Back To The Place [6/8]

[behindthec]

Title: Back To The Place [6/8]
Author: lolab
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Fiction as far as I know.
Dedication: Everyone who brainstormed with me here; everyone who's been supportive lately (you know who you are, writin' me fic and shit ♥); ivesia19 for this; and above all, minus_four for her honesty and for letting me bitch about this forever. (AND FOR RILONX.)
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.
Notes: The soundtrack's key for this one, though the tracks are linked in-text, too. Lyrics belong to Radiohead. For the record, I wrote my scene before this was posted. I still hate parts of this (they're total disgusting girls; they'll get their testosterone back next chapter), but I hope it was worth the wait.

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






6.


And the feeling is, that there's something wrong
'Cause I can't find the words and I can't find the songs.



When Brendon wakes up, he's pretty sure he's dead.

It's not that his life is bad; in fact, in most ways, his life is pretty sweet. Just, not the kind of sweet that has him waking up half naked, draped across Ryan's body, with Ryan's fingers stroking hypnotically through his hair, massaging the base of his scalp and scratching lightly at all the right spots.

So, clearly, y'know. Death. Or possibly dreaming, but he ruled that out when he realized he could feel the warmth of Ryan's skin, his chest rising and falling; when he realized he could smell him. Not any distinct smell, just. Ryan.

"Mm, fi' more minutes," he mumbles, nuzzling his face deeper into the crook of Ryan's neck.

Beneath him, Ryan's body shakes gently under silent laughter, voice laughing when he says, "Okay."

The voice sounds far off, but it can't be, because Brendon can feel the breath of the syllables hitting his cheekbone, and he's pretty sure there's no breathing in death. Rosencrantz would know. Or Guildenstern. He can't remember now.

But without death or dreaming, the options are intensely narrowed.

Slowly so as not to squash Ryan, Brendon pushes himself up on his elbows to peer down at Ryan's face, features softened, his eyes squinty in the sun but shining in the narrow space where the golden-brown peeps out; and his smile.

His smile.

Brendon swallows. "Where's my shirt?"

"I dunno, you wriggled out of it at some point."

"Why -- " He looks down at the state of them, tangled and sleep-heavy together, and doesn't let himself think. "Why didn't you shove me off?"

Ryan's smile catches a bit on the words, and he shrugs. "You looked so peaceful."

Brendon figures he got away with this much; another ten seconds of staring can't do any harm. Despite his efforts, it's not an answer he finds in Ryan's face, but just another set of questions. Ryan may be fully clothed but his face is naked, more exposed than Brendon's seen in a long time.

Like... two years long.

"Sorry," Brendon says, not really knowing what for, but some part of him feels guilty and it feels like the word that needs to be in the air. He pulls back, peeling away the contact between their bodies, and shivers as the cool, abandoned side of the sheets flutters down around his skin.

"'S'okay," Ryan says. "Yoga?"

Brendon considers the offer, picturing various contortions before his stomach squirms in rumbling protest. He turns his head, smiling hopefully as he remembers the cook book they'd unearthed the day before in a spontaneous burst of housecleaning. "Waffles first?"

"You're a waffle."

Ryan slides out of bed, drawing his arms high as he shuffles across the room, the muscles and bones in his back twisting beneath his paper-thin wifebeater as he grabs one wrist with the opposite hand, using the leverage to stretch out his shoulderblades. Brendon's eyes chase the movement frame by frame before he's even awake enough to stop himself.

Somewhere beneath the sheets, his dick offers a warm, enthusiastic greeting to the new day.

"You coming?" Ryan asks through a yawn.

The voice in Brendon's head that sounds like Pete cackles mercilessly.

"In a minute."

Ryan raises an eyebrow before he leaves the room, his hair sticking up in spikes across his head, his skin golden in the light, veins prominent on the undersides of his tiny forearms as the blood rushes through his body to wake him up. And it's that simple image, his eyes, his skin, his stupid sleep-hair, that sends Brendon over the edge two and a half minutes later, knuckles white as he grips the edge of the bathroom counter, fingers straining from the pressure, white streaks spilling over his hand as the clamor of pots and pans greets him from downstairs.

In his still sleepy mind, it sort of sounds like ice cracking.


+++


"What's a tisp?"

"Huh?" Brendon digs the spatula out from where it's shoved in the back of the drawer, and slaps Ryan's backside with it. "What's a what?"

"A tisp," Ryan says, exasperated, thrusting an open page of the cookbook in Brendon's face.

Brendon squints at where his fingertip is pointing, the letters Tsp. "A -- Ryan, it's -- oh my holy god, it's a fucking teaspoon, you moron."

He's cackling ruthlessly enough to earn the smack on his arm, but it's worth it. "I'm sorry, I'm not your mother. Why the hell are we making waffles from scratch anyway?"

"Because we can. Mix this."

