths crashing.

It's both numbing and sharp, the sparking friction and how they manage to align themselves just right like they've known each other too long not to figure this out, easy as breathing, their cocks brushing with each grinding thrust of their hips, tongues fighting to match the pace. It's too much too soon, and this isn't how Brendon wants it to end, so he pulls back, starts inching his way down Ryan's body, tasting as much skin as he can, memorizing it all just in case, just in case.

Ryan's bucking up into it, hands in Brendon's hair all the way down, and Brendon nearly impales himself on one deadly hipbone before dipping lower, nipping at the soft flesh of Ryan's inner thigh before he slips his hands underneath, spreading Ryan's legs until he can get his mouth where he wants it.

Ryan seems to figure out where he's headed even before it's clear in Brendon's mind, but it doesn't stop the choked, desperate gasp ripped from Ryan's throat as Brendon's tongue flicks out over his entrance, all business and no teasing.

Teasing's for later. Now is now.

Knowing it's a thing for Ryan does nothing to soften the reaction he gets, Ryan practically vibrating beneath him, each breath sharper than the last as he strains under the effort to keep from pushing down onto Brendon's mouth, get him deeper. Brendon goes deeper anyway, using his hands to spread the cheeks apart until he can push inside, shallow thrusts chasing the taste (of Ryan, it's Ryan), sliding one hand inward to cup his balls, stroking lightly; and the sharp twinge of pleasurepain that follows as Ryan squeezes tight in his hair, fingernails digging in.

Brendon can tell Ryan's getting close, too close, and pulls back, scrambling for the bottle of lube by the pillow. Ryan watches him as he slicks up three fingers, easing the first inside without much warning until he thinks better of it, keeping it still until he crawls awkwardly back up Ryan's body, close to his face.

"Okay?"

Ryan nods. "I've done this."

"I thought -- "

"To myself."

Jesus fuck, images.

"Hey, stay with me," Ryan breathes, smiling, and Brendon opens his eyes, refocusing.

He stays, eyes close on Ryan's as he works in a second finger, spreading them out inside as much he can but Ryan's fucking tight, and whatever he's done to himself (god) isn't going to be enough.

"Relax," Brendon whispers, because Ryan isn't, he's eager but tense, and Brendon slides back down, closing his lips around the head of Ryan's cock, tasting him sharp and thick on his tongue as he adds a third, driving them just a little deeper, just enough.

"Fuck," Ryan gasps. "Just keep -- fuck."

"Yeah?" Brendon asks, trying not to grin as he works over that spot, relentless, entranced by the way Ryan's dissolving under the touch.

Ryan nods, frantic. "Come on. Come on, just -- "

Brendon pulls out and Ryan's already got the condom unwrapped, pulling himself up to roll it down over Brendon's dick, just like that, no preamble, and Brendon bites hard on his lip because Jesus, Ryan's fingers.

It's the usual awkward moment of mechanics, tense and stilted until he manages to line up and push forward, slow as he can manage, watching Ryan's face until his hips finally still, meeting Ryan's. It's so, so much, and he just halts for a second, forehead dropped to Ryan's shoulder until Ryan hooks a leg around his back and lifts his hips, the message clear.

He starts a slow rhythm, pulling back to keep his eyes on Ryan's, wide open in a way Brendon's never seen, like Ryan's giving more than he realized he had available to give. And Brendon takes it all, keeps it safe, kissing him through it as he begins to move, gentle until Ryan starts to meet his thrusts, challenge him, convince him he's not about to break.

It's not gonna last, that's pretty much a given, but Brendon draws it out until he can hook an arm around Ryan's leg and push it up over his shoulder, driving in at that perfect angle and reaching one hand up to shove Ryan's wrists together until he can grab hold of them both, pinning them tight into the mattress above Ryan's head. Ryan's eyes fall back into his head, dark swollen mouth dropping open as he wrangles one hand free and works it between their sweat-glistened bodies to close around his cock. Brendon starts to lose his rhythm just at the sight, Ryan powerless beneath him, until Ryan actually cries out -- some feral, guttural noise Brendon suspects he's never let himself make in his life, and spills between them, shooting over their stomachs, and Brendon's gone, tumbling after him with neon sparks flashing behind his eyes.

It feels like waking up when they come down. Ryan holds onto him tight, doesn't let him pull out, just keeps him close until Brendon starts to kiss him -- small, nibbling kisses, licking over his lips and into his mouth, gentle and sweet as Ryan's hands trail up and down his back, rubbing over the tight muscles until they release.

When they finally collapse on their sides, limbs re-tangling after Brendon chucks the condom, Ryan's looking at him, sated and grinning.

Brendon snorts, reaching out to bat at a rebellious strand of hair by Ryan's ear. "You have total fuck hair."

Ryan smiles bigger. "You did that."

"Yeah." Brendon's voice sounds ridiculous, awe-struck and wispy, but he doesn't really care, because, god, Ryan's smile. "God, your smile."

The smile softens into something deeper, something more, as Brendon reaches out to touch Ryan's face, fingers tracing the curve of his lips.

Ryan kisses his fingertips and whispers, "You did that too."


+++


"This."

"Hmm?" Brendon cranes his neck around to see where Ryan's hovering over him, lips pressed to the little dip in Brendon's spine just above the curve of his ass.

"This is my favorite spot," Ryan whispers, kissing it.

Brendon smiles, rolling onto his back. "Since when?"

"Always. I stare at your ass all the time," he replies nonchalantly, unfazed by Brendon's shift in position and starting to work his way back up, mouthing along his hip and up toward the center of his chest. "I can't believe how clueless you are."

