...Have Real Locks (standalone)
Title: …Have Real Locks
Author: ivesia19
Rating: R
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
POV: 3rd limited
Summary: Even now, Brendon can’t help but feel that dizzying rush every time Ryan looks at him, and even though there’s Keltie, he doesn’t want to stop. He can’t stop.
Disclaimer: The boys belong to themselves (and possibly each other)
Author Notes: Sequel to Invisible Fences. Based of the prompts given by rock_my_town music_puppet and throwingxstones including ‘You have suffered enough, and warred with yourself, it's time that you won’, interrupted sex, and flashlight.
---
Brendon can’t sleep. It’s not that uncommon; sleep has never come easily to him. He can’t help but think that sleep is pointless - - a waste. Still, he knows that it’s necessary, so just like every night, he eventually retires to his own room and slinks down under the covers.
The sheets are cool and clean - - almost new. They’ve all been at the cabin for a couple of weeks, but Brendon has only slept in his own bed a handful of times, so the feel of them is alien against his skin.
He stretches out on the bed, and the mattress feels too big. The sheets feel scratchy - - unlike the ones that he’s used to, and he feels a little cold.
Brendon didn’t think to bring along a comforter when they had left for the cabin. He didn’t think to bring sheets up either, but Spencer had brought a couple of extra sets in case laundry seemed too daunting.
The sheets surrounding Brendon are a bright pink. They’re obnoxious, and Brendon thinks that they probably belonged to Spencer’s sister.
His room feels stuffy, and even with the window open, he feels overwhelmed with what he imagines is settling dust. Streams of moonlight filter through the open window, and even though Brendon doesn’t see the particles of dust floating, he can’t stay in the room. It’s too suffocating. The sheets are too scratchy, the walls are too bare, his bed is too empty.
Brendon tries not to think about that. He tries not to think about how while his bed is empty, Ryan’s is not. Still, despite his mental objections, pictures creep into his mind. Pictures of him. Pictures of her. Pictures of them - - them together, wrapped up in an endless expanse of skin.
He feels sick and kicks off the obnoxious bright pink sheets.
Moving quickly across the room, Brendon loses his footing against the pooled draping of the sheets. He stumbles a little bit, arms wavering about wildly before he regains his composure, and it hits him how silent the room is, how there’s no low chuckle at his clumsiness. Brendon doesn’t turn around towards the bed even though it’s his first instinct as soon as he’s back on solid ground. He knows that Ryan won’t be there.
He knows that the light twinkling eyes aren’t there.
His room is right next to Ryan’s, something that he never had to take advantage of. Neither he nor Ryan had told Jon and Spencer, but they didn’t necessarily hide it. In the morning, Brendon would always wake up in Ryan’s room, sated and warm, and every night, he followed Ryan when everyone went to bed.
They never talked about it; they still never talk about it. There was never any group meeting or heated declaration, but Brendon suspects that Spencer and Jon know. He doesn’t know how they couldn’t. He’s never been good at hiding his feelings, and with the way that he feels about Ryan…
They must know.
Brendon kicks the pooled sheets half-heartedly, and they don’t really move, but they fold over his foot, flop down, reminding him of how different they feel. How wrong.
He hasn’t been in his room long, probably less than an hour, but he can’t handle it - - can’t handle how his bed is pressed up against the wall shared with Ryan, and even though he doesn’t hear any noises, he doesn’t think that he can stay there.
The walls are pretty thin, and Brendon could hear the low murmur of Keltie and Ryan talking when he had first lain down in bed. His ears had strained, listening stupidly for his name, heart beating fast - - hoping to hear a mention of himself and to not at the same time.
He doesn’t want to cause problems, he really doesn’t, but he couldn’t help but fall in love with Ryan. Even now, Brendon can’t help but feel that dizzying rush every time Ryan looks at him, and even though there’s Keltie, he doesn’t want to stop. He can’t stop.
The air is stifling, and the thought of staying in this room all night is too much for Brendon, so he hurriedly pushes the sheets aside and rushes towards the door, opening it quickly and exhaling in a whoosh of breath.
The hallway is dark. Of course it is. Jon’s strange paranoia, fueled by Spencer’s desire to tease and tell stupid urban legends, ensures a total lockdown each night: every window is closed, every crack of light eliminated. Brendon turns, figuring that maybe he’ll go to the longue, maybe watch a movie on a low volume, but his feet stop abruptly on instinct.
He turns towards the door in front of him. Ryan’s door. His hand reaches out, ghosts over the panels of the wood, and his ears strain, but he can’t hear any sound from inside. Brendon shakes his head, silently laughing and aching at the same time over his actions before he wanders back down the hallway towards the kitchen.
---
The first time that Brendon had met Ryan, he had wanted to impress him. Ryan had seemed so cool - - so sure of who he was and what he wanted to be. Later, Brendon’ll find out that it was all a mask. Later, he’ll discover the true Ryan, but at that moment, when Brent led Brendon down Spencer’s grandma’s basement, Ryan was everything he wanted to be.
It took Ryan a while to warm up to Brendon, endure the careless touches, the unharnessed smiles, and Ryan was guarded.
From the beginning, it was clear that Ryan was in charge. That it was Ryan’s band, and that was what Ryan was to Brendon - - the band, their band. He was a purpose, something to look forward to, something to hold on to.
The first time that Brendon’s voice had slipped past him, louder than his guitar, stronger than the rasping baritone of Ryan, everything had changed.
There was a smile. A real one, one that Brendon had only seen Ryan direct towards Spencer, and then the words came, the ones that thrilled Brendon. It wasn’t anything poetic, or even remotely profound, but it was when Ryan entrusted Brendon with his words, with his thoughts, so to Brendon, it was important.
Even with his new position - - in the spotlight, the voice, the front man, Ryan was still the one in charge. He still had the words. He knew what came next. Brendon envied that - - Ryan’s knowledge, his self-awareness, so he burrowed closer to Ryan, hoping that maybe Ryan could help him.
---
The kitchen is dark when Brendon stumbles into it, the cool linoleum floor smooth in contrast to the fibers of the carpet. He flicks his finger out and turns on one of the lights, illuminating the small kitchen in a soft florescent glow as soon as his finger slides down with the dimmer.
