happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to yoooou, gigantic!
Today marks the birth anniversary of one of my very favorite people on the planet. Since there's really no way to adequately describe how awesome she is and I fail at coherent flowery speech anyway, I wrote this. I hope you like it, Ceej! I adore your face.
|we're making up our history|AU.
Shia LaBeouf/Brendon Urie, Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie. 8000 words. Rated R for drug use, sexual situations and language.
Wherein Shia works in the mail room of a law firm and Brendon is a temp.
Download the corresponding mix here!
This! Could not have been finished or even started without theaerosolkid, it wouldn't look nearly as good as it does now without the help of gobsmackit, adellyna and wordsalone, who all did fantastic beta work. Any and all mistakes left are my own.
Those words wouldn't have even come to life, though, without the expertise of xthebackseatx, who tirelessly----and I do mean tirelessly held my hand, read it over 75 times and told me it wasn't/wouldn't be crap from the word go. Thanks also to ineffort for the cheerleading routine and sinuous_curve for her insight. Mostly, though, all the thanks in the world goes out to gigantic. Thanks for being born, lady. The world is a million times better with your presence in it.
Shia interviews for the job at the law firm because he's broke and there's seriously only so much mooching he can stomach.
"It's fine," Lorenzo says, rolling his eyes. They're standing in the middle of the cereal aisle in Ralph's because they have the bread he likes and Lorenzo's on his lunch break besides. He squints as he looks over at Shia, holding up two boxes like he's inspecting them. It'd be funny, fuck, it is funny; Lorenzo's a huge dude, and he's got boxes of Raisin Bran and Honey Bunches of Oats in his hands. "Right, okay," he says, like they're actually having a conversation. "I'm glad you're moving out too, bro. You sure you should be moving out in this economy, though? It could be risky."
Shia rolls his eyes, sighing as he stuffs his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, stretching it out in front of him. He's in flip-flops because he forgot where he put his shoes and his shit is scattered everywhere in Lorenzo's place anyway.
"Like you know shit about the economy," he says, and then, "It'll probably be another month." He clears his throat and keeps his eyes trained down. When he was a kid, they always bought supermarket brand cereals, bigger bags with more quantity and less of a label. He remembers fucking loving ChocoPops. He scratches his neck where he's got razor burn and tries not to sound too desperate. "I mean. I just went to the interview yesterday, so."
Lorenzo hums under his breath, and Shia doesn't know what he's waiting for, blinking, surprised when Lorenzo says, "You think I should just buy the fucking baking sheets so she won't complain anymore? She keeps saying the bottom of pans isn't proper and shit, but come on. That's the way the best pastries are made." It doesn't take him long to realize Lorenzo hasn't been listening, and he can't tamp down the laugh that bursts out from his throat, surprised, but ultimately pleased; if there's anybody that can make sure his head doesn't get lodged too far up his ass, it's Lorenzo.
"Just buy 'em," he says after a while, huffing the words out on a chuckle, then adding, "Small price to pay for getting your dick sucked, right?" Lorenzo snorts, and Shia takes a few steps ahead, looking down at the rest of the baking needs section in search of cookie sheets.
"Hey," Lorenzo adds after a minute. "That's no way to talk about my mama!" It takes a second for Shia to register the words, but when he does, he laughs so hard he starts to choke. Lorenzo actually takes a few steps forward, pounding on his back probably harder than is strictly necessary. There's only one other person in Baking Needs with them, an older woman who stares in silence for a full minute before muttering something under her breath in a language Shia can't understand and pushing her cart down the aisle. Shia's pretty sure she picks up her pace some, but he can't be positive.
"Think we scarred her for life?" he asks, and Lorenzo laughs some too, shrugging his shoulders. He grabs a ten-pack of baking sheets, dropping them into their cart. They make a dull clanging noise that Shia's surprised he can hear.
"She probably didn't even understand, bro," Lorenzo says, and Shia nods, flexing his fingers in his hoodie pocket again.
"Hey," he says as they're following suit, heading out of the aisle. "Grab that bag of ChocoPops, yeah?"
&&
Ryan'll be the first one to tell you that he's a calm, rational guy. He's a calm and rational guy. He takes his time. He's methodical. He likes things in their place. He's tidy. It's not a crime.
"It's not a crime, man," Brendon says, propping himself up on his elbows and squinting, even though the sun isn't hitting his eyes directly. "I'm just worried about having to report you in a couple years for keeping body parts in your freezer."
This is standard practice for Brendon, making grand pronouncements, planning for the future in little gasps and instances. Brendon lives for the now, Brendon loves the now, but Brendon also wants a house with a painted-white fence and a dog. It's been better since he's been back, but it's gotten worse, in some ways, too.
The dog's the only part of that Ryan can even stomach anyway, and he breathes deep before he says, "There's a reason we broke up, Brendon." He's glad that he's facing forward, bent at the knees and looking for his shoes. He doesn't want to see Brendon's body stiffen. He's seen enough smiles dropping off Brendon's mouth to last a lifetime, thanks.
"Because you're an asshole?" The word has an upward lilt to it, like it's a question at all, but it's not. Brendon says it fondly, though, because unless they're fighting, Brendon says everything fondly.
"Because you're too much," Ryan says, because it's true, and he's always prided himself on being honest. He's an honest guy. Honest, calm and rational. There are worse things to be, he thinks.
Brendon sits up straighter on the bed, and Ryan's turned some, so he watches the motion as the sheet falls to pool around Brendon's waist. It's no surprise that he's naked, Brendon's always naked if he can help it. "Or it could be that you cheated." He doesn't sound mad anymore, but then, Ryan's not really surprised. Brendon never could hold a grudge for long.
"We weren't exclusive," is what he says, because it's what he's been saying the whole time. He and Brendon were never really together. Breakfasts, lunches and dinners don't constitute a relationship, they're just meals lumped together and interspersed with a fair amount of decent sex. Brendon's always been pretty good at that.
"I was living with you," Brendon says, and Ryan sighs, clearing his throat. They're not fighting, because their lines are already rehearsed, repeated, and memorized. Ryan thinks of this part as the hundredth run of the same play. The actors are bored despite their big smiles and vacant eyes, and he is too. They always do this and the three months apart haven't changed a thing.
"No one told you that you had to suck my dick, Brendon," he says, and he sees the flinch from the corner of his eye. Brendon tries to hide it, but he's not as good at that part. His emotions don't always show on his face, but the things that hurt, that cut, they always do.
"I didn't hear you complaining," Brendon responds after a minute. His voice is very tight and Ryan sighs again, wishing he were anywhere else. Something beeps, and then Brendon's up and off the bed like a shot, digging through his small mountain of clothes on the floor, searching for secrets.
Ryan takes a second to appraise him, and he'll be the first to admit that, yes, okay, objectively, Brendon's an attractive guy. Ryan doesn't want to own a house and a border collie with him, maybe, but he's not bad to look at. He's got a decent mouth, anyway.
Brendon locates the beeping and smiles down at his phone like he's excited. Ryan cranes his head in, even though he's too far away to make out who the caller is. "Hey," Brendon says as he answers, and then, "Yeah. Sure, I can come in." He pauses a minute, scratching at his neck, and then he adds, "You know I can always use the extra cash." Ryan tugs on his pants, finding his shirt on the floor next to them, surprised that there are a few buttons missing. He tugs it on anyway, only doing up the button in the middle. Maybe he'll start a trend. "Thanks, babe," Brendon says, standing in his new bedroom completely naked and unashamed. Ryan tries to do that sometimes too, but he doesn't look like Brendon when he does it. No one ever does.
"Babe?" Ryan asks, even though he doesn't care. Brendon's a creature of habit, even though the nickname thing got old a long time ago. Ryan cracks his knuckles and tries not to stare.
Brendon just shrugs though, ending his call and dropping his phone back down on the pile of clothes. "Yeah," he says, and then, "Unless you're planning on not 'not cheating' on me again, you should probably get out of here. I've got somewhere I have to be."
They've known each other since they were kids, stupid teenagers with acne and cracking voices, and Ryan sometimes doesn't think anything between then and now has changed at all. "You didn't have to go halfway across the world, Brendon. You could've stayed." He pauses, at a loss for words for once and the silence between them stretches. "We weren't together," is what he finally comes up with. It's what he's been saying all along. He doesn't watch Brendon's face as he leaves. He never quite manages to say the words Brendon wants to hear.
&&
Shia starts work on a Wednesday morning. He's got a watch on his wrist to cover his tattoo and a shirt that's buttoned all the way up. He's even wearing a tie, although he's pretty sure guys in the mail room don't really need those.
There's a line at the security desk, although to be honest, it isn't much of one. There's just one guy standing in front of Shia, skinny, but not as short as his weight would have you believe. He's wearing the tightest jeans Shia's ever seen and gesturing wildly at the security guard. Shia can't really hear what they're saying, and he doesn't particularly care, jacking up the volume on his iPod until he can't hear anything at all. Their conversation lasts through the entirety of three songs, and Shia watches the skinny guy leave before walking the few steps up and taking his place.
"Welcome to Allen & Ehrle," the security guard says, voice flat. Shia nods at him, canvassing the items on his desk and the nameplate that says, ZACK. "How may I help you?"
Shia shrugs, pasting on his best smile. He's pretty sure it falls flat, somewhere between perky and straight up I-don't-give-a-fuck-and-you-can-tell. "Hi," he says, tugging out his earbuds. "I'm Shia," he holds out his hand and Zack the security guard just stares for a second before ignoring Shia's hand and gesturing towards the NO SOLICITING sign behind his desk. Shia snorts some, dropping his hand before saying, "No, uh. I work." He stops, clearing his throat and trying again. "I'm supposed to be working in the mail room. I start today."
