Regular Decorated Emergency | Ryan/Brendon | NC-17 | ~13,400 words | Part 1/2
And, six months later, I finally finished writing this.
Regular Decorated Emergency
Brendon/Ryan | NC-17 | ~ 13,400 words
what are we now by voices/who promised each other another life/ neither of us can deliver
Notes: This takes place before and during the time that Panic! got signed. Brendon is under 18, but above the age of consent when sex happens. I eyed canon timelines, then ignored canon and wrote this story. Please excuse the inaccuracies.
Many thanks to octette for the awesome beta and for fictionalaspect for talking with me about this as I wrote it.
Summary and cut-tag are from Tigers by Eliza Griswold.
I am not looking for your jugular.
Only for your eyes.
This isn't exactly accurate.
I want both. And if you ask, as you should
if you like yourself, why do I go for such
ferocious treats, I must
admit
that there is something unexploded in my gut.
And it wants you because there is
an unexploded something in yours too.
From The Threat by Andrei Codrescu
one.
“You want a ride home?” Brendon asks, jiggling the keys in his hand.
“I’m just going to stay here for a while longer,” Ryan says. His guitar rests on his lap. He’s got three assignments due in the next week-seriously, who assigns homework in September? Ryan is unimpressed with the whole business of attending college; so far, it seems basically the same as high school. He's brought his backpack with him to practice, so he’s got his guitar if he wants to practice their songs and his textbook if he wants to get going on homework. He even remembered to pick up a sandwich on the way over, so he’s got everything he needs not to go home. He was sort of joking when he posted that he was going to sleep in the practice space - it’s not like there are any surfaces other than the floor to sleep on - but as he considers going back home, sleeping on the floor doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.
Ryan doesn’t voice the thought, but, “You can’t sleep here,” Spencer says, not looking up from where he’s bent in half, tightening something on his drum kit. “I’m pretty sure there are rats.”
“No there aren’t,” Ryan says, at the same time Brent says, “Eww,” and Brendon says, “Really? Because we shouldn’t be leaving out instruments-”
Spencer raises his head and gives them all a look before turning his attention back to his kit.
“Dad can give you a ride to school tomorrow if you want to sleep over,” Spencer says.
“I’m fine to sleep at home,” Ryan says. “Just wanted to get some stuff done.”
“You can use my desk if you really want to work,” says Spencer. “I’m pretty sure most of the shit on it’s yours, anyway.”
Because Ryan lived with Spencer for a while last spring while his dad was in rehab and now relax just to relapse. It’s not like Ryan’s the one who fell off the wagon, but somehow he still feels embarrassed. He’d only stayed for so long because that was supposed to be the last time, except clearly not.
“I have homework, too,” Brendon says. “I can stay and we can get some shit done and then I’ll drive you home.” He gives Ryan big, hopeful eyes before catching himself and saying, “If you want, whatever.”
“Sure,” Ryan says, even though he’s been around people all day long and was looking forward to spending some time by himself. Ever since he moved out, Brendon’s taken to lingering after practice and tagging along with whoever of them seem most willing. If Ryan hadn’t seen the shithole Brendon’s living in, he would be more irritated with Brendon’s clinginess.
As it is, he waits until Brendon’s stretched out on the floor with his book in front of him before moving to the other end of the room and pulling out his own notebook. Brendon breathes loudly and tends to chew on his pen; Ryan pulls out his discman.
At first, Ryan keeps looking over at Brendon, distracted by the way he keeps jiggling his pen, kicking his heel up against the back of his thigh, tapping his fingers against the floor. But then somehow Ryan manages to get into the reading and he doesn’t know how much time has passed until he feels a light touch on his shoulder. He twists his head around and sees Brendon standing over him, looking apologetic.
“I’ve got an early shift tomorrow and it’s past midnight,” Brendon says. “Is it okay if I drive you home now?”
“Yeah, shit, sorry,” Ryan says. “I lost track of time. You should have said something earlier.”
“I had work to do, too,” Brendon says, looking away.
Ryan closes his books and stacks them. He takes the hand Brendon offers and lets Brendon pull him up to his feet. Now that he’s standing, Ryan’s body informs him that a lot of time has passed, and, “Ouch,” Ryan mutters, grabbing at the back of his neck. There are downsides to doing homework on the floor. “I’m too old for this,” he says as he follows Brendon out of the room, his guitar in one hand and backpack in the other.
“You’ve graduated from high school and everything.” Brendon nods, solemnly. “You’re way over the hill.”
“Just downhill from here,” Ryan says. He presses his lips together in the awkward pause that follows and ignores the look Brendon gives him. He knows. He can hear Brendon’s voice as clearly as if he had spoken. But not really, right?
Ryan spent all of last year ranting and raving about how things were going to get better. And now it’s another year and he’s taking classes because he’s got a scholarship for that and he can’t get anyone to listen to their music. He feels unfairly irritated at Brendon, sharp in response to the surge of guilt that wells up. It’s not his fault that Brendon isn’t living with his parents right now. And, fuck it. Whatever. Ryan would love to live somewhere, anywhere, other than with his dad. Brendon’s fucking lucky that his parents gave him enough money over the years that he actually had savings he could use to get away when things got bad enough. And he’s still got his mom’s purple minivan and she pays for the insurance. Brendon’s mom does more for him when he’s kicked out of the house than Ryan’s mother ever did.
And then Ryan feels irritated with himself, because Brendon’s living in 200 square feet of disgustingness and he works thirty hours a week at the Smoothie Hut while finishing off his last year of high school, and the only reason he’s pulling any of this off is because he only needs like four hours of sleep a night. Ryan doesn’t know why he fixates on Brendon in particular. He doesn’t get riled up about Spencer’s life, or Brent’s. It’s just. Brendon. Like everything that happens with Brendon hits a little too close or a little too far from home.
It better fucking not be all downhill from here.
Ryan puts his guitar in the back and climbs into the passenger seat, holding his backpack on his lap.
“Thanks for driving me,” he says while Brendon turns on the car.
“You’re on the way,” Brendon says, even though that’s not strictly true. He turns on the radio and flips channels a few times before finding a station that isn’t playing commercials.
“I’ve got new lyrics to show you,” Ryan says when they’re three streets away from his house.
Brendon looks over, raises his eyebrows.
“Not tonight,” Ryan says. “I’ll email them to you tomorrow or something.”
Nothing has actually happened, but Ryan feels exhausted. It’s too much to show Brendon the song right now.
Ryan’s dad is home. The front door is unlocked, so his dad is home. Ryan steps inside and hesitates for a moment before closing the door. He’s torn between easing it shut so that maybe he can sneak upstairs unnoticed and slamming it so that his dad definitely knows he’s here. In the end, he just closes it like normal, and the door makes normal door-closing noises and his dad calls out, “Ryan?” and Ryan says, “Hey.”
He waits, but his dad doesn’t say anything else, so that’s probably okay then. Ryan kicks off his shoes and walks upstairs to his bedroom and closes the door behind him.
--
two.
“Halloween,” Brendon says, clicking his guitar case shut. Spencer left practice early so that he could get home to hand out candy with his family and Brent followed soon after him, leaving Brendon and Ryan to muck around in the practice room. “Woo.”