There are a few dishes lying in the slotted drying rack from dinner, and in the sink, a glass pan is soaking in a no longer hot basin of water. All the bubbles have popped or dissolved, and the water is murky with residue of the bright red tomato sauce left over from the lasagna that he had made. Keltie had requested it, she had asked for some of Brendon’s famous lasagna. It is Ryan’s favorite dish too.
Even though it’s his specialty, his staple dish for guests or when he wants to show off, he kind of hates it.
Brendon reaches into the cupboard, his hands shaping around the base of one of the cool glasses, and when he pulls it out, he can’t help but smile. Unknowingly, he had pulled out one of Jon’s much loved Flintstones glasses, and Wilma smiled up at Brendon. He never knew why she stayed with Fred. He always yelled so loud.
He uses the water from the refrigerator, not because the tap water in the mountains is unsanitary, but merely out of habit. Brendon fills his glass and then adds more water to the filtered jug, mindful that other people might want cool water later. It was a little low when he pulled it out. Someone probably drank some and didn’t think to add more.
The water is soothing as he drinks it - - almost calming, but the lights of the kitchen, even dimmed down low, are bugging Brendon, so he crosses the room to switch off the artificial glow. Moving back towards the sink, Brendon opens the blinds to the window, but instead of the steady stream of moonlight pooling like Brendon had expected, a strong beam of light flits up around the room before disappearing, passing over Brendon briefly in its journey.
Brendon’s brow furrows, confused, and he leans over the sink to press his forehead against the glass pane to see better. Just visible in the faint light, Brendon can see a figure hunched over, sitting on one of the large boulders in the backyard. The line of the back, the way the figure flicks his hair out of his eyes, it’s all familiar to Brendon, but he can’t quite figure out why Ryan’s sitting by himself outside at night.
In his hands, Ryan is holding a flashlight, and the fast motions of his hands make the light squiggle over trees, rocks, and parts of the house. Brendon watches for a moment as Ryan arches the light up in the darkness, moving his head with the bowed stream, before it passes once more across the kitchen window.
The light stills as it floods over Brendon’s face, and he knows that Ryan sees him. He squints against the brightness, but doesn’t put his hands up to block the streams. After a moment, light still focused on him, Brendon turns and walks towards the side door of the kitchen that leads out to the backyard.
As soon as Brendon opens the door and steps out into the night, the beam of light hits him and follows each of his steps as he nears closer and closer to Ryan.
“Can’t sleep?” Brendon asks, hesitating a moment. The rock isn’t that big, not really, but he thinks it’s stupid that he’s worrying about space. Especially with Ryan. It hasn’t ever stopped him before, even when there was a sleeping girlfriend only a couple of feet away. He sits down on the rock next to Ryan and their thighs touch, a warmth instantly spreading through Brendon upon the tiniest bit of contact, and yeah, he should have anticipated that.
“I knew that you wouldn’t be able to,” Ryan answers quietly.
It’s such a Ryan-like response. It doesn’t really answer anything and it’s cryptic, purposely vague, and Brendon’s more than a little sick of that. Ryan’s so difficult to read sometimes, so hard to figure out, but that doesn’t mean that Brendon will ever stop trying.
“I flashed your room,” Ryan says. “With light,” he clarifies. “I wanted you to come out, but I’ve been sitting here a while.”
Brendon frowns. “I was in the kitchen getting a glass of water.”
Ryan nods a little, looking off to the side. “I thought maybe you just were ignoring me,” he says and his voice is carefully neutral, but Brendon has known him long enough to hear the underlying hurt, and it makes him frustrated at Ryan, at how he wants everything, at how everything is always about him.
“Ryan,” Brendon starts, but Ryan interrupts.
“I don’t think you know how difficult this is for me. With Keltie being here. It’s so hard, Bren. I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”
And his sentence is just as open-ended, just as cryptic as always, and Brendon can’t help but wonder if this is referring to him or Keltie.
---
Sometimes, when Brendon was younger, his sister would have slumber parties. The girls would stay up late into the night: talking, eating pizza, watching movies. They were at an age where little grade school Brendon seemed adorable, and sometimes he was lucky enough to be invited into their world for a little bit.
He would sit there and listen to the girls talk, watch them braid each others hair, and let them experiment with butterfly clips on his own. Brendon loved when his sister had slumber parties. There was always a bunch of food and laughter, and someone was always willing to play a game with him. But he was only allowed to be in the basement for a little bit, and then his mother always pulled him up to bed.
Even though he was supposed to be sleeping, Brendon would always sneak back down the stairs, overstepping the squeaky step third from the end, and hide out on the stairwell to the basement to listen.
Usually late at night, fueled by the seemingly secretive blanket of darkness, the girls would talk about what Brendon learned was their favorite topic: boys. Not just any boy, not just a fling or a quick make out partner, but love. He would listen as each girl would talk about her dream boy.
“I want him to be tall.”
“Blonde.”
“Rich. A doctor.”
Brendon would listen, and sometimes nod along. Intelligence sounded good. The quarterback of the football team was a little less important.
He wished that he was down there with his sister and her friends so that he could share what he wanted. Who he wanted, but he never dared.
Brendon heard a lot those dark nights on the stairs, but one thing that one of his sister’s friends had said stuck with him long after he crawled back into bed.
“When you fall in love, you forget what you wanted. You forget the list of qualities, the fact that you wanted him to be at least 6’2. When you fall in love, all you want is him.”
---
“I’m glad that you’re here,” Ryan says, leaning up against Brendon, and Brendon’s aware of every inch of their skin that is touching. Ryan turns his head and ducks, noses against Brendon’s neck, and when he talks, his lips brush over Brendon’s skin. “I know it hasn’t been that long, but it feels…It feels like it’s been a lot longer than two days.”
Ryan’s words stop, but his mouth keeps moving, placing small kisses along Brendon’s neck, and instead of pulling away like he should, Brendon arches his neck back to allow Ryan more room.