There's a moment where Zack just stares at him, and Shia doesn't even care. He stares right back. After a minute, Zack says, "License, please," and then, "Stand behind the white tape line to get your picture taken." Shia turns, saving the eyeroll for when he's facing away, because contrary to popular belief, he's not actually stupid. He pauses to dig his license out of his wallet and when he's slapped it on the desk, he walks toward the white line, smiling tightly as the camera flashes. "You want to see the picture before I get it cut?" Zack asks, and Shia just shrugs. He doesn't really care one way or another.
&&
The thing is----the truth of the matter----you see, it's not that Ryan does drugs. That's such a base descriptor anyway, such plain words to describe an action that could be one of a thousand things, one of a million. Ryan doesn't do drugs, he experiments with the world. He dabbles. He enjoys himself, and if Brendon can't understand that, well. Well. Brendon's not here anyway.
"You know," she says. "That's the third time you've said his name." Ryan rolls his eyes, wiping at his face. His mouth is dry and this room is too hot for him breathe in.
"I can count," Ryan says, because it's easier than saying, I know. He's not in love with Brendon. He never was.
She grins at him, arching her head up so that he can get a good look at her throat and the way her shirt looks displayed over her breasts. Her body is beautiful, he could write poems to it, odes about the way her hair curls over her cheek, but he can barely remember her name. "You fucked me once," she says, voice low, seductive. "If you do it again, that'll be two." She giggles a little, the sound throaty and low, resonating in her throat. "See?" she says. "I can count too." Ryan leans across the bed with every intention of leaving, of kissing her goodbye and forgetting the warmth of her curves before he's even out the door. "You want another bump for the road?" she asks as she chews at the corner of her lip and widens her eyes as she's waiting for him to answer.
Ryan considers his options. His limbs are already loose and her hair is soft where it tickles his nose. He has to go to work at some point today, but right now is not that point. "Not yet," he says, and when she grins over at him, he wishes he had a camera to snap her photo instead of just his hands. Hands are so expressionless, sometimes.
She grins, pressing her hand against the flat of his shoulder. Ryan topples back against the bed as she climbs over his lap, humming something under her breath, something beautiful. "One is the loneliest number," she sings, and her breath tickles his face as she grinds herself down.
Ryan thinks about adding onto the song as he settles his hands at her waist, not as slender as his own, but no less beautiful. She's a Botticelli Venus with green and blonde patterned hair and a bar through her lip. She's anyone and everyone.
She's about as far from Brendon as he can get.
&&
Shia wouldn't exactly call his work in the mail room interesting, but at least it's something. He's gotten the science down to a shuffle and a slide, dropping all the mail each department's level on the cart, and all in all, his job takes him about an hour, from start to finish. He stretches it out to four or five when he can, mostly smoking cigarettes in the doorway to the service exit, leaning against the wall between him and the outside world and letting the cool of the bricks seep into his work shirt.
There are a couple other guys who work down there, too. There's UPS Ted, who handles all the packages that come in, regardless of their place of origin, and Emergency Parcel Chuck, whose chipmunk cheeks and overall pinkish demeanor make him seem like an angry cupcake more often than not. Shia's said hello to them the few times he's seen them, but he mostly keeps to himself and sorts the mail for the firm, keeping an eye out for suspicious packages.
The look of the firm itself is pretty sleek, with chrome and glass plating everywhere. It's like some futuristic department store threw up and this is the end result. It's pretty ridiculous and the chairs look like they're hell on the back, but for the most part, Shia doesn't mind it. A lot of that probably has to do with the fact that he can go back downstairs and smoke when he's done, though. He's never had a simpler job, even though it looks sort of complicated on the outset.
On the fourth floor, he greets the secretaries that he recognizes, grinning at them with a lot more charm than he's used in a while. Shia hasn't really been around all that many people lately, apart from Lorenzo, and these women are kind enough to smile back. Shia always appreciates the gesture.
He's got his earbuds in, because he hasn't been told that it's against protocol yet, even though the words are stated clearly in his mission statement. His fingers are tingling for a cigarette, and as he shuffles and slides, dropping the parcels where they belong, he comes upon a name he doesn't recognize.
Shia rolls his eyes, inwardly sighing as he does a scan of the room, trying to find the new face that matches the new name. He doesn't see anyone he doesn't know, and he looks back down at where the letter is addressed, hoping that it's been sorted incorrectly and he doesn't actually have to break his routine.
"Flo," he says, heading toward the office of one of the partners. Shia hasn't met any of them yet, not that he really expects to. "Do you know who ..." he pauses, squinting down at the name on the envelope, "Brendon B. Urie is?" He's not sure of the pronunciation of the last name, but says it how he thinks anyway, testing it out. "I've never met him before, and he's got a letter."
Flo's the biggest busybody in the office, and Shia's half-expecting her to offer to give this Brendon the letter herself, but she just says, "Oh, Brendon? What a young man. He comes in and temps for us sometimes. He's covering for Shirl. She's on maternity now, didn't you hear? She's having the rugrat next week." Flo works with an unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth and bright red acrylic nails that match her lipstick.
"You wanna point me in his direction?" Shia asks, holding up the letter again, just in case she forgot. Flo rolls her eyes, narrowing them at him when she finishes. Shia ducks his head to hide his chuckle; Flo's been at the firm longer than everyone else combined.
"He's over there," she says vaguely, pointing towards the cluster of people over by the coffee maker in the kitchenette. Shia's getting bored of this turn of events already and he's starting to really want that cigarette.
"Hey," he says when he gets closer. "Any of you Brendon Urie?" When none of them respond, he rolls his eyes, adding, "No? Anybody?"
"I think he just stepped out," one of the junior associates says, one of the girls Shia hasn't met yet. Her smile is kind when Shia turns to face her, and she says, "I can leave it on his desk for you." It's way against protocol, probably, but Shia just smiles his thanks at her, handing the letter over. He actually has other work to do, for once.
&&
Ryan has a lot of theories about why Brendon went on his semester abroad instead of graduating with the rest of his class, but he doesn't share them, ever. No one's asked him for his opinion, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't have one. The way it had gone down was like this: the lease on Brendon's apartment was running out, and Ryan had the spare room. They'd been sort of seeing each other in that way where people who've known each other since they were kids sort of see each other, not in a particularly serious way, but in a way where Ryan didn't mind having Brendon around in the mornings, for the most part.
That's all it was, though. A place to live. A smart decision, for the most part, too, considering how much time Brendon spent hanging out at Ryan's apartment anyway. He wasn't under the impression that he'd asked Brendon to marry him or anything, and more than that, he was pretty sure Brendon knew that too. They had a nice thing going, a nice thing that Ryan appreciated for its simplicity, not that Brendon was ever particularly simple.
He doesn't remember the girl's name, precisely, and couldn't then, either, although he was pretty positive he'd bought weed from her older brother at some point in their past shared histories, had cornered him at the bar; in the din, amidst shitty beer and shitty lighting, she was beautiful. He doesn't remember what they said exactly, but he does remember taking her home with him, settling his mouth against the pulse point at her neck and fucking her deep, loving that he could feel the reverberations from her moans at that spot. It was the kind of coupling people write songs about, and in the morning, they'd done it again. It was epic, they could have been epic, if Brendon hadn't chosen that moment to come home, moving noisily, dropping his stuff by the front door, and yelling, "Honey, I'm home," in that ridiculously loud voice that always drove Ryan nuts.
They were still a little drunk, even though it was nine or ten in the morning, and Ryan remembers not stopping, keeping up the rhythm, because there was no point in stopping, not just because Brendon had come home. Ryan thought he would have had the decency to knock before coming into the bedroom, but he hadn't, and Ryan doesn't remember looking at Brendon, doesn't remember much about the moments afterwards, just the sharp, hissed intake of Brendon's breath and the little, "Oh," that had escaped his lips.
So. He doesn't have proof or anything, but he hadn't stopped, not that it had taken much longer for him to finish, and he hadn't asked the girl to stay. He didn't make her leave or anything, that's not what it was; he didn't force her out, but when she'd said, "Your friend sure seemed upset," he'd kissed her hard and told her that maybe she should get out of there, that Brendon had kind of a temper.
It wasn't a lie. It isn't a lie, but Ryan was still upset to discover himself alone when he'd finally padded out of the bedroom, ready to set some ground rules about knocking and Brendon had been nowhere to be seen. There hadn't even been a note.
Ryan doesn't necessarily think that one action has everything to do with the other, but he's almost positive Brendon wouldn't have run off to Europe for three months if Ryan hadn't put the pieces in motion. Set the cogs turning. Whatever.
Besides, he looks good, now, back straight as he stumbles out of bed, naked as he bends, rummaging through the pile of clothes that's still on the floor, humming something under his breath that sounds vaguely French, even though Ryan can't place it.
"You look good," he says, testing out his voice. He hasn't spoken in what feels like days, and his throat is as dry as a desert of some sort. Maybe the Sahara. "You look tan." Brendon snorts, but he doesn't respond, and he doesn't look over his shoulder, just keeps rummaging through his things, spread haphazardly throughout the room with no order to them whatsoever.
Ryan clears his throat, and Brendon snorts again, and then says, "Compliments from you, Ross? I already fucked you, was there something else you wanted?" His voice isn't particularly harsh, but the words are, and Ryan rolls his eyes at the thought of Brendon actually trying to goad him.
"You make it sound cheap," he says, and it isn't that he cares, particularly. That's not what this is at all. If anything, this is two friends coming together after a long time apart. He says this, clearing his throat and scooting up the mattress a little, sitting upright. "We're friends, Brendon," he says. "You don't have to make it seem ugly."
Brendon does look over his shoulder for that, but Ryan's too far away to see the look in his eyes. "You actually think we're friends?" he asks, voice low, but not low enough that Ryan can't hear him. It's only a question in a way that it's phrased.