He shoves a bowl into Ryan's arms and starts digging around in the fridge. He's just wrapped his fingers around the can of Cool Whip when a loud, buzzing motor erupts behind him, accompanied by a yelp and a protracted whine of failure.

Where there was once a Ryan, there is now a cloud of white powder.

Brendon claps a hand over his mouth, his whole body spazzing in silent shakes.

"Why did it do that?!" Ryan whines.

"Because you -- " Oh fuck, there it is, he's laughing. "You turned on the electric fucking mixer before you added the wet ingredients, you dickfuck!"

"I don't deserve this abuse!"

"Oh my god," Brendon chokes, unrolling a slew of paper towels from the dispenser and holding them under the faucet, before squeezing them out and dabbing at Ryan's flour-coated face while Ryan pretends to flinch away, only to secretly angle his face for better access. "You look like Casper."

"Shut up! Kids used to tell me I looked like Casper 'cause I'm pale and I have a round face!"

"That's -- " Oh god, laughing harder. "That's -- I'm sorry, honey, that's so mean."

"Don't fucking 'honey' me, you asshole! And you're supposed to deny it!"

"Ryan -- " He backs off, tossing the soaked paper towels on the counter and clutching his middle. "I'm sorry, you're -- you're all -- flour -- "

Ryan gasps indignantly, reaching out for the first thing he can close his hand around, which happens to be the can of Cool Whip quickly collecting condensation. He whips off the cap, aims the spout at Brendon's head, and squeezes the tip. Brendon barely has time to register the whoosh before a cold, frilly line of whipped cream is circling his head.

Brendon's mouth drops open as he feels a trickle of the white fluff dribbling down his face, collecting in the corner of his mouth. "Did you actually just do that?"

GhostRyan splutters a bit, his toothy smile matching his blanched face. "Yeah."

"Congratulations. Come on, take your shirt off, I'll get you a new one."

And, okay. Maybe Ryan can quote authors Brendon's never heard of, and squeeze four-syllable words into his lyrics and recite Shakespeare from memory, but in matters of practicality, he possesses a truly beautiful lack of ability that Brendon feels is his human duty to exploit.

He sets the can of whipped cream down on the counter, both hands curling around the hem of his shirt as he peels it over his head, and Brendon waits for that one, tiny moment where the shirt gets caught on Ryan's head before he wrestles it off, until Brendon snatches the whipped cream and squirts a giant glob all over Ryan's chest.

"Shit, you fucker!"

Ryan leaps back, his grin wide but devious, devious with intent, and Brendon knows that look. It's the look he gets before dares, before he reveals a winning hand of poker. It's the look of evil incarnate, and all Brendon has to defend his life, his virtue, his manhood, is a can of Cool Whip.

Brendon firms his grip on the can. "Last one in the lake makes breakfast. Alone."

"I'm not fucking swimming, it's eight in the morning, the water's fucking cold!"

"Hmm." Brendon nods thoughtfully. "Worried about shrinkage, huh?"

Ryan's eyes narrow behind his white exterior, mouth dropping open comically, dark wet red against the ghostly pale of his face. There's no warning, just a blur of movement and he's bolting for the glass doors to the deck and Brendon's on his heels, giggling and trying to shove him aside, and Ryan's fingers are just floury enough to slip on all his best attempts. Brendon manages to twist the knob and wrench the doors open, sprinting out across the deck, down the stairs, across the dirt and out over the dock. Ryan's faster by nature, but the head start is killer, and the chill of water slicing over his skin as he breaks the surface is nothing next to victory's sweet, sweet taste.

He bobs lazily to the surface, shaking the water from his hair, but his eyes are barely open before he gets another blur of Ryan and he's being pushed back under, Ryan's wiry fingers like vices around his shoulders. It's instinct to fight back and fight dirty, squirm wildly until he breaks free, but the cold and the chaos must be fucking with his head because he launches into a new technique, which involves gracelessly clinging tight to Ryan till they're both underwater, till the only way out is together.

They break the surface, hair drenched and lungs heaving, breathing heavily into each other's faces as they jerk their heads to flick hair from their eyes. It's not until the sun's beating down on them, the fresh morning air breathing goosebumps into their exposed skin -- it's not until their eyes lock, Ryan's wet lashes darkened against his cheek, little beads of lake water clinging tenuously -- that Brendon realizes what the rest of their bodies are up to.

He's -- they're not just touching, not just holding onto each other, but holding each other: Ryan's wrapped loosely around Brendon's waist, both pairs of arms snaked around each other's backs, pulling to keep them both level, and Brendon wants to know how Ryan can just -- just be there, smiling and panting like this isn't what it is, and Brendon's so fucking tired of being the only one who recognizes this for what it is. And it is, independent of Ryan's awareness or relentless lack thereof, and it's not fair, not fair that Ryan won't acknowledge it, just keeps treating it like it's still a game, a tease, a joke, when maybe it never was.

