Ryan's hands are on him before he remembers it's coming. It's grown so integral to their practice that it would feel stranger without it, the intimacy of both the poses and their relationship having evolved at the same pace, but it would be pointless and stupid to forfeit one just because the other has --

Failed is the first word to break through all his repression and Brendon feels himself tremble at the thought, the wounds still fresh and gaping between them, but he doesn't flinch, he doesn't, when Ryan wraps around him, fingers trembling in Brendon's and gripping tighter just to still themselves. Ryan's breath is like burning on the tight line of his shoulder, his chest a blinding sheet of fire where it's molded to Brendon's bare back, their hips aligned and locked like it's the only thing left in the world that fits. Brendon holds on and lets go all at once, giving himself to the implicit plea for trust that's running hot across Ryan's skin, seeping into Brendon's everywhere they touch. He's been laid out for more boys than he can count, tied up and stripped down and spread open, vulnerable to the highest, but he's never felt more exposed than he does now, with Ryan his anchor, still the only one to ever make him fall and now the only one to stop him crashing.

Ryan groans weakly. "Can't move."

Brendon chuckles against his shoulder, snuggling into him deeper, sealing any remaining bits of their bodies that have managed to pry apart. "'S normal after your first time."

Ryan snaps his hips up, lazy and constricted under the weight, hipbones nonetheless digging into Brendon's waist in retaliation. "Or, you're squashing me. Asshole."

"Oh." Brendon rolls off, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry."

Ryan's smile beams bright when he sits up, leaning over Brendon to cup his face in one cuddle-warmed hand and kiss the corner of his mouth. "Don't be," he breathes hot into Brendon's ear. "I like you on top of me."

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, like the words bring him down from some elevated state, and he drags his eyes from the instrument up to Brendon's, absently shaking his head. "I haven't seen you play in years."

Brendon smiles. "That's 'cause I haven't played in years. Wasn't it obvious?"

Ryan just shakes his head again, silent, lips still parted, but there's nothing in his bright, wide eyes to suggest he's anything less than fully conscious, and Brendon finds himself blushing, as if caught in some unknown act.

"I want you to teach me," Ryan announces.

 

we've got a big event this week at work so idk if i'll have time to finish/post by thursday, but we'll see.  also i made a really bad cover of "after the last midtown show," the end.
 

"Jesus. I thought the dumbest thing you'd ever done was getting folded into the pull-out sofa."

"Dude, no. The dumbest was when Travis dared me to shave my head and I did."

"...Oh yeah. You're a dumbass."

"Um, says the guy who once thought combining a faux-hawk with a mullet was the sweetest move ever."

"It wasn't a mullet, it was a fringe!"

"Whatever, redneck."

"Blow me."

"Sorry, I only get on my knees for drummers."
 

"Whoa." Brendon takes a step back. "No. No way. You're not dragging me to your meditation group again. Last time I fell asleep and when I woke up some guy gave me a lecture about how I wasn't in tune with my third nipple or whatever."

"Eye, Brendon, third eye, Jesus Christ." Ryan rolls his eyes (all three of them, Brendon bets). "Would a little personal enlightenment really kill you?"

"Yes! I prefer to live in complete unawareness of my entire being."

"Well in that case, you're a master."