&&
Shia's not really the type to get crushes, which is handy, because this isn't a crush. They arrive at the firm at roughly the same time every morning, both with their earbuds in, both holding cups of coffee from the Coffee Bean, and they both have a penchant for dancing around to whatever they're listening to, although the guy is clearly better at it than Shia is. Clearly. Their eyes have met a few times, three, maybe. It's a rough estimate, and he's smiled at Shia exactly twice.
Shia's not planning on doing anything about it, he hasn't even fooled around with a guy since high school, but. But there's nothing saying he can't look, and really, he's been looking. He's not sure if the other guy's been looking back, but it's probably better not to get too invested anyway.
In the mail room, Shia sets his coffee down at his work station, punching in his timecard and starting to sort through the parcels in the mail cart. Ted and Chuck aren't around yet, but that's not something Shia can really complain about. He likes sports as much as the next guy, but there are only so many times he can talk about The Game Last Night. Shia hears the capitals in his head every time it's brought up. The sorting and filing is actually kind of therapeutic after a while, besides and he's gotten used to it, mostly.
Ted and Chuck haven't shown up by noon, and he loads up the cart, heading toward the service elevator that'll take him upstairs. The music blaring in his earbuds is loud, and he lowers it the closer he gets to the firm. No one's talked to him about it yet, and it's been almost a month, so. He's not worried about it much.
Greeting the secretaries is second nature by now, and he tries not to shimmy too much as he tosses letters on their corresponding desks. At the bottom of the stack, unsurprisingly, there's another letter for Brendon B. Urie, and Shia picks his head up, scanning the room again for the unfamiliar face. He sees Flo and Rachel by the coffee pot in the kitchenette, the new guy sitting at his desk, Mr. Bianci, Jr. talking to a client and, wait. Hold up. The new guy.
Pushing his cart over, Shia says, "Hey," trying to keep his voice low. The new guy's head snaps up, and he smiles before he looks confused, scrunching up his nose. Honest to god, it's probably the most adorable thing Shia's ever seen in his life. "Hey," he says again, to fill up the silence, even though he's still got music playing in his ears.
"Uh," he says, but then he smiles and adds, "Hey," after a minute, and then, "I'm Brendon. Can I help you?" Shia doesn't mean to grin at him like an idiot, but it's like A Great Mystery Of The World has been revealed or something. Or at least A Great Mystery Of The Mail Room.
"Brendon Urie?" he asks, just making sure, clarifying, and Brendon nods, smiling again. He looks confused, but amused, too. This is the best part of Shia's day so far, definitely.
"Yeah," he says. "How did you know that?" Shia holds out the letter like it's a prize, and Brendon nods a few times, looking down at it. "It's weird to me that I get mail here," he says. "I'm still just a temp."
"I work in the mail room," Shia says, unnecessarily. "You'd be surprised at the kind of things that come through there. I could probably tell you some stories." Brendon laughs, and Shia only catches the tail end of it, tugging out his earbuds after a second to get the full force. It's got a pretty great sound, as far as laughs go.
"I bet you could," Brendon says, and he's grinning again. Shia's no expert or anything, but he's pretty sure Brendon has the nicest smile he's ever seen.
&&
"We gotta make this quick, Ross," Brendon says, the words pressed against Ryan's collarbone. He's not biting down or anything, just breathing as he works his hand down in between Ryan's legs, starting to stroke him to hardness.
Ryan's always been a big fan of sex. He enjoys the motion of it, the feel and the touch and the sound, despite the mess. When they were younger, just kids, fucking anywhere they could once they discovered that they could, Brendon was, yeah, sometimes sloppy, but always appreciative.
He's rushing now as he jerks Ryan off, and they're both breathing harshly. "What," Ryan says, gritting his teeth to cover a moan and forcing his eyes open. "Hot date?" Brendon drags his head up, and Ryan can't tell he's smiling until their eyelines are level.
"Something like that," he mutters. "Now shut up, I'm enjoying this." He leans forward, craning his head in, and when they kiss, it's biting. Ryan starts to sputter, the words settling in his mind seconds after Brendon's actually spoken, and he tries to buck Brendon off of him, shoving at his shoulder. Brendon has a brow raised when he straightens, knees still on either side of Ryan's hips. "Please don't tell me you're experiencing some sense of conscience."
"You're going on a date?" It's not that Ryan doubts it, Brendon's attractive, and when he shuts up long enough, he's funny, not too bad to be around, for the most part. Brendon doesn't look ashamed about it, shrugging his shoulders. His belt is undone and his lips are bruised, and Ryan just stares for a minute before he remembers that he'd asked a question.
"This guy from the office asked me to grab a cup of coffee with him, Mom," he says, rolling his eyes, and then drops to the side, the back of his head thumping against the mattress. "Any other details you think you might need before we can get off?"
Ryan doesn't mean to smile and he doesn't mean to let Brendon see it. "You're here though," he says. He's not sure if that pleases him or not, but it's definitely noteworthy.
"I live here," Brendon says, and then shifts off of Ryan's lap, dropping down on the mattress next to him. "So what if I am?" He adds, raising to press his cheek against his palm. His elbow is serving as a base, settled against the mattress. Brendon's not afraid of eye contact, used to initiating staring contests for fun. It never made Ryan uneasy, necessarily, but he's more than fine with it now. "He doesn't care. Why do you?" Brendon's brows are raised in a way that's clearly meant to prove a point. He's started to sit up again, and the early morning light streaming in front the window glints off the buckle of his belt. That's the only reason Ryan's looking in that direction, anyway.
"You think I care?" Ryan asks, testing out the words, and Brendon snorts, sitting up straighter on the bed, fiddling with his belt some more. He's making it look casual, but Ryan knows Brendon. He's probably doing it on purpose. Most things he does have intent behind them.
"We were on the way to blowing our loads, dude," Brendon says, dropping the words like they're matter-of-fact. "And then you stopped." He smirks again and Ryan huffs, rolling his eyes. "I'd say you cared some."
"So you're going out with this guy to get my attention." He doesn't make it a question and Brendon just laughs again, the sound resonating in the little room. Brendon's new apartment is a lot smaller than his old one was, but it's also nicer. Brendon lives alone and he seems to prefer it; there are clothes, posters and music everywhere. It's a mess, but that's also pretty fitting.
"I stopped trying to get your attention when I was fifteen, Ryan Ross," he says, looking down at the watch Ryan forgot he was wearing. "And now you have to get out of here. I gotta get to work." He rolls up onto his knees and unbuckles his belt completely. "I'm going to shower."
"For your date?"
Brendon laughs again, but it doesn't sound pretty, not as melodic as Ryan remembers it being. "Yeah," he says. "Something like that." He drops his pants and underwear as he stands, kicking his jeans away. "You can show yourself out, right?" He doesn't wait for an answer.
&&
The truth, the honest-to-god truth, is that Shia hadn't expected him to say yes. It's not that he doesn't have game, because he has game, but they'd really only spoken a few times, discounting the morning coffee drinking and mutual ass shaking. He didn't even really think about it while he was asking, didn't assess the risk or the damage, just said, "Maybe I can buy you that coffee one morning," gesturing toward Brendon's half-filled Styrofoam cup.
Brendon had blinked at him, and it took a second, but he smiled, eventually, saying, "Would I get to come along on the trip, or would it be a solo mission?"
It wasn't one of Shia's finer moments, to be sure, but it was a start. It was something, and Brendon's been smiling at him like that for the past couple weeks now. Sometimes they meet at the Coffee Bean before heading over to the firm. Those are the mornings Shia likes the best.
"So wait, wait," he says on a Thursday. They're walking back to work, elbows brushing, and it's hot out, but not so hot that it's sweltering. "They actually chased you."
Brendon shrugs and says, "Chased?" He scrunches his nose, fiddling with the cuff of his shirt. "Chased is such an ugly word. They just suggested that maybe we not come back. Ever." He lets out a giggle that lights his whole face, reaching his hand up to cover his eyes in embarrassment. "It was pretty epic."
Shia snorts. "That's definitely one to tell the grandkids," he says. "No, Janey and Bess, we can't go to Prague, I've been outlawed." He's inflecting his voice, some, and Brendon laughs, curving his fingers over Shia's arm and squeezing.
"Ah, see," he says, dropping his hand after a moment. He's gotten turned around, walking backwards, the sun haloing him from behind, and Shia was pretty correct in his first assessment. Brendon's definitely the most attractive person he's seen in a while. "I'm pretty sure I won't be having grandkids." He looks at Shia out of the corner of his eye.
"That's a shame," Shia says. "They can take care of you in your old age."
"Or they could put me in a old folk's home and steal all my money." Shia snorts, and Brendon smiles at him, rolling his eyes.
"Aw," Shia says, reaching forward to touch at Brendon's wrist, circling his fingers along the bone. "You never know. Janey and Bess could surprise you." Brendon laughs again, and Shia drops his hand after a second, huffing out a laugh too. "So," Shia says, and Brendon smiles, stilling his movements. Behind him, Shia can see their building; coffee still hot in his hand, but not burning.
"Nice conversational tactic, I'm impressed," Brendon says, reaching his hand up to fiddle with his glasses. "You get an A for effort, but a ..."
Shia isn't really planning on moving in. He's definitely not planning to kiss Brendon after his fingers touch Brendon's cheek, curving around the bone. He's not planning it, but it happens, off-center the first time, but definitely right on the mark during take two.
It doesn't last for very long, the two of them holding still and stiff, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, but Shia's smiling when he pulls away. Shia's going to be riding this smile 'til the end of the week, definitely, probably longer.
"That," Brendon says, shaking his head, but starting to grin again. "Was kind of unexpected."
Shia snorts. "What can I say? I like keeping people on their toes." They're quiet for a minute, Brendon just looking at him, and then Shia blurts, "Furthering the trend of the day, man, can I take you out for a drink or something? Maybe dinner?"