"Well, it's all yours now," Brendon smiles, stretching out long, exhibitionist to the end. "You can do whatever you want with it."

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

Brendon just looks at him. His face has never been able to hide much, and he's counting on it now, because Ryan's eyes darken and he breathes, "Fuck," crawling back up beside Brendon and pulling him forward. "C'mere."

Brendon goes limp for him, letting Ryan pull at him until Brendon's cradled in Ryan's arms, small and balled up, like a child, one of Ryan's arms curled around his shoulders.

"Spread your legs a little," he whispers.

Brendon complies, keeping his eyes on Ryan's shadowed face as Ryan's free hand reaches up, tracing the seam of Brendon's lips until they part, until Brendon opens up on a whimper and sucks them in on instinct, tongue swirling until they're wet. He releases them with a pop, Ryan's breath already short at the sensation, and watches as Ryan dips the hand between his legs and nudges gently at his hole before slipping one inside. Brendon melts under it, and it's odd to see Ryan's the one shaking, fingers trembling as he works in a second, third, face awestruck and finely tuned to Brendon's reactions.

"Stop," Brendon whispers when he knows he's close, and he hates the sound of the word, but he wants more.

"What? You okay?"

Brendon nods. "Just. Need you."

Ryan doesn't need to be begged (but god, Brendon would); he's scrambling across the bed for the string of condoms and Brendon takes the opportunity to position himself, elbows and knees, head bent low and neck bared: surrender. Giving back everything Ryan gave him, and then some.

Ryan sucks in a sharp inhale when he turns around, faced with the sight, but he doesn't falter, just fights for control over his breath as he kneels behind Brendon, hands stroking over the swell of his ass as he lines up and slides home, careful but confident, and Brendon can't breathe. He doesn't want to, either, just wants this, Ryan filling him up, full and pulsing inside him, hips meeting Brendon's on every thrust. Ryan fucks him like he does everything he cares about, with precision and heart and focus, always striving for better. But for Brendon there's nothing better, nothing for him now but to break down, just for Ryan to piece him back together.


+++


Ryan watches him until one a.m., and Brendon lets him.

He's quiet, he's still, and he's focused, and he doesn't know how it happened, but Ryan's fascinated enough by it that he doesn't look away. Just touches him, now and then, where they're not already tangled together. A hand on his face, trailing down his shoulder. Leaning in to kiss him, brief, chaste. They don't talk. They've talked for years. Now, they watch.

"Wanna shower with me?" Brendon finally asks, and Ryan nods.

Brendon's on his knees the second Ryan steps under the stream alongside him. He whispers, "Mine," into the soft, water-slick crease at the top of Ryan's thigh. It's too soft to be heard over the water, but it's too presumptuous to say aloud anyway, and Ryan's massaging his soaked hair as Brendon slides his mouth down, throat relaxed and open, and they don't need words.


+++


"I don't want to go to sleep."

"Then we won't."

It's a valiant effort, but by two a.m. Brendon's starting to drift, Ryan's fingers having long settled into a sleepy rhythm on the side of his neck. He's molded himself against Brendon's side, hard angles fitting into Brendon's curves -- at least that's what Brendon remembers before his eyes closed.

He has no idea how long he was out, maybe just seconds, but he wakes up with a lapful of Ryan, pushing and pulling at him until he consents to move.

"Hey," Ryan kisses him awake, kiss after kiss until Brendon opens his eyes. "Hey, sit up."

"Wh -- "

Brendon obeys because it's Ryan and they're naked and saying no to anything would feel like going against the laws of the universe, but he's not expecting to find Ryan hard against him, straddling his hips, a condom already in hand as he starts to roll it down over Brendon's cock, which -- hey -- is far, far more awake than he is.

"Holy shit," he hisses, pulling himself up to sit slouched against the headboard, fists twisted tight in the sheets as he watches, slack-jawed, while Ryan positions himself and sinks down, head falling back to expose the stretch of his throat, whole body shuddering as Brendon fills him up.

He finally remembers he's got hands, bringing them up to brace them around Ryan's waist, holding him in place and feeling him move, hips swerving in dizzying figure eights as his torso falls forward, forehead pressed to Brendon's and arms looped loose around his shoulders, tightening as Brendon starts to move with him, to pull him closer.

"This, just like this," Ryan breathes into his mouth, and Brendon nods. It's nonsense, doesn't mean anything, but it's a yes, making up for six years of no.

He's just starting to think there's no way he can go a third time, not all the way, when Ryan suddenly bites down hard on his shoulder and comes between them, and Brendon stops thinking.


+++


It's six a.m. when Ryan smiles into his neck and says, "I've never had this much sex in my life."

Brendon smiles, but Ryan can't see it, he's spooned behind him so they can stare out the window together, the gray dawn sinking into muted yellows as the sun starts to rise.

Brendon twists around in his arms until he can see him, Ryan's overtired eyes and crooked smile, the still flushed glow of his skin. "Wanna have some more?"

It's a joke and they laugh, past exhausted and too easily amused, but when they stop laughing it stops being a joke, and when Brendon leans in to kiss him, Ryan meets him halfway.

It's the first time they've done this with any proper light, and it should be a little weird, a little embarrassing with how wrecked and messy they are, for the sun to set their features into bright relief, expressions finally sharp and visible. But Brendon can't wrench his eyes from it as Ryan fucks him into the mattress, slow and deep and just this side of too intense. He's raw and split open and the burn hits harder, but it's good, good, better than, just what he wants, again and again.

He whispers, "Ryan," but it sounds like I love you.

Ryan buries his face into Brendon's neck and says, "I know. I know."