(no subject)

[behindthec]

continued from HERE.




1 new message from Smith v5.0
i'm assuming you've stopped answering your phones b/c you finally grew brains (balls?) and got into each others pants. if this is not the case, adn you've been murdered or kidnapped, please kindly let us know. thx.


+++


1 new message from The Walkman
so who tops? we have a bet goign. pls respond. love jon.

Brendon lounges happily across Ryan's bare stomach, still giggling as he listens to Ryan type. He cranes his neck to peer at the screen that Ryan shoves in his face before pressing send:

spencer's mom tops

They laugh in each other's faces, passing the joint back and forth and stealing kisses until the phone beeps, and Ryan extends long fingers to flip open the display.

1 new message from Smith v5.0
only with Ryan.


+++


Before it was always an excuse to laugh, bite his lip and close himself in the next room so he could snort giggles without disturbing Ryan as he sat in full lotus, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees with his thumb and middle finger touching.

It's shifted, now, right along with the two of them.

It's terrifying how easy it's been to fall into this intimacy; these unlabeled, unmarked, unacknowledged acts between them that Brendon forgets they aren't anything more than that, the acts. The secrets they share in the dark, skin on skin; the looks that steal into their eyes when they move together, shutting out everything but this. It's easy to forget there's still parts of Ryan that Brendon hasn't reached, doesn't get, doesn't know, and might not ever. Parts that Brendon can't fix; that Ryan needs to retreat to in his head; parts that leave him seated alone on the floor in a meditative trance, a single wet line trailing down each cheek.

Brendon aches to cross the room, drop to the floor and pull Ryan into his arms, but Ryan has strict rules not to interrupt him in this state unless he bursts into flames. Brendon's not about to shatter the trust they're fighting so hard to build, and maybe Ryan isn't the only one afraid of loss.

As silently as he can, Brendon closes his fingers around Ryan's paperback copy of Chakra Meditation by some dude with eighteen syllables in his name, and pads softly up to his room.

When Ryan finds him an hour later, Brendon looks up from page twenty-three and asks, "Which one were you focusing on?"

Ryan looks at him a long time, blank, before leaning over, pressing a kiss to Brendon's forehead and leaving the room.


+++


Brendon goes to sleep spooned and wakes up alone. It's some four sexually active years' worth of familiarity, enough to make his stomach lurch.

It's the first time in weeks Ryan hasn't been by his side (or beneath him, or atop him). He's naked and twisted in the sheet, lube still sticky on the insides of his thighs, the smell of them both everywhere. It's their own smell now, the two of them together, no longer distinguishable on their own. It should be a comfort, all this validation of them; instead, it only emphasizes Ryan's absence.

Brendon tugs on a pair of Ryan's sweatpants and stumbles his way downstairs. His sleep-bleary eyes catch the clock at the bottom of the steps: nine-thirty, well past yoga time, and Ryan is...

He pulls the curtains back from the narrow window in the entryway; his car's where they left it, the keys on the shelf by the door. Ryan's wallet is beside it, the worn, supple leather overlapping the yellow and black checkered pattern of Brendon's.

He calls out, "Ryan?" softly as he enters the kitchen, but it's clean and empty, no cooking smells hanging in the air or evidence of fire damage.

His heartbeat quickens with every room he crosses until he reaches the music room, door left wide open and sunlight overflowing into the living room. Brendon pokes his head inside, scanning across the space until his eyes land, and he releases the breath he's sure he's been holding since he left the bed.

Ryan's squashed into the ratty old beanbag chair in a corner by one mammoth window, knees to his chest and arms folded against them as his head slumps to the side, having carved out a rounded wedge into the beanbag for support. He looks like a child -- like, an awkward, gangly, five-foot-ten child. But there's nothing peaceful in his tense features, his mouth set into a frown and his brow drawn tight even as he sleeps. Brendon's limbs twitch with the desire to gather him up, carry him to bed, but he can't bear to wake him.

Instead he lets his eyes soak in the chaos of the room: guitars laid out around him, his MacBook Pro still open but asleep at his feet, papers strewn everywhere, some balled up, some loose-leaf, torn from his notebook. It looks like he's been here all night, since Brendon fell asleep at least, and a sinking intuition tells Brendon it's probably the truth.

Brendon knows he shouldn't. It's not -- Ryan always shows him his lyrics, in the end, but having them offered to him and seizing them for himself before they're given are two entirely different things.

Still, even as he thinks it, he's already crouching on the floor, closing his fingers around one crumpled wad of lined paper, unfurling it as quietly as he can and smoothing it out on the old, brown-speckled carpet. He doesn't know what he expects to find, and it's nothing incriminating, nothing epically confessional, but the words make his heart beat harder than Spencer treats his kit, and his breath is short by the fourth line.

Play out the fairy tale
Until the seas run dry
It's not what I want,
But it's what I can do

(Take your) flute to the beach,
Statues of make-believe,
It's all too easy to confuse
For a gentler love (but)

The only thing that never ends
Is the love that never happens.

(The only thing that never ends
Is the love that never happens.)

We're just foam on the waves
Seen from a wedding suite window,
Where "ever after" sounds
just like "The end."