Brendon looks startled, but not really surprised, and it takes him a while to answer, but when he does, it's with another smile. "Drinks are a tactical retreat, dude," he says. "They're what shit-scared guys go for in case their ladies are crazy."
Shia is surprised, but he tries to roll with it, raising a brow. "You crazy, Urie?"
Brendon shrugs a few times, his shoulders rising and falling with the movement. "You're just gonna have to ask me to dinner to find out."
&&
Ryan meets the bar's new cocktail waitress on a Saturday night. He's not on shift, just coming in to pick up his check, and he's mesmerized by the way her hips swing as she wipes down tables. He's too far away to distinguish, but he's pretty sure she has tattoos right along her shoulder-blades.
At some point, she must notice him watching, because she's smiling when she peeks over her shoulder in his direction, and when he smiles back, she tosses down her towel, not wasting any time. "You know," she says, when she's at his side, eyes wide this close up, and bluer than he's expecting. "My mama warned me about boys like you." Her voice is low, and there's a twang to it, something southern, Ryan thinks, although he's terrible with accents.
"Your mother probably doesn't know how beautiful I think you are," he says, and the words don't stick in his throat once. It's not a line he's used before, and he's testing it, feeling out how genuine it is. She's definitely the most beautiful girl he's seen tonight.
"I bet you think every girl is beautiful." She's not teasing, and the words ring true with an honesty Ryan isn't expecting. He's not amazed, but it's a pretty close thing.
He clears his throat and doesn't think of Brendon when she touches at his shoulder, skimming the pads of her fingers against the fabric. "I don't even know your name," he says. "But I've never met anyone like you before."
"I'm off shift in ten minutes," she says. "Will you be around?" Her eyes are piercing, arresting, a hundred, thousand things that Ryan can't even begin to fathom.
He smiles and says, "Sure. I can be anywhere I want."
He takes her home and forgets about the check. He tells her when they're in the cab, her face pressed against his neck, dotting little kisses there. She wraps her arm around his waist, snuggling close and her grip is tight and firm, but not suffocating. Ryan thinks he likes it.
"That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard," she whispers, and he kisses her, tipping her head back and pressing his thumbs against her cheeks.
He still doesn't know her name, so he asks when they're at his door, not pressing her against it, but crowding her in, vaguely, setting his lips against her forehead and eyelids, pressing tiny kisses there.
"Candy," she says. She laughs, a little, and it sounds like music. "My mama needed something sweet when she had me." She laughs as she says the words, smiling with practiced ease, but Ryan can tell that she means it.
&&
Shia's never worked in an office before, so he's surprised that on all summertime Fridays, the employees of Allen & Ehrle are released at two. Usually, Shia's done by then anyway, but it's nice when he doesn't have to bother stretching out his duties, and besides, this is the first Friday where after work, he has a date.
He calls Lorenzo as he's clocking out, phone pressed between his shoulder and ear as he rifles through his backpack, looking for his keys. "Will you be gone when I get home?" He's worked at the firm for a little over three months and he still hasn't found his own place yet. He'd feel worse about it, but it's not like Lorenzo's been pressuring him to leave. He changes the subject whenever Shia brings it up, so Shia's pretty sure there's no rush to get himself moved.
"Not all of us have free Fridays, motherfucker," Lorenzo replies, and Shia can hear him typing, trapped in his cubicle even though it's nearing three. It makes Shia laugh, probably harder than it should, considering he's been living rent free, but Lorenzo isn't one to hold a grudge, not really.
"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"
Lorenzo snorts, saying, "Naw, man. I kiss yours," and it's Shia's turn to laugh into the receiver, holding it away from his mouth to keep Lorenzo from hearing, but probably failing anyway.
"Aren't you seeing Megan tonight, anyway?" Shia asks, and Lorenzo makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat that Shia pretends not to hear. Lorenzo and his girlfriend have been going out for as long as time has existed, or. Well. Since they were fifteen, anyway. It's about as long, really, in teenage years.
"She's dragging me away so I don't embarrass you on your date," Lorenzo says, and Shia hears him snort after he speaks. "She didn't need to do that, man. Isn't this number three, anyway? You've probably embarrassed yourself all on your own," They laugh in unison, and then Lorenzo continues with, "I wouldn't even bust out the baby pictures until after we got him wasted on tequila. That way he wouldn't remember later."
"But the memories he'd have of me on the bearskin rug would haunt him forever."
Lorenzo laughs just as Shia finally finds his keys, digging them out from under his company policy handbook and wallet in his backpack. "As long as they're not the ones you took last week, you should be set. Some fuckers like that shit. Just 'cause I don't want to see your naked behind doesn't mean this Brendon dude doesn't want to."
Shia laughs again as he climbs the stairs leading out of the basement. It's always a shock to the system coming out from the damp dimness of the mail room to the brightness of the entrance hallway, but he likes it, mostly. He likes the sunshine, anyway.
"Will you shut up about Brendon?" He says, mumbling the words into his phone, startled when a disembodied voice says, "Shut up about me? Why would you want anyone to do that?"
Shia blinks, and can't help the smile that crosses his face at the sight of Brendon himself, grinning right back. "Yo," Shia says into the receiver, distracted as he looks his fill. "'Renzo, I'll see you later." He hangs up without breaking eye contact, and Brendon grins at him again.
"Hey," he says, taking a step closer, but not close enough to be in touching distance.
Shia raises his hand in greeting, saying, "Hey," and he can't stop smiling either. He must look ridiculous, still in his work clothes and tie, staring at Brendon like an idiot, but he doesn't even care.
Brendon takes another step closer, biting on the corner of his lip, and when he's barely an inch away, he says, "Hi," again, just before their mouths touch.
Fridays are Shia's favorite days of the week, definitely.
&&
When Ryan thinks about it, if he thinks about it, it's probably for the best. He hasn't seen Brendon in at least three Saturdays, but he hasn't thought about him all that often, either. He sees Candy, sometimes, and they haven't even had sex yet, so that's probably a start. It might be a finish, too, he's not sure, but she's still beautiful to him, and her hair is the color of rose petals wet with dew. Or something.
She's a sweet girl, anyway, and she calls him more than she should, probably. He doesn't always call her back, but he's pretty sure that's not the point. She keeps on calling, and Ryan's not sure he's ever had that, before; someone who doesn't actually stop trying.
He doesn't think about Brendon in this way where he'll imagine him standing in the middle of their old apartment, fiddling with his records and wearing the haircut he hasn't had since he was seventeen. Ryan remembers everything about Brendon at seventeen, and it makes him laugh to think about the way Brendon's eyes had always lit up when they were together, surprised and excited and pleased by Ryan's presence in the room always, never trying to hide it.
Brendon doesn't talk when he visits in Ryan's head, not really. Not about anything of importance. Ryan hasn't tripped on acid in longer than he can remember, but he's pretty sure if he's going to start suffering from paranoid delusions, they won't be about Brendon.
Still, he's the one who calls, sitting in bed with Candy asleep and breathing deep a few inches over from him. Her hair is long enough that he can feel it curl against his thigh, and he enjoys the sensation. It grounds him in a way he's not really expecting.
Brendon's voice is sleepy when he answers the phone, either that or he's trying to be quiet, whispering low and hushed. "Wait a second," he says. "You actually learned how to use the telephone?" There's a chuckle in his voice, somewhere, low enough that Ryan's probably not supposed to hear it, but he appreciates its existence, likes knowing that it's there.
"Very funny, Brendon," he says, and he shifts a little, moving slowly as he gets out of bed, trying not to wake Candy, even though she's out like a light. The air in the rest of apartment feels cool against his skin when he steps into the den and away from the warm cocoon of the bedroom.
Brendon's quiet on the line, but Ryan doesn't worry about his presence there. He can hear Brendon breathing, and he waits for it, hearing the audible shift on the line when he finally says, "So did you call to shoot the shit or is this personal?"
Ryan clears his throat unnecessarily, sitting on the couch with his legs tucked under him. The room is dark because he hadn't bothered to turn the light on when he came in, but he doesn't mind it so much. He can see the lights from the city through the window, twinkling in the distance. "I hadn't heard from you," he says, finally, and he wants to add that he doesn't care, that he hasn't been thinking about Brendon at all, just to drive the point home, but he doesn't. "Do you remember when you wanted to go to beauty school?"
Brendon breathes sharply, or he hiccups----something happens on the line, and then Ryan hears rustling, low whispers, and Brendon mumbling, "Shit," under his breath. "Are you fucked up?" he asks, and Ryan can't tell if there's urgency in his voice or not. Either way, it's not like it matters.
"I'm fine, Brendon," Ryan says, because he is. The words feel good on his tongue when he says them, so he repeats the sentiment. "I'm fine. Fine."
Brendon's snort sounds like it's ripped right out of him, and Ryan remembers how much they'd laughed as kids, how much Brendon had laughed, anyway, how freeing it was. He hasn't been thinking about Brendon, he hasn't, except for in this way where everything he has been thinking about has Brendon's stamp on it anyway.
"Do you need me to come get you?" Brendon asks, and if Ryan closes his eyes and listens, he can hear the vague strains of Brendon talking to someone as he putters around in his tiny little apartment. Ryan wonders if it's the guy from his office that he's talking to, the one that asked him on a date----and then remembers that he's not thinking about Brendon and reminds himself that he doesn't care.
"I'm at home," Ryan says after a silence that stretched longer that he'd really meant it to. "Where would you even bring me?" There are a hundred different ways Brendon could answer this question, but he doesn't. Ryan doesn't know if he's relieved or not.
"I've been working on that song again," Brendon says, finally. His silence stretched longer than Ryan's had, and Ryan blinks at the words, staring off into the dark nothingness of his apartment with his phone clutched to his ear and Candy's soft noises in the bedroom.
"Oh yeah?" he asks, swallowing a few times and wondering if there's any point in trying to get to the kitchen for some water without tripping or knocking something over and waking Candy up. His throat is just drier than he'd realized.