Ryan swallows, trying to find his breath, and his eyes drop from Brendon's, down an inch, two.

"Guess I owe you breakfast."

Brendon's throat clenches and he holds his oxygen, scared to let it out too fast, lest any unwanted words make a break for it.

"Guess so."

Ryan's hand slips on his back, the water too slick for gripping, and plunges six inches lower, landing just above the curve of Brendon's ass. They're close enough that Brendon can feel when Ryan's breath hitches, the only warning he offers before slowly, smoothly pressing his hips forward, just an inch, just an inch enough. Brendon's throat opens, defying permission, and a gasp slides out, sharp and betraying on his tongue.

Ryan blinks, an effected smirk trying to find purchase on his lips. "Shrinkage my ass."

And it's over -- the whisper clings to the air but Ryan's gone, detangling their bodies and hoisting himself back onto the dock, leaving Brendon alone and freezing and motherfucking hard.

Ryan smiles as he looks over his shoulder. "Hope you like tofu sausage."

He's halfway back to the cabin before Brendon can whip up a comeback, but his cry of, "You know I love your sausage!" isn't entirely lost. Ryan doesn't turn around but laughs in the distance, low and dignified, just loud enough for Brendon to hear.

Alone and wet (not to mention blue-balled to hell and back), the walk back to the deck feels longer. Soggier, too. Then there's the whole aspect of brain-numbing confusion, never new but always strong, and the fading tingle under Brendon's skin where Ryan had pressed against him, not enough to be something but just enough to be everything.

Still, victory feels like flying, and he's glad to walk through the door, letting his feet drip onto the mat before heading into the living room, heart set on a luxurious hour of Saturday morning cartoons.

"-- Spence, you can't just throw around words like 'in love' and expect me to -- "

And Brendon hears it in his head, the desperate voice begging To what, to what, to what, even before Ryan looks up from where he's dripping lake water onto the living room floor from his pajama shorts, eyes catching Brendon's like headlights, even though it's Ryan who looks like the deer.

Suddenly he's whiter than white, but there's no flour left on his face.

Brendon can hear a tiny voice on the other line, still talking and pausing, but Ryan's silent, staring at Brendon like he can't hear, like Brendon is all his senses can absorb.

Finally he blinks, whispers, "Yeah," into the phone, and snaps it shut.

Brendon stares. Still. He doesn't have to stop, he's allowed.

"Who was that?" he asks, jumping to find his speech an octave higher and his heartbeat louder than the words, beatbeatbeatthump.

"Spence," Ryan answers, swallowing hard against the broken tone of his voice. "He's -- was just. Calling to check in."

"Oh." Beatbeatthumpthump. "How's he's doing?"

"Good. They're going to a Cubs game later with Bill and Sisky."

"Oh, cool."

"Yeah."

Their eyes are having a separate conversation behind the words -- or trying to prevent one, at least, and Brendon feels his speech shifting to autopilot, the false ease of the words springing from some deep stockpile of smalltalk and empty chatter while the forefront of his brain is screaming obscenities, burying questions but begging for answers.

"Um. Sorry, I'll." Ryan turns, placing his phone gently on the end table. "Breakfast."

"I'm. Not really hungry right now."

Ryan doesn't look up but he looks, hard and pointed at the wall. "Oh."

Thumpthumpthumpcrack.

"So." Ryan nods at their mats rolled up against the armchair, side by side. "Yoga?"

Brendon stares hard, begging Ryan to open for him, but Ryan's locked shut, deadbolted and chained.

Brendon nods, eyes on the floor. "Yeah."

Yoga's funny; it can be the last thing in the world you want to do, but surrender yourself to the postures for five minutes and suddenly you can't remember why you don't do this all day long, every day. Still, on the more pessimistic days, even the focus and awareness can feel like just another route of escape, and Brendon can taste it now, the phone call still heavy and loud in the air between them, throwing into sharp relief whatever it is between them that's not allowed to exist.

Today the time passes like wind, ignored until you're caught in it, and Brendon's mind awakens suddenly to find himself bent over the floor, head bowed low and Ryan pressed up behind him, both still shirtless from the lake, before he even realizes they've started partner work.

It's a new pose, more advanced and more physically intimate; they've only tried it once before and Brendon had crashed to the ground, not because Ryan didn't support him, but because Brendon didn't trust him to, and at the last minute freaked and wriggled out of the posture, his balance collapsing.

He can feel his muscles tremble under the strain of holding the stretch, but Ryan's arms just tighten around him, promising, and just when he feels ready to break, there are lips at his ear, puffing hot, exerted breath against his skin.

"I've got you. Don't worry about falling, I'll catch you."

Brendon closes his eyes and thinks, So catch me.


+++


He spends the morning in his room.

