Coin Operated Boy.
Panic! at the Disco
Brendon/Ryan
nc17
It's more fic than not fic, so I suppose...
So Ryan was a bit of a slut in high school. He wasn't very popular but he slept around a bit, with whoever he could, actually - girls, guys, the oh-so-straight captain of the soccer team, even making an attempt on his English teacher, straight-out-of-college Mr. “Call me Gerard” Way. (That last one didn't really work - Mr. Way made a little speech about how it's great that Ryan is figuring out who he is, and that he's proud and such, and then whipped out a “but” in the form of a photo of his fiance, who is small and hot and covered in tattoos.)
Ryan thought he was going to be a rock star, and in between sleeping with everyone he could, he wrote lyrics and composed songs and played in a band with his BFFL Spencer. Then, of course, everything went to shit and the band sort of fell apart, because things like that always happen if you let yourself get carried away with your dreams. Brent moved half way across the country with his parents, and Ryan and Spencer never got around to finding anyone else.
Ryan went to college, studying creative writing. He thought: if I can't be a rock star, I can be the next best thing. The next best thing, to Ryan, was a novelist. He wrote all these mildly screwed up short stories which he would send to magazines, getting around a couple of hundred dollars for each one that was published. Things were going pretty good, actually.
He met a guy, Jon Walker, when he was at college - Jon studied photography and film-making, and when he wasn't studying he worked at Starbucks. Ryan kind of started hanging out at Starbucks more and more, trying to convince himself that he was NOT stalking anyone, until one day Jon asked him out and Ryan was all “YES. YES PLEASE.” only not, at the same time, because he was busy being a Tortured Artist.
Ryan does this stupid thing where he puts his heart and soul into loving someone, and doesn't think about anything else. One day he gets back to his dorm and Spencer is sitting outside his door with his duffel bag. Ryan says, “oh shit.”
“Yeah,” Spencer says, “I missed you too.”
Ryan has a bit of a panic over that, because he can't remember Spencer ever saying that he was coming to visit. He's in the middle of mentally reprimanding himself for being a terrible friend when Spencer says, “It's not your fault, I should've told you.” Apparently Spencer thought it'd be cool if he hopped on a bus and came to visit Ryan without any warning, not thinking that maybe Ryan would have plans or whatever.
But it's all good because Ryan doesn't actually have any plans aside from Jon, so he and Spencer rent a bunch of movies and blob on the couch watching shitty 80's teen films that Bill Beckett recommended to Jon who recommended to Ryan.
They're halfway through Say Anything when Spencer turns to Ryan and says, seemingly out of the blue, “have you been eating?”
“What?” Ryan stops with a hand full of popcorn halfway to his mouth. “Yeah, of course I've been eating. I'm not stupid.”
“It's just,” says Spencer, who actually looks quite worried, “you left, right, and you were skinny, but now you're kind of. Nothing.”
Ryan tries to laugh it off without taking offense, but he's Ryan, so it's kind of hard. He goes all quiet for the rest of the night, and whenever Spencer offers him anything to eat, he says “fine,” all stiffly.
When Spencer leaves a couple of days later, Ryan goes to Jon and says, “am I too skinny?”
Jon looks at him up and down and says, “yeah, nah. Well. Maybe a little?”
Ryan gets upset and storms off in a huff, and doesn't talk to Jon for two weeks. Jon texts him and asks him if he's okay, and then tells him that he's being silly, and then that he's worried about him, and then that he should just tell him if he wants to stop going out.
Ryan picks up his phone and calls Jon to say goodbye, and that's the end of that.
Ryan graduates and starts working for an indie music magazine in Chicago, renting an apartment with Spencer once he graduates from business school. Spencer gets a deskjob at a marketing company, nine to five.
Five years ago, Ryan still thought that, maybe, he could fall in love, save lives, change the world. Now he's just another generic music elitist with a notebook under one arm and a reason to go to bed before eleven.
This is our Sad Picture of Boy Getting Bitter.
Spencer's the one who finds the order form, thick-cream coloured paper with Coin-Operated Boy printed along the top and folded three times along its width, because Spencer's the only one who checks their PO Box. (Spencer's also the only one who remembers to buy groceries, pay their bills, and call in to work if he's sick.) He folds it into a little square and leaves it on Ryan's pillow, like that's going to stop Ryan bitching him out.
“What the fuck,” Ryan says, waving the form in Spencer's face.
