We'll Reinvent Love [3/10]
Title: We’ll Reinvent Love [3/10]
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He’s reminded again of how fragile Ryan is. There’s no muscle, no protective padding, just thin skin stretched tight over thin bones, and the world’s way too harsh for such a delicate person. And right now, Ryan’s curling against his chest, burrowing into his neck, and Brendon wants him to stay there forever where he’s safe, where Brendon can fight off his demons for him.
They’re signed. Jesus Christ, they’re fucking signed.
Brendon can’t sit still on the plane. Ryan, next to him, is writing, of course. Spencer’s asleep. Brent is reading. Brendon fidgets, stares out the window, feels like he could just jump out the emergency exit and fly all the way to Maryland himself.
They’re staying in a hotel. The label is putting them up in a fucking hotel. Brendon still can’t believe it.
They have two rooms, joined by a door, and the first thing Brendon does is jump on the bed for a good five minutes. Ryan perches on the other bed and stares up at him with one of those trademark almost-smiles.
That night, they sleep in their separate beds, and Ryan is so damn close to him, but there’s no way he’s brave enough to close that tiny gap and crawl into Ryan’s bed and maybe wrap an arm around him and spend the night smelling his hair instead of sleeping. So he’s alone.
They start recording the very next day. Brendon stands in front of the microphone wearing these ridiculously huge headphones, and he sings Ryan’s words for all he’s got, wishing they could tell him something about Ryan he doesn’t already know. He gets the gist of it, angst and cheating and there’s a couple songs he’s sure are about Ryan’s dad. But still, he Just. Doesn’t. Understand. But he thinks maybe that’s one of the reasons he loves Ryan.
They celebrate their first day of recording by smoking a lot of weed, and then they watch a movie and go to bed. Brendon can’t sleep. He’s sitting in a chair, looking out the window at the stars (they’re brighter here) when he first hears Ryan whimper. He whips his head around, and Ryan’s twitching a little, and in the faint red glow from the digital clock, Brendon can see that his face is all twisted up. Ryan cries out again, and because it’s making him hurt to see Ryan hurt, he pads softly over to the bed, his heart pounding.
“Ry,” he says, shaking Ryan’s shoulder gently.
“No,” gasps Ryan, and sits bolt upright. His pale skin is gleaming with sweat, his hair is sticking up in impossible spikes, and Brendon thinks he’s perfect.
“Nightmare?” whispers Brendon, sitting on the bed, and then Ryan’s hugging him way too tightly and sobbing into his shoulder.
He’s reminded again of how fragile Ryan is. There’s no muscle, no protective padding, just thin skin stretched tight over thin bones, and the world’s way too harsh for such a delicate person. And right now, Ryan’s curling against his chest, burrowing into his neck, and Brendon wants him to stay there forever where he’s safe, where Brendon can fight off his demons for him.
Ryan stops crying after a while, just shudders there in Brendon’s arms, chest heaving and breath shaking. Brendon lies down, wiggles his way under the covers, and pulls Ryan back against his chest. And Ryan doesn’t protest, just squirms back against him and yawns, so Brendon wraps one arm tight around his waist and inhales happily.
“Thanks Bren,” whispers Ryan.
The next night, without asking or being asked, Ryan crawls into Brendon’s bed, snuggling close, like it’s the most normal and natural thing in the world. Same thing the next night, and the next. And every night Brendon falls asleep smiling.
But suddenly, it’s their final night in the hotel, their album is recorded, and they’ll be flying out the next morning for a “Meet Panic!” party at Pete Wentz’s house. Which is kind of incredible to think about, really.
Spencer and Brent go out with one of the recording techs. Brendon and Ryan stay in. They order room service and a movie, and they lie in Brendon’s bed and mute the movie and talk.
“What’s your favorite word?” asks Ryan, and it’s such a Ryan question that Brendon laughs.
“Supercalifragiilisticexpialidocious,” he says, maybe a little flippantly and maybe a little untruthfully. “What’s your favorite time of day?”
“Late afternoon in summer and fall, when the light is kind of golden and peaceful,” says Ryan lazily. “Favorite song lyrics?”
“There Is A Light That Never Goes Out, by the Smiths. Place you want to visit?”
“Paris. Most embarrassing memory?”
“Truth or dare in fifth grade. I can’t even tell you, it’s too traumatic. Um…I can’t think of anything.”