Ryan doesn't bother him, but Spencer sends him a text message -- a single heart; triangle bracket and the number three. For some reason, it makes him feel worse.

It doesn't feel like his room anymore. It doesn't smell like him or his stuff, or what he imagines his stuff must smell like -- no one can really tell, when it's their own -- but it just smells like cabin now. A little old, a little stuffy, but he opens a window and holes himself up in a corner with his Taylor acoustic and a resealable bag of mini Oreos, which he never reseals, and plays through Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness twice until his fingers beg him to stop.

It feels louder once he's stopped; the air and the room. When Brendon plays he feels shut inside his head, all his senses angled inward, the world around him nonexistent; so when he stops, everything feels deafening, blinding. His senses turn outward again, slowly, adjusting to the silence, and past the open window he can hear late afternoon birds, the occasional splash as one of the larger species dips into the lake for a fish.

Three rooms down, a minute later, he hears shuffling noises, and the faint swish of paper, a page turning.

When he reaches Ryan's room, the door's open and Ryan's sprawled on his stomach across a blanket out on the balcony, bug-eyed sunglasses pointlessly low on his nose as he peers over the top of the frames into his book.

Brendon squeezes himself and his guitar through the glass sliding door and curls up cross-legged across from him. The space feels small with the guitar between them, but somehow it'd felt more natural to carry it along than leave it behind.

Ryan looks up and smiles, small but friendly.

"Want me to leave you alone?" Brendon asks.

Ryan shakes his head, turns back to his text, flipping a page. "I fuckin' miss the Pumpkins, man."

"Me too."

"You sounded really good."

Brendon shrugs. He feels awkward accepting compliments when he knows they're true; he kind of kicked ass, for not having touched the songs in two years.

"What're you reading?"

Ryan holds up the book, front and back covers splayed open, and Brendon leans in to read, E.E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962.

He snorts. "You are so, so gay."

"Shut up, this shit's beautiful. I'm looking for inspiration."

Brendon leans back against the railing, chasing some of the shade trickling down from the tree overhead, and props his guitar against the metal bars. "So let's hear some."

Ryan looks at him, sharp and quick, an assessment of intent, but Brendon keeps his face even, finding he's actually curious. Ryan's taste always seems dubious until Brendon's forced to actually sample it, and he tends to be pleasantly surprised, time and again.

Ryan rifles through the book with purpose, but he stares long and hard at the page once he's got it, like he's just. Not sure. He still doesn't seem sure when his lips part, but the words are spilling and Brendon's ears perk in anticipation.

"Here is the deepest secret nobody knows," Ryan reads softly. "Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide, and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart. I carry your heart... I carry it in my heart."

His eyes catch Brendon's on the last words, and it hits Brendon that there was no reason for Ryan to stare at the page at all; this was memorized.

"See?" Ryan prods, glancing away. "It's sexy."

Brendon shrugs, staring out past the thick of trees to the lake, where the wind is whipping over the surface. "You want sexy?" He hoists his guitar into his lap, tuning absently before strumming a few test chords. "You'll probably think you don't know it. He doesn't usually play it acoustic. But when he does, it's one of the sexiest things you'll ever hear."

He hasn't played it in -- Jesus, a year, two, four? It doesn't come back easily, it's not an easy song, not like this, and he remembers Tom's patience, teaching him, both of them still half naked and half drunk on Academy's abandoned tour bus, their respective bands having sanely opted for hotel rooms while the two of them took advantage of the privacy and spent the night defiling the back lounge. Tom told him he learned it when he was seventeen, just to seduce some chick named Layla, and if Brendon ever wanted to seduce someone, here was his key. Brendon had been scarcely a non-virgin to either sex, and seduction techniques -- seduction techniques via music -- were not something he could justify resisting.

It doesn't sound as good as it did then, but it's good enough, and Brendon tries to just go with it, let his voice and the lyrics make up for missed notes. He doesn't take his eyes from the strings much, but the few moments he does, it's not his imagination that Ryan swallows harder than humanly necessary when Brendon croons You've got me on my knees, softer and smokier than he tends to sing anything else ever.

"See?" Brendon teases when the last note fades. "It's sexy."

Ryan bites his lip, staring at the inactive strings. "I always forget how well you can play."

Brendon feels his cheeks go hot. "Thanks. I'm not -- I mean, Ian and I spent like the whole summer jamming last year, so I picked up a lot from him. That kid's fuckin' sick, he makes us all look like wannabes."

"Seriously. Can you do anything classical?"

"Well, it's... not really a classical guitar," Brendon chuckles, always amused but indulgent when Ryan gets into one of his oddly starry-eyed moods, fangirling his own frontman until Brendon churns out request after request just for the pleased, this-dude-is-mine smile on Ryan's face. It's rare anymore, but Brendon remembers. "But. Um. I can try, what do you want?"