“I just thought you'd like some company,” Spencer says, calmly and completely rationally, like he hasn't just left an order form for a fucking sex toy for Ryan to find.
When Ryan calms down enough, Spencer explains to him that it's not a sex toy, it's a robot, with enough artificial intelligence to actually seem human (most of the time). Ryan says, it's a hooker, then, and Spencer says, no, it's not. They developed them for people with Autism, to help them with their social skills. Ryan gets mad and locks himself in his room, because he does not have Autism, and his social skills are fine, thank you very much.
Half an hour later he emerges to snatch the order form from where Spencer left it on the kitchen table.
Ryan answers questions. Aside from the name, address, phone number bullshit, the order form is all questions. Talents? it asks, and Personality Traits? Likes? Dislikes?
Under Talents?, Ryan writes MUSICAL in bold letters. He says that his Boy should be cheerful, always smiling, likes to joke, eager to please. There's a small space down the bottom for appearances. Ryan isn't going to put anything there. He likes to think of himself as being deeper than all that. Then, right before he re-folds the form to send it away, he writes glasses in the space.
There's no amount of money specified on the sheet, so he sends it without a cheque. He doesn't tell Spencer about it, and, after a week or so, he forgets about it.
Two months later, Ryan returns home to find a large rectangular box waiting for him. Spencer's sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for him with a smirk on his face.
“It came,” says Spencer, dryly.
“Oh shut up,” says Ryan, staring at the box. He's not sure how he's supposed to open it. Spencer offers up a knife out of a drawer in the kitchen, and Ryan gets to work at cutting away the duct tape.
The Boy inside the box is shorter than Ryan, with short dark hair and bright red glasses. He is wearing black jeans and a pink (pink?) hoodie. A label with the name Brendon on it is tied around his neck.
The name Coin-Operated Boy is kind of misleading - there's no coin slot anywhere Ryan can see. In fact, he doesn't know how to turn the Boy, Brendon, on at all.
Spencer reaches out to stroke Brendon's face. “It's so,” he begins, and then Brendon's eyes snap open and he smiles.
“Hi,” he says, “Ryan?”
Ryan blinks, and waves a little. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “That would be me.”
Brendon doesn't stop talking. He babbles about music, mostly, everything from the Beatles to Marilyn Manson to Disney songs. Sometimes he talks about kid's cartoons or crappy sitcoms, or cracks terrible jokes that nobody laughs at, and sometimes he'll come out with something so deep and profound Ryan is left slackjawed.
Spencer makes Ryan take Brendon out to the movies, and to the mall, and out to dinner. Ryan protests, because, hello, Brendon is a robot, what is even the point? but does it anyway. Brendon chatters through the movie, and talks to old people in the mall, and when they go out to dinner he sits and stares at the table until Ryan asks him what's wrong.
Brendon says, “Nothing's wrong.”
Ryan says, “You haven't eaten anything.”
Brendon says, “Dude, I don't eat.”
(There are times when Ryan's shocked to remember that Brendon's not actually human, that he has silicon skin and glass and cameras for eyes. His throat goes tight when he remembers that Brendon's glasses are only there for show.)
After each date they get back to the apartment and Brendon sits in an armchair with his head tilted and his eyes empty, and Spencer takes Ryan aside and gives him the “I'm so proud of you” speech. Ryan rolls his eyes all the way through it. Spencer shrugs and says, “well, at least you made him happy.”
“Yeah,” says Ryan, glancing at Brendon. Brendon sits in his chair with a blank face. His chest is perfectly still.
One time, Brendon and Ryan are at the library, researching for a piece Ryan's writing about pop-punk through the decades. Brendon holds Ryan's hand and hums along to his headphones, and Ryan pretends he doesn't care, even though tiny sparks of electricity are running up his arm and across his chest. (He tries to convince himself it's Brendon's electronics. It doesn't quite work.)
Anyway, they're at the library, and Ryan has a stack of books about 80's post-punk and 90's grunge under one arm, and Brendon is cradling a cup of coffee (Ryan's) in his free hand, quietly babbling away about how the Cure changed music's direction for better or for worse. Ryan turns to find the reading room and stumbles a little when his shoulder clips someone else's.
He mumbles, “sorry,” and Brendon grins brilliantly at the guy, but when Ryan looks up it's Jon, and he twitches a little and feels his stomach disappear.