At some point, Ryan must have put down the flashlight, because when Brendon stretches out his legs, his foot hits against the hard metal until it spins, spiraling the light, stopping to illuminate the two of them. The brightness of the flashlight stops Ryan’s progress, and Brendon can feel him smile against his throat.
“Thank goodness Jon has that stupid window thing,” Ryan says, nipping at Brendon’s neck as he works his way up. Ryan’s hands smooth up Brendon’s chest and stop to cradle his jaw, one thumb brushing across Brendon’s lower lip. Ryan pulls back and watches with wide eyes as his finger glides across Brendon’s mouth, traces the curve. “It’s safer out here. Probably not really, but it feels like it is.”
“What?” Brendon asks, his upper lip curling over Ryan’s thumbnail as he asks the question.
Ryan shakes his head. “I wish that it could be simple. I wish that it could just be you and me and we wouldn’t have to worry about anything else. I wish that everything wasn’t so difficult.”
Brendon sighs, his eyes closing, and he jerks away from Ryan, fingers falling, ghosting down his face. “You don’t mean that,” he whispers, and his words are gruff and difficult to get out.
“Of course I do,” Ryan argues, and even in the dim outline of the beam of light from the flashlight, Brendon can see the vehement curl of his lips around the words, how much he means it. How much he thinks he means it.
“If you wanted just me, you could have it. Ryan,” Brendon breathes, and he hates how eager his voice sounds, how hopeful even though he already knows how the conversation will end. “It can be just you and me. It can.”
“Brendon, you know it can’t. We’ve talked about this.” Ryan says the words he always says - - he reads his lines, and Brendon hates it; he hates how Ryan thinks that this is all they can have: locked rooms and darkened corners. He hates it, and he wants more.
“You don’t need Keltie,” Brendon tries. “You don’t need a cover. Ryan, you don’t need to hide this.”
“You don’t understand, Brendon,” Ryan says, and his voice sounds tired and strained. Brendon wishes that for once Ryan would tell him, explain to him in perfect detail what his reasoning is, but that’s not how Ryan is. “I don’t need her. We need her.” Brendon’s mouth opens in objection but snaps shut as Ryan’s hand traces the line of Brendon’s jaw. “We need her to keep this.”
---
The first time that Brendon met Keltie, it was in a rush. Everything was so hectic with the MTV VMAs, and he really didn’t have time to talk with each one of the dancers. He had to learn the routine, freak out silently, and pray to a God that was still most likely a little wary of Brendon, so he couldn’t socialize.
He did, however, have enough time to glance over during one of the band breaks, one of the breaks where Brendon was over in a corner trying to learn the choreography perfectly, and see a thin blonde girl gracefully fold down next to Ryan.
---
It amazes Brendon every time they kiss just how perfectly their lips fit together, how easily they fall into rhythm, the gentle glide of tongues, the tiny flickers and wandering hands.
Ryan always starts out slow. Even when he’s worked up, breathing heavy, limbs thrumming, every inch of him just asking for something, asking for Brendon, he always starts out with a gentle press of lips.
Brendon knows that he shouldn’t give in so easily, he knows that he should hold back and make Ryan talk, make him finally listen to everything Brendon wants to say, but when Ryan leans in, eyes swooping down, eyelashes fluttering, Brendon can’t help but surge forward to meet him. His hands wrap around Ryan, and the boulder really isn’t that comfortable, so Brendon swings one of his legs around to straddle Ryan’s lap. The added weight can’t be helping the unyielding hardness of the boulder, but Brendon doesn’t care, and rocks against Ryan as their tongues slide against each other.
A muffled noise escapes Ryan as Brendon grinds down, and Brendon pulls off when Ryan’s hands tighten on his upper arms. “Sorry,” Ryan apologizes. “It just hurts a little.”
Brendon nods, and grabs Ryan’s hand, and he can’t stop now, not when Ryan’s hair is falling and his eyes are dark. Not when his lips are bruised and his fingers are warm against his own. He looks around wildly, and only a little bit of the yard is illuminated by the stream of light from the flashlight still on the ground.
Pulling Ryan along after him, Brendon makes his way across the slightly damp grass, and when he reaches the side of the cabin, he pushes Ryan until his back is flush up against the wall, and he crowds him, immediately joining their lips together, hands falling down to ease Ryan’s pajama pants down until he can feel Ryan, warm and hard against his thigh, only the thin fabric of Brendon’s sweats separating them.
“Off,” Ryan huffs against Brendon as his hands try to untie the stupid strings, and when the knot remains sturdy, Ryan bites Brendon’s collarbone in frustration.
“Calm down,” Brendon chastises, laughing lightly, but Ryan bucks against him, making his laughter die as a new surge of want courses through him.
“I want you naked now,” Ryan says, and his voice is taking on that edge that Brendon loves: that husky deep baritone that he always tips Brendon off. “I want you to fuck me,” he pleads. “I need to feel you inside me.”
Brendon wants to say something, wants to make a jab at her, wants to remind Ryan of his bed, at who is waiting for him in his bed, at how she could never do this for him, but he can’t. Instead, he nods and kisses Ryan again hot and full of everything he has to offer. “Yes,” he breathes. “Always. Always.”
They still have their shirts on, the stilted glide of cotton, and Brendon wants to pull them off, wants to feel Ryan’s skin against his, but when Ryan’s hand reaches down and tightly grasps at the base of Brendon’s cock, he moans, closes his eyes, and arches back, jutting his hip out, giving himself to Ryan.
Ryan’s fingers leave Brendon’s cock, and when Brendon’s eyes open, he can see Ryan’s cheeks hallowing around his fingers as he wets them before bringing them back to prod at his entrance. “I want you to fuck me so that I can see you,” Ryan says, voice shaky as Brendon watches Ryan’s fingers twist in and out. “I want to see you.”
Brendon nods and kisses Ryan, and he can’t help but wonder how it is with Keltie. Can’t help but wonder if Ryan closes his eyes shut and thinks of other things, thinks of him when he’s with her. With him, Ryan’s eyes are always open, always too big, always saying too much, but Brendon can never look away because it’s the only time he has that.