"Yeah," Brendon says. "I think I'm gonna write it in French."
|we're making up our history|AU.
Shia LaBeouf/Brendon Urie, Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie. 8000 words. Rated R for drug use, sexual situations and language.
Wherein Shia works in the mail room of a law firm and Brendon is a temp.
Download the corresponding mix here!
This! Could not have been finished or even started without theaerosolkid, it wouldn't look nearly as good as it does now without the help of gobsmackit, adellyna and wordsalone, who all did fantastic beta work. Any and all mistakes left are my own.
Those words wouldn't have even come to life, though, without the expertise of xthebackseatx, who tirelessly----and I do mean tirelessly held my hand, read it over 75 times and told me it wasn't/wouldn't be crap from the word go. Thanks also to ineffort for the cheerleading routine and sinuous_curve for her insight. Mostly, though, all the thanks in the world goes out to gigantic. Thanks for being born, lady. The world is a million times better with your presence in it.
Shia interviews for the job at the law firm because he's broke and there's seriously only so much mooching he can stomach.
"It's fine," Lorenzo says, rolling his eyes. They're standing in the middle of the cereal aisle in Ralph's because they have the bread he likes and Lorenzo's on his lunch break besides. He squints as he looks over at Shia, holding up two boxes like he's inspecting them. It'd be funny, fuck, it is funny; Lorenzo's a huge dude, and he's got boxes of Raisin Bran and Honey Bunches of Oats in his hands. "Right, okay," he says, like they're actually having a conversation. "I'm glad you're moving out too, bro. You sure you should be moving out in this economy, though? It could be risky."
Shia rolls his eyes, sighing as he stuffs his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, stretching it out in front of him. He's in flip-flops because he forgot where he put his shoes and his shit is scattered everywhere in Lorenzo's place anyway.
"Like you know shit about the economy," he says, and then, "It'll probably be another month." He clears his throat and keeps his eyes trained down. When he was a kid, they always bought supermarket brand cereals, bigger bags with more quantity and less of a label. He remembers fucking loving ChocoPops. He scratches his neck where he's got razor burn and tries not to sound too desperate. "I mean. I just went to the interview yesterday, so."
Lorenzo hums under his breath, and Shia doesn't know what he's waiting for, blinking, surprised when Lorenzo says, "You think I should just buy the fucking baking sheets so she won't complain anymore? She keeps saying the bottom of pans isn't proper and shit, but come on. That's the way the best pastries are made." It doesn't take him long to realize Lorenzo hasn't been listening, and he can't tamp down the laugh that bursts out from his throat, surprised, but ultimately pleased; if there's anybody that can make sure his head doesn't get lodged too far up his ass, it's Lorenzo.
"Just buy 'em," he says after a while, huffing the words out on a chuckle, then adding, "Small price to pay for getting your dick sucked, right?" Lorenzo snorts, and Shia takes a few steps ahead, looking down at the rest of the baking needs section in search of cookie sheets.
"Hey," Lorenzo adds after a minute. "That's no way to talk about my mama!" It takes a second for Shia to register the words, but when he does, he laughs so hard he starts to choke. Lorenzo actually takes a few steps forward, pounding on his back probably harder than is strictly necessary. There's only one other person in Baking Needs with them, an older woman who stares in silence for a full minute before muttering something under her breath in a language Shia can't understand and pushing her cart down the aisle. Shia's pretty sure she picks up her pace some, but he can't be positive.
"Think we scarred her for life?" he asks, and Lorenzo laughs some too, shrugging his shoulders. He grabs a ten-pack of baking sheets, dropping them into their cart. They make a dull clanging noise that Shia's surprised he can hear.
"She probably didn't even understand, bro," Lorenzo says, and Shia nods, flexing his fingers in his hoodie pocket again.
"Hey," he says as they're following suit, heading out of the aisle. "Grab that bag of ChocoPops, yeah?"
&&
Ryan'll be the first one to tell you that he's a calm, rational guy. He's a calm and rational guy. He takes his time. He's methodical. He likes things in their place. He's tidy. It's not a crime.
"It's not a crime, man," Brendon says, propping himself up on his elbows and squinting, even though the sun isn't hitting his eyes directly. "I'm just worried about having to report you in a couple years for keeping body parts in your freezer."
This is standard practice for Brendon, making grand pronouncements, planning for the future in little gasps and instances. Brendon lives for the now, Brendon loves the now, but Brendon also wants a house with a painted-white fence and a dog. It's been better since he's been back, but it's gotten worse, in some ways, too.
The dog's the only part of that Ryan can even stomach anyway, and he breathes deep before he says, "There's a reason we broke up, Brendon." He's glad that he's facing forward, bent at the knees and looking for his shoes. He doesn't want to see Brendon's body stiffen. He's seen enough smiles dropping off Brendon's mouth to last a lifetime, thanks.
"Because you're an asshole?" The word has an upward lilt to it, like it's a question at all, but it's not. Brendon says it fondly, though, because unless they're fighting, Brendon says everything fondly.
"Because you're too much," Ryan says, because it's true, and he's always prided himself on being honest. He's an honest guy. Honest, calm and rational. There are worse things to be, he thinks.
Brendon sits up straighter on the bed, and Ryan's turned some, so he watches the motion as the sheet falls to pool around Brendon's waist. It's no surprise that he's naked, Brendon's always naked if he can help it. "Or it could be that you cheated." He doesn't sound mad anymore, but then, Ryan's not really surprised. Brendon never could hold a grudge for long.
"We weren't exclusive," is what he says, because it's what he's been saying the whole time. He and Brendon were never really together. Breakfasts, lunches and dinners don't constitute a relationship, they're just meals lumped together and interspersed with a fair amount of decent sex. Brendon's always been pretty good at that.
"I was living with you," Brendon says, and Ryan sighs, clearing his throat. They're not fighting, because their lines are already rehearsed, repeated, and memorized. Ryan thinks of this part as the hundredth run of the same play. The actors are bored despite their big smiles and vacant eyes, and he is too. They always do this and the three months apart haven't changed a thing.
"No one told you that you had to suck my dick, Brendon," he says, and he sees the flinch from the corner of his eye. Brendon tries to hide it, but he's not as good at that part. His emotions don't always show on his face, but the things that hurt, that cut, they always do.
"I didn't hear you complaining," Brendon responds after a minute. His voice is very tight and Ryan sighs again, wishing he were anywhere else. Something beeps, and then Brendon's up and off the bed like a shot, digging through his small mountain of clothes on the floor, searching for secrets.
Ryan takes a second to appraise him, and he'll be the first to admit that, yes, okay, objectively, Brendon's an attractive guy. Ryan doesn't want to own a house and a border collie with him, maybe, but he's not bad to look at. He's got a decent mouth, anyway.
Brendon locates the beeping and smiles down at his phone like he's excited. Ryan cranes his head in, even though he's too far away to make out who the caller is. "Hey," Brendon says as he answers, and then, "Yeah. Sure, I can come in." He pauses a minute, scratching at his neck, and then he adds, "You know I can always use the extra cash." Ryan tugs on his pants, finding his shirt on the floor next to them, surprised that there are a few buttons missing. He tugs it on anyway, only doing up the button in the middle. Maybe he'll start a trend. "Thanks, babe," Brendon says, standing in his new bedroom completely naked and unashamed. Ryan tries to do that sometimes too, but he doesn't look like Brendon when he does it. No one ever does.
"Babe?" Ryan asks, even though he doesn't care. Brendon's a creature of habit, even though the nickname thing got old a long time ago. Ryan cracks his knuckles and tries not to stare.
Brendon just shrugs though, ending his call and dropping his phone back down on the pile of clothes. "Yeah," he says, and then, "Unless you're planning on not 'not cheating' on me again, you should probably get out of here. I've got somewhere I have to be."
They've known each other since they were kids, stupid teenagers with acne and cracking voices, and Ryan sometimes doesn't think anything between then and now has changed at all. "You didn't have to go halfway across the world, Brendon. You could've stayed." He pauses, at a loss for words for once and the silence between them stretches. "We weren't together," is what he finally comes up with. It's what he's been saying all along. He doesn't watch Brendon's face as he leaves. He never quite manages to say the words Brendon wants to hear.
&&
Shia starts work on a Wednesday morning. He's got a watch on his wrist to cover his tattoo and a shirt that's buttoned all the way up. He's even wearing a tie, although he's pretty sure guys in the mail room don't really need those.
There's a line at the security desk, although to be honest, it isn't much of one. There's just one guy standing in front of Shia, skinny, but not as short as his weight would have you believe. He's wearing the tightest jeans Shia's ever seen and gesturing wildly at the security guard. Shia can't really hear what they're saying, and he doesn't particularly care, jacking up the volume on his iPod until he can't hear anything at all. Their conversation lasts through the entirety of three songs, and Shia watches the skinny guy leave before walking the few steps up and taking his place.
"Welcome to Allen & Ehrle," the security guard says, voice flat. Shia nods at him, canvassing the items on his desk and the nameplate that says, ZACK. "How may I help you?"
Shia shrugs, pasting on his best smile. He's pretty sure it falls flat, somewhere between perky and straight up I-don't-give-a-fuck-and-you-can-tell. "Hi," he says, tugging out his earbuds. "I'm Shia," he holds out his hand and Zack the security guard just stares for a second before ignoring Shia's hand and gesturing towards the NO SOLICITING sign behind his desk. Shia snorts some, dropping his hand before saying, "No, uh. I work." He stops, clearing his throat and trying again. "I'm supposed to be working in the mail room. I start today."
There's a moment where Zack just stares at him, and Shia doesn't even care. He stares right back. After a minute, Zack says, "License, please," and then, "Stand behind the white tape line to get your picture taken." Shia turns, saving the eyeroll for when he's facing away, because contrary to popular belief, he's not actually stupid. He pauses to dig his license out of his wallet and when he's slapped it on the desk, he walks toward the white line, smiling tightly as the camera flashes. "You want to see the picture before I get it cut?" Zack asks, and Shia just shrugs. He doesn't really care one way or another.