Jon says, “hey,” and Ryan says, “hey,” and there's silence for a while, and then Brendon shoves the coffee into Ryan's hand and says, “hi, I'm Brendon,” smiling widely.
Jon runs his eyes over Brendon, from the mismatched slip-ons on his feet to his tousled dark hair. Then he looks at Ryan, whose sweater-vest rides up a little to reveal milky-smooth skin and tiny indentations of hipbones, the smallest hint of a stomach. He glances between them a few times, smiles, and says:
“I approve.”
Brendon frowns. “Approve of what?”
Ryan gets this overwhelming feeling of relief. Jon nods and strides towards the exit, and Ryan starts towards the reading room again, leaving Brendon standing in the stacks frowning and going, “approve of what?” over and over.
When Brendon doesn't follow him, Ryan takes him gently by the wrist, leads him out of the library and sits in the park opposite. He sits hunched over on a park bench with his head in his hands, crying noiselessly. Brendon stares straight ahead, that same confused expression on his face, and says, “approve of what?” in the same voice, the same accentuation, until Ryan's tears are dry and it's close to dark.
Ryan says, quietly, “Brendon? It's time to go home now.”
Brendon says, “approve of - oh.” He blinks staccato, and something whirs quietly underneath Chicago's steady hum of traffic. “Are we going home now?”
Ryan smiles, hoping it doesn't betray him. “Yeah, Bren.”
Brendon blinks again. The whirring stops.
Ryan lies in bed, and Brendon lies next to him, with his hands folded neatly on top of the covers, eyes shut. He lies perfectly still. He doesn't twitch or snore or toss in his sleep. Ryan tries to ignore the absence of breathing.
He turns onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, and whispers, “Brendon?”
Brendon's eyes blink open, slowly. He says, “oh, Ryan. Is it morning?”
Ryan shakes his head. He's not sure how he's going to put this.
“Oh,” says Brendon. Then, slowly, “what's up, then?”
Ryan shuffles closer. He says, “will you kiss me?”
Brendon raises his eyebrows and laughs suddenly. “Jesus, Ry, I thought you'd never ask.” He turns onto his side, too, and puts one hand on the side of Ryan's face. When he kisses him he tastes like licking a battery.
Ryan presses closer, and Brendon nips at his lips. His teeth feel like teeth, and his tongue feels like tongue. His skin is smooth under Ryan's fingers, strangely soft, with fine dark hairs dusting the back of his arms, his stomach. When Ryan licks into his mouth, Brendon makes a noise like an exhale.
Shadows move slowly across the walls of Ryan's bedroom, small slants of light from the cracks in the curtains where the moon gets in. Brendon's fingers curl around Ryan's biceps, and pull him closer; Ryan rolls until Brendon lies on top of him, strangely heavy compared to his size.
Ryan leans up and bites at Brendon's jaw, almost hard enough to break skin, and Brendon growls and presses down to kiss Ryan again. Ryan leans his head away, gasping, “wait, Bren, wait,” and Brendon shivers against Ryan, a ripple from his shoulders to his ankles. “Will you fuck me?” Ryan asks, and Brendon doesn't answer for a moment, just leans over Ryan with his forearms on either side of his head, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. Ryan thinks he's maybe finally broken him, properly. Are Coin-Operated Boys meant for this?
Finally, Brendon whispers, “yes,” and Ryan sighs with relief. He shuffles out of his boxers and helps Brendon out of his pajama pants. When he presses his hips against Brendon's, Brendon moans quietly. Ryan says, “quiet,” and Brendon nods.
Ryan reaches between them and strokes Brendon. Brendon tilts his head to the side and takes Ryan's wrist. “You don't have to do that.”
“I know,” says Ryan, “but I want to.”
This time, Brendon tips his head back and lets his mouth hang open, makes little breathy noises from his throat. Ryan breathes in sharply. He watches Brendon's throat, perfectly still under plastic skin.
Brendon mumbles, “Ryan,” warningly, and Ryan half-smiles against his neck, reaching for lotion with his other hand. “Don't lie,” Ryan huffs, and Brendon goes still above him.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” Ryan mutters, and turns his head to the side, spreading his legs for Brendon. “Come on.”
Ryan moans, one drawn-out breath of air, as Brendon sinks into him. Brendon's vibrating above him, seriously fucking vibrating, and Ryan grits out “fucking, Bren, come on,” because Brendon's being stupid and gentlemanly and moving really, really fucking slowly. Ryan swears and tilts his hips.