“You mean boo,” Ryan says, rolls his eyes just to save Brendon the trouble.
“You got anything planned?”
“Eh,” Ryan says. Mostly he’s just been glued to the computer screen these days. They finished another demo last week, but Ryan’s going to wait a little while longer to post it. People are still commenting on the songs he posted last week and he wants to drag that out as long as possible. It’s hard to balance-putting stuff out there enough to keep people interested but still leaving them wanting more. Ryan loves trying to figure it out. It’s been four hours since he last checked his email and a part of him is itching to get home. The other part knows that there are three different places he could go tonight if he wanted to party and feels somewhat compelled to go to all of them.
But if he wanted to be around drunk idiots, he could just go back home. So maybe not.
“You got anything planned for tonight?” Ryan asks.
“Oh yeah,” Brendon says. “All the plans.”
“Do people trick or treat in your neighbourhood? You could put out a bowl of candy or something.”
“Dude, if I could afford candy, I’d be eating it myself,” Brendon says.
“Do you really have somewhere to go?” Ryan asks. “Because you can come with me.”
“I’ve got friends other than you,” Brendon says, narrowing his eyes. It’s a lie in the same way it’s a lie when Ryan says he doesn’t mind going home. It’s not that he would literally rather tear off his fingernails than see his dad. It’s not that Brendon literally never speaks to a single person other than those in his band. It’s just.
“Do you have a costume?” Ryan asks.
--
Brendon takes all of the drinks offered and ends up pink-faced and sweaty. Ryan thinks unkind thoughts about the way his hair is plastered to his forehead and takes Brendon’s keys away, herding him into the passenger’s seat and driving them both to Brendon’s place.
Brendon was rambunctious at the party, but now he’s quiet and still, leaning his head against the window. Ryan speeds up as he goes around corners and hits the breaks extra hard when there’s a red light. He hears Brendon’s head knock against the glass a couple of times, but Brendon doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sleeping here tonight,” Ryan says, parking Brendon’s car. Even though Brendon’s just got one shitty, single mattress on the floor, he owes Ryan for driving him home or. Whatever. Ryan’s tired.
They walk down the hall toward Brendon’s apartment and just as Brendon’s pulling out his keys, a door down the hall opens and people come out yelling loudly. Ryan can’t make out what they’re saying well enough to know if it’s a fight, but he still feels his heart starts to race. Brendon fits the key in the lock and opens the door, and Ryan thinks of him coming home to this every night.
Brendon’s apartment is one room, plus the bathroom. There’s a fridge, sink, and stove in the corner closest to the door. Brendon’s bed is on the floor on the far side of the room. He’s got a bedside table that’s holding a pile of textbooks, and another guitar leaning up against the wall by the closet.
The card table and two fold-up chairs are new.
“When did you get those?” Ryan asks, nodding his head in the direction of the kitchen area.
“Last week,” Brendon says. “Someone left them by the garbage bins ‘round back.” He pumps his fist half-heartedly. “Free shit.”
“Awesome,” says Ryan.
“You want something?” Brendon asks. “I’ve got, I don’t know. Bread. Peanut butter. Cereal.”
“You still drinking soy milk?” Ryan asks.
“Yeah,” Brendon says. “It’s not so bad with cereal.”
“It’ll be worth it,” Ryan says absently. Brendon sings better when he’s off dairy and Brendon singing better will pay off. Eventually. “You should drink some water.”
Brendon rolls his eyes, but he walks over to the sink, grabbing a glass off the counter and holding it under the tap. He makes dramatic eyes at Ryan once he’s finished drinking, and Ryan ignores him.
Brendon strips down to his underwear, directing the clothes into a pile as they fall on the floor. He gives a full body shiver and leaps at the bed, squirms under the piles of blankets and punches the pillow into shape. Ryan undresses slowly. Slides his shirt up and pulls it carefully over his head. The room isn’t as cold as Brendon made it seem. Ryan steps out of his jeans.
Brendon’s made the bed warm already. Even though Ryan’s happy to be single, better off without her, that fucking bitch, he misses having someone to sleep with. It’s not the same sharing a bed with Brendon, who turns into a sweaty furnace through the night. There are no smooth legs for Ryan to slide his knee against. No long hair to float across to his pillow and get in his mouth, but that’s about the only thing Brendon has going for him.
“Are you asleep?” Brendon asks in a poor approximation of a whisper.
“Yes.”
“Did you have fun tonight?”
Ryan lies silently and looks at the ceiling. It was-fine. Like how everything’s kind of fine these days and still nothing like what he wants it to be.
“I saw you talking to that girl with the braids-”
“This isn’t a fucking slumber party,” says Ryan.
Brendon rolls away from Ryan and mutters, “I know.”
Ryan cuts his eyes to the side. Brendon’s just this mess of hair and then long stretch of bare skin, the blanket sliding down from his shoulders to settle around his waist.
“Did you have fun?”
“Yeah. I don’t know how you find out about all these places.”
“High school parties,” Ryan says, and Brendon rolls back over to give him a look.
“Cradle robber.”
“You were the one making out with the pirate wench,” Ryan says.
“Not actually,” Brendon says. “It was just a valiant attempt.”
“I thought you were ‘taking a break from sex.’”
“Oral doesn’t count.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
“Duh,” Brendon says, kicking Ryan’s ankle under the blankets.
--
Brendon wakes first and makes a very loud show of quietly getting out of bed. Ryan thinks maybe he’ll go back to sleep but even though he refuses to open his eyes, he doesn’t drift off again. He leans over the side of the bed, reaching for his jeans so that he can slide out from under the blankets and directly into his pants. He’s got morning wood, which doesn’t really matter, but it’s not like he’s going to get up and wave his dick at Brendon. Even though Brendon’s currently standing over the sink wearing only a pair of too small briefs as he chews his way loudly through a bowl of cereal.
Ryan walks the dozen steps over to the kitchen and helps himself to a bowl, reaching across Brendon for the carton of soy milk.
“You sleep okay?” Brendon asks. He’s always so fucking chatty in the morning. How’d you sleep? What are your plans for the day? You want to take the first shower? It’s one thing when it’s Spencer’s mom and she’s making waffles, but Ryan doesn’t like holding a conversation first thing in the morning.
“Fine.”
“You kick in your sleep.”
“Who says I was sleeping?” Ryan asks. “I was probably trying to get you to stop snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“I’d know better than you,” Ryan says.
“No one’s ever said anything.”
“Because you sleep with so many people.”
“I’ve slept with people,” Brendon says, and Ryan shuts himself up with another bite of cereal. Brendon sure spends a lot of time talking about not being a virgin for someone who is supposedly really not a virgin.
“You need a ride somewhere?” Brendon asks after rinsing out his bowl. “I have to be at school at 8:30.”
“Nah, I’m okay,” Ryan says. “I have a shift at the vet this afternoon, so I can just take the bus.”
“Have you told your dad that you’ve dropped out of college yet?”
“No.”
Brendon looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. Brendon’s pretty good about not saying anything about other people’s family business these days.
--
three.
He thinks that maybe starting with, “We got signed!” will make a difference to his dad, but it turns out that dropping out of college is dropping out of college.
“You’re not what I hoped my son would be,” his dad says.