The night is quiet, so quiet, and all Brendon can hear is Ryan’s labored breath as he works in another finger. All he can see in the outline of light is Ryan’s open mouth, his hooded eyes, and all he can feel is where they’re touching. “Ryan,” Brendon breathes, kissing along any exposed skin. I love you he thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Not when she’s just inside the cabin, not like this.
---
When Brendon realized, it didn’t take him by surprise. It wasn’t some epiphany or revelation. He didn’t have to sit down and think about it or have someone point it out to him. It was always there.
Always. Since the day that he first saw Ryan, and one day, he just knew.
---
Ryan arches, his upper back hitting the side of the cabin, and his arms come up to wrap around Brendon, one leg sliding against Brendon’s thigh until Brendon gets what Ryan’s asking, and he curls it around him, hoisting Ryan up until Brendon is pressing him against the wall, legs tightly wrapped around him.
Their kisses are hungry now, desperate, and Ryan is making little noises as Brendon’s tongue traces over the roof of his mouth, ending each kiss with a sharp nip of teeth. He loves this, loves when Ryan is like this, so close to him, so open, and Brendon doesn’t want to rush it. He knows that he could just thrust up into Ryan, pound him against the wall, but Ryan doesn’t deserve that. Brendon doesn’t deserve that.
“Brendon,” Ryan whines against him. “Please.”
For once, Brendon wants to hear something real out of Ryan’s mouth, something that actually means something when their skin is sliding, when they are hard against each other. He kisses Ryan tenderly, lovingly, trying to coax it out of him, get him to say what Brendon needs to hear.
“So much,” Ryan manages as he ruts against Brendon. “This is… so much - you are…. I want. You and…. I think-” His words, those broken fragments halt immediately as they both hear the kitchen door swing open, and Brendon instinctually wraps his body even further around Ryan, holding Ryan’s legs around him even as Ryan struggles to slide down.
The stream of light, that single beam of daylight moves, and Brendon panics when he hears a voice garble something unintelligible before asking unbelievingly, “Ryan? Brendon?” and then the flashlight drops, the light bounces, and Brendon hears Spencer swear.
“Shit,” Ryan grumbles and slides off of Brendon, hurriedly feels around for his pants and pulls them on.
Brendon stands there a minute, aware of Ryan putting his clothes back on next to him, aware of Spencer shocked somewhere in the darkness, and his heart is beating so, so fast. His pants are shoved into his hands, and he puts them on mechanically, following Ryan as an arm tugs him into the kitchen.
The light of the kitchen is bright, and he winces at the vast difference from the night. In this lighting, Brendon can fully see the nervous look on Ryan’s face. He watches as Ryan’s eyes dart to the door, but it remains closed. Spencer is still out there somewhere reeling.
“This is so bad, so bad,” Ryan mumbles, and he begins to pace. Brendon sinks down into a chair.
“It’s not like he didn’t suspect.”
“Suspicion is different from witnessing,” Ryan cries, still pacing, and Brendon’s arm reaches out to firmly grasp Ryan’s hand, and he pulls Ryan towards him, legs opening for Ryan to slide in between.
“Hey,” Brendon says, hand wrapping around Ryan’s neck to bring their foreheads down together. “It’ll be okay,” he promises.
Ryan takes a deep breath, the air breezing across Brendon’s face as he exhales, and he nods, rocking his head against Brendon’s forehead. “Do you think we have to talk to him?” Ryan asks, voice still wavering.
“I will,” Brendon says. “If you can’t do it, I will.”
“God, thank you,” Ryan says, kissing Brendon quickly, as if he’s afraid that Spencer will come in and get even more traumatized. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. God, Brendon,” he repeats, and kisses Brendon once more before hurriedly scurrying out of the room, leaving Brendon alone in the bright kitchen, staring at the door, waiting for Spencer to come in.
---
When Keltie started showing up more and more often, Brendon was hurt. Of course he was.
He tried to seek comfort in other place. From other people, but it was never enough. No one was ever enough, and he always found himself pulled back to Ryan as if by some invisible force.
If he was honest with himself, Brendon never really tried that hard to break free.
---
When Spencer opens the door to the kitchen, he’s carrying the flashlight, but it’s turned off - - extinguished.
“I’ve always suspected something,” he muses, tone light, and Brendon is more than just a little taken aback. “Ever since the beginning. It would be stupid of me to think that nothing had ever happened between you two.”
Brendon doesn’t know what to say, but suddenly, it seems important for Spencer to know that it’s not just what he had just seen. It’s not just stuttered breaths and hot skin. “It’s just,” he starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish it. Even after all this time, it’s still a mystery to him. “It’s just Ryan,” he says, hoping that Spencer will get it.
Spencer’s eyes are bright, almost too much so for Brendon to bear, but he doesn’t look away. “Keltie,” is all he says, but Brendon can hear the sympathy there - - that damn sympathy. “Brendon,” he sighs, “what about Keltie?”
“What about me?” Brendon demands, but his voice holds no sharp edge, just the defeated wilting of submission. “What about Ryan? What about me?”
Crossing the kitchen, Spencer sits down in the chair next to Brendon, the flashlight making a loud noise as it hits the wooden table even though Spencer cradles it down. “It isn’t fair to you, Brendon.” He sighs. “I know Ryan. I’ve known him forever and this is how he is. He wants everything. He wants and he wants and he wants some more.” His eyes dim. “I don’t know if anything could ever be enough for him.”
And Brendon’s pathetically relieved, so relieved that Spencer said anything and not anyone, but still, he knows what Spencer is saying. “I can’t help it,” Brendon resigns. “I’ve tried, but I can’t. I love him.” His voice cracks, just a little, but Spencer doesn’t interrupt and gives Brendon time to recover. “Despite it all, I love him too much - - need him too much to not have him. I’d rather have this than nothing.”
“Brendon,” Spencer says sadly, but Brendon shakes his head.
“I know what I’m doing, Spencer,” he argues.
“Do you?”
And no, he really doesn’t. He doesn’t know what the future will bring, or even what Ryan will be like the next morning, but he knows that he can’t close the door completely and give up hope. Not on Ryan.
“I’ll be fine.”