Ryan shrugs. "I like the romantic stuff. That thing you played on the cello."

"'That thing,' huh?" Brendon smiles. "Okay. Um."

His fingers think first -- and that's typical, other parts of his body always ahead of him. His mouth, his dick; and always, his hands, working through things he doesn't even realize he's playing until they're out in the air. He's gone through entire performances not even aware of which song till halfway through. Music's so much a part of him it he seems just functions inside it rather than alongside it, and it feels like that now: the sweet, too familiar notes playing out between them, uniting them in a way only music can. This one's sharper in his memory that he doesn't have to look down, and he doesn't know why it's Ryan he fixates on instead, but Ryan looks back, eyes on Brendon's, not once dropping down to the instrument -- and it's not like him. Ryan likes to watch people play, likes to see the production of the music as it's happening, but now... now he's looking at him as if Brendon's the music.

It's quiet after, too quiet for too long, and Brendon squeezes his tired fingers into fists, staring to wonder why he ever left his room.

Ryan swallows and looks away, down over the bed of pine needles on the ground below. "How do you know how to play that?"

"'Cause I had to. I played it at my cousin's wedding when I was seventeen."

"Oh." Ryan's fingers toy with a corner of the blanket, tugging on the frayed edging. "It always makes me want to get married."

"Me too."

"Not like I'm ever going to, but."

Brendon looks at his hands, unclenches his fists and stares at the lines in his palms, trying to extract random meaning, desperate. "Don't say that. You totally will someday." He doesn't really mean it, can't picture Ryan married ever, but it feels like the right thing to say.

Ryan looks up, his eyes far off but focused, somehow, as they wait for Brendon to meet them. "If I ever do, will you play that? At the wedding?"

Brendon feels something crack, but it feels more like his heart than the ice -- not that there's much difference at the moment. He nods slowly, dropping his eyes to the floor.

"For you, yeah."


+++


And if I could be who you wanted
If I could be who you wanted
All the time, all the time.



It's Ryan's turn to disappear after lunch: avocado sandwiches and two joints by the lake; a heated debate over Tide versus Gain, and a stoned-lazy splash fight that dissolved into a nap, wet strands of hair drying stickily on their faces as the sun-heated wood of the dock warmed their skin, their bones; softened their minds. They fell asleep as an afterthought, eyes shut tight against the sun and wrists brushing, the contact light but warmer than the rays, than fire.

Ryan's gone when Brendon wakes up.

He can see him if he squints, through the massive picture windows of the music room. There's glare from the sun, and the room inside is darker, but he can make out the figure outlined at the piano, swaying slightly as he moves over the keyboard.

The cabin feels weirdly dark when Brendon stumbles back inside, still fuzzy and overwarm from too much sun, too much weed, too much sleep. It's cold inside, his shirt still splotchy-wet, and he peels it off, fastening up a button-down before he lengthens himself over the sofa and closes his eyes over the music from the adjoining room. Ryan's shut the door, and it's muffled, but Brendon can hear every note. The trademark is too distinctly Ryan for it to even register on his radar until five, ten songs in, when he realizes Ryan's only half after solitude, and half chasing attention. He's set himself up alone, closed off and quiet, but every song he's playing is one he and Brendon have played together, only ever together, since day one.

Brendon's in debate over whether it's an invitation, where are you I need you, or a warning, see, I don't, when a familiar Chopin melody sinks through the walls, putting all doubts to rest.

Ryan must hear him come in, because he slides to the right edge of the bench even as he's playing, not sacrificing a note. Brendon settles in beside him, picking up the second piano arrangement just like before until it swells, fills their bodies and the space, and finally dies out like a flame: quick, understated, but not forgotten for the heat still in the air.

"You got better," Brendon remarks softly.

Ryan nods, eyes on the keys. His hands are in his lap, too withdrawn and too close to his body to make it okay when Brendon reaches out to touch, gently fingering the beads that bear the letters of his name, wrapped around Ryan's wrist. Ryan doesn't move an inch.

"Why do you still wear this?"

"You gave it to me."

Brendon smiles down at the beads, rolling them around on the thin, worn string. "I gave you a pink tiara once, too. You punched me."

A corner of Ryan's mouth twitches, but he reins it in. "I don't know. I like the way it feels. Feels like you're always with me."

Brendon's fingers are trembling, but he lets them stretch out, past the beaded confines of the bracelet and over Ryan's skin, circling loosely around his wrist, not gripping, just holding, and waits for Ryan to fight it, pull away.

When he doesn't, Brendon whispers, "I am."

Ryan twists his arm like he's going to pull back, but he only upturns it, the soft, sensitive flesh of his inner forearm bared, tattoo sprawling out beneath the spread of bracelets. His fingers trip over Brendon's, fitting between them and squeezing.

"I know."


+++


"It's called willing suspension of disbelief, Ross."