There are words crossed out, but nothing significant; notes littering the margins, mostly nonsense, stream-of-consciousness rambling Brendon doesn't understand, but he makes the connection, like a lock finally clicking open, when he squints to read one line at the top, scrawled diagonally across the corner and circled: Disney version vs. HCA's?

The Little Mermaid. Ryan and his fucking fairy tales.

Finally, a lifetime of Disney fanaticism pays off.

But it doesn't feel like much of a payoff -- just a nauseating collision of guilt, fear, confusion, and a blink of hope -- when he reads through a second time, willing himself not to uncover the meaning he so aches to find, but he can't not, not when it's screaming at him from the page like Ryan meant for this to happen, like Ryan wrote it for him -- for him -- to see, play, sing. To hear.

To have and to hold.

from a wedding suite window...

One room and two minutes later, mat spread beneath him in the wide, sprawling patch of living room sun, it's the first time Brendon's actually done this out of need.

The oxygen races through his veins as he flows through the postures from memory, sliding through one sun salutation after another. He stretches out in down-dog a final time, his warm-up complete, and is just tensing his muscles for the next pose when fingertips ghost across his hip, skipping over the top of his sweatpants until they reach skin.

Brendon feels his body both freeze and relax into the touch at once, loose from the stretches but suddenly taut with anticipation as Ryan's fingers drag over his skin, up his side and across his back, down over the curve of his ass before subtly hooking into the waistband and slipping the sweatpants off his hips and down his legs, slow enough that Brendon can feel the sun on every new inch of skin.

His legs give and he drops to his knees with a shudder, Ryan closing in around him until he's draped over Brendon's back, hands wandering everywhere and his face pressed between Brendon's shoulderblades, inhaling deep, and Brendon can feel himself to start to harden even before any fingers have made it there. He closes his eyes, rests his head on his folded arms and breathes, giving himself over.

Ryan presses closer, arms coming to wrap protectively around Brendon's chest before he whispers, "I don't ever want to stop touching you."

Brendon trembles head to toe at the words themselves, but it's not... they don't sound as they should. They sound pained, almost guilty, pulled from his vocal chords without his permission, unwanted, having resided there too long to remain. Even if Brendon knew what to say, how to ask, the distraction is too strong as Ryan gently rolls him over, kissing him deeply before crawling down his body and wrapping warm, wet lips around the head of Brendon's cock.

It's too early for earth-shattering reactions or pornographic vocals, but a series of tiny, choked little noises stir in the back of Brendon's throat as Ryan works his mouth with a hand around the base, gradually taking him deeper but with no rush, no agenda; just pleasure, drawn out as long as they both can stand it. One of Brendon's hands weaves into Ryan's crazy, tangled curls, massaging softly, his other fingers digging against the carpet in vain. Ryan finds his free hand with his own, fingers prying Brendon's from their grip on the floor until they relax, twining together with Ryan's, interlocking and releasing until just the simple intimacy of the touch has Brendon balancing on the edge.

He risks a glance down to find Ryan watching him intensely, unblinking, his face shadowed behind the patch of sun that cuts off right above Brendon's waist. It's a strange contrast, the blinding bright of his own skin in the light coupled with Ryan's shaded complexion, eyes darkened in more than metaphor.

Ryan knows when he's close now, knows when he should pull away if he wants, but he never does, just sucks him through it with a desperate little hum vibrating through his lips. He doesn't choke anymore when Brendon spills down his throat, just swallows around him until Brendon's given him everything he has.

"Come here," Brendon pants, limp arms gesturing aimlessly. Ryan swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, his movements strangely hesitant as he climbs back up Brendon's body to settle under his arm, tucked against Brendon's side with one arm draped across his chest. "Hey," Brendon whispers, tipping Ryan's face to lap at a lingering white bead on the corner of his lip, before licking his way into Ryan's mouth, following the taste.

Brendon likes it better like this, with Ryan's face bright and golden to match his own, the sun forcing their eyes shut, leaving only their bodies to speak for them as their mouths move together, lazy and slow.

After a few moments Ryan abruptly pulls back, tucking his head into Brendon's neck. They lie there until the patch of sun starts to creep up their bodies, higher and higher and smaller until it's past them completely, abandoning them to the room's cool shadows.

Ryan shivers.


+++


"Let's go out."

It's with remarkable effort that Brendon tears himself away from the computer screen, Shane and Zack both competing to kick his ass as he pauses the online game, grateful for the opportunity to breathe again. There's only so much defeat he can take in one afternoon.

"Where?" he asks before his eyes have caught up with the situation, and he blinks, taking it in. Ryan's all dolled up (whatever, it fits, and it's not like Brendon would ever say it to Ryan's face if he wants to keep any of his teeth), straight-legged honest-to-god boy jeans and a white button-down Brendon hasn't seen in years, just the acceptable side of frilly. The front of his hair's wet from washing his face at the sink, hanging to his chin in dark curls, and the top two buttons of his shirt hang open, sleeves rolled up to reveal a tight leather wrist cuff and the omnipresent bracelets.

Brendon could seriously eat him.

He swallows the moisture building in his mouth at the sight. "Um. Yeah. Where?"