Sequel (Final Part): Bring Me Light
Other Stories and Standalones
Author: ivesia19
Rating: R
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
POV: 3rd limited
Summary: Even now, Brendon can’t help but feel that dizzying rush every time Ryan looks at him, and even though there’s Keltie, he doesn’t want to stop. He can’t stop.
Disclaimer: The boys belong to themselves (and possibly each other)
Author Notes: Sequel to Invisible Fences. Based of the prompts given by rock_my_town music_puppet and throwingxstones including ‘You have suffered enough, and warred with yourself, it's time that you won’, interrupted sex, and flashlight.
---
Brendon can’t sleep. It’s not that uncommon; sleep has never come easily to him. He can’t help but think that sleep is pointless - - a waste. Still, he knows that it’s necessary, so just like every night, he eventually retires to his own room and slinks down under the covers.
The sheets are cool and clean - - almost new. They’ve all been at the cabin for a couple of weeks, but Brendon has only slept in his own bed a handful of times, so the feel of them is alien against his skin.
He stretches out on the bed, and the mattress feels too big. The sheets feel scratchy - - unlike the ones that he’s used to, and he feels a little cold.
Brendon didn’t think to bring along a comforter when they had left for the cabin. He didn’t think to bring sheets up either, but Spencer had brought a couple of extra sets in case laundry seemed too daunting.
The sheets surrounding Brendon are a bright pink. They’re obnoxious, and Brendon thinks that they probably belonged to Spencer’s sister.
His room feels stuffy, and even with the window open, he feels overwhelmed with what he imagines is settling dust. Streams of moonlight filter through the open window, and even though Brendon doesn’t see the particles of dust floating, he can’t stay in the room. It’s too suffocating. The sheets are too scratchy, the walls are too bare, his bed is too empty.
Brendon tries not to think about that. He tries not to think about how while his bed is empty, Ryan’s is not. Still, despite his mental objections, pictures creep into his mind. Pictures of him. Pictures of her. Pictures of them - - them together, wrapped up in an endless expanse of skin.
He feels sick and kicks off the obnoxious bright pink sheets.
Moving quickly across the room, Brendon loses his footing against the pooled draping of the sheets. He stumbles a little bit, arms wavering about wildly before he regains his composure, and it hits him how silent the room is, how there’s no low chuckle at his clumsiness. Brendon doesn’t turn around towards the bed even though it’s his first instinct as soon as he’s back on solid ground. He knows that Ryan won’t be there.
He knows that the light twinkling eyes aren’t there.
His room is right next to Ryan’s, something that he never had to take advantage of. Neither he nor Ryan had told Jon and Spencer, but they didn’t necessarily hide it. In the morning, Brendon would always wake up in Ryan’s room, sated and warm, and every night, he followed Ryan when everyone went to bed.
They never talked about it; they still never talk about it. There was never any group meeting or heated declaration, but Brendon suspects that Spencer and Jon know. He doesn’t know how they couldn’t. He’s never been good at hiding his feelings, and with the way that he feels about Ryan…
They must know.
Brendon kicks the pooled sheets half-heartedly, and they don’t really move, but they fold over his foot, flop down, reminding him of how different they feel. How wrong.
He hasn’t been in his room long, probably less than an hour, but he can’t handle it - - can’t handle how his bed is pressed up against the wall shared with Ryan, and even though he doesn’t hear any noises, he doesn’t think that he can stay there.
The walls are pretty thin, and Brendon could hear the low murmur of Keltie and Ryan talking when he had first lain down in bed. His ears had strained, listening stupidly for his name, heart beating fast - - hoping to hear a mention of himself and to not at the same time.
He doesn’t want to cause problems, he really doesn’t, but he couldn’t help but fall in love with Ryan. Even now, Brendon can’t help but feel that dizzying rush every time Ryan looks at him, and even though there’s Keltie, he doesn’t want to stop. He can’t stop.
The air is stifling, and the thought of staying in this room all night is too much for Brendon, so he hurriedly pushes the sheets aside and rushes towards the door, opening it quickly and exhaling in a whoosh of breath.
The hallway is dark. Of course it is. Jon’s strange paranoia, fueled by Spencer’s desire to tease and tell stupid urban legends, ensures a total lockdown each night: every window is closed, every crack of light eliminated. Brendon turns, figuring that maybe he’ll go to the longue, maybe watch a movie on a low volume, but his feet stop abruptly on instinct.
He turns towards the door in front of him. Ryan’s door. His hand reaches out, ghosts over the panels of the wood, and his ears strain, but he can’t hear any sound from inside. Brendon shakes his head, silently laughing and aching at the same time over his actions before he wanders back down the hallway towards the kitchen.
---
The first time that Brendon had met Ryan, he had wanted to impress him. Ryan had seemed so cool - - so sure of who he was and what he wanted to be. Later, Brendon’ll find out that it was all a mask. Later, he’ll discover the true Ryan, but at that moment, when Brent led Brendon down Spencer’s grandma’s basement, Ryan was everything he wanted to be.
It took Ryan a while to warm up to Brendon, endure the careless touches, the unharnessed smiles, and Ryan was guarded.
From the beginning, it was clear that Ryan was in charge. That it was Ryan’s band, and that was what Ryan was to Brendon - - the band, their band. He was a purpose, something to look forward to, something to hold on to.
The first time that Brendon’s voice had slipped past him, louder than his guitar, stronger than the rasping baritone of Ryan, everything had changed.
There was a smile. A real one, one that Brendon had only seen Ryan direct towards Spencer, and then the words came, the ones that thrilled Brendon. It wasn’t anything poetic, or even remotely profound, but it was when Ryan entrusted Brendon with his words, with his thoughts, so to Brendon, it was important.
Even with his new position - - in the spotlight, the voice, the front man, Ryan was still the one in charge. He still had the words. He knew what came next. Brendon envied that - - Ryan’s knowledge, his self-awareness, so he burrowed closer to Ryan, hoping that maybe Ryan could help him.
---
The kitchen is dark when Brendon stumbles into it, the cool linoleum floor smooth in contrast to the fibers of the carpet. He flicks his finger out and turns on one of the lights, illuminating the small kitchen in a soft florescent glow as soon as his finger slides down with the dimmer.