Brendon pulls out slowly but falls right into rhythm, a steady 4/4 beat like Ryan learned in middle school music class. It's almost too much. Ryan gasps, “faster, shit, jesus, Bren, faster,” and Brendon just keeps going that same pace until Ryan wraps a leg around his waist and tilts them so he's on top and works his hips until he's groaning with every movement.
Brendon says, “Ryan?” and Ryan makes these tiny “ah, ah,” sounds, so Brendon says it again, and Ryan comes all over his stomach.
His eyelashes flutter as Ryan lifts himself off Brendon and collapses beside him. Brendon whispers, “Ryan?” again, and Ryan mumbles, “yeah?” and Brendon says, “nothing,” like it doesn't matter, and Ryan nods into the pillow and falls asleep.
Brendon tilts his head to one side and his eyes go blank.
Ryan gets an invitation to a music awards party. It's not a very big one, mostly indie-rock from around Chicago, but there are a few big names - Patrick Stumph is going to be there, for one, and Brendon gets all excited about being Ryan's plus-one. Ryan tries to let him down softly.
“Bren,” he says, “I like you, but Spencer's my best friend, and -”
Brendon nods, smile still pasted on his face. “Oh, yeah, that's cool. I don't mind at all.”
Ryan smiles, and Spencer squeezes Brendon's shoulder. “Good man,” he says.
Brendon comes with him to rent a tuxedo, and stands with him in front of the mirror trying to tame his hair. He hands Ryan his razor and his eyeliner, waits patiently while Ryan and Spencer rush around trying to get ready. Spencer loses his keys. Brendon finds them in the fruit-bowl, where they always are.
Ryan kisses Brendon chastely as he's hurrying out the door.
When they get back, Brendon's sitting in his armchair, head tilted, eyes empty, with what looks like two tiny trails of rust running from his eyes to the corners of his mouth.
Ryan finds out that Brendon can play the piano when he goes to a music store to pick up his new Les Paul.
Ryan dumps Brendon in front of a baby grand and tells him to stay, and follows the assistant into the back room to go through the new shipment of guitars. For the next ten minutes there's a couple of g-notes here and there, one or two sudden chords, and then, suddenly, someone starts playing one of Patrick Stumph's compositions out in the main store.
Ryan's heart goes to his throat. It's perfect.
The assistant stares open-mouthed at Brendon, who's singing something along with it - Ryan can't make out words, but god, that voice - and turns to Ryan, slowly. He says, “Christ. Only person plays it better than that is Stumph himself.”
Ryan smiles suddenly. “Yeah. That's my Brendon.”
Brendon shifts from that into something softer. Ryan's heard this one, too, he reviewed the band's record for his magazine. Delilah, he thinks suddenly. That's the name of the song. Delilah, and the name means sadness.
When they get back, Ryan says, “Brendon, can you play like that on everything?”
Brendon says, “I don't know, I've never tried.” He plays Ryan's guitar like he's been playing it for years, and sits at Spencer's drum kit and pounds out something in perfect timing. When he sings he sounds like melted butter.
When he's finished, Ryan says, “jesus, Brendon. That was amazing.”
Brendon smiles. He means to say “thank you”, but “I love you” comes out instead chunky through synthetic vocal chords. He's not quite sure how it happens. He's not programmed for this.
Ryan's breath catches. “I thought I told you not to lie,” he spits.
Ryan gets back from work the next night and Brendon's not in his armchair. He goes through the house, looks in the kitchen, the bathroom, both of the bedrooms. He looks through the halls in the apartment block and knocks on all the doors on his floor. He goes to the tiny lawn out the back where young mothers sit with their babies, but Brendon's not there, either. He swallows tears. He can't get hurt, he reminds himself, he's a goddamn robot. It doesn't make it any better.
He drives through the city going everywhere he's been with Brendon - the music store, three cinemas, an ice-cream parlour, the mall - until he finds him.
Brendon's in the park by the library, sitting motionless with his back against a tree. A bluebird sits on his wrist. It flies away as Ryan approaches. “Brendon,” he calls, half-angry and half-relieved. Brendon doesn't move.
Ryan crouches opposite Brendon. The corners of his eyes are caked with rust, tiny stalactites formed along his cheekbones. His head is tilted. His eyes are empty.
Ryan whispers, “Brendon.” He touches his cheek.