"I'm sorry, but I'm not willing to suspend my disbelief of a fucking smoke monster."

Brendon blinks, his artichoke leaf dangling in mid-air between his fingers, melted butter dripping from the tip. "Don't talk about Smokey like that."

Ryan grins wide, peeling off a leaf and dipping it into the bowl of warm garlic butter nestled into the ground between them. "You're a geek."

"Pot, kettle."

"You probably write Lost fan fiction under some alias like, 'Jackloverxxx.'"

"You probably write Fall Out Boy fan fiction and get Pete to edit it for you."

Ryan huffs. "I don't need Pete. I actually know the difference between a semicolon and a colon cleanse, unlike some of us."

Brendon grins. "I could make so many disgusting jokes right now."

Ryan ducks his head, smile stretching to his eyes as he dips another leaf, dunking it till it's drenched beyond recognition, just a buttery suggestion of what was once part of an artichoke. Brendon looks idly, then watches as he brings it to his lips, tongue darting out to catch a drop close to falling. The slick leaf disappears between Ryan's lips, teeth scraping along the length to gather the meat as he slides it back out with a slurping sound, wet and obscene.

Brendon tries to swallow his arousal and chokes on his tongue.

Ryan looks up. "Y'okay?"

"Um, you." Brendon's hand flaps aimlessly for a second, drops back down. "You've got. Uh."

"What?"

The hand reaches out against inner protests, index finger brushing the corner of Ryan's mouth to collect the bead of liquid butter that had clung. They both stare for a moment at Brendon's finger, and Brendon can almost hear his own thoughts in the air, Don't, don't, don't.

He doesn't. He wipes it on his jeans and grabs hold of his own artichoke, ripping off a clump of petals.

By dinnertime, the Nothing had blown over -- or at least blown aside. Brendon thanks god, The Neverending Story, and the bottle of merlot they'd opened for inspiration -- a reminder of better things to come, should they fail -- once they decided to cook dinner. Not just dinner: motherfucking artichokes.

It's not that anything's... happened. The ice is still there under their feet, cracked and fragile, but it's like they implicitly decided fuck it, laced up their skates, and went gliding across, arms spread wide, wind in their hair. Not unafraid, but pretending.

Sometimes pretending's enough.

It was a good project, cooking, because it required as much intricate focus as music. It was a potentially unfortunate series of events, meandering down the aisles of the grocery store until Ryan had snatched up two of the green pineconey things and fixed a look on Brendon that left little room for debate. But there was a cook book, and measuring instruments, and a moderate degree of sobriety (hey, together they made one fully sober person), to wind up with full culinary success and a side of garlic butter to boot.

It seemed only natural to celebrate by the water's edge, shoes kicked off and mosquitos held at bay by half a dozen of Ryan's anti-bug candles dragged back from California. They smell a little weird but the sunset more than makes it up to their senses, sprawling out in a blinding splash of oranges and purples. Coupled with the striking spread of the lake and Ryan only inches away, face soft in the light, hair draping over dusk-sharpened features in the shadows, it feels like more than Brendon's eyes deserve.

"Thanks for cooking with me," Ryan says, digging through the flowery fluff with his fork to get at the heart of the vegetable.

Brendon smirks, taking a swig of merlot. "Thanks for not burning down the kitchen."

Ryan slaps his knee.

They watch the sunset for a long time, no words. It's so present, so defining of the moment, that it feels superfluous to remark on it. The visuals are felt more than seen, all around them, in the glow on their skin and the sparkling mosaic of colors that lingers in negative behind Brendon's eyes when he squeezes them closed, briefly, trying to shut out the voice in his head screaming Now, now -- now, under the fucking sunset at the edge of a fucking lake in the most perfect place on earth, the sides of their pinkie fingers touching as they lean back on their arms, legs crossed in front of them, matching, and Ryan trying to pretend he isn't stealing glances at Brendon's profile every ten seconds, and Jon trying to pretend it was alcohol that had him texting "Kiss the Girl" lyrics to Brendon's Sidekick all evening.

"Ryan?"

Ryan looks up quick like he was waiting, and when Brendon looks at him, he feels frozen, like he's already gone through the ice.

He swallows it all, the lump in his throat, the fucking colony of butterflies in his stomach (do butterflies live in colonies? Jesus Christ), the junior-high pounding of his heart, and never has "do or die" felt more literal.

"Can I ask you one question, but you have to answer, and you have to be honest?"

"Sounds like a lot of conditions," Ryan smiles, his voice a half step up from standard monotone -- nothing anyone else would notice, but for Brendon it's enough to read as crippling fear, no more, no less. Ryan takes a breath. "Yeah, shoot."

"What are you thinking right now?"

Ryan laughs, a little indulgence, a little fear, and looks down at the bottle Brendon's released, fingers twitching under the temptation. "I'm thinking... that I wish you hadn't asked me that."