&&
The thing is----the truth of the matter----you see, it's not that Ryan does drugs. That's such a base descriptor anyway, such plain words to describe an action that could be one of a thousand things, one of a million. Ryan doesn't do drugs, he experiments with the world. He dabbles. He enjoys himself, and if Brendon can't understand that, well. Well. Brendon's not here anyway.
"You know," she says. "That's the third time you've said his name." Ryan rolls his eyes, wiping at his face. His mouth is dry and this room is too hot for him breathe in.
"I can count," Ryan says, because it's easier than saying, I know. He's not in love with Brendon. He never was.
She grins at him, arching her head up so that he can get a good look at her throat and the way her shirt looks displayed over her breasts. Her body is beautiful, he could write poems to it, odes about the way her hair curls over her cheek, but he can barely remember her name. "You fucked me once," she says, voice low, seductive. "If you do it again, that'll be two." She giggles a little, the sound throaty and low, resonating in her throat. "See?" she says. "I can count too." Ryan leans across the bed with every intention of leaving, of kissing her goodbye and forgetting the warmth of her curves before he's even out the door. "You want another bump for the road?" she asks as she chews at the corner of her lip and widens her eyes as she's waiting for him to answer.
Ryan considers his options. His limbs are already loose and her hair is soft where it tickles his nose. He has to go to work at some point today, but right now is not that point. "Not yet," he says, and when she grins over at him, he wishes he had a camera to snap her photo instead of just his hands. Hands are so expressionless, sometimes.
She grins, pressing her hand against the flat of his shoulder. Ryan topples back against the bed as she climbs over his lap, humming something under her breath, something beautiful. "One is the loneliest number," she sings, and her breath tickles his face as she grinds herself down.
Ryan thinks about adding onto the song as he settles his hands at her waist, not as slender as his own, but no less beautiful. She's a Botticelli Venus with green and blonde patterned hair and a bar through her lip. She's anyone and everyone.
She's about as far from Brendon as he can get.
&&
Shia wouldn't exactly call his work in the mail room interesting, but at least it's something. He's gotten the science down to a shuffle and a slide, dropping all the mail each department's level on the cart, and all in all, his job takes him about an hour, from start to finish. He stretches it out to four or five when he can, mostly smoking cigarettes in the doorway to the service exit, leaning against the wall between him and the outside world and letting the cool of the bricks seep into his work shirt.
There are a couple other guys who work down there, too. There's UPS Ted, who handles all the packages that come in, regardless of their place of origin, and Emergency Parcel Chuck, whose chipmunk cheeks and overall pinkish demeanor make him seem like an angry cupcake more often than not. Shia's said hello to them the few times he's seen them, but he mostly keeps to himself and sorts the mail for the firm, keeping an eye out for suspicious packages.
The look of the firm itself is pretty sleek, with chrome and glass plating everywhere. It's like some futuristic department store threw up and this is the end result. It's pretty ridiculous and the chairs look like they're hell on the back, but for the most part, Shia doesn't mind it. A lot of that probably has to do with the fact that he can go back downstairs and smoke when he's done, though. He's never had a simpler job, even though it looks sort of complicated on the outset.
On the fourth floor, he greets the secretaries that he recognizes, grinning at them with a lot more charm than he's used in a while. Shia hasn't really been around all that many people lately, apart from Lorenzo, and these women are kind enough to smile back. Shia always appreciates the gesture.
He's got his earbuds in, because he hasn't been told that it's against protocol yet, even though the words are stated clearly in his mission statement. His fingers are tingling for a cigarette, and as he shuffles and slides, dropping the parcels where they belong, he comes upon a name he doesn't recognize.
Shia rolls his eyes, inwardly sighing as he does a scan of the room, trying to find the new face that matches the new name. He doesn't see anyone he doesn't know, and he looks back down at where the letter is addressed, hoping that it's been sorted incorrectly and he doesn't actually have to break his routine.
"Flo," he says, heading toward the office of one of the partners. Shia hasn't met any of them yet, not that he really expects to. "Do you know who ..." he pauses, squinting down at the name on the envelope, "Brendon B. Urie is?" He's not sure of the pronunciation of the last name, but says it how he thinks anyway, testing it out. "I've never met him before, and he's got a letter."
Flo's the biggest busybody in the office, and Shia's half-expecting her to offer to give this Brendon the letter herself, but she just says, "Oh, Brendon? What a young man. He comes in and temps for us sometimes. He's covering for Shirl. She's on maternity now, didn't you hear? She's having the rugrat next week." Flo works with an unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth and bright red acrylic nails that match her lipstick.
"You wanna point me in his direction?" Shia asks, holding up the letter again, just in case she forgot. Flo rolls her eyes, narrowing them at him when she finishes. Shia ducks his head to hide his chuckle; Flo's been at the firm longer than everyone else combined.
"He's over there," she says vaguely, pointing towards the cluster of people over by the coffee maker in the kitchenette. Shia's getting bored of this turn of events already and he's starting to really want that cigarette.
"Hey," he says when he gets closer. "Any of you Brendon Urie?" When none of them respond, he rolls his eyes, adding, "No? Anybody?"
"I think he just stepped out," one of the junior associates says, one of the girls Shia hasn't met yet. Her smile is kind when Shia turns to face her, and she says, "I can leave it on his desk for you." It's way against protocol, probably, but Shia just smiles his thanks at her, handing the letter over. He actually has other work to do, for once.
&&
Ryan has a lot of theories about why Brendon went on his semester abroad instead of graduating with the rest of his class, but he doesn't share them, ever. No one's asked him for his opinion, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't have one. The way it had gone down was like this: the lease on Brendon's apartment was running out, and Ryan had the spare room. They'd been sort of seeing each other in that way where people who've known each other since they were kids sort of see each other, not in a particularly serious way, but in a way where Ryan didn't mind having Brendon around in the mornings, for the most part.
That's all it was, though. A place to live. A smart decision, for the most part, too, considering how much time Brendon spent hanging out at Ryan's apartment anyway. He wasn't under the impression that he'd asked Brendon to marry him or anything, and more than that, he was pretty sure Brendon knew that too. They had a nice thing going, a nice thing that Ryan appreciated for its simplicity, not that Brendon was ever particularly simple.
He doesn't remember the girl's name, precisely, and couldn't then, either, although he was pretty positive he'd bought weed from her older brother at some point in their past shared histories, had cornered him at the bar; in the din, amidst shitty beer and shitty lighting, she was beautiful. He doesn't remember what they said exactly, but he does remember taking her home with him, settling his mouth against the pulse point at her neck and fucking her deep, loving that he could feel the reverberations from her moans at that spot. It was the kind of coupling people write songs about, and in the morning, they'd done it again. It was epic, they could have been epic, if Brendon hadn't chosen that moment to come home, moving noisily, dropping his stuff by the front door, and yelling, "Honey, I'm home," in that ridiculously loud voice that always drove Ryan nuts.
They were still a little drunk, even though it was nine or ten in the morning, and Ryan remembers not stopping, keeping up the rhythm, because there was no point in stopping, not just because Brendon had come home. Ryan thought he would have had the decency to knock before coming into the bedroom, but he hadn't, and Ryan doesn't remember looking at Brendon, doesn't remember much about the moments afterwards, just the sharp, hissed intake of Brendon's breath and the little, "Oh," that had escaped his lips.
So. He doesn't have proof or anything, but he hadn't stopped, not that it had taken much longer for him to finish, and he hadn't asked the girl to stay. He didn't make her leave or anything, that's not what it was; he didn't force her out, but when she'd said, "Your friend sure seemed upset," he'd kissed her hard and told her that maybe she should get out of there, that Brendon had kind of a temper.
It wasn't a lie. It isn't a lie, but Ryan was still upset to discover himself alone when he'd finally padded out of the bedroom, ready to set some ground rules about knocking and Brendon had been nowhere to be seen. There hadn't even been a note.
Ryan doesn't necessarily think that one action has everything to do with the other, but he's almost positive Brendon wouldn't have run off to Europe for three months if Ryan hadn't put the pieces in motion. Set the cogs turning. Whatever.
Besides, he looks good, now, back straight as he stumbles out of bed, naked as he bends, rummaging through the pile of clothes that's still on the floor, humming something under his breath that sounds vaguely French, even though Ryan can't place it.
"You look good," he says, testing out his voice. He hasn't spoken in what feels like days, and his throat is as dry as a desert of some sort. Maybe the Sahara. "You look tan." Brendon snorts, but he doesn't respond, and he doesn't look over his shoulder, just keeps rummaging through his things, spread haphazardly throughout the room with no order to them whatsoever.
Ryan clears his throat, and Brendon snorts again, and then says, "Compliments from you, Ross? I already fucked you, was there something else you wanted?" His voice isn't particularly harsh, but the words are, and Ryan rolls his eyes at the thought of Brendon actually trying to goad him.
"You make it sound cheap," he says, and it isn't that he cares, particularly. That's not what this is at all. If anything, this is two friends coming together after a long time apart. He says this, clearing his throat and scooting up the mattress a little, sitting upright. "We're friends, Brendon," he says. "You don't have to make it seem ugly."
Brendon does look over his shoulder for that, but Ryan's too far away to see the look in his eyes. "You actually think we're friends?" he asks, voice low, but not low enough that Ryan can't hear him. It's only a question in a way that it's phrased.
&&
Shia's not really the type to get crushes, which is handy, because this isn't a crush. They arrive at the firm at roughly the same time every morning, both with their earbuds in, both holding cups of coffee from the Coffee Bean, and they both have a penchant for dancing around to whatever they're listening to, although the guy is clearly better at it than Shia is. Clearly. Their eyes have met a few times, three, maybe. It's a rough estimate, and he's smiled at Shia exactly twice.