Brendon is still.
Brendon/Ryan
nc17
It's more fic than not fic, so I suppose...
So Ryan was a bit of a slut in high school. He wasn't very popular but he slept around a bit, with whoever he could, actually - girls, guys, the oh-so-straight captain of the soccer team, even making an attempt on his English teacher, straight-out-of-college Mr. “Call me Gerard” Way. (That last one didn't really work - Mr. Way made a little speech about how it's great that Ryan is figuring out who he is, and that he's proud and such, and then whipped out a “but” in the form of a photo of his fiance, who is small and hot and covered in tattoos.)
Ryan thought he was going to be a rock star, and in between sleeping with everyone he could, he wrote lyrics and composed songs and played in a band with his BFFL Spencer. Then, of course, everything went to shit and the band sort of fell apart, because things like that always happen if you let yourself get carried away with your dreams. Brent moved half way across the country with his parents, and Ryan and Spencer never got around to finding anyone else.
Ryan went to college, studying creative writing. He thought: if I can't be a rock star, I can be the next best thing. The next best thing, to Ryan, was a novelist. He wrote all these mildly screwed up short stories which he would send to magazines, getting around a couple of hundred dollars for each one that was published. Things were going pretty good, actually.
He met a guy, Jon Walker, when he was at college - Jon studied photography and film-making, and when he wasn't studying he worked at Starbucks. Ryan kind of started hanging out at Starbucks more and more, trying to convince himself that he was NOT stalking anyone, until one day Jon asked him out and Ryan was all “YES. YES PLEASE.” only not, at the same time, because he was busy being a Tortured Artist.
Ryan does this stupid thing where he puts his heart and soul into loving someone, and doesn't think about anything else. One day he gets back to his dorm and Spencer is sitting outside his door with his duffel bag. Ryan says, “oh shit.”
“Yeah,” Spencer says, “I missed you too.”
Ryan has a bit of a panic over that, because he can't remember Spencer ever saying that he was coming to visit. He's in the middle of mentally reprimanding himself for being a terrible friend when Spencer says, “It's not your fault, I should've told you.” Apparently Spencer thought it'd be cool if he hopped on a bus and came to visit Ryan without any warning, not thinking that maybe Ryan would have plans or whatever.
But it's all good because Ryan doesn't actually have any plans aside from Jon, so he and Spencer rent a bunch of movies and blob on the couch watching shitty 80's teen films that Bill Beckett recommended to Jon who recommended to Ryan.
They're halfway through Say Anything when Spencer turns to Ryan and says, seemingly out of the blue, “have you been eating?”
“What?” Ryan stops with a hand full of popcorn halfway to his mouth. “Yeah, of course I've been eating. I'm not stupid.”
“It's just,” says Spencer, who actually looks quite worried, “you left, right, and you were skinny, but now you're kind of. Nothing.”
Ryan tries to laugh it off without taking offense, but he's Ryan, so it's kind of hard. He goes all quiet for the rest of the night, and whenever Spencer offers him anything to eat, he says “fine,” all stiffly.
When Spencer leaves a couple of days later, Ryan goes to Jon and says, “am I too skinny?”
Jon looks at him up and down and says, “yeah, nah. Well. Maybe a little?”
Ryan gets upset and storms off in a huff, and doesn't talk to Jon for two weeks. Jon texts him and asks him if he's okay, and then tells him that he's being silly, and then that he's worried about him, and then that he should just tell him if he wants to stop going out.
Ryan picks up his phone and calls Jon to say goodbye, and that's the end of that.
Ryan graduates and starts working for an indie music magazine in Chicago, renting an apartment with Spencer once he graduates from business school. Spencer gets a deskjob at a marketing company, nine to five.
Five years ago, Ryan still thought that, maybe, he could fall in love, save lives, change the world. Now he's just another generic music elitist with a notebook under one arm and a reason to go to bed before eleven.
This is our Sad Picture of Boy Getting Bitter.
Spencer's the one who finds the order form, thick-cream coloured paper with Coin-Operated Boy printed along the top and folded three times along its width, because Spencer's the only one who checks their PO Box. (Spencer's also the only one who remembers to buy groceries, pay their bills, and call in to work if he's sick.) He folds it into a little square and leaves it on Ryan's pillow, like that's going to stop Ryan bitching him out.
“What the fuck,” Ryan says, waving the form in Spencer's face.