Brendon bumps his knee. "Before that, fucker."

Ryan raises an eyebrow. "That's a second question."

The stare-down lasts longer than it should, but Brendon doesn't back down and it ups his bravado just enough to gather the words on his tongue:

"Why did you bring me here?"

Ryan smiles again, small and far off, a secret with himself. He isn't telling.

"That's three questions."

Brendon pulls in a breath, holds it there until he's sure he won't scream. "Gimme your hand."

Ryan looks confused but he holds out a hand, palm up, open and trusting -- more than Brendon asked. Brendon spreads the hand out across his thigh, pressing Ryan's fingers open, and looks up, favoring him with a nervewracked smile.

"What... are you gonna read my palm?"

Brendon grins. "Yeah. Try and figure the answer out myself. See this line here?" He drags one blunt nail gently along the line that splits Ryan's palm in two, like the threading on a baseball. "Means you're madly in love with me and you think I'm the hottest piece of ass you've ever seen."

"Funny, some fortune teller once told me the same thing."

"Duh. 'S fate."

"You don't believe in fate."

I believe in you rushes to Brendon's tongue and dies pressed against his lips, scarcely restrained. Their eyes meet again, and Ryan doesn't retract his hand, not even when there's no excuse left for where it is.

"Okay, so I can't read your palm."

"Wow, really?"

"But, I can read your fingers."

Ryan raises an eyebrow and curls his fingers under Brendon's touch until only his middle finger is sticking straight out. "Read this."

"Jackass." Brendon smirks. "Nah, it's real. It's called chiromancy. It's like... some psychology thing."

"Mm. Sounds official."

Brendon presses on his fingers, just hard enough to still them, to squeeze out the tension until Ryan's hand goes lax in his. "See if I can remember... see, the longer your fingers, the more... in your mind you are."

"Meaning...?"

"Meaning, you don't care about mundane things... like paying utility bills."

"Fuck you."

"Later. Oh, see, how your pinkie starts way below the other fingers... it's called a sunken pinkie. Way more common in women -- "

"Thanks."

"No, but like. It suggests maybe you had an absent male figure in your childhood. Which, y'know. You did. But it's a little curved, which means... uh."

"What?"

A blush creeps up behind Brendon's smile, and he ducks his head. "It means you're, uh, highly sexual. And, uh -- oh, but your pinkie's really long, which means you've got a thing for language... a natural eloquence, good vocab, tendency to slip fifteen-syllable words into songs..."

"Ass."

"You are what you eat," Brendon replies, automatic. "Now, your ring finger's super long. That's all about what you present to the world. Longer it is, supposedly the more attractive you are."

An eyebrow arches. "Supposedly?"

Brendon smirks. "Okay, so everyone wants to bone you, big news. But what's important is the length compared to your index finger. See, the index finger's a lot shorter... implies, like, split personas. Depression. Like... maybe you hide behind a mask a lot."

But there's no mask when Brendon looks up now, just naked trust, too complete, too easily gained.

"What else?" Ryan asks softly.

Brendon stares down at the spread of fingers at his disposal, long and delicate but undeniably strong. They're slender, but there's nothing feminine about them; they're too powerful. Brendon loves that, the juxtaposition of power and fragility, how they manage to be both at once.

"Uh." Brendon swallows, finding his mouth dry as he studies them, one finger standing out in particular. "I don't remember any more."

"Liar."

Brendon sighs. "Just. See, your middle finger. It's actually pretty short compared to the others. Almost the same length as your ring finger."

"So?"

"...So, it, uh... people who have it tend to get... caught up in... y'know."

"...In what?"

Brendon lifts his eyes just a little, testing, keeping his head low. "Um. Alternative lifestyles?"

Ryan rolls his eyes.

"But..." Brendon backtracks quickly, too content with the evening to let it spoil this quickly. "This stuff is just generic. Hypothetical. I mean, all it really shows is..."

"All it really shows is you know me better than I know myself." Ryan looks down at their hands, twines his fingers around Brendon's until they're locked, tangled like limbs. "I already knew that."

Ryan looks up without warning and their eyes lock, but it feels like they're nose to nose for how split open Brendon feels, how exposed, how fucking seen, and suddenly he can't remember to breathe, can't remember how he was supposed to do this, how anyone does this ever and, god, he can't do this.

"Ryan..."

"Why do you think I brought you here?"

There's a thousand non-answers when he looks into Ryan's eyes, just a sharp darkness that's trying to reach behind Brendon's eyes, pull out his thoughts, and it's not fair, not fair that Ryan can do it if Brendon can't.

He shrugs, helpless, smiling bitterly down at the empty bowls between them, the soft mix of grass and sand beneath. "To make me go nuts trying to figure out?"