Ryan smiles and worms his way closer, so his head is tucked under Brendon’s chin. Brendon closes his eyes, trying to just absorb as much of that smell as he can. Almost unconsciously, he rubs his foot gently against Ryan’s, and Ryan looks up at him, those big eyes shining in the flickering light from the TV. Brendon reaches out carefully and pushes a piece of Ryan’s hair behind his ear. He thinks maybe he can hear his own heart beating.
And then Ryan kisses him.
Holy shit, Ryan just kissed him.
Wow.
He kisses back, marveling at how soft Ryan’s lips are and how perfectly the two of them just fit together like the puzzle pieces in that song he’s embarrassed to admit he likes. And he really must have it bad, because it’s been years since kissing made him think of song lyrics.
But it’s Ryan, so maybe he should have expected that.
Ryan’s hand is cupping Brendon’s cheek, and his thumb is stroking the skin there in sweet little circles, and a tiny part of Brendon’s mind wonders idly if this means he’s gay but then he stores that question for some other time. They pull apart for a moment, rest their foreheads together so their lips are only barely separated and their breath mingles, and Ryan traces his fingers down from Brendon’s cheekbone to his jaw to his mouth, running an index finger gently over the bottom lip, and Brendon doesn’t think anyone’s ever touched him so nicely. There’s no other word for it, it’s just nice, ice cream nice and fluffy puppy nice and finding rare records in secondhand stores nice. But then Ryan replaces his finger with his mouth, and that’s just as wonderful.
The kiss isn’t demanding. It’s not deep or passionate and it’s not turning Brendon on. It’s just lazy and soft and curious and intimate beyond words. Brendon’s tongue is curling between Ryan’s lips, exploring every dip and curve of his mouth, and his hands are exploring Ryan’s torso, and he can’t believe how lucky he is to be allowed to touch Ryan.
He’s just so smooth and soft, Brendon can’t help himself. He’s stroking every bit of Ryan he can find, the hollow behind his ear and the tiny little hairs at the nape of his neck and the protrusion of his collarbone, and Ryan’s sliding his hand under Brendon’s shirt and rubbing gently at his stomach and chest, leaving tingles wherever his hands go.
Brendon rolls over on his back and pulls Ryan on top of him, and he barely notices the weight but the warmth is so, so perfect. It’s like he’s got his own little blanket of warm bony guitarist. And those hipbones really should hurt, but instead they’re kinda turning him on, and when Ryan shifts so he can kiss Brendon easier the movement sparks some delicious friction, and, yeah, Brendon’s definitely turned on now.
And then the door handle rattles and Ryan practically jumps off him, quick fumbles for the remote and takes off the mute, and Brendon bounds over to the bathroom while Ryan goes to open the door, because it would be a very, very bad thing for anyone to see his boner right now.
“Hey,” hears Brendon as he leans against the closed bathroom door. Spencer and Brent are back. Shit.
He shuffles over to the mirror, looks at his own flushed face and puffy lips and touseled hair and confused eyes. Shit.
Even with his thirty-minute shower, Brent and Spencer are still there when Brendon emerges from the bathroom. They’re all settled on Brendon’s bed, eating chips and laughing at the movie. Brendon avoids eye contact with Ryan, just sits on the bed next to Brent and tries to act normal. This shouldn’t be this difficult. I mean, it happened before, right? And they were fine then.
But he and Ryan don’t say a word to each other for the rest of the night, and Ryan sleeps in his own bed, and when Brendon’s sitting awake in the chair again and he hears Ryan whimpering, he stays put and tries to ignore how much it hurts to hear Ryan hurting.
Chapter Four
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He’s reminded again of how fragile Ryan is. There’s no muscle, no protective padding, just thin skin stretched tight over thin bones, and the world’s way too harsh for such a delicate person. And right now, Ryan’s curling against his chest, burrowing into his neck, and Brendon wants him to stay there forever where he’s safe, where Brendon can fight off his demons for him.
They’re signed. Jesus Christ, they’re fucking signed.
Brendon can’t sit still on the plane. Ryan, next to him, is writing, of course. Spencer’s asleep. Brent is reading. Brendon fidgets, stares out the window, feels like he could just jump out the emergency exit and fly all the way to Maryland himself.