"That place we like. I don't wanna cook, they have the best spaghetti ever, and I'm going stir crazy."

His voice is determined and confident in a way Brendon hasn't seen in a long time, long enough to wonder if it's even real. "Um. You sure? I mean... with our sixty-year-old fangirl and all?"

Ryan shrugs, but his eyes skip away to the wall. "Whatever. I don't mind."

Brendon thinks briefly of the Aladdin scene when the genie morphs into a bee and screams "Mayday!" in Aladdin's ear. This feels kind of like that. Still, it's Brendon; curiosity trumps apprehension damn near every time.

He smiles. "I'm driving."

It's the first time he's driven his car in almost a month, and it feels damn good. He shoves the windows down all the way, ignores Ryan's complaints about his hair, and turns up The Rolling Stones loud enough to wake the dead. After awhile Ryan surrenders, smiling secretly down at his lap when Brendon's hand lands on his thigh and stays there.

It's close to dark when they pull up, but the place is overrun with cars, and it's only then Brendon remembers it's Saturday night. It's been nice, losing track of days, feeling them bleed into one another with no commitments, no schedules, no agendas, and the reality jolt is a little disheartening when he remembers they've only got a few days left before they're thrown back into it for good.

But now is now and tonight is tonight, and the food smells just as good when Ruth leads them to their table -- their table now, as she's allegedly deemed it -- and takes off with their orders, no gushing commentary but for her twinkling smile. So far, so good.

Ryan seems better, relaxed and content as they sit in peaceful silence, listening absently to the sounds of silverware clinking, a dozen conversations going on around them, quiet but idly comfortable, like the bugs at night from their window -- their window, in their room. Even if he knows it's tenuous, even if the labels are only in his head, the idea of a communalism between them makes him happy, and dangerously hopeful.

He spends the first ten minutes constructing an elaborate work of architecture with the little creamer containers until his sixth sense kicks in and he looks up to find Ryan watching him -- just him, not his construction -- a tiny smile playing at his lips, eyes beaming affection and something that makes Brendon's cock offer a promising twitch.

"You look fucking gorgeous, you know that?"

Ryan's eyes snap out of it enough to widen as he ducks his head against the blush, but there's no mistaking the way his smile widens. Underneath the table, far enough that no one would see, his foot brushes against Brendon's and stays there.

"Look at me," Brendon says softly, his smile indecently wide as Ryan looks up. "Don't go all bashful on me. I mean it."

Ryan smiles back, clearly lost, because it's the smile Brendon's only ever seen in bed, and there's no way to describe the process when Ryan's pupils go wide and glassy, other than motherfucking moony-eyed.

"Oh, goodness," Ruth coos as she appears out of thin air, setting their plates in front of them and shattering the moment into a million pieces. "You boys just melt my heart. It's so obvious when two people are in love, you know? It's just in their eyes, and there's nothing they can do to hide it."

Brendon doesn't see the smile for the rest of the night.

Ryan's posture is stiff and forced as they drive home, and Brendon's torn between adding music to drown out the tension or leaving the silence open, should Ryan want to say anything.

He drives in heavy silence, one hand on the wheel and one murderously tight on the gear shift, and Ryan doesn't look away from the window. Brendon catches Ryan's reflection in the glass when he looks over, heartbreaking, before Ryan catches on, rolling down his window until all Brendon sees is the wind whipping through darkness.


+++


Ryan announces he's taking a shower as soon as they're through the door, before Brendon's even located the light switch. He doesn't ask for company, and Brendon watches him climb the stairs, a thousand words caught in his throat.

It's near midnight when Brendon realizes he's been hunched over his guitar inside the black-windowed walls of the music room for over an hour, scratching out variations of the same two lines on the same piece of paper, front and back, until the sheet started to rip.

He feels Ryan's presence, and when he looks up, Ryan looks normal. He's still dressed, hasn't showered, but judging by the even skin tone around his eyes, he hasn't been subjected to any other moisture, either. He swallows hard and slumps into the doorframe, staring down at Brendon's guitar, at the sheet of paper too far away to read.

"You going to bed?"

The phrasing isn't even subtly telling; going, not coming, and Brendon doesn't know how else to read it but with crushing disappointment.

He looks down. "Um. Yeah. In a bit."

There's a long pause, and then, "Don't be too long, okay?"

Something's different in Ryan's eyes when he looks up, and one of Ryan's hands has lifted to the triangle of skin at the top of his shirt, where the material falls open.

Brendon gulps. "I'll be up in a minute."

Ryan doesn't look pleased or disappointed or fucking anything. He doesn't look at all, just immediately drops his eyes and turns, vanishing from the room.

Ryan's at the dresser in his bedroom when Brendon gets there (a minute narrowed to twenty seconds; Brendon isn't an idiot), staring intently into the wide mirror behind all their bottles of hair product, aftershave, deodorant, and other toiletries. His hands are just reaching the first fastened button on his shirt, the gesture darkly arousing under the desk lamp's low, understated glow. He stops when he sees Brendon in the doorway, watching him through the reflection.