None of this-none of anything-is what Ryan hoped it would be, and he’d scream back except for the acid burn rising up in his stomach. It hurts so bad that he’s scared to open his mouth. It’s the kind of burn he imagines ripping out his dad’s guts on the nights when Dad carries the bottle with him into the living room and turns on the TV. Not even the pretence of leaving the bottle in the fridge with the back and forth, back and forth all night long to refill his glass.
Ryan stands still and his dad keeps yelling. Spit flies out of his mouth. Ryan braces against another slow wave of contempt slithering up under his ribcage. He should leave. Why is he just standing here? But he’ll have to get out of the house entirely, because his dad’s not going to let him just walk away. Ryan doesn’t know where he can go for the night-Spencer’s got drum lessons until nine and his sisters have soccer and Ryan was already there four nights last week.
Even if he did have somewhere to go, it still feels safer to just wait it out. Somehow. Even though his dad’s already going at full volume with no signs of slowing down, there’s still that feeling of dread. Like maybe if Ryan says something or walks away he’ll make his dad even madder and what would that look like?
What’s worse than this? With the way Ryan’s stomach is twisting tighter and tighter and his dad’s going through how much it cost to send Ryan to private school for all these years, and he didn’t pay that much for Ryan to drop out of college in his first semester to join a band, what a disappointment, what a shame, what an ungrateful useless greedy thoughtless son. They’ve been through this before, month after month, when Panic! got serious and Ryan only enrolled in four classes, or even before the band was anything more than Ryan and Spencer jamming in the garage, but it was a Wednesday and Ryan left his wet towel on the floor or brought home a B in English and maybe he’d know how to write essays if he read literature instead of the crap he wastes all his time on.
It’s been this fight for as long as Ryan can remember. This, “You are not what I want you to be,” shock of disappointment and the rage that Ryan never changes, never figures it out. Ryan knows how it goes, knows to wait for his dad to trail off and slip away to his room and that sometimes it’s better to slip out of the house entirely. And then either his dad will be fine the next time Ryan sees him, or he won’t be speaking to Ryan, and there’s no way to tell how it’s going to swing. It’s been a lot of silent treatment lately.
Either way, there will be another fight. It doesn’t matter what Ryan does know; it’s not as though there’s anything for them to work out. His dad could be yelling at him or yelling at a potted plant. But still Ryan stands here, because what if there is worse than this?
--
“Fought with my dad,” Ryan says, holding the phone to his ear. It’s 10:21, which is really too late to be calling, but Spencer answered on the first ring so it’s probably okay.
“Sucks,” Spencer says.
“Yeah.”
Ryan twists the coiled cord of the phone around his finger until the tip goes dark red.
“You need to sleep over here tonight?” asks Spencer after a pause.
“Nah, it’s okay,” Ryan says. His dad’s still moving around the house, but it’s pretty unlikely that he’ll come into Ryan’s room. There’s this feeling of dread twisting in Ryan’s stomach, like he’s still waiting. Even though he knows that nothing else will happen. There have been, like, five times ever that his dad’s come into his room once he was already in bed. Only one time, once Ryan was already asleep, and that was just because Ryan conked out unusually early. There’s no reason now for Ryan to be listening so carefully for the sound of footsteps moving around the house.
Through the receiver, he can hear the soft click of buttons as Spencer plays his Gameboy. Sometimes Spencer mutters under his breath, “C’mon, fucker,” and Ryan can imagine exactly how he looks, slumped forward as he smashes the buttons with his thumbs. Spencer’s the only person in the world that Ryan can be silent on the phone with.
It isn't that long before Ryan hears his dad lumber up the stairs. Ryan feels his shoulder blades pulling tight together, but his dad just walks down the hall. There’s the click of his bedroom door closing and then Ryan lets out a breath, biting his cheek angrily against the stupid surge of disappointment. Like maybe this would be the one time that his dad came in to say sorry instead of going to bed mad. It should be a relief that Ryan doesn’t have to worry anymore about his dad coming in with one other thing that’s been pissing him off that he forgot to mention amidst the countless other things that have been pissing him off.
Ryan had slunk away a couple hours ago, waiting around before calling Spencer. The computer’s in the den and tonight it seemed like a better idea to stay in his bedroom with the door closed. Now that his dad’s in bed, Ryan can go downstairs. He doesn’t have work until eleven tomorrow morning, so it’s not like he has to fall asleep any time soon. Going online will be a hell of a lot more interesting than sitting here, listening to Spencer play Gameboy.
“I’ll see you in practice tomorrow,” Ryan says. “Seven?”
“Uh-” There’s a pause, a shuffle, then Spencer says, “Yeah, seven. Brendon’s got a shift at the Smoothie Hut and he said he’d give you a ride if you met him there.”
“Okay,” Ryan says. He might just take the bus, but, for as much as they make fun of it, the purple minivan does come in handy. Ryan hates having to carry his guitar with him on the bus. He always feels like people are watching him, and not in the good way. He’d get a T-shirt that says PETE WENTZ SIGNED US, MOTHERFUCKERS, but. Soon. They’ll record the CD and then he won’t be taking the fucking bus. He’ll have money for his own car, instead of just enough to throw some Brendon’s way every once and a while for gas. And they’ll have a record out and all the assholes giving Ryan dirty looks because his guitar is taking up the seat beside him can just buy his CD and fuck themselves with it.
Ryan inhales slowly and says again, “Okay.” He feels inexplicably mad at the whole world right now, which means he needs to get off the phone before he snipes at Spencer. It’s funny because Spencer gets the same vaguely constipated look on his face when Ryan snarks at him as he does when Ryan talks about his dad. That same look of I don’t know what to say here. It’s not actually funny, but Spencer’s face looks stupid, so there’s that. Ha ha.
And it doesn’t even matter, because Spencer lets Ryan have half the bed whenever he wants, and having somewhere to stay counts for a hell of a lot more than an articulate, “Don’t worry about your dad,” or-whatever. Ryan doesn’t even know what an articulate response would sound like because he doesn’t actually want to talk about it. He just sometimes brings stuff up. Ryan would rather spend the whole afternoon at the park, just skateboarding around in circles because neither he nor Spencer can do any tricks. He can spend twenty-four hours with Spencer without ever feeling like they’ve run out of stuff to do, because there’s always another song to learn, or park to walk to, or package of bottle rockets that Spencer’s been hiding under his bed.
“See you at practice tomorrow,” Ryan says and hangs up the phone without waiting for Spencer to say goodbye.
He stretches out on his bed and fully intends on just falling asleep, but his heart won’t stop throbbing in his chest and there’s this little shake in his hands from the leftover adrenalin. He hasn’t heard any sounds, so his dad’s probably passed out by now.
Ryan grabs his hoodie and his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder without bothering to check what’s in it. The bus is mostly empty when Ryan climbs on, and he takes the seat right behind the driver.
There’s no reasonable way that he could ask, but Ryan wishes that Brendon would just give him a set of keys. That way he wouldn’t have to stand there and wait after knocking. The chance that Brendon isn’t even home and then where the fuck is Ryan going to go?
But eventually Brendon unlocks the door, holding it open when Ryan says, “Hey,” and walks inside.