Shia's not planning on doing anything about it, he hasn't even fooled around with a guy since high school, but. But there's nothing saying he can't look, and really, he's been looking. He's not sure if the other guy's been looking back, but it's probably better not to get too invested anyway.
In the mail room, Shia sets his coffee down at his work station, punching in his timecard and starting to sort through the parcels in the mail cart. Ted and Chuck aren't around yet, but that's not something Shia can really complain about. He likes sports as much as the next guy, but there are only so many times he can talk about The Game Last Night. Shia hears the capitals in his head every time it's brought up. The sorting and filing is actually kind of therapeutic after a while, besides and he's gotten used to it, mostly.
Ted and Chuck haven't shown up by noon, and he loads up the cart, heading toward the service elevator that'll take him upstairs. The music blaring in his earbuds is loud, and he lowers it the closer he gets to the firm. No one's talked to him about it yet, and it's been almost a month, so. He's not worried about it much.
Greeting the secretaries is second nature by now, and he tries not to shimmy too much as he tosses letters on their corresponding desks. At the bottom of the stack, unsurprisingly, there's another letter for Brendon B. Urie, and Shia picks his head up, scanning the room again for the unfamiliar face. He sees Flo and Rachel by the coffee pot in the kitchenette, the new guy sitting at his desk, Mr. Bianci, Jr. talking to a client and, wait. Hold up. The new guy.
Pushing his cart over, Shia says, "Hey," trying to keep his voice low. The new guy's head snaps up, and he smiles before he looks confused, scrunching up his nose. Honest to god, it's probably the most adorable thing Shia's ever seen in his life. "Hey," he says again, to fill up the silence, even though he's still got music playing in his ears.
"Uh," he says, but then he smiles and adds, "Hey," after a minute, and then, "I'm Brendon. Can I help you?" Shia doesn't mean to grin at him like an idiot, but it's like A Great Mystery Of The World has been revealed or something. Or at least A Great Mystery Of The Mail Room.
"Brendon Urie?" he asks, just making sure, clarifying, and Brendon nods, smiling again. He looks confused, but amused, too. This is the best part of Shia's day so far, definitely.
"Yeah," he says. "How did you know that?" Shia holds out the letter like it's a prize, and Brendon nods a few times, looking down at it. "It's weird to me that I get mail here," he says. "I'm still just a temp."
"I work in the mail room," Shia says, unnecessarily. "You'd be surprised at the kind of things that come through there. I could probably tell you some stories." Brendon laughs, and Shia only catches the tail end of it, tugging out his earbuds after a second to get the full force. It's got a pretty great sound, as far as laughs go.
"I bet you could," Brendon says, and he's grinning again. Shia's no expert or anything, but he's pretty sure Brendon has the nicest smile he's ever seen.
&&
"We gotta make this quick, Ross," Brendon says, the words pressed against Ryan's collarbone. He's not biting down or anything, just breathing as he works his hand down in between Ryan's legs, starting to stroke him to hardness.
Ryan's always been a big fan of sex. He enjoys the motion of it, the feel and the touch and the sound, despite the mess. When they were younger, just kids, fucking anywhere they could once they discovered that they could, Brendon was, yeah, sometimes sloppy, but always appreciative.
He's rushing now as he jerks Ryan off, and they're both breathing harshly. "What," Ryan says, gritting his teeth to cover a moan and forcing his eyes open. "Hot date?" Brendon drags his head up, and Ryan can't tell he's smiling until their eyelines are level.
"Something like that," he mutters. "Now shut up, I'm enjoying this." He leans forward, craning his head in, and when they kiss, it's biting. Ryan starts to sputter, the words settling in his mind seconds after Brendon's actually spoken, and he tries to buck Brendon off of him, shoving at his shoulder. Brendon has a brow raised when he straightens, knees still on either side of Ryan's hips. "Please don't tell me you're experiencing some sense of conscience."
"You're going on a date?" It's not that Ryan doubts it, Brendon's attractive, and when he shuts up long enough, he's funny, not too bad to be around, for the most part. Brendon doesn't look ashamed about it, shrugging his shoulders. His belt is undone and his lips are bruised, and Ryan just stares for a minute before he remembers that he'd asked a question.
"This guy from the office asked me to grab a cup of coffee with him, Mom," he says, rolling his eyes, and then drops to the side, the back of his head thumping against the mattress. "Any other details you think you might need before we can get off?"
Ryan doesn't mean to smile and he doesn't mean to let Brendon see it. "You're here though," he says. He's not sure if that pleases him or not, but it's definitely noteworthy.
"I live here," Brendon says, and then shifts off of Ryan's lap, dropping down on the mattress next to him. "So what if I am?" He adds, raising to press his cheek against his palm. His elbow is serving as a base, settled against the mattress. Brendon's not afraid of eye contact, used to initiating staring contests for fun. It never made Ryan uneasy, necessarily, but he's more than fine with it now. "He doesn't care. Why do you?" Brendon's brows are raised in a way that's clearly meant to prove a point. He's started to sit up again, and the early morning light streaming in front the window glints off the buckle of his belt. That's the only reason Ryan's looking in that direction, anyway.
"You think I care?" Ryan asks, testing out the words, and Brendon snorts, sitting up straighter on the bed, fiddling with his belt some more. He's making it look casual, but Ryan knows Brendon. He's probably doing it on purpose. Most things he does have intent behind them.
"We were on the way to blowing our loads, dude," Brendon says, dropping the words like they're matter-of-fact. "And then you stopped." He smirks again and Ryan huffs, rolling his eyes. "I'd say you cared some."
"So you're going out with this guy to get my attention." He doesn't make it a question and Brendon just laughs again, the sound resonating in the little room. Brendon's new apartment is a lot smaller than his old one was, but it's also nicer. Brendon lives alone and he seems to prefer it; there are clothes, posters and music everywhere. It's a mess, but that's also pretty fitting.
"I stopped trying to get your attention when I was fifteen, Ryan Ross," he says, looking down at the watch Ryan forgot he was wearing. "And now you have to get out of here. I gotta get to work." He rolls up onto his knees and unbuckles his belt completely. "I'm going to shower."
"For your date?"
Brendon laughs again, but it doesn't sound pretty, not as melodic as Ryan remembers it being. "Yeah," he says. "Something like that." He drops his pants and underwear as he stands, kicking his jeans away. "You can show yourself out, right?" He doesn't wait for an answer.
&&
The truth, the honest-to-god truth, is that Shia hadn't expected him to say yes. It's not that he doesn't have game, because he has game, but they'd really only spoken a few times, discounting the morning coffee drinking and mutual ass shaking. He didn't even really think about it while he was asking, didn't assess the risk or the damage, just said, "Maybe I can buy you that coffee one morning," gesturing toward Brendon's half-filled Styrofoam cup.
Brendon had blinked at him, and it took a second, but he smiled, eventually, saying, "Would I get to come along on the trip, or would it be a solo mission?"
It wasn't one of Shia's finer moments, to be sure, but it was a start. It was something, and Brendon's been smiling at him like that for the past couple weeks now. Sometimes they meet at the Coffee Bean before heading over to the firm. Those are the mornings Shia likes the best.
"So wait, wait," he says on a Thursday. They're walking back to work, elbows brushing, and it's hot out, but not so hot that it's sweltering. "They actually chased you."
Brendon shrugs and says, "Chased?" He scrunches his nose, fiddling with the cuff of his shirt. "Chased is such an ugly word. They just suggested that maybe we not come back. Ever." He lets out a giggle that lights his whole face, reaching his hand up to cover his eyes in embarrassment. "It was pretty epic."
Shia snorts. "That's definitely one to tell the grandkids," he says. "No, Janey and Bess, we can't go to Prague, I've been outlawed." He's inflecting his voice, some, and Brendon laughs, curving his fingers over Shia's arm and squeezing.
"Ah, see," he says, dropping his hand after a moment. He's gotten turned around, walking backwards, the sun haloing him from behind, and Shia was pretty correct in his first assessment. Brendon's definitely the most attractive person he's seen in a while. "I'm pretty sure I won't be having grandkids." He looks at Shia out of the corner of his eye.
"That's a shame," Shia says. "They can take care of you in your old age."
"Or they could put me in a old folk's home and steal all my money." Shia snorts, and Brendon smiles at him, rolling his eyes.
"Aw," Shia says, reaching forward to touch at Brendon's wrist, circling his fingers along the bone. "You never know. Janey and Bess could surprise you." Brendon laughs again, and Shia drops his hand after a second, huffing out a laugh too. "So," Shia says, and Brendon smiles, stilling his movements. Behind him, Shia can see their building; coffee still hot in his hand, but not burning.
"Nice conversational tactic, I'm impressed," Brendon says, reaching his hand up to fiddle with his glasses. "You get an A for effort, but a ..."
Shia isn't really planning on moving in. He's definitely not planning to kiss Brendon after his fingers touch Brendon's cheek, curving around the bone. He's not planning it, but it happens, off-center the first time, but definitely right on the mark during take two.
It doesn't last for very long, the two of them holding still and stiff, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, but Shia's smiling when he pulls away. Shia's going to be riding this smile 'til the end of the week, definitely, probably longer.
"That," Brendon says, shaking his head, but starting to grin again. "Was kind of unexpected."
Shia snorts. "What can I say? I like keeping people on their toes." They're quiet for a minute, Brendon just looking at him, and then Shia blurts, "Furthering the trend of the day, man, can I take you out for a drink or something? Maybe dinner?"
Brendon looks startled, but not really surprised, and it takes him a while to answer, but when he does, it's with another smile. "Drinks are a tactical retreat, dude," he says. "They're what shit-scared guys go for in case their ladies are crazy."