Brendon crosses the room, eyes on Ryan's in the mirror the whole time as he slowly presses up against his back, reaching around to close his hands over Ryan's.

"Let me," he whispers.

Slowly, evenly he starts to pop the buttons, one by one, until the shirt is open and his hands can roam free underneath. Ryan so looks like he wants to melt into it, slump back into Brendon's chest, but he stays upright, their eyes locked in focus in the reflection. Somehow, it's easier, facing each other without facing each other.

"What is this?" Brendon asks in a breathy rush before his brain-to-mouth filter can activate.

"I don't know," Ryan sighs, his voice a wreck as his posture crumbles and his head hangs down to his chest. "I don't, Brendon, I don't, fuck, I'm sorry, I don't know, I don't -- "

Limp and loose, he lets Brendon turn him around until they're face to face, but he won't look up, just keeps shaking his head, his voice rougher by the second.

"I don't know, B, I'm sorry, I'm -- I'm trying, I'm trying but I don't know and i just -- I just -- "

"Okay." Brendon reaches up, cups Ryan's face in both of his hands. "Okay. Okay."

Ryan kisses him.

More like he just sinks into him and their mouths get in the way, but they find their way to kissing soon enough -- deep, desperately searching kisses that steal their breath and their hearts and redeposit them in each other. It's still slow, despite the desperation, Brendon gently pushing Ryan's shirt off his shoulders and kissing along the revealed skin as Ryan fumbles with the buttons on Brendon's. It's awhile before they get to their jeans, spending long minutes pressing chest to chest and rubbing up against one another, one of Brendon's legs between Ryan's as he pins him to the dresser, arms solid and safe around him as Ryan's nails drag teasingly down Brendon's back.

Eventually Ryan hops onto the dresser, just at the perfect level to wrap his legs around Brendon and drag him closer, close enough for them to start work on their jeans as bottles topple over around them, forgotten. He gets Brendon's off with little work, but in this position, Brendon's resigned to rubbing at Ryan through his jeans, palming him warm and sure. It's not enough for either of them, and it's not long before Brendon simply hoists Ryan into his arms, never breaking their kiss, and carries him to the bed, kicking his jeans off in the process and depositing Ryan onto the mattress before climbing on top of him and making short work of his pants.

The sudden bare press of endless skin seems to ignite something in Ryan, flipping what appeared to be soft desire into sharp need, his kisses hungry and bruising, arms wrapping octopus-like around Brendon just to hold him down, not trusting the solid, promising warmth of his body. Brendon takes it in stride, trying to slow the kisses, gently regulate them into something manageable, until Ryan gives up and pulls back, hands in Brendon's hair, and whispers, "Please."

Brendon kisses him, light and sweet, rubbing his hand over Ryan's hip. "What? Anything, tell me."

"Need you. Inside. Please."

It's the first time he hasn't just panted Fuck me, and Brendon doesn't know how to reconcile the words' desperate vulnerability with the fear blazing from Ryan's eyes. He does the only thing he can imagine doing and reaches across the bed to the nightstand, tugging open the little drawer and quickly rustling around for the condoms, searching by touch. Ryan's no help at all, leaning up to suck sweet little marks along Brendon's neck, his hips grinding up in a languid, aching rhythm, nails digging into Brendon's back just to hold himself up, and Brendon can't think.

"Hang on," he pants, scrambling reluctantly to one side of the bed to yank the drawer out completely, tossing crumpled receipts and coins and random items to the floor in his search. He unearths the bottle of lube, tosses it in the center of the bed, but the drawer's as empty as the condom box he finally holds in his hands by the time he looks back at Ryan, eyes wide. "...We're out."

"Whatever, who cares," Ryan shakes his head, face flushed from where he's seated halfway up on his elbows, his abdomen taut under the labored breathing and heavy tension coiled throughout his body.

Brendon stares at the box, back up at Ryan, and blinks. "I..."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Dude, I've been swallowing your spunk every day for the past week, so unless you're worried about knocking me up, fuck it. We're both clean."

Brendon shakes his head, staring down at the thin, hollow cardboard in his hands. "It's not. It's not... that."

"Then what?"

"It's just." He shakes his head, more forcefully, tossing the box to the ground. "Nothing. It's stupid. Come on."

He spreads himself out over Ryan, leaning in to kiss him when Ryan stops him, pulling back. "It's not stupid. What?"

Brendon swallows hard, and it's disconcerting how the thoughts that have settled into his brain for years, thoughts he's resigned himself to, that he's come to accept and validate after years of reluctance, immediately sound ridiculous in his head, stupid and pointless and fucking embarrassing now that they're to be voiced.

"It's fucking stupid," Brendon hisses, pulling back to sit cross-legged beside him, shoulders slumped low. "It's just. I've never done it."

Ryan's brow creases in confusion. "Not even with Shane?"

Brendon shakes his head. See, it's stupid, because of course, why wouldn't he, with Shane. "It's. Like. All the years I've spent dealing with my hang-ups, you know, with religion and LDS and everything... sexuality's been the hardest to, like, get past, I guess. I mean, I gave up on the whole male-female-marriage-virginity-loss thing a long time ago, but... on some level I still clung to some part of the... I don't know, the fantasy? The ideal? I dunno, I just... kind of imagined... this would be something I'd be doing with... y'know. The guy I marry. On. The night we get married. So. There. Told you it was stupid."