Brendon’s shirtless, with a pair of old sweatpants riding low around his hips. There’s this solidness around his waist, even though he’s skin and bones just the same as Ryan. Maybe it’s not a solidness, maybe it’s just the way his waist stretches straight down from his ribcage without moving in, like all of the sudden Ryan has figured out that the male body is different from the female one. What a stupid thing to notice.
Ryan jokes around about stuff, but he’s never actually kissed a guy.
“Told my dad,” he says.
“How did that go?” asks Brendon.
Ryan lifts one shoulder.
“You want something to eat?”
“What do you have?”
“I don’t know,” Brendon says. “Cereal.”
“Sure.”
Brendon turns. He grabs a bowl out of the cupboard for Ryan, even though Ryan knows where everything is. Brendon’s back flexes as the reaches up. His sweatpants are as low as they’re going to get, held up by the curve of his ass. Ryan feels, like. Stupidly aware of Brendon’s body. He feels stupid, and walks up behind Brendon, crowding him against the counter. He’s a little taller than Brendon, and Brendon turns his head, trying to look at Ryan over his shoulder, but he doesn’t move away.
Ryan tips his head forward until they’re way too close to make eye contact. He slides his hand around, dragging his fingers over Brendon’s skin as he circles Brendon’s waist. Opens his palm across Brendon’s belly and feels the movement beneath his skin when Brendon’s breathes. Ryan braces himself with his other hand on the counter and closes his eyes.
He thinks that maybe Brendon will say something now. No matter what comes out of his mouth, it’s going to be the wrong thing. But Brendon stays quiet, and when Ryan gives a little squeeze with his fingers and starts to let go, Brendon turns in the circle of his arms. They’re still way too close. Ryan opens his eyes, but all he can see is Brendon, right there, and then Brendon lifts his chin. It’s like they were already kissing, but when they do actually kiss, it’s also like, finally.
Brendon’s got this really soft mouth and sloppy, wet tongue and he kisses like he’s hungry for it. Ryan holds only the edge of the counter, presses his body against Brendon’s, presses Brendon back and rocks their hips together. It’s really easy to feel where Brendon’s hard, the soft fabric of his sweatpants hiding nothing. Maybe it should be weird to be reminded that Brendon’s got a dick in there, but Ryan kind of likes it. Brendon’s turned on and Ryan can actually feel it and that’s pretty fucking hot.
Ryan pulls back. Part of him wants to go, go, go, but he’s also got this stupid reckless feeling, like he doesn’t even care if stopping makes it awkward. Like, fuck it. Brendon opens his eyes. He’s got this look on his face. His red lips and the flush along his cheek bones. Ryan’s dick twitches, because all of the sudden it’s Brendon’s lame face that gets him going.
This is probably the point where Ryan should loosen his grip on Brendon’s hip-bare skin and the cut of the bone beneath Ryan’s thumb-but even though they’re not kissing anymore, it doesn’t feel like they’ve stopped.
Brendon says, “So, um, do you want to, like...?” and finally Ryan lets go, nodding.
It’s awkward fitting together again once they’re both lying down but then Ryan slips his fingers under the edge of Brendon’s sweatpants, and it’s just more bare skin, so. Fuck. There are probably things to be considered here, but Ryan’s so sick of thinking all the time. Brendon’s just Brendon, and Ryan doesn’t care if this is fucked up.
Ryan sits up and moves down the bed so that he can slide off Brendon’s sweatpants, and then Brendon’s naked and there’s this whole long stretch of naked Brendon skin. His nipples and his knees and his dick. That first gut-clenching shock of nakedness and Brendon’s hands clenched into fists, digging into the mattress.
It’s not that weird to wrap his hand around Brendon’s dick. Ryan’s spent a whole hell of a lot of time with a hand on his own dick, and whatever. Penis. Brendon’s penis, which is a different size and shape than Ryan’s and jumps a little in Ryan’s hand when he runs his thumb in a circle around the head. The angle’s different from what Ryan’s used to and the skin feels warm and freakishly smooth. Like, Ryan doesn’t want to tighten his grip because the skin feels so, so soft.
Brendon makes a little noise through his nose and Ryan looks, because-right. Brendon. Not just the dick in his hand, there’s also a Brendon attached to it. Except that Brendon seems weirdly detached from the whole situation. He’s all the way up at the head of the bed and Ryan’s down here with the dick. It’s strange to think that Ryan’s had a million other interactions with Brendon and none of them have involved Brendon’s dick-as much as Brendon sometimes talked about it-but now Ryan’s got a dick in his hand and it’s all he can think about. This living thing that’s leaking at the tip and twitching up when Ryan circles his thumb a certain way.
Ryan’s not giving a very good handjob. As he thinks about it, he’s surprised that Brendon’s just waiting through it. The loose grip of Ryan’s hand, the uneven rhythm. If it were Ryan, he’d probably be reaching his own hand down to help things along. But Brendon’s just waiting, holding still and quiet.
Ryan’s not trying to be a jerk, so he lifts up his hand and spits into his palm before grabbing Brendon’s dick again. He gets in a couple of nice, long strokes, squeezing tightly as he pulls up, the thumb of his other hand pressed to the base of Brendon’s dick, and then Brendon’s making a sharp, high noise. Ryan looks up and sees Brendon’s face all screwed up, and then when he looks down again, there’s come on the back of his hand. He tightens his fingers, and Brendon’s dick gives another weak spurt.
So. That’s that.
Ryan wipes his hands off on Brendon’s sweatpants, tangled at the foot of the bed, and crawls back up, lying down beside Brendon. He looks up at the ceiling, considering. It seems like maybe he should be freaking out right now, but he’s just calm and maybe a little self-satisfied.
“Have you ever done that before?” Brendon asks. His voice is thick in this way that reminds Ryan that his dick is still hard.
“No.” Ryan glances sideways. Brendon’s nipples are still really hard. “Have you?”
“No.” Brendon lifts a hand and touches the base of his throat before curling his fingers around the side of his neck.
--
Ryan doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, because he wakes, disoriented, and squints at the little alarm clock resting on the floor beside Brendon’s bed until he can make out the numbers: 4:16.
Ryan’s still wearing all of his clothes, and Brendon’s lying next to him, naked except for the sheet twisted around one ankle. He mumbles something to himself and then rolls onto his back, wrinkling up his face.
“Whatsit,” he says, pressing his palm to his eyes. They left on all the lights. Ryan’s surprised they managed to sleep for as long as they did.
“It’s like four,” Ryan says. “Someone needs to go turn off the lights.” Possibly that someone should be him, since he’s still got his clothes on, but it’s Brendon’s place and Ryan doesn’t feel like moving.
Brendon looks over at Ryan, his face screwed up against the light. His forehead’s furled and his skin looks pale except for the dark sleep flush across his cheeks. Ryan’s never seen him look so disoriented, and maybe Ryan’s still disoriented, too, because he lifts his arm and lets Brendon tuck himself against Ryan’s side.
Brendon’s warm, even though he’s been sleeping naked and without blankets. Warm, smooth skin beneath Ryan’s hand. Ryan feels this low swelling of protectiveness, and he tilts his head to make the angle right when Brendon pushes up for a kiss. Like this is something they do now: find each other in the night and trade long, wet kisses until Ryan’s lips feel raw from the press of Brendon’s stubble.