“I just thought you'd like some company,” Spencer says, calmly and completely rationally, like he hasn't just left an order form for a fucking sex toy for Ryan to find.
When Ryan calms down enough, Spencer explains to him that it's not a sex toy, it's a robot, with enough artificial intelligence to actually seem human (most of the time). Ryan says, it's a hooker, then, and Spencer says, no, it's not. They developed them for people with Autism, to help them with their social skills. Ryan gets mad and locks himself in his room, because he does not have Autism, and his social skills are fine, thank you very much.
Half an hour later he emerges to snatch the order form from where Spencer left it on the kitchen table.
Ryan answers questions. Aside from the name, address, phone number bullshit, the order form is all questions. Talents? it asks, and Personality Traits? Likes? Dislikes?
Under Talents?, Ryan writes MUSICAL in bold letters. He says that his Boy should be cheerful, always smiling, likes to joke, eager to please. There's a small space down the bottom for appearances. Ryan isn't going to put anything there. He likes to think of himself as being deeper than all that. Then, right before he re-folds the form to send it away, he writes glasses in the space.
There's no amount of money specified on the sheet, so he sends it without a cheque. He doesn't tell Spencer about it, and, after a week or so, he forgets about it.
Two months later, Ryan returns home to find a large rectangular box waiting for him. Spencer's sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for him with a smirk on his face.
“It came,” says Spencer, dryly.
“Oh shut up,” says Ryan, staring at the box. He's not sure how he's supposed to open it. Spencer offers up a knife out of a drawer in the kitchen, and Ryan gets to work at cutting away the duct tape.
The Boy inside the box is shorter than Ryan, with short dark hair and bright red glasses. He is wearing black jeans and a pink (pink?) hoodie. A label with the name Brendon on it is tied around his neck.
The name Coin-Operated Boy is kind of misleading - there's no coin slot anywhere Ryan can see. In fact, he doesn't know how to turn the Boy, Brendon, on at all.
Spencer reaches out to stroke Brendon's face. “It's so,” he begins, and then Brendon's eyes snap open and he smiles.
“Hi,” he says, “Ryan?”
Ryan blinks, and waves a little. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “That would be me.”
Brendon doesn't stop talking. He babbles about music, mostly, everything from the Beatles to Marilyn Manson to Disney songs. Sometimes he talks about kid's cartoons or crappy sitcoms, or cracks terrible jokes that nobody laughs at, and sometimes he'll come out with something so deep and profound Ryan is left slackjawed.
Spencer makes Ryan take Brendon out to the movies, and to the mall, and out to dinner. Ryan protests, because, hello, Brendon is a robot, what is even the point? but does it anyway. Brendon chatters through the movie, and talks to old people in the mall, and when they go out to dinner he sits and stares at the table until Ryan asks him what's wrong.
Brendon says, “Nothing's wrong.”
Ryan says, “You haven't eaten anything.”
Brendon says, “Dude, I don't eat.”
(There are times when Ryan's shocked to remember that Brendon's not actually human, that he has silicon skin and glass and cameras for eyes. His throat goes tight when he remembers that Brendon's glasses are only there for show.)
After each date they get back to the apartment and Brendon sits in an armchair with his head tilted and his eyes empty, and Spencer takes Ryan aside and gives him the “I'm so proud of you” speech. Ryan rolls his eyes all the way through it. Spencer shrugs and says, “well, at least you made him happy.”
“Yeah,” says Ryan, glancing at Brendon. Brendon sits in his chair with a blank face. His chest is perfectly still.
One time, Brendon and Ryan are at the library, researching for a piece Ryan's writing about pop-punk through the decades. Brendon holds Ryan's hand and hums along to his headphones, and Ryan pretends he doesn't care, even though tiny sparks of electricity are running up his arm and across his chest. (He tries to convince himself it's Brendon's electronics. It doesn't quite work.)
Anyway, they're at the library, and Ryan has a stack of books about 80's post-punk and 90's grunge under one arm, and Brendon is cradling a cup of coffee (Ryan's) in his free hand, quietly babbling away about how the Cure changed music's direction for better or for worse. Ryan turns to find the reading room and stumbles a little when his shoulder clips someone else's.
He mumbles, “sorry,” and Brendon grins brilliantly at the guy, but when Ryan looks up it's Jon, and he twitches a little and feels his stomach disappear.