He looks up, and Ryan's eyes are already set to his, frozen and unblinking. Ryan grabs one of his hands, foiling Brendon's plan to bury his face pitifully in his palms, and squeezes until Brendon looks back at him. "It's not. It's fine, it's okay, we don't have to -- we can just -- "

"No." Brendon doesn't know how he's managing eye contact, or how his mouth is still working despite the crystal clear instructions he's given his brain to cease transmission. "I want to."

He hears the words as if he's in another body, with another set of ears, as his brain goes into 911 mode trying to hear the words in a way that doesn't sound like a motherfucking marriage proposal, and he can't, he fucking can't, and Ryan's eyes, his whole face, look like a foreign fucking language, unreadable no matter the effort.

He's still waiting for Ryan to bolt when Ryan whispers, "Okay."

Brendon stares, because he has no idea what to say to that, how to even begin to respond to what starts up in his head as Ryan twists around until they are on their knees in front of one another and takes Brendon's face in his hands. And... oh. Oh.

Ryan kisses him, and Brendon's head spins. There are pictures in his head that he thought he had banished years ago. Forgotten fantasies about this, and them and white sheets in a king-size hotel bed. Unbidden, his fingers come up to tangle in Ryan's hair, pulling him closer before lowering them both into the pillows.

Ryan lifts a leg, hooks it around Brendon's lower back, and Brendon's fucking shaking with how badly he wants to just let go and let the pictures in his head take over completely, grabbing his chance while he still has it.

He pushes himself up, shifts to the side and runs a hand down Ryan's body. There is no candlelight outside of his head, but Ryan's skin still looks smooth and golden somehow, and Brendon can't resist moving his fingers over it, again and again.

”You're so beautiful.”

He bites his lip as soon as the words are out. Tries to be grateful for the fact that at least it wasn't anything worse. Ryan looks up at him, eyes nearly black with some mix of fear and arousal, and Brendon can see him swallow hard before parting his lips.

”Go for it.”

Brendon falters, breath hitching in his throat. Ryan manages a trembling smile, which only makes the tension build higher, because shit, this should be just like any other time, but the look in Ryan's eyes and the pictures in Brendon's mind keep trying to morph it into something else. Something Brendon doesn't want to name because he only has one word to describe it.

He lowers himself down on top of Ryan and tries not to think as he starts kissing and stroking his way down his body. Words keep trying to escape his throat, so he presses his lips more firmly against Ryan's skin, doing everything he can to keep the confessions trapped inside his head.

”Brendon.”

Brendon stops in his tracks, mouth hovering just above Ryan's hipbone. Too late. Too much. He takes a deep breath, trying to pull himself together enough to be able to pull away when Ryan asks him. Images of Ryan melting into the mattress, arching into him and lacing their fingers tightly together flood his mind, and he squeezes his eyes as tightly shut as he can, pushing the fantasies back.

”Brendon, let go.”

The words are nearly inaudible, but they are enough. The tension snaps, and Brendon feels himself begin to fall, real and imagined mixing together faster than he's able to pull the sensations apart.

Oh god.

He tries to keep himself above water as he tongues his way up Ryan's thighs, as he spreads the long legs and guides one to rest over his shoulder. He moves in closer, kissing, tasting, giving in to the fantasies spinning in his head with a broken moan. Ryan cries out above him, and Brendon fucking melts.

He tries to keep the words inside, but they’re surging up too fast, and in the end, he has only enough control left to settle for twisting them, morphing them into less dangerous versions of themselves as they slip past his lips. He lets his hands make up for the difference, touching and pressing and stroking until Ryan is panting above him, barely holding on himself.

Brendon fumbles with the lube. The cap won't open. He drops it twice, feeling like the world's most pathetic excuse for a human being until Ryan pulls him down with a soft ”Hey,” and holds him there, kissing him slow and almost sweetly while he gets the bottle open with his other hand.

”Lift your hips.”

Brendon does, balancing himself on his forearms to keep the contact between their mouths as Ryan moves his hands down and starts stroking him, slicking Brendon up before putting an unsteady hand on his hip, guiding him back down.

Ryan nods, once, and that's it, he's ready, and they're doing this, and this shouldn't be anything, isn't anything more than what they've been doing all week minus a meaningless layer of latex. It doesn't mean anything, doesn't have to and can't, but Brendon's still forced to catch his breath, resting his head against Ryan's chest for a moment to steady himself, Ryan's hands gentle in his hair and sweeping over his back, until Brendon realizes it's not one heartbeat but two pounding in his ears, rapid and matching.

"Go slow," Ryan tells him, their foreheads pressed together as Brendon lines up. Brendon doesn't have to ask him why, and suddenly it doesn't matter that Brendon's lost his words, because Ryan has them, and he'll keep them safe.

People say it's good, better, worth it, but people are motherfucking idiots because "good" doesn't come close. Brendon hadn't even expected to feel much of a difference, but he's barely all the way inside before he's biting hard at the pulse point on Ryan's neck just to ensure this lasts past eight seconds.