There are a few dishes lying in the slotted drying rack from dinner, and in the sink, a glass pan is soaking in a no longer hot basin of water. All the bubbles have popped or dissolved, and the water is murky with residue of the bright red tomato sauce left over from the lasagna that he had made. Keltie had requested it, she had asked for some of Brendon’s famous lasagna. It is Ryan’s favorite dish too.
Even though it’s his specialty, his staple dish for guests or when he wants to show off, he kind of hates it.
Brendon reaches into the cupboard, his hands shaping around the base of one of the cool glasses, and when he pulls it out, he can’t help but smile. Unknowingly, he had pulled out one of Jon’s much loved Flintstones glasses, and Wilma smiled up at Brendon. He never knew why she stayed with Fred. He always yelled so loud.
He uses the water from the refrigerator, not because the tap water in the mountains is unsanitary, but merely out of habit. Brendon fills his glass and then adds more water to the filtered jug, mindful that other people might want cool water later. It was a little low when he pulled it out. Someone probably drank some and didn’t think to add more.
The water is soothing as he drinks it - - almost calming, but the lights of the kitchen, even dimmed down low, are bugging Brendon, so he crosses the room to switch off the artificial glow. Moving back towards the sink, Brendon opens the blinds to the window, but instead of the steady stream of moonlight pooling like Brendon had expected, a strong beam of light flits up around the room before disappearing, passing over Brendon briefly in its journey.
Brendon’s brow furrows, confused, and he leans over the sink to press his forehead against the glass pane to see better. Just visible in the faint light, Brendon can see a figure hunched over, sitting on one of the large boulders in the backyard. The line of the back, the way the figure flicks his hair out of his eyes, it’s all familiar to Brendon, but he can’t quite figure out why Ryan’s sitting by himself outside at night.
In his hands, Ryan is holding a flashlight, and the fast motions of his hands make the light squiggle over trees, rocks, and parts of the house. Brendon watches for a moment as Ryan arches the light up in the darkness, moving his head with the bowed stream, before it passes once more across the kitchen window.
The light stills as it floods over Brendon’s face, and he knows that Ryan sees him. He squints against the brightness, but doesn’t put his hands up to block the streams. After a moment, light still focused on him, Brendon turns and walks towards the side door of the kitchen that leads out to the backyard.
As soon as Brendon opens the door and steps out into the night, the beam of light hits him and follows each of his steps as he nears closer and closer to Ryan.
“Can’t sleep?” Brendon asks, hesitating a moment. The rock isn’t that big, not really, but he thinks it’s stupid that he’s worrying about space. Especially with Ryan. It hasn’t ever stopped him before, even when there was a sleeping girlfriend only a couple of feet away. He sits down on the rock next to Ryan and their thighs touch, a warmth instantly spreading through Brendon upon the tiniest bit of contact, and yeah, he should have anticipated that.
“I knew that you wouldn’t be able to,” Ryan answers quietly.
It’s such a Ryan-like response. It doesn’t really answer anything and it’s cryptic, purposely vague, and Brendon’s more than a little sick of that. Ryan’s so difficult to read sometimes, so hard to figure out, but that doesn’t mean that Brendon will ever stop trying.
“I flashed your room,” Ryan says. “With light,” he clarifies. “I wanted you to come out, but I’ve been sitting here a while.”
Brendon frowns. “I was in the kitchen getting a glass of water.”
Ryan nods a little, looking off to the side. “I thought maybe you just were ignoring me,” he says and his voice is carefully neutral, but Brendon has known him long enough to hear the underlying hurt, and it makes him frustrated at Ryan, at how he wants everything, at how everything is always about him.
“Ryan,” Brendon starts, but Ryan interrupts.
“I don’t think you know how difficult this is for me. With Keltie being here. It’s so hard, Bren. I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”
And his sentence is just as open-ended, just as cryptic as always, and Brendon can’t help but wonder if this is referring to him or Keltie.
---
Sometimes, when Brendon was younger, his sister would have slumber parties. The girls would stay up late into the night: talking, eating pizza, watching movies. They were at an age where little grade school Brendon seemed adorable, and sometimes he was lucky enough to be invited into their world for a little bit.
He would sit there and listen to the girls talk, watch them braid each others hair, and let them experiment with butterfly clips on his own. Brendon loved when his sister had slumber parties. There was always a bunch of food and laughter, and someone was always willing to play a game with him. But he was only allowed to be in the basement for a little bit, and then his mother always pulled him up to bed.
Even though he was supposed to be sleeping, Brendon would always sneak back down the stairs, overstepping the squeaky step third from the end, and hide out on the stairwell to the basement to listen.
Usually late at night, fueled by the seemingly secretive blanket of darkness, the girls would talk about what Brendon learned was their favorite topic: boys. Not just any boy, not just a fling or a quick make out partner, but love. He would listen as each girl would talk about her dream boy.
“I want him to be tall.”
“Blonde.”
“Rich. A doctor.”
Brendon would listen, and sometimes nod along. Intelligence sounded good. The quarterback of the football team was a little less important.
He wished that he was down there with his sister and her friends so that he could share what he wanted. Who he wanted, but he never dared.
Brendon heard a lot those dark nights on the stairs, but one thing that one of his sister’s friends had said stuck with him long after he crawled back into bed.
“When you fall in love, you forget what you wanted. You forget the list of qualities, the fact that you wanted him to be at least 6’2. When you fall in love, all you want is him.”
---
“I’m glad that you’re here,” Ryan says, leaning up against Brendon, and Brendon’s aware of every inch of their skin that is touching. Ryan turns his head and ducks, noses against Brendon’s neck, and when he talks, his lips brush over Brendon’s skin. “I know it hasn’t been that long, but it feels…It feels like it’s been a lot longer than two days.”
Ryan’s words stop, but his mouth keeps moving, placing small kisses along Brendon’s neck, and instead of pulling away like he should, Brendon arches his neck back to allow Ryan more room.
At some point, Ryan must have put down the flashlight, because when Brendon stretches out his legs, his foot hits against the hard metal until it spins, spiraling the light, stopping to illuminate the two of them. The brightness of the flashlight stops Ryan’s progress, and Brendon can feel him smile against his throat.