--
part two
Regular Decorated Emergency
Brendon/Ryan | NC-17 | ~ 13,400 words
what are we now by voices/who promised each other another life/ neither of us can deliver
Notes: This takes place before and during the time that Panic! got signed. Brendon is under 18, but above the age of consent when sex happens. I eyed canon timelines, then ignored canon and wrote this story. Please excuse the inaccuracies.
Many thanks to octette for the awesome beta and for fictionalaspect for talking with me about this as I wrote it.
Summary and cut-tag are from Tigers by Eliza Griswold.
I am not looking for your jugular.
Only for your eyes.
This isn't exactly accurate.
I want both. And if you ask, as you should
if you like yourself, why do I go for such
ferocious treats, I must
admit
that there is something unexploded in my gut.
And it wants you because there is
an unexploded something in yours too.
From The Threat by Andrei Codrescu
one.
“You want a ride home?” Brendon asks, jiggling the keys in his hand.
“I’m just going to stay here for a while longer,” Ryan says. His guitar rests on his lap. He’s got three assignments due in the next week-seriously, who assigns homework in September? Ryan is unimpressed with the whole business of attending college; so far, it seems basically the same as high school. He's brought his backpack with him to practice, so he’s got his guitar if he wants to practice their songs and his textbook if he wants to get going on homework. He even remembered to pick up a sandwich on the way over, so he’s got everything he needs not to go home. He was sort of joking when he posted that he was going to sleep in the practice space - it’s not like there are any surfaces other than the floor to sleep on - but as he considers going back home, sleeping on the floor doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.
Ryan doesn’t voice the thought, but, “You can’t sleep here,” Spencer says, not looking up from where he’s bent in half, tightening something on his drum kit. “I’m pretty sure there are rats.”
“No there aren’t,” Ryan says, at the same time Brent says, “Eww,” and Brendon says, “Really? Because we shouldn’t be leaving out instruments-”
Spencer raises his head and gives them all a look before turning his attention back to his kit.
“Dad can give you a ride to school tomorrow if you want to sleep over,” Spencer says.
“I’m fine to sleep at home,” Ryan says. “Just wanted to get some stuff done.”
“You can use my desk if you really want to work,” says Spencer. “I’m pretty sure most of the shit on it’s yours, anyway.”
Because Ryan lived with Spencer for a while last spring while his dad was in rehab and now relax just to relapse. It’s not like Ryan’s the one who fell off the wagon, but somehow he still feels embarrassed. He’d only stayed for so long because that was supposed to be the last time, except clearly not.
“I have homework, too,” Brendon says. “I can stay and we can get some shit done and then I’ll drive you home.” He gives Ryan big, hopeful eyes before catching himself and saying, “If you want, whatever.”
“Sure,” Ryan says, even though he’s been around people all day long and was looking forward to spending some time by himself. Ever since he moved out, Brendon’s taken to lingering after practice and tagging along with whoever of them seem most willing. If Ryan hadn’t seen the shithole Brendon’s living in, he would be more irritated with Brendon’s clinginess.
As it is, he waits until Brendon’s stretched out on the floor with his book in front of him before moving to the other end of the room and pulling out his own notebook. Brendon breathes loudly and tends to chew on his pen; Ryan pulls out his discman.
At first, Ryan keeps looking over at Brendon, distracted by the way he keeps jiggling his pen, kicking his heel up against the back of his thigh, tapping his fingers against the floor. But then somehow Ryan manages to get into the reading and he doesn’t know how much time has passed until he feels a light touch on his shoulder. He twists his head around and sees Brendon standing over him, looking apologetic.
“I’ve got an early shift tomorrow and it’s past midnight,” Brendon says. “Is it okay if I drive you home now?”
“Yeah, shit, sorry,” Ryan says. “I lost track of time. You should have said something earlier.”
“I had work to do, too,” Brendon says, looking away.
Ryan closes his books and stacks them. He takes the hand Brendon offers and lets Brendon pull him up to his feet. Now that he’s standing, Ryan’s body informs him that a lot of time has passed, and, “Ouch,” Ryan mutters, grabbing at the back of his neck. There are downsides to doing homework on the floor. “I’m too old for this,” he says as he follows Brendon out of the room, his guitar in one hand and backpack in the other.
“You’ve graduated from high school and everything.” Brendon nods, solemnly. “You’re way over the hill.”
“Just downhill from here,” Ryan says. He presses his lips together in the awkward pause that follows and ignores the look Brendon gives him. He knows. He can hear Brendon’s voice as clearly as if he had spoken. But not really, right?
Ryan spent all of last year ranting and raving about how things were going to get better. And now it’s another year and he’s taking classes because he’s got a scholarship for that and he can’t get anyone to listen to their music. He feels unfairly irritated at Brendon, sharp in response to the surge of guilt that wells up. It’s not his fault that Brendon isn’t living with his parents right now. And, fuck it. Whatever. Ryan would love to live somewhere, anywhere, other than with his dad. Brendon’s fucking lucky that his parents gave him enough money over the years that he actually had savings he could use to get away when things got bad enough. And he’s still got his mom’s purple minivan and she pays for the insurance. Brendon’s mom does more for him when he’s kicked out of the house than Ryan’s mother ever did.
And then Ryan feels irritated with himself, because Brendon’s living in 200 square feet of disgustingness and he works thirty hours a week at the Smoothie Hut while finishing off his last year of high school, and the only reason he’s pulling any of this off is because he only needs like four hours of sleep a night. Ryan doesn’t know why he fixates on Brendon in particular. He doesn’t get riled up about Spencer’s life, or Brent’s. It’s just. Brendon. Like everything that happens with Brendon hits a little too close or a little too far from home.
It better fucking not be all downhill from here.
Ryan puts his guitar in the back and climbs into the passenger seat, holding his backpack on his lap.
“Thanks for driving me,” he says while Brendon turns on the car.
“You’re on the way,” Brendon says, even though that’s not strictly true. He turns on the radio and flips channels a few times before finding a station that isn’t playing commercials.
“I’ve got new lyrics to show you,” Ryan says when they’re three streets away from his house.
Brendon looks over, raises his eyebrows.
“Not tonight,” Ryan says. “I’ll email them to you tomorrow or something.”
Nothing has actually happened, but Ryan feels exhausted. It’s too much to show Brendon the song right now.
Ryan’s dad is home. The front door is unlocked, so his dad is home. Ryan steps inside and hesitates for a moment before closing the door. He’s torn between easing it shut so that maybe he can sneak upstairs unnoticed and slamming it so that his dad definitely knows he’s here. In the end, he just closes it like normal, and the door makes normal door-closing noises and his dad calls out, “Ryan?” and Ryan says, “Hey.”
He waits, but his dad doesn’t say anything else, so that’s probably okay then. Ryan kicks off his shoes and walks upstairs to his bedroom and closes the door behind him.
--
two.
“Halloween,” Brendon says, clicking his guitar case shut. Spencer left practice early so that he could get home to hand out candy with his family and Brent followed soon after him, leaving Brendon and Ryan to muck around in the practice room. “Woo.”
“You mean boo,” Ryan says, rolls his eyes just to save Brendon the trouble.