Ryan gasps, "Fuck," and that about covers it.

He starts to move, and it's too hot, too slick and too overwhelming. Slow is easier said than done; they've tried it before and it's barely minutes before they’ll start crumbling in each other's arms, rhythm rising and crashing down around them until they're a sweaty, writhing pile of limbs, but this. This isn't that.

This is the feeling of Ryan, actually Ryan tight around him, pulling him deeper, breath sharp on every thrust; this is Ryan panting into the curve of his neck, arms and legs weaved tight around Brendon's body until Brendon's nearly holding them both up. And it's so fucking hot he almost can't believe it. The heat burns through every single wall he's put up in his mind, letting everything inside him just pour out with no consideration for what should be said, and what definitely shouldn't.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I --

The words keep spinning inside him, and he mouths them against Ryan's neck, against his collarbone, presses them into kisses and pushing them deep inside Ryan's body with his hips. And Ryan fucking answers. Not out loud—never out loud—but with fingers pressing into Brendon's spine and legs wrapping around him; with eyes that refuse to look away even when it all becomes too much; with lips that accept each and every one of Brendon's escaped confessions and come back, searching for more.

Love.

It shouldn't feel like such a shock, because on some level, Brendon has known that that was what they had, have maybe always had. But there's a difference between knowing and knowing, and feeling Ryan against him now, etching the unspoken declaration into Brendon's shoulder with his teeth is nothing short of mind-shattering.

There could be nothing after this.

The realization hits him hard and sends him reeling. Not only love but forever, and it's more than he's bargained for, and it's scary as shit, because if he falls now, and Ryan fails to catch him, he's not sure where that will leave them, if they'll ever be able to get up again.

Place your bets.

On impulse, he grabs Ryan's wrists and pins them above their heads, stroking the pulse points firmly with his thumbs, thrusting harder and faster when Ryan arches against him, mouth opening in a silent scream. Warm liquid spills between them, and holy fuck, Brendon can't, he -- Ryan's clenching, and it's not like before, and it's nothing like the fantasies, but somehow so much more and better and God!, he can't even --

It's a near blackout and a full minute before Brendon retroactively starts to register the details: the perfect, slippery wet slide of his thrusts as he'd spilled inside; Ryan's surprised, shaking gasp as he'd felt it, pulling Brendon impossibly closer.

”God, I love you so much.”

The words fall from his lips so easily, like they've been said a million times, and maybe they have, and the two of them just didn't notice.

Ryan's eyes are glued to his, wide and bright, and Brendon kisses him again before he finally pulls out, using his discarded t-shirt to clean them up. He shifts his weight to settle on his side, pulling at Ryan until he rolls with him, face to face.

"...Ryan?"

Ryan finally blinks, heavily, over and over like Brendon's just called him out of a trance. Brendon's braced himself for anything now, from the obvious I'm sorry, I just... to the impossible I love you too, but leave it to Ryan to reinvent unpredictable.

He breathes a few times, even and deep, and swallows, eyes still on Brendon's. "What were you reading in my book?"

Brendon blinks. "I. What? I don't know. The first couple chapters. Energy centers, colors, I don't..."

"Did you read anything about the sixth chakra? The third eye?"

"I think... a little?"

Despite the drastic change in course, Ryan seems more himself than ever, breath finally balanced between meditation-slow and hyperventilation, his eyes blinking at normal intervals as he chews on his lip, the way he always does under intense focus; and his eyes. His eyes bear the omnipresent shade of fear, a wall to which Brendon's so accustomed he scarcely notices it anymore -- until the past week, noticeable only by its absence.

"It's geared toward... awareness," Ryan starts cautiously, concentration narrowed to choosing his words. "It deals with self-perception, self-mastery, intuition... When you meditate on it long enough, you can reach these... points of clarity."

"Like... enlightenment?"

"Kind of, but less... abstract? Some people say when you achieve one of those moments, something... happens. This... blinding flash of white light, brighter than the sun."

Brendon watches him, waits for Ryan to turn to him with the punchline, because despite Brendon's suspicions, nothing compares to Ryan's face when he finally looks at him, eyes dark with a thousand secrets.

"Bren, I saw it."

Brendon blinks. "When?"

Ryan's eyes drop again, suddenly bashful. "Um. Just now."

Brendon isn't so absorbed that snark can't seep through, but he wagers throwing out rhetoric like, So, my dick made you reach nirvana? might be a guaranteed mood killer.

He blinks again, trying to break through whatever wall Ryan's currently built, only to realize he's battling an imaginary enemy: the foreign look in Ryan's eyes is nothing but the complete lack of barriers, and suddenly, Brendon can't breathe.

"What was it like?"

Ryan's eyes shift, tensing, until he just looks sad -- small and broken, emptied of all light. "It was like... for that moment... everything made sense."

"That's... Ryan, that's good."

Ryan rolls onto his back, staring up at the skylight, lips pressed into a tight, distrusting line. "It's too easy."

Brendon holds himself still for a moment, hesitant to put any more contact between their bodies when it's clear Ryan's already pulling away. But he risks it, slow, pressing forward against Ryan's side until he moves for Brendon to curl into his chest, an arm wrapped securely around Brendon's shoulders.