“Thank goodness Jon has that stupid window thing,” Ryan says, nipping at Brendon’s neck as he works his way up. Ryan’s hands smooth up Brendon’s chest and stop to cradle his jaw, one thumb brushing across Brendon’s lower lip. Ryan pulls back and watches with wide eyes as his finger glides across Brendon’s mouth, traces the curve. “It’s safer out here. Probably not really, but it feels like it is.”
“What?” Brendon asks, his upper lip curling over Ryan’s thumbnail as he asks the question.
Ryan shakes his head. “I wish that it could be simple. I wish that it could just be you and me and we wouldn’t have to worry about anything else. I wish that everything wasn’t so difficult.”
Brendon sighs, his eyes closing, and he jerks away from Ryan, fingers falling, ghosting down his face. “You don’t mean that,” he whispers, and his words are gruff and difficult to get out.
“Of course I do,” Ryan argues, and even in the dim outline of the beam of light from the flashlight, Brendon can see the vehement curl of his lips around the words, how much he means it. How much he thinks he means it.
“If you wanted just me, you could have it. Ryan,” Brendon breathes, and he hates how eager his voice sounds, how hopeful even though he already knows how the conversation will end. “It can be just you and me. It can.”
“Brendon, you know it can’t. We’ve talked about this.” Ryan says the words he always says - - he reads his lines, and Brendon hates it; he hates how Ryan thinks that this is all they can have: locked rooms and darkened corners. He hates it, and he wants more.
“You don’t need Keltie,” Brendon tries. “You don’t need a cover. Ryan, you don’t need to hide this.”
“You don’t understand, Brendon,” Ryan says, and his voice sounds tired and strained. Brendon wishes that for once Ryan would tell him, explain to him in perfect detail what his reasoning is, but that’s not how Ryan is. “I don’t need her. We need her.” Brendon’s mouth opens in objection but snaps shut as Ryan’s hand traces the line of Brendon’s jaw. “We need her to keep this.”
---
The first time that Brendon met Keltie, it was in a rush. Everything was so hectic with the MTV VMAs, and he really didn’t have time to talk with each one of the dancers. He had to learn the routine, freak out silently, and pray to a God that was still most likely a little wary of Brendon, so he couldn’t socialize.
He did, however, have enough time to glance over during one of the band breaks, one of the breaks where Brendon was over in a corner trying to learn the choreography perfectly, and see a thin blonde girl gracefully fold down next to Ryan.
---
It amazes Brendon every time they kiss just how perfectly their lips fit together, how easily they fall into rhythm, the gentle glide of tongues, the tiny flickers and wandering hands.
Ryan always starts out slow. Even when he’s worked up, breathing heavy, limbs thrumming, every inch of him just asking for something, asking for Brendon, he always starts out with a gentle press of lips.
Brendon knows that he shouldn’t give in so easily, he knows that he should hold back and make Ryan talk, make him finally listen to everything Brendon wants to say, but when Ryan leans in, eyes swooping down, eyelashes fluttering, Brendon can’t help but surge forward to meet him. His hands wrap around Ryan, and the boulder really isn’t that comfortable, so Brendon swings one of his legs around to straddle Ryan’s lap. The added weight can’t be helping the unyielding hardness of the boulder, but Brendon doesn’t care, and rocks against Ryan as their tongues slide against each other.
A muffled noise escapes Ryan as Brendon grinds down, and Brendon pulls off when Ryan’s hands tighten on his upper arms. “Sorry,” Ryan apologizes. “It just hurts a little.”
Brendon nods, and grabs Ryan’s hand, and he can’t stop now, not when Ryan’s hair is falling and his eyes are dark. Not when his lips are bruised and his fingers are warm against his own. He looks around wildly, and only a little bit of the yard is illuminated by the stream of light from the flashlight still on the ground.
Pulling Ryan along after him, Brendon makes his way across the slightly damp grass, and when he reaches the side of the cabin, he pushes Ryan until his back is flush up against the wall, and he crowds him, immediately joining their lips together, hands falling down to ease Ryan’s pajama pants down until he can feel Ryan, warm and hard against his thigh, only the thin fabric of Brendon’s sweats separating them.
“Off,” Ryan huffs against Brendon as his hands try to untie the stupid strings, and when the knot remains sturdy, Ryan bites Brendon’s collarbone in frustration.
“Calm down,” Brendon chastises, laughing lightly, but Ryan bucks against him, making his laughter die as a new surge of want courses through him.
“I want you naked now,” Ryan says, and his voice is taking on that edge that Brendon loves: that husky deep baritone that he always tips Brendon off. “I want you to fuck me,” he pleads. “I need to feel you inside me.”
Brendon wants to say something, wants to make a jab at her, wants to remind Ryan of his bed, at who is waiting for him in his bed, at how she could never do this for him, but he can’t. Instead, he nods and kisses Ryan again hot and full of everything he has to offer. “Yes,” he breathes. “Always. Always.”
They still have their shirts on, the stilted glide of cotton, and Brendon wants to pull them off, wants to feel Ryan’s skin against his, but when Ryan’s hand reaches down and tightly grasps at the base of Brendon’s cock, he moans, closes his eyes, and arches back, jutting his hip out, giving himself to Ryan.
Ryan’s fingers leave Brendon’s cock, and when Brendon’s eyes open, he can see Ryan’s cheeks hallowing around his fingers as he wets them before bringing them back to prod at his entrance. “I want you to fuck me so that I can see you,” Ryan says, voice shaky as Brendon watches Ryan’s fingers twist in and out. “I want to see you.”
Brendon nods and kisses Ryan, and he can’t help but wonder how it is with Keltie. Can’t help but wonder if Ryan closes his eyes shut and thinks of other things, thinks of him when he’s with her. With him, Ryan’s eyes are always open, always too big, always saying too much, but Brendon can never look away because it’s the only time he has that.