Jon says, “hey,” and Ryan says, “hey,” and there's silence for a while, and then Brendon shoves the coffee into Ryan's hand and says, “hi, I'm Brendon,” smiling widely.
Jon runs his eyes over Brendon, from the mismatched slip-ons on his feet to his tousled dark hair. Then he looks at Ryan, whose sweater-vest rides up a little to reveal milky-smooth skin and tiny indentations of hipbones, the smallest hint of a stomach. He glances between them a few times, smiles, and says:
“I approve.”
Brendon frowns. “Approve of what?”
Ryan gets this overwhelming feeling of relief. Jon nods and strides towards the exit, and Ryan starts towards the reading room again, leaving Brendon standing in the stacks frowning and going, “approve of what?” over and over.
When Brendon doesn't follow him, Ryan takes him gently by the wrist, leads him out of the library and sits in the park opposite. He sits hunched over on a park bench with his head in his hands, crying noiselessly. Brendon stares straight ahead, that same confused expression on his face, and says, “approve of what?” in the same voice, the same accentuation, until Ryan's tears are dry and it's close to dark.
Ryan says, quietly, “Brendon? It's time to go home now.”
Brendon says, “approve of - oh.” He blinks staccato, and something whirs quietly underneath Chicago's steady hum of traffic. “Are we going home now?”
Ryan smiles, hoping it doesn't betray him. “Yeah, Bren.”
Brendon blinks again. The whirring stops.
Ryan lies in bed, and Brendon lies next to him, with his hands folded neatly on top of the covers, eyes shut. He lies perfectly still. He doesn't twitch or snore or toss in his sleep. Ryan tries to ignore the absence of breathing.
He turns onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, and whispers, “Brendon?”
Brendon's eyes blink open, slowly. He says, “oh, Ryan. Is it morning?”
Ryan shakes his head. He's not sure how he's going to put this.
“Oh,” says Brendon. Then, slowly, “what's up, then?”
Ryan shuffles closer. He says, “will you kiss me?”
Brendon raises his eyebrows and laughs suddenly. “Jesus, Ry, I thought you'd never ask.” He turns onto his side, too, and puts one hand on the side of Ryan's face. When he kisses him he tastes like licking a battery.
Ryan presses closer, and Brendon nips at his lips. His teeth feel like teeth, and his tongue feels like tongue. His skin is smooth under Ryan's fingers, strangely soft, with fine dark hairs dusting the back of his arms, his stomach. When Ryan licks into his mouth, Brendon makes a noise like an exhale.
Shadows move slowly across the walls of Ryan's bedroom, small slants of light from the cracks in the curtains where the moon gets in. Brendon's fingers curl around Ryan's biceps, and pull him closer; Ryan rolls until Brendon lies on top of him, strangely heavy compared to his size.
Ryan leans up and bites at Brendon's jaw, almost hard enough to break skin, and Brendon growls and presses down to kiss Ryan again. Ryan leans his head away, gasping, “wait, Bren, wait,” and Brendon shivers against Ryan, a ripple from his shoulders to his ankles. “Will you fuck me?” Ryan asks, and Brendon doesn't answer for a moment, just leans over Ryan with his forearms on either side of his head, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. Ryan thinks he's maybe finally broken him, properly. Are Coin-Operated Boys meant for this?
Finally, Brendon whispers, “yes,” and Ryan sighs with relief. He shuffles out of his boxers and helps Brendon out of his pajama pants. When he presses his hips against Brendon's, Brendon moans quietly. Ryan says, “quiet,” and Brendon nods.
Ryan reaches between them and strokes Brendon. Brendon tilts his head to the side and takes Ryan's wrist. “You don't have to do that.”
“I know,” says Ryan, “but I want to.”
This time, Brendon tips his head back and lets his mouth hang open, makes little breathy noises from his throat. Ryan breathes in sharply. He watches Brendon's throat, perfectly still under plastic skin.
Brendon mumbles, “Ryan,” warningly, and Ryan half-smiles against his neck, reaching for lotion with his other hand. “Don't lie,” Ryan huffs, and Brendon goes still above him.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” Ryan mutters, and turns his head to the side, spreading his legs for Brendon. “Come on.”
Ryan moans, one drawn-out breath of air, as Brendon sinks into him. Brendon's vibrating above him, seriously fucking vibrating, and Ryan grits out “fucking, Bren, come on,” because Brendon's being stupid and gentlemanly and moving really, really fucking slowly. Ryan swears and tilts his hips.