Ryan doesn't answer until Brendon collects the courage to looks at him again, and -- okay, so it's this. Eyes first, lips second: what they're looking for isn't in the words.

And that's enough to stop his breath all over again, because it's Ryan. Without words, he's. Brendon doesn't even know. Laid open, bare, powerless, just a boy with eyes too big to hide his secrets.

Ryan whispers, "You're already nuts."

Brendon can feel the moment his body transcends the fear -- like an adrenaline rush after days without sleep, past exhaustion and into overdrive just to function. But it works, spurs him on, and he can look into those eyes and feel his body moving closer and he's not afraid, not enough.

"Then what?"

Ryan doesn't answer, just smiles as his eyes skip down to Brendon's mouth, pupils blown and glassy, everything too sharp but too blurry, too much to focus on and not enough focus to go around. And Brendon panics, because now he doesn't have words and he doesn't have Ryan's eyes, he has nothing, and it takes Ryan's breath against his lips, Ryan's hand sliding across the ground to cover his, to recognize there's a third step on this fucked-up ladder of miscommunication -- past words, past their eyes, leaving only --

Action.

His hand slips at the realization, and he feels Ryan's tighten over it, like confirmation, like yes, and then his words are back, useless but tumbling and he can't -- he can't not --

"Can I kiss you?"

Ryan swallows. "That's a fourth question."

The ice breaks; the words barely makes it past Ryan's lips before Brendon swallows them down, sealing their mouths together and they're kissing.

They're kissing, like people do every day all over the world, and after two years it should feel new, like a first, but instead it just feels like sliding into home, like the end of a journey that didn't have a destination until now.

And it shouldn't be this easy to fall, for their mouths to know how this is supposed to go, what to give, what to take, but maybe after six years, you learn more than you think. Ryan lets him lead at first but pushes back in the end, fights him for it, their tongues advancing from teasing nudges to insistent thrusts, licking slow and deep into each other's mouths until they find a rhythm. It changes, slows and quickens and falters as Brendon's mind starts to go fuzzy, his body trembling under the blow-out of sensations, and just when he thinks it's too much, Ryan's reaching up to tug him closer until they're practically in each other's laps. His fingers rest steady at Brendon's hips, Brendon's hands cupping the sharp lines of Ryan's jaw, and Brendon wonders why he'd ever worried about breathing, because this is better.

Ryan tastes just as he should, like artichokes and butter and merlot, and he feels the same as Brendon had all but forgotten he'd remembered. It's more, now, with his fingers curling tight into Brendon's hipbones, feeling the way he'd always imagined, and Brendon startles, suddenly, at the wild thud-thud-thud of Ryan's heart beneath his palm before he'd even noticed his hand had moved, slid down over Ryan's chest to press through his t-shirt. He pulls back just to breathe into Ryan's mouth, nip at his moistened lips, catch his breath, but Ryan doesn't let him go far, one hand cupping the back of Brendon's neck, strong, until Brendon starts whispering, "Ryan, Ryan," and he's too far. There's too much space between them, and Brendon has to kiss him again, hard.

Ryan pushes back and it's fast now, spiral fast, both of them clinging to each other just to stay afloat. Ryan's the first to start sinking, dropping a tiny whimper into Brendon's mouth and Brendon takes it, would take anything Ryan gives him, only Ryan is --

Ryan --

There's cool air rushing towards his skin, his overheated mouth, and Ryan's two feet away, panting and staring at Brendon like he's not sure where he just came from.

"Hey -- " Brendon whispers, reaching out for him (on instinct, already it's instinct to touch him), but Ryan splays a hand over Brendon's chest, eyes rabid with nothing Brendon can read.

"Fuck," Ryan chokes.

"Hey, what -- it's okay, what's -- "

"I can't."

"What? Dude -- "

"I -- fuck, Brendon, I -- fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"No -- no, it's -- hey, it's okay, you're fine, we're -- "

"I thought -- " Ryan's choking up for real now, and Brendon can't breathe but now he's got nothing to make up for oxygen. "I thought we could, but -- it's -- fuck, I'm so -- we can't, we just -- I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Brendon tries to reach out, tries to stop him, to stop time, but his limbs aren't listening to his brain and his brain isn't working to begin with.

"Ryan -- just -- wait, fucking -- talk to me, please."

"I'm sorry. Please, just -- just don't." He squeezes Brendon's hand, once, fast, and he's scrambling to his feet. "We can't."

The world outside their bubble shoots fast back into focus, the first chill of night air, the oblivious chorus of crickets, the crunch of Ryan's shoes on the bed of pine needles as he runs back into the house, and the scent of merlot and melted butter still heavy in the air, validating the whole moment, like it's that simple.

Brendon stares helplessly as he disappears through the glass doors, as the light from inside frames the outline of his body until the doors click shut behind him, fitting too easily together.

This was never, ever where the moments were meant to lead.


continued HERE.