“You got anything planned?”
“Eh,” Ryan says. Mostly he’s just been glued to the computer screen these days. They finished another demo last week, but Ryan’s going to wait a little while longer to post it. People are still commenting on the songs he posted last week and he wants to drag that out as long as possible. It’s hard to balance-putting stuff out there enough to keep people interested but still leaving them wanting more. Ryan loves trying to figure it out. It’s been four hours since he last checked his email and a part of him is itching to get home. The other part knows that there are three different places he could go tonight if he wanted to party and feels somewhat compelled to go to all of them.
But if he wanted to be around drunk idiots, he could just go back home. So maybe not.
“You got anything planned for tonight?” Ryan asks.
“Oh yeah,” Brendon says. “All the plans.”
“Do people trick or treat in your neighbourhood? You could put out a bowl of candy or something.”
“Dude, if I could afford candy, I’d be eating it myself,” Brendon says.
“Do you really have somewhere to go?” Ryan asks. “Because you can come with me.”
“I’ve got friends other than you,” Brendon says, narrowing his eyes. It’s a lie in the same way it’s a lie when Ryan says he doesn’t mind going home. It’s not that he would literally rather tear off his fingernails than see his dad. It’s not that Brendon literally never speaks to a single person other than those in his band. It’s just.
“Do you have a costume?” Ryan asks.
--
Brendon takes all of the drinks offered and ends up pink-faced and sweaty. Ryan thinks unkind thoughts about the way his hair is plastered to his forehead and takes Brendon’s keys away, herding him into the passenger’s seat and driving them both to Brendon’s place.
Brendon was rambunctious at the party, but now he’s quiet and still, leaning his head against the window. Ryan speeds up as he goes around corners and hits the breaks extra hard when there’s a red light. He hears Brendon’s head knock against the glass a couple of times, but Brendon doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sleeping here tonight,” Ryan says, parking Brendon’s car. Even though Brendon’s just got one shitty, single mattress on the floor, he owes Ryan for driving him home or. Whatever. Ryan’s tired.
They walk down the hall toward Brendon’s apartment and just as Brendon’s pulling out his keys, a door down the hall opens and people come out yelling loudly. Ryan can’t make out what they’re saying well enough to know if it’s a fight, but he still feels his heart starts to race. Brendon fits the key in the lock and opens the door, and Ryan thinks of him coming home to this every night.
Brendon’s apartment is one room, plus the bathroom. There’s a fridge, sink, and stove in the corner closest to the door. Brendon’s bed is on the floor on the far side of the room. He’s got a bedside table that’s holding a pile of textbooks, and another guitar leaning up against the wall by the closet.
The card table and two fold-up chairs are new.
“When did you get those?” Ryan asks, nodding his head in the direction of the kitchen area.
“Last week,” Brendon says. “Someone left them by the garbage bins ‘round back.” He pumps his fist half-heartedly. “Free shit.”
“Awesome,” says Ryan.
“You want something?” Brendon asks. “I’ve got, I don’t know. Bread. Peanut butter. Cereal.”
“You still drinking soy milk?” Ryan asks.
“Yeah,” Brendon says. “It’s not so bad with cereal.”
“It’ll be worth it,” Ryan says absently. Brendon sings better when he’s off dairy and Brendon singing better will pay off. Eventually. “You should drink some water.”
Brendon rolls his eyes, but he walks over to the sink, grabbing a glass off the counter and holding it under the tap. He makes dramatic eyes at Ryan once he’s finished drinking, and Ryan ignores him.
Brendon strips down to his underwear, directing the clothes into a pile as they fall on the floor. He gives a full body shiver and leaps at the bed, squirms under the piles of blankets and punches the pillow into shape. Ryan undresses slowly. Slides his shirt up and pulls it carefully over his head. The room isn’t as cold as Brendon made it seem. Ryan steps out of his jeans.
Brendon’s made the bed warm already. Even though Ryan’s happy to be single, better off without her, that fucking bitch, he misses having someone to sleep with. It’s not the same sharing a bed with Brendon, who turns into a sweaty furnace through the night. There are no smooth legs for Ryan to slide his knee against. No long hair to float across to his pillow and get in his mouth, but that’s about the only thing Brendon has going for him.
“Are you asleep?” Brendon asks in a poor approximation of a whisper.
“Yes.”
“Did you have fun tonight?”
Ryan lies silently and looks at the ceiling. It was-fine. Like how everything’s kind of fine these days and still nothing like what he wants it to be.
“I saw you talking to that girl with the braids-”
“This isn’t a fucking slumber party,” says Ryan.
Brendon rolls away from Ryan and mutters, “I know.”
Ryan cuts his eyes to the side. Brendon’s just this mess of hair and then long stretch of bare skin, the blanket sliding down from his shoulders to settle around his waist.
“Did you have fun?”
“Yeah. I don’t know how you find out about all these places.”
“High school parties,” Ryan says, and Brendon rolls back over to give him a look.
“Cradle robber.”
“You were the one making out with the pirate wench,” Ryan says.
“Not actually,” Brendon says. “It was just a valiant attempt.”
“I thought you were ‘taking a break from sex.’”
“Oral doesn’t count.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
“Duh,” Brendon says, kicking Ryan’s ankle under the blankets.
--
Brendon wakes first and makes a very loud show of quietly getting out of bed. Ryan thinks maybe he’ll go back to sleep but even though he refuses to open his eyes, he doesn’t drift off again. He leans over the side of the bed, reaching for his jeans so that he can slide out from under the blankets and directly into his pants. He’s got morning wood, which doesn’t really matter, but it’s not like he’s going to get up and wave his dick at Brendon. Even though Brendon’s currently standing over the sink wearing only a pair of too small briefs as he chews his way loudly through a bowl of cereal.
Ryan walks the dozen steps over to the kitchen and helps himself to a bowl, reaching across Brendon for the carton of soy milk.
“You sleep okay?” Brendon asks. He’s always so fucking chatty in the morning. How’d you sleep? What are your plans for the day? You want to take the first shower? It’s one thing when it’s Spencer’s mom and she’s making waffles, but Ryan doesn’t like holding a conversation first thing in the morning.
“Fine.”
“You kick in your sleep.”
“Who says I was sleeping?” Ryan asks. “I was probably trying to get you to stop snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“I’d know better than you,” Ryan says.
“No one’s ever said anything.”
“Because you sleep with so many people.”
“I’ve slept with people,” Brendon says, and Ryan shuts himself up with another bite of cereal. Brendon sure spends a lot of time talking about not being a virgin for someone who is supposedly really not a virgin.
“You need a ride somewhere?” Brendon asks after rinsing out his bowl. “I have to be at school at 8:30.”
“Nah, I’m okay,” Ryan says. “I have a shift at the vet this afternoon, so I can just take the bus.”
“Have you told your dad that you’ve dropped out of college yet?”
“No.”
Brendon looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. Brendon’s pretty good about not saying anything about other people’s family business these days.
--
three.
He thinks that maybe starting with, “We got signed!” will make a difference to his dad, but it turns out that dropping out of college is dropping out of college.
“You’re not what I hoped my son would be,” his dad says.