Brendon pulls out slowly but falls right into rhythm, a steady 4/4 beat like Ryan learned in middle school music class. It's almost too much. Ryan gasps, “faster, shit, jesus, Bren, faster,” and Brendon just keeps going that same pace until Ryan wraps a leg around his waist and tilts them so he's on top and works his hips until he's groaning with every movement.
Brendon says, “Ryan?” and Ryan makes these tiny “ah, ah,” sounds, so Brendon says it again, and Ryan comes all over his stomach.
His eyelashes flutter as Ryan lifts himself off Brendon and collapses beside him. Brendon whispers, “Ryan?” again, and Ryan mumbles, “yeah?” and Brendon says, “nothing,” like it doesn't matter, and Ryan nods into the pillow and falls asleep.
Brendon tilts his head to one side and his eyes go blank.
Ryan gets an invitation to a music awards party. It's not a very big one, mostly indie-rock from around Chicago, but there are a few big names - Patrick Stumph is going to be there, for one, and Brendon gets all excited about being Ryan's plus-one. Ryan tries to let him down softly.
“Bren,” he says, “I like you, but Spencer's my best friend, and -”
Brendon nods, smile still pasted on his face. “Oh, yeah, that's cool. I don't mind at all.”
Ryan smiles, and Spencer squeezes Brendon's shoulder. “Good man,” he says.
Brendon comes with him to rent a tuxedo, and stands with him in front of the mirror trying to tame his hair. He hands Ryan his razor and his eyeliner, waits patiently while Ryan and Spencer rush around trying to get ready. Spencer loses his keys. Brendon finds them in the fruit-bowl, where they always are.
Ryan kisses Brendon chastely as he's hurrying out the door.
When they get back, Brendon's sitting in his armchair, head tilted, eyes empty, with what looks like two tiny trails of rust running from his eyes to the corners of his mouth.
Ryan finds out that Brendon can play the piano when he goes to a music store to pick up his new Les Paul.
Ryan dumps Brendon in front of a baby grand and tells him to stay, and follows the assistant into the back room to go through the new shipment of guitars. For the next ten minutes there's a couple of g-notes here and there, one or two sudden chords, and then, suddenly, someone starts playing one of Patrick Stumph's compositions out in the main store.
Ryan's heart goes to his throat. It's perfect.
The assistant stares open-mouthed at Brendon, who's singing something along with it - Ryan can't make out words, but god, that voice - and turns to Ryan, slowly. He says, “Christ. Only person plays it better than that is Stumph himself.”
Ryan smiles suddenly. “Yeah. That's my Brendon.”
Brendon shifts from that into something softer. Ryan's heard this one, too, he reviewed the band's record for his magazine. Delilah, he thinks suddenly. That's the name of the song. Delilah, and the name means sadness.
When they get back, Ryan says, “Brendon, can you play like that on everything?”
Brendon says, “I don't know, I've never tried.” He plays Ryan's guitar like he's been playing it for years, and sits at Spencer's drum kit and pounds out something in perfect timing. When he sings he sounds like melted butter.
When he's finished, Ryan says, “jesus, Brendon. That was amazing.”
Brendon smiles. He means to say “thank you”, but “I love you” comes out instead chunky through synthetic vocal chords. He's not quite sure how it happens. He's not programmed for this.
Ryan's breath catches. “I thought I told you not to lie,” he spits.
Ryan gets back from work the next night and Brendon's not in his armchair. He goes through the house, looks in the kitchen, the bathroom, both of the bedrooms. He looks through the halls in the apartment block and knocks on all the doors on his floor. He goes to the tiny lawn out the back where young mothers sit with their babies, but Brendon's not there, either. He swallows tears. He can't get hurt, he reminds himself, he's a goddamn robot. It doesn't make it any better.
He drives through the city going everywhere he's been with Brendon - the music store, three cinemas, an ice-cream parlour, the mall - until he finds him.
Brendon's in the park by the library, sitting motionless with his back against a tree. A bluebird sits on his wrist. It flies away as Ryan approaches. “Brendon,” he calls, half-angry and half-relieved. Brendon doesn't move.
Ryan crouches opposite Brendon. The corners of his eyes are caked with rust, tiny stalactites formed along his cheekbones. His head is tilted. His eyes are empty.
Ryan whispers, “Brendon.” He touches his cheek.
Brendon is still.