He spreads his palm over Ryan's heart, willing his own to match the beat. "Maybe you're just making it too hard."


+++


It always seems eerily unfair, looking back on a day that ends in disaster and remembering how innocently it had started, how if only one moment had changed, all the ones following would've changed with it. Crisis averted.

Despite Ryan's lifelong commitment to crisis, it's hard to predict disaster when Brendon wakes up with Ryan propped on his elbow and staring down at him, soft but with all the intensity Brendon remembers from the dark, hours before. It's deeper in the morning light, crisper and sharper, and while sleep may've softened Ryan's features, the fear embedded in them has tightened, coiled into the tense lines of his jaw and brow.

Brendon blinks through the light, adjusting. "Hi."

"Hi."

Before he can lean in to kiss him, Ryan squeezes his hand under the sheet and drags himself out of bed, pulling on his abandoned jeans over bare skin, the denim hanging extra low without the added layer of underwear. Brendon's so sleepily absorbed in the dip at the base of Ryan's spine, the artsy jut of his hipbones as he turns to wriggle into a t-shirt, that Brendon barely notices where he's headed until Ryan stops at the door, one hand gripping the frame to keep himself inside the room that extra second, and says, "I'll make breakfast."

Brendon stares up at the skylight for a long time, like the answers are etched into the lines of sunlight, until he remembers he's not sure of the question.

Ryan's typing away at his laptop on the floor, legs crossed, when Brendon finds him, breakfast apparently having been postponed in lieu of emails. Neither of them have checked any of their accounts in close to a week, most of it lately being boring crap from the label or Crush about the upcoming tour and related publicity, and Brendon's been holding onto the hope that if he ignores the messages long enough, eventually cyberspace will just eat them.

He passes Ryan's hunched form on his way to the kitchen, letting his hand stroke briefly over the top of Ryan's head, before his bare feet meet the cold tile flooring and he starts fishing for clean dishes.

The typing stops after a minute, and Brendon can hear a few more intermittent clicks of the mouse, before silence descends fully; oddly, more distracting than the absent white noise it's followed.

"Brendon."

Brendon won't ever remember quite the way his name sounded, or the moments that elapsed as he padded back into the living room to crouch down beside Ryan. He won't remember the words of the email, only the tension radiating from Ryan's body beside him and the swirl of dread pooling low in his stomach and rising, rising.

Displayed across the screen is a message from Pete, addressed to both of them, the subject line boasting an ironic dont freak out. The body of the message contains nothing but a linked URL and, beneath it, the words, figure u'd see sooner or later, dont sweat it. just remember my peen's online till the apocalypse. ps. congrats lovers

It's possibly the least comforting warning Brendon's ever read in his life.

Ryan clicks the link with one long, tense finger and waits as Safari drags them over to FBR Trash, a name Brendon will forever associate with coffee tables, premature ejaculation, and in the words of Jafar, abject humiliation. He doesn't know what he's expecting but it's not this: the all-caps headline of "RIGHT ALL ALONG, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!!!!!!" followed by an embedded YouTube clip, the opening screencap showing the two of them in pajama pants, Ryan behind his guitar and Brendon at the piano in his too-tight Freddie Mercury tee. A handful of screencaps form a line beneath the video, freeze-framing all their performance's most intimate moments: playing in each other's faces, smiling; the few seconds Ryan had sprawled out beside Brendon at the piano, straddling the bench in a Brendon-esque obliteration of personal space.

It gets worse (better?). Below those, shots from a street corner, the camera forced past the glare of a restaurant window to capture two figures seated inside in front of matching plates of veggie burgers, their hands joined across the table, eyes on one another and smiles beaming, intimate, oblivious. Unmistakable.

Ryan scrolls quickly past the capslocked commentaries and miles of exclamation marks regarding their “cabin honeymoon” as it's been labeled Internet-wide, down into the first of thirty-eight pages of comments. He's going too fast for Brendon to catch much of anything besides the occasional "OMFGGGGG!!!!!!" or "I KNEW IT!!!!!!!!" or "FINALLY!!!!!!!!!!!!!" or a rabid, spastic keymash. Brendon can only roll his eyes so much, considering the sentiments largely echo his own, but Ryan's reaction is a little more...

More.

"Ryan..."

It's meant to be soothing but it sounds like a warning even to Brendon's ears, a Don't freak out, remember? and everything snaps. Ryan doesn't respond well to orders under stress, never has, and he slams the laptop shut, shoving it across the floor and scrambling to his feet.

Brendon's close behind, pulling himself up and stepping forward to where Ryan's staring down at the laptop with betrayal in his eyes, chest heaving with anxiety.

"...Ryan."

He reaches out, fingertips scarcely brushing Ryan's arm before Ryan jerks away, stepping back out of reach. Brendon thinks of arching backs and whispered pleas, and this, this can't be happening, it can't.

"What do you want?" Ryan asks. It's a moment before he can look up, belatedly directing the words at Brendon with flashing eyes, demanding answers. "What do you want, Brendon? What is it? What the fuck do you want from this?"