None of this-none of anything-is what Ryan hoped it would be, and he’d scream back except for the acid burn rising up in his stomach. It hurts so bad that he’s scared to open his mouth. It’s the kind of burn he imagines ripping out his dad’s guts on the nights when Dad carries the bottle with him into the living room and turns on the TV. Not even the pretence of leaving the bottle in the fridge with the back and forth, back and forth all night long to refill his glass.
Ryan stands still and his dad keeps yelling. Spit flies out of his mouth. Ryan braces against another slow wave of contempt slithering up under his ribcage. He should leave. Why is he just standing here? But he’ll have to get out of the house entirely, because his dad’s not going to let him just walk away. Ryan doesn’t know where he can go for the night-Spencer’s got drum lessons until nine and his sisters have soccer and Ryan was already there four nights last week.
Even if he did have somewhere to go, it still feels safer to just wait it out. Somehow. Even though his dad’s already going at full volume with no signs of slowing down, there’s still that feeling of dread. Like maybe if Ryan says something or walks away he’ll make his dad even madder and what would that look like?
What’s worse than this? With the way Ryan’s stomach is twisting tighter and tighter and his dad’s going through how much it cost to send Ryan to private school for all these years, and he didn’t pay that much for Ryan to drop out of college in his first semester to join a band, what a disappointment, what a shame, what an ungrateful useless greedy thoughtless son. They’ve been through this before, month after month, when Panic! got serious and Ryan only enrolled in four classes, or even before the band was anything more than Ryan and Spencer jamming in the garage, but it was a Wednesday and Ryan left his wet towel on the floor or brought home a B in English and maybe he’d know how to write essays if he read literature instead of the crap he wastes all his time on.
It’s been this fight for as long as Ryan can remember. This, “You are not what I want you to be,” shock of disappointment and the rage that Ryan never changes, never figures it out. Ryan knows how it goes, knows to wait for his dad to trail off and slip away to his room and that sometimes it’s better to slip out of the house entirely. And then either his dad will be fine the next time Ryan sees him, or he won’t be speaking to Ryan, and there’s no way to tell how it’s going to swing. It’s been a lot of silent treatment lately.
Either way, there will be another fight. It doesn’t matter what Ryan does know; it’s not as though there’s anything for them to work out. His dad could be yelling at him or yelling at a potted plant. But still Ryan stands here, because what if there is worse than this?
--
“Fought with my dad,” Ryan says, holding the phone to his ear. It’s 10:21, which is really too late to be calling, but Spencer answered on the first ring so it’s probably okay.
“Sucks,” Spencer says.
“Yeah.”
Ryan twists the coiled cord of the phone around his finger until the tip goes dark red.
“You need to sleep over here tonight?” asks Spencer after a pause.
“Nah, it’s okay,” Ryan says. His dad’s still moving around the house, but it’s pretty unlikely that he’ll come into Ryan’s room. There’s this feeling of dread twisting in Ryan’s stomach, like he’s still waiting. Even though he knows that nothing else will happen. There have been, like, five times ever that his dad’s come into his room once he was already in bed. Only one time, once Ryan was already asleep, and that was just because Ryan conked out unusually early. There’s no reason now for Ryan to be listening so carefully for the sound of footsteps moving around the house.
Through the receiver, he can hear the soft click of buttons as Spencer plays his Gameboy. Sometimes Spencer mutters under his breath, “C’mon, fucker,” and Ryan can imagine exactly how he looks, slumped forward as he smashes the buttons with his thumbs. Spencer’s the only person in the world that Ryan can be silent on the phone with.
It isn't that long before Ryan hears his dad lumber up the stairs. Ryan feels his shoulder blades pulling tight together, but his dad just walks down the hall. There’s the click of his bedroom door closing and then Ryan lets out a breath, biting his cheek angrily against the stupid surge of disappointment. Like maybe this would be the one time that his dad came in to say sorry instead of going to bed mad. It should be a relief that Ryan doesn’t have to worry anymore about his dad coming in with one other thing that’s been pissing him off that he forgot to mention amidst the countless other things that have been pissing him off.
Ryan had slunk away a couple hours ago, waiting around before calling Spencer. The computer’s in the den and tonight it seemed like a better idea to stay in his bedroom with the door closed. Now that his dad’s in bed, Ryan can go downstairs. He doesn’t have work until eleven tomorrow morning, so it’s not like he has to fall asleep any time soon. Going online will be a hell of a lot more interesting than sitting here, listening to Spencer play Gameboy.
“I’ll see you in practice tomorrow,” Ryan says. “Seven?”
“Uh-” There’s a pause, a shuffle, then Spencer says, “Yeah, seven. Brendon’s got a shift at the Smoothie Hut and he said he’d give you a ride if you met him there.”
“Okay,” Ryan says. He might just take the bus, but, for as much as they make fun of it, the purple minivan does come in handy. Ryan hates having to carry his guitar with him on the bus. He always feels like people are watching him, and not in the good way. He’d get a T-shirt that says PETE WENTZ SIGNED US, MOTHERFUCKERS, but. Soon. They’ll record the CD and then he won’t be taking the fucking bus. He’ll have money for his own car, instead of just enough to throw some Brendon’s way every once and a while for gas. And they’ll have a record out and all the assholes giving Ryan dirty looks because his guitar is taking up the seat beside him can just buy his CD and fuck themselves with it.
Ryan inhales slowly and says again, “Okay.” He feels inexplicably mad at the whole world right now, which means he needs to get off the phone before he snipes at Spencer. It’s funny because Spencer gets the same vaguely constipated look on his face when Ryan snarks at him as he does when Ryan talks about his dad. That same look of I don’t know what to say here. It’s not actually funny, but Spencer’s face looks stupid, so there’s that. Ha ha.
And it doesn’t even matter, because Spencer lets Ryan have half the bed whenever he wants, and having somewhere to stay counts for a hell of a lot more than an articulate, “Don’t worry about your dad,” or-whatever. Ryan doesn’t even know what an articulate response would sound like because he doesn’t actually want to talk about it. He just sometimes brings stuff up. Ryan would rather spend the whole afternoon at the park, just skateboarding around in circles because neither he nor Spencer can do any tricks. He can spend twenty-four hours with Spencer without ever feeling like they’ve run out of stuff to do, because there’s always another song to learn, or park to walk to, or package of bottle rockets that Spencer’s been hiding under his bed.
“See you at practice tomorrow,” Ryan says and hangs up the phone without waiting for Spencer to say goodbye.
He stretches out on his bed and fully intends on just falling asleep, but his heart won’t stop throbbing in his chest and there’s this little shake in his hands from the leftover adrenalin. He hasn’t heard any sounds, so his dad’s probably passed out by now.
Ryan grabs his hoodie and his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder without bothering to check what’s in it. The bus is mostly empty when Ryan climbs on, and he takes the seat right behind the driver.
There’s no reasonable way that he could ask, but Ryan wishes that Brendon would just give him a set of keys. That way he wouldn’t have to stand there and wait after knocking. The chance that Brendon isn’t even home and then where the fuck is Ryan going to go?
But eventually Brendon unlocks the door, holding it open when Ryan says, “Hey,” and walks inside.