Shia is surprised, but he tries to roll with it, raising a brow. "You crazy, Urie?"
Brendon shrugs a few times, his shoulders rising and falling with the movement. "You're just gonna have to ask me to dinner to find out."
&&
Ryan meets the bar's new cocktail waitress on a Saturday night. He's not on shift, just coming in to pick up his check, and he's mesmerized by the way her hips swing as she wipes down tables. He's too far away to distinguish, but he's pretty sure she has tattoos right along her shoulder-blades.
At some point, she must notice him watching, because she's smiling when she peeks over her shoulder in his direction, and when he smiles back, she tosses down her towel, not wasting any time. "You know," she says, when she's at his side, eyes wide this close up, and bluer than he's expecting. "My mama warned me about boys like you." Her voice is low, and there's a twang to it, something southern, Ryan thinks, although he's terrible with accents.
"Your mother probably doesn't know how beautiful I think you are," he says, and the words don't stick in his throat once. It's not a line he's used before, and he's testing it, feeling out how genuine it is. She's definitely the most beautiful girl he's seen tonight.
"I bet you think every girl is beautiful." She's not teasing, and the words ring true with an honesty Ryan isn't expecting. He's not amazed, but it's a pretty close thing.
He clears his throat and doesn't think of Brendon when she touches at his shoulder, skimming the pads of her fingers against the fabric. "I don't even know your name," he says. "But I've never met anyone like you before."
"I'm off shift in ten minutes," she says. "Will you be around?" Her eyes are piercing, arresting, a hundred, thousand things that Ryan can't even begin to fathom.
He smiles and says, "Sure. I can be anywhere I want."
He takes her home and forgets about the check. He tells her when they're in the cab, her face pressed against his neck, dotting little kisses there. She wraps her arm around his waist, snuggling close and her grip is tight and firm, but not suffocating. Ryan thinks he likes it.
"That's the most romantic thing I've ever heard," she whispers, and he kisses her, tipping her head back and pressing his thumbs against her cheeks.
He still doesn't know her name, so he asks when they're at his door, not pressing her against it, but crowding her in, vaguely, setting his lips against her forehead and eyelids, pressing tiny kisses there.
"Candy," she says. She laughs, a little, and it sounds like music. "My mama needed something sweet when she had me." She laughs as she says the words, smiling with practiced ease, but Ryan can tell that she means it.
&&
Shia's never worked in an office before, so he's surprised that on all summertime Fridays, the employees of Allen & Ehrle are released at two. Usually, Shia's done by then anyway, but it's nice when he doesn't have to bother stretching out his duties, and besides, this is the first Friday where after work, he has a date.
He calls Lorenzo as he's clocking out, phone pressed between his shoulder and ear as he rifles through his backpack, looking for his keys. "Will you be gone when I get home?" He's worked at the firm for a little over three months and he still hasn't found his own place yet. He'd feel worse about it, but it's not like Lorenzo's been pressuring him to leave. He changes the subject whenever Shia brings it up, so Shia's pretty sure there's no rush to get himself moved.
"Not all of us have free Fridays, motherfucker," Lorenzo replies, and Shia can hear him typing, trapped in his cubicle even though it's nearing three. It makes Shia laugh, probably harder than it should, considering he's been living rent free, but Lorenzo isn't one to hold a grudge, not really.
"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"
Lorenzo snorts, saying, "Naw, man. I kiss yours," and it's Shia's turn to laugh into the receiver, holding it away from his mouth to keep Lorenzo from hearing, but probably failing anyway.
"Aren't you seeing Megan tonight, anyway?" Shia asks, and Lorenzo makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat that Shia pretends not to hear. Lorenzo and his girlfriend have been going out for as long as time has existed, or. Well. Since they were fifteen, anyway. It's about as long, really, in teenage years.
"She's dragging me away so I don't embarrass you on your date," Lorenzo says, and Shia hears him snort after he speaks. "She didn't need to do that, man. Isn't this number three, anyway? You've probably embarrassed yourself all on your own," They laugh in unison, and then Lorenzo continues with, "I wouldn't even bust out the baby pictures until after we got him wasted on tequila. That way he wouldn't remember later."
"But the memories he'd have of me on the bearskin rug would haunt him forever."
Lorenzo laughs just as Shia finally finds his keys, digging them out from under his company policy handbook and wallet in his backpack. "As long as they're not the ones you took last week, you should be set. Some fuckers like that shit. Just 'cause I don't want to see your naked behind doesn't mean this Brendon dude doesn't want to."
Shia laughs again as he climbs the stairs leading out of the basement. It's always a shock to the system coming out from the damp dimness of the mail room to the brightness of the entrance hallway, but he likes it, mostly. He likes the sunshine, anyway.
"Will you shut up about Brendon?" He says, mumbling the words into his phone, startled when a disembodied voice says, "Shut up about me? Why would you want anyone to do that?"
Shia blinks, and can't help the smile that crosses his face at the sight of Brendon himself, grinning right back. "Yo," Shia says into the receiver, distracted as he looks his fill. "'Renzo, I'll see you later." He hangs up without breaking eye contact, and Brendon grins at him again.
"Hey," he says, taking a step closer, but not close enough to be in touching distance.
Shia raises his hand in greeting, saying, "Hey," and he can't stop smiling either. He must look ridiculous, still in his work clothes and tie, staring at Brendon like an idiot, but he doesn't even care.
Brendon takes another step closer, biting on the corner of his lip, and when he's barely an inch away, he says, "Hi," again, just before their mouths touch.
Fridays are Shia's favorite days of the week, definitely.
&&
When Ryan thinks about it, if he thinks about it, it's probably for the best. He hasn't seen Brendon in at least three Saturdays, but he hasn't thought about him all that often, either. He sees Candy, sometimes, and they haven't even had sex yet, so that's probably a start. It might be a finish, too, he's not sure, but she's still beautiful to him, and her hair is the color of rose petals wet with dew. Or something.
She's a sweet girl, anyway, and she calls him more than she should, probably. He doesn't always call her back, but he's pretty sure that's not the point. She keeps on calling, and Ryan's not sure he's ever had that, before; someone who doesn't actually stop trying.
He doesn't think about Brendon in this way where he'll imagine him standing in the middle of their old apartment, fiddling with his records and wearing the haircut he hasn't had since he was seventeen. Ryan remembers everything about Brendon at seventeen, and it makes him laugh to think about the way Brendon's eyes had always lit up when they were together, surprised and excited and pleased by Ryan's presence in the room always, never trying to hide it.
Brendon doesn't talk when he visits in Ryan's head, not really. Not about anything of importance. Ryan hasn't tripped on acid in longer than he can remember, but he's pretty sure if he's going to start suffering from paranoid delusions, they won't be about Brendon.
Still, he's the one who calls, sitting in bed with Candy asleep and breathing deep a few inches over from him. Her hair is long enough that he can feel it curl against his thigh, and he enjoys the sensation. It grounds him in a way he's not really expecting.
Brendon's voice is sleepy when he answers the phone, either that or he's trying to be quiet, whispering low and hushed. "Wait a second," he says. "You actually learned how to use the telephone?" There's a chuckle in his voice, somewhere, low enough that Ryan's probably not supposed to hear it, but he appreciates its existence, likes knowing that it's there.
"Very funny, Brendon," he says, and he shifts a little, moving slowly as he gets out of bed, trying not to wake Candy, even though she's out like a light. The air in the rest of apartment feels cool against his skin when he steps into the den and away from the warm cocoon of the bedroom.
Brendon's quiet on the line, but Ryan doesn't worry about his presence there. He can hear Brendon breathing, and he waits for it, hearing the audible shift on the line when he finally says, "So did you call to shoot the shit or is this personal?"
Ryan clears his throat unnecessarily, sitting on the couch with his legs tucked under him. The room is dark because he hadn't bothered to turn the light on when he came in, but he doesn't mind it so much. He can see the lights from the city through the window, twinkling in the distance. "I hadn't heard from you," he says, finally, and he wants to add that he doesn't care, that he hasn't been thinking about Brendon at all, just to drive the point home, but he doesn't. "Do you remember when you wanted to go to beauty school?"
Brendon breathes sharply, or he hiccups----something happens on the line, and then Ryan hears rustling, low whispers, and Brendon mumbling, "Shit," under his breath. "Are you fucked up?" he asks, and Ryan can't tell if there's urgency in his voice or not. Either way, it's not like it matters.
"I'm fine, Brendon," Ryan says, because he is. The words feel good on his tongue when he says them, so he repeats the sentiment. "I'm fine. Fine."
Brendon's snort sounds like it's ripped right out of him, and Ryan remembers how much they'd laughed as kids, how much Brendon had laughed, anyway, how freeing it was. He hasn't been thinking about Brendon, he hasn't, except for in this way where everything he has been thinking about has Brendon's stamp on it anyway.
"Do you need me to come get you?" Brendon asks, and if Ryan closes his eyes and listens, he can hear the vague strains of Brendon talking to someone as he putters around in his tiny little apartment. Ryan wonders if it's the guy from his office that he's talking to, the one that asked him on a date----and then remembers that he's not thinking about Brendon and reminds himself that he doesn't care.
"I'm at home," Ryan says after a silence that stretched longer that he'd really meant it to. "Where would you even bring me?" There are a hundred different ways Brendon could answer this question, but he doesn't. Ryan doesn't know if he's relieved or not.
"I've been working on that song again," Brendon says, finally. His silence stretched longer than Ryan's had, and Ryan blinks at the words, staring off into the dark nothingness of his apartment with his phone clutched to his ear and Candy's soft noises in the bedroom.
"Oh yeah?" he asks, swallowing a few times and wondering if there's any point in trying to get to the kitchen for some water without tripping or knocking something over and waking Candy up. His throat is just drier than he'd realized.
"Yeah," Brendon says. "I think I'm gonna write it in French."