The words Too much are so, so close on his tongue, and it's no easier to swallow them down than it was last night. But he does, fueled by fear; he pushes them back, twists them and transforms them into ugly lies until all that comes out is, "You don’t know?"

It's, most obviously, not a suitable answer, and Ryan huffs his disapproval, is halfway to the staircase when Brendon slips into emergency mode, where the words come unbidden, prompted by last-resort desperation.

"I read your lyrics."

Ryan stops, one hand on the railing, and turns around, slow and doubtful, eyes penetrating until Brendon wonders why Ryan ever chose him as his voice, why he has a voice at all, or why he ever dares to use it.

"She dies," Ryan says quietly. "In the real story, in the end. The mermaid dies."

Brendon nods. "I know. That's why Disney reinvented it."

Ryan stares him down, unconvinced, but blank.

Brendon takes a step forward, cautious. "It's your own words, Ryan. We must reinvent love. How the fuck can we if you keep running from it?"

Eyes and time itself both freeze, existing only for them in that one moment. Not so much a moment of truth but of a request for truth; for truth to be acknowledged, no longer feared.

Ryan blinks, his eyes finally dropping. "Life's not a fairytale, Brendon."

Brendon watches him go, helpless, until there's only dark space where the stairs disappear into the second floor. He hears the faint slam of Ryan's door, the rush of running water, and tries to remember why he's alive.


+++


It doesn't matter what notes he plays or in what order; they all sound wrong.

He stays there all day until dinnertime, exhausting every instrument he can get his hands on until his whole body aches as much as his head, and even then he only stops to wolf down a box of Wheat Thins and three beers. Ryan hasn't left his room once, but Brendon's heard him at intervals, shuffling around or flushing the toilet, and it's enough to keep him from bounding upstairs in a panic.

It's near sunset by the time he starts to give up, his fingers slipping into his own unfinished melody as they skate listlessly over the keys, eyes closed in memory as he improvises a finish, the last note fading into inaudible reverberations beneath the piano's frame.

"It's beautiful."

Ryan's there like a vision when he looks up, wrenching too recent memories from Brendon's mind, images of blue satin and soft skin, fingers grappling helplessly against the piano, Ryan's mouth searing hot and perfect around him, a night of dizzying firsts and defeated fears.

Ryan doesn't look much different now, only sadder and more clothed. He's still working the age-old pajama pants, but a long-sleeved shirt drapes over his figure, falling off one chiseled shoulder. Brendon doesn't look at him for long, figuring it's about as safe as watching the sun, but instead stares down at the keys as Ryan comes over, leaning against the side of the instrument.

"Brendon..."

"You asked me what I want," Brendon says, slowly and carefully before he looks up. "You never told me what you want."

Ryan swallows, his eyes bold on Brendon's. "I think we should stop."

Brendon stares, shaken. It doesn't register, not yet.

"I think." Ryan forces himself to breathe, deliberate and slow. "I think... we're in over our heads. I think... this could really fuck things up. I think it's best if we just... I mean... it was fucking amazing, but."

"Don't fucking sugarcoat it," Brendon spits, surprised at the words' sharp, bitter taste.

Ryan at least does him the courtesy of eye contact, his face ashen. "Look, I -- I know you think it's because I'm afraid of what people will think, or that I'm ashamed of the whole... gay thing, but it's not that. It's not. Bren, I'm. I'm shit at relationships, you know I am, and let's face it, so are you. And relationships in the spotlight always fail, always, there's just too many expectations on us and I just -- Brendon, I almost lost you in California, it was fucking terrifying, I can't... I can't... not again."

"Right." Brendon nods curtly, squeezing his hands into shakingly tight fists against his thighs. "So. You're gonna lose me now, instead?"

"I -- no! I'm making sure I don't lose you, ever! I -- Brendon, I need you as a friend more than I need you as a... a lover, or a boyfriend, or even as a frontman. I need you in a way that I can't lose you."

And it sounds so good, so rational like that, set into pretty cinematic one-liners like Ryan wants, but that's not what this is. This is bullshit, this is fucking...risk management, like there's a formula to it all -- do A and B so C won't happen, but it's fucking insane. Life isn't a formula, and neither is love, and anything worth having is worth the risk.

The words all sound so right in Brendon's head but he can't get them out, can't find a voice for them. All the years he's spent as Ryan's voice, and he's finally lost his own. Any other time he wouldn't care, because Ryan's words are the only ones that ever mattered to him anyway.

"Please, do this for me, I can't -- please," Ryan breathes, his eyes begging on all the levels words can't. They're speaking with eyes now, and Brendon knows it's only a matter of time before they're left to speak with their bodies or not at all.

"Please," Ryan begs again, stepping forward until his hand is stroking through Brendon's hair, cupping the back of his head, stroking gently until Brendon simply leans forward, his head coming to rest against the soft cotton of Ryan's shirt, his skin warm through the fabric as Ryan rubs his head, a universe of I'm sorrys in his touch. Brendon breathes him in, memorizes it with intent, lets his arms come up to wrap around Ryan's waist, holding onto him in an awkward, clinging embrace, just in case he never --

Just in case.