Brendon’s shirtless, with a pair of old sweatpants riding low around his hips. There’s this solidness around his waist, even though he’s skin and bones just the same as Ryan. Maybe it’s not a solidness, maybe it’s just the way his waist stretches straight down from his ribcage without moving in, like all of the sudden Ryan has figured out that the male body is different from the female one. What a stupid thing to notice.
Ryan jokes around about stuff, but he’s never actually kissed a guy.
“Told my dad,” he says.
“How did that go?” asks Brendon.
Ryan lifts one shoulder.
“You want something to eat?”
“What do you have?”
“I don’t know,” Brendon says. “Cereal.”
“Sure.”
Brendon turns. He grabs a bowl out of the cupboard for Ryan, even though Ryan knows where everything is. Brendon’s back flexes as the reaches up. His sweatpants are as low as they’re going to get, held up by the curve of his ass. Ryan feels, like. Stupidly aware of Brendon’s body. He feels stupid, and walks up behind Brendon, crowding him against the counter. He’s a little taller than Brendon, and Brendon turns his head, trying to look at Ryan over his shoulder, but he doesn’t move away.
Ryan tips his head forward until they’re way too close to make eye contact. He slides his hand around, dragging his fingers over Brendon’s skin as he circles Brendon’s waist. Opens his palm across Brendon’s belly and feels the movement beneath his skin when Brendon’s breathes. Ryan braces himself with his other hand on the counter and closes his eyes.
He thinks that maybe Brendon will say something now. No matter what comes out of his mouth, it’s going to be the wrong thing. But Brendon stays quiet, and when Ryan gives a little squeeze with his fingers and starts to let go, Brendon turns in the circle of his arms. They’re still way too close. Ryan opens his eyes, but all he can see is Brendon, right there, and then Brendon lifts his chin. It’s like they were already kissing, but when they do actually kiss, it’s also like, finally.
Brendon’s got this really soft mouth and sloppy, wet tongue and he kisses like he’s hungry for it. Ryan holds only the edge of the counter, presses his body against Brendon’s, presses Brendon back and rocks their hips together. It’s really easy to feel where Brendon’s hard, the soft fabric of his sweatpants hiding nothing. Maybe it should be weird to be reminded that Brendon’s got a dick in there, but Ryan kind of likes it. Brendon’s turned on and Ryan can actually feel it and that’s pretty fucking hot.
Ryan pulls back. Part of him wants to go, go, go, but he’s also got this stupid reckless feeling, like he doesn’t even care if stopping makes it awkward. Like, fuck it. Brendon opens his eyes. He’s got this look on his face. His red lips and the flush along his cheek bones. Ryan’s dick twitches, because all of the sudden it’s Brendon’s lame face that gets him going.
This is probably the point where Ryan should loosen his grip on Brendon’s hip-bare skin and the cut of the bone beneath Ryan’s thumb-but even though they’re not kissing anymore, it doesn’t feel like they’ve stopped.
Brendon says, “So, um, do you want to, like...?” and finally Ryan lets go, nodding.
It’s awkward fitting together again once they’re both lying down but then Ryan slips his fingers under the edge of Brendon’s sweatpants, and it’s just more bare skin, so. Fuck. There are probably things to be considered here, but Ryan’s so sick of thinking all the time. Brendon’s just Brendon, and Ryan doesn’t care if this is fucked up.
Ryan sits up and moves down the bed so that he can slide off Brendon’s sweatpants, and then Brendon’s naked and there’s this whole long stretch of naked Brendon skin. His nipples and his knees and his dick. That first gut-clenching shock of nakedness and Brendon’s hands clenched into fists, digging into the mattress.
It’s not that weird to wrap his hand around Brendon’s dick. Ryan’s spent a whole hell of a lot of time with a hand on his own dick, and whatever. Penis. Brendon’s penis, which is a different size and shape than Ryan’s and jumps a little in Ryan’s hand when he runs his thumb in a circle around the head. The angle’s different from what Ryan’s used to and the skin feels warm and freakishly smooth. Like, Ryan doesn’t want to tighten his grip because the skin feels so, so soft.
Brendon makes a little noise through his nose and Ryan looks, because-right. Brendon. Not just the dick in his hand, there’s also a Brendon attached to it. Except that Brendon seems weirdly detached from the whole situation. He’s all the way up at the head of the bed and Ryan’s down here with the dick. It’s strange to think that Ryan’s had a million other interactions with Brendon and none of them have involved Brendon’s dick-as much as Brendon sometimes talked about it-but now Ryan’s got a dick in his hand and it’s all he can think about. This living thing that’s leaking at the tip and twitching up when Ryan circles his thumb a certain way.
Ryan’s not giving a very good handjob. As he thinks about it, he’s surprised that Brendon’s just waiting through it. The loose grip of Ryan’s hand, the uneven rhythm. If it were Ryan, he’d probably be reaching his own hand down to help things along. But Brendon’s just waiting, holding still and quiet.
Ryan’s not trying to be a jerk, so he lifts up his hand and spits into his palm before grabbing Brendon’s dick again. He gets in a couple of nice, long strokes, squeezing tightly as he pulls up, the thumb of his other hand pressed to the base of Brendon’s dick, and then Brendon’s making a sharp, high noise. Ryan looks up and sees Brendon’s face all screwed up, and then when he looks down again, there’s come on the back of his hand. He tightens his fingers, and Brendon’s dick gives another weak spurt.
So. That’s that.
Ryan wipes his hands off on Brendon’s sweatpants, tangled at the foot of the bed, and crawls back up, lying down beside Brendon. He looks up at the ceiling, considering. It seems like maybe he should be freaking out right now, but he’s just calm and maybe a little self-satisfied.
“Have you ever done that before?” Brendon asks. His voice is thick in this way that reminds Ryan that his dick is still hard.
“No.” Ryan glances sideways. Brendon’s nipples are still really hard. “Have you?”
“No.” Brendon lifts a hand and touches the base of his throat before curling his fingers around the side of his neck.
--
Ryan doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, because he wakes, disoriented, and squints at the little alarm clock resting on the floor beside Brendon’s bed until he can make out the numbers: 4:16.
Ryan’s still wearing all of his clothes, and Brendon’s lying next to him, naked except for the sheet twisted around one ankle. He mumbles something to himself and then rolls onto his back, wrinkling up his face.
“Whatsit,” he says, pressing his palm to his eyes. They left on all the lights. Ryan’s surprised they managed to sleep for as long as they did.
“It’s like four,” Ryan says. “Someone needs to go turn off the lights.” Possibly that someone should be him, since he’s still got his clothes on, but it’s Brendon’s place and Ryan doesn’t feel like moving.
Brendon looks over at Ryan, his face screwed up against the light. His forehead’s furled and his skin looks pale except for the dark sleep flush across his cheeks. Ryan’s never seen him look so disoriented, and maybe Ryan’s still disoriented, too, because he lifts his arm and lets Brendon tuck himself against Ryan’s side.
Brendon’s warm, even though he’s been sleeping naked and without blankets. Warm, smooth skin beneath Ryan’s hand. Ryan feels this low swelling of protectiveness, and he tilts his head to make the angle right when Brendon pushes up for a kiss. Like this is something they do now: find each other in the night and trade long, wet kisses until Ryan’s lips feel raw from the press of Brendon’s stubble.
--
part two