The night is quiet, so quiet, and all Brendon can hear is Ryan’s labored breath as he works in another finger. All he can see in the outline of light is Ryan’s open mouth, his hooded eyes, and all he can feel is where they’re touching. “Ryan,” Brendon breathes, kissing along any exposed skin. I love you he thinks, but he doesn’t say it. Not when she’s just inside the cabin, not like this.
---
When Brendon realized, it didn’t take him by surprise. It wasn’t some epiphany or revelation. He didn’t have to sit down and think about it or have someone point it out to him. It was always there.
Always. Since the day that he first saw Ryan, and one day, he just knew.
---
Ryan arches, his upper back hitting the side of the cabin, and his arms come up to wrap around Brendon, one leg sliding against Brendon’s thigh until Brendon gets what Ryan’s asking, and he curls it around him, hoisting Ryan up until Brendon is pressing him against the wall, legs tightly wrapped around him.
Their kisses are hungry now, desperate, and Ryan is making little noises as Brendon’s tongue traces over the roof of his mouth, ending each kiss with a sharp nip of teeth. He loves this, loves when Ryan is like this, so close to him, so open, and Brendon doesn’t want to rush it. He knows that he could just thrust up into Ryan, pound him against the wall, but Ryan doesn’t deserve that. Brendon doesn’t deserve that.
“Brendon,” Ryan whines against him. “Please.”
For once, Brendon wants to hear something real out of Ryan’s mouth, something that actually means something when their skin is sliding, when they are hard against each other. He kisses Ryan tenderly, lovingly, trying to coax it out of him, get him to say what Brendon needs to hear.
“So much,” Ryan manages as he ruts against Brendon. “This is… so much - you are…. I want. You and…. I think-” His words, those broken fragments halt immediately as they both hear the kitchen door swing open, and Brendon instinctually wraps his body even further around Ryan, holding Ryan’s legs around him even as Ryan struggles to slide down.
The stream of light, that single beam of daylight moves, and Brendon panics when he hears a voice garble something unintelligible before asking unbelievingly, “Ryan? Brendon?” and then the flashlight drops, the light bounces, and Brendon hears Spencer swear.
“Shit,” Ryan grumbles and slides off of Brendon, hurriedly feels around for his pants and pulls them on.
Brendon stands there a minute, aware of Ryan putting his clothes back on next to him, aware of Spencer shocked somewhere in the darkness, and his heart is beating so, so fast. His pants are shoved into his hands, and he puts them on mechanically, following Ryan as an arm tugs him into the kitchen.
The light of the kitchen is bright, and he winces at the vast difference from the night. In this lighting, Brendon can fully see the nervous look on Ryan’s face. He watches as Ryan’s eyes dart to the door, but it remains closed. Spencer is still out there somewhere reeling.
“This is so bad, so bad,” Ryan mumbles, and he begins to pace. Brendon sinks down into a chair.
“It’s not like he didn’t suspect.”
“Suspicion is different from witnessing,” Ryan cries, still pacing, and Brendon’s arm reaches out to firmly grasp Ryan’s hand, and he pulls Ryan towards him, legs opening for Ryan to slide in between.
“Hey,” Brendon says, hand wrapping around Ryan’s neck to bring their foreheads down together. “It’ll be okay,” he promises.
Ryan takes a deep breath, the air breezing across Brendon’s face as he exhales, and he nods, rocking his head against Brendon’s forehead. “Do you think we have to talk to him?” Ryan asks, voice still wavering.
“I will,” Brendon says. “If you can’t do it, I will.”
“God, thank you,” Ryan says, kissing Brendon quickly, as if he’s afraid that Spencer will come in and get even more traumatized. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. God, Brendon,” he repeats, and kisses Brendon once more before hurriedly scurrying out of the room, leaving Brendon alone in the bright kitchen, staring at the door, waiting for Spencer to come in.
---
When Keltie started showing up more and more often, Brendon was hurt. Of course he was.
He tried to seek comfort in other place. From other people, but it was never enough. No one was ever enough, and he always found himself pulled back to Ryan as if by some invisible force.
If he was honest with himself, Brendon never really tried that hard to break free.
---
When Spencer opens the door to the kitchen, he’s carrying the flashlight, but it’s turned off - - extinguished.
“I’ve always suspected something,” he muses, tone light, and Brendon is more than just a little taken aback. “Ever since the beginning. It would be stupid of me to think that nothing had ever happened between you two.”
Brendon doesn’t know what to say, but suddenly, it seems important for Spencer to know that it’s not just what he had just seen. It’s not just stuttered breaths and hot skin. “It’s just,” he starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish it. Even after all this time, it’s still a mystery to him. “It’s just Ryan,” he says, hoping that Spencer will get it.
Spencer’s eyes are bright, almost too much so for Brendon to bear, but he doesn’t look away. “Keltie,” is all he says, but Brendon can hear the sympathy there - - that damn sympathy. “Brendon,” he sighs, “what about Keltie?”
“What about me?” Brendon demands, but his voice holds no sharp edge, just the defeated wilting of submission. “What about Ryan? What about me?”
Crossing the kitchen, Spencer sits down in the chair next to Brendon, the flashlight making a loud noise as it hits the wooden table even though Spencer cradles it down. “It isn’t fair to you, Brendon.” He sighs. “I know Ryan. I’ve known him forever and this is how he is. He wants everything. He wants and he wants and he wants some more.” His eyes dim. “I don’t know if anything could ever be enough for him.”
And Brendon’s pathetically relieved, so relieved that Spencer said anything and not anyone, but still, he knows what Spencer is saying. “I can’t help it,” Brendon resigns. “I’ve tried, but I can’t. I love him.” His voice cracks, just a little, but Spencer doesn’t interrupt and gives Brendon time to recover. “Despite it all, I love him too much - - need him too much to not have him. I’d rather have this than nothing.”
“Brendon,” Spencer says sadly, but Brendon shakes his head.
“I know what I’m doing, Spencer,” he argues.
“Do you?”
And no, he really doesn’t. He doesn’t know what the future will bring, or even what Ryan will be like the next morning, but he knows that he can’t close the door completely and give up hope. Not on Ryan.
“I’ll be fine.”
Sequel (Final Part): Bring Me Light
Other Stories and Standalones