They’re staying in a hotel. The label is putting them up in a fucking hotel. Brendon still can’t believe it.
They have two rooms, joined by a door, and the first thing Brendon does is jump on the bed for a good five minutes. Ryan perches on the other bed and stares up at him with one of those trademark almost-smiles.
That night, they sleep in their separate beds, and Ryan is so damn close to him, but there’s no way he’s brave enough to close that tiny gap and crawl into Ryan’s bed and maybe wrap an arm around him and spend the night smelling his hair instead of sleeping. So he’s alone.
They start recording the very next day. Brendon stands in front of the microphone wearing these ridiculously huge headphones, and he sings Ryan’s words for all he’s got, wishing they could tell him something about Ryan he doesn’t already know. He gets the gist of it, angst and cheating and there’s a couple songs he’s sure are about Ryan’s dad. But still, he Just. Doesn’t. Understand. But he thinks maybe that’s one of the reasons he loves Ryan.
They celebrate their first day of recording by smoking a lot of weed, and then they watch a movie and go to bed. Brendon can’t sleep. He’s sitting in a chair, looking out the window at the stars (they’re brighter here) when he first hears Ryan whimper. He whips his head around, and Ryan’s twitching a little, and in the faint red glow from the digital clock, Brendon can see that his face is all twisted up. Ryan cries out again, and because it’s making him hurt to see Ryan hurt, he pads softly over to the bed, his heart pounding.
“Ry,” he says, shaking Ryan’s shoulder gently.
“No,” gasps Ryan, and sits bolt upright. His pale skin is gleaming with sweat, his hair is sticking up in impossible spikes, and Brendon thinks he’s perfect.
“Nightmare?” whispers Brendon, sitting on the bed, and then Ryan’s hugging him way too tightly and sobbing into his shoulder.
He’s reminded again of how fragile Ryan is. There’s no muscle, no protective padding, just thin skin stretched tight over thin bones, and the world’s way too harsh for such a delicate person. And right now, Ryan’s curling against his chest, burrowing into his neck, and Brendon wants him to stay there forever where he’s safe, where Brendon can fight off his demons for him.
Ryan stops crying after a while, just shudders there in Brendon’s arms, chest heaving and breath shaking. Brendon lies down, wiggles his way under the covers, and pulls Ryan back against his chest. And Ryan doesn’t protest, just squirms back against him and yawns, so Brendon wraps one arm tight around his waist and inhales happily.
“Thanks Bren,” whispers Ryan.
The next night, without asking or being asked, Ryan crawls into Brendon’s bed, snuggling close, like it’s the most normal and natural thing in the world. Same thing the next night, and the next. And every night Brendon falls asleep smiling.
But suddenly, it’s their final night in the hotel, their album is recorded, and they’ll be flying out the next morning for a “Meet Panic!” party at Pete Wentz’s house. Which is kind of incredible to think about, really.
Spencer and Brent go out with one of the recording techs. Brendon and Ryan stay in. They order room service and a movie, and they lie in Brendon’s bed and mute the movie and talk.
“What’s your favorite word?” asks Ryan, and it’s such a Ryan question that Brendon laughs.
“Supercalifragiilisticexpialidocious,” he says, maybe a little flippantly and maybe a little untruthfully. “What’s your favorite time of day?”
“Late afternoon in summer and fall, when the light is kind of golden and peaceful,” says Ryan lazily. “Favorite song lyrics?”
“There Is A Light That Never Goes Out, by the Smiths. Place you want to visit?”
“Paris. Most embarrassing memory?”
“Truth or dare in fifth grade. I can’t even tell you, it’s too traumatic. Um…I can’t think of anything.”
Ryan smiles and worms his way closer, so his head is tucked under Brendon’s chin. Brendon closes his eyes, trying to just absorb as much of that smell as he can. Almost unconsciously, he rubs his foot gently against Ryan’s, and Ryan looks up at him, those big eyes shining in the flickering light from the TV. Brendon reaches out carefully and pushes a piece of Ryan’s hair behind his ear. He thinks maybe he can hear his own heart beating.
And then Ryan kisses him.
Holy shit, Ryan just kissed him.
Wow.
He kisses back, marveling at how soft Ryan’s lips are and how perfectly the two of them just fit together like the puzzle pieces in that song he’s embarrassed to admit he likes. And he really must have it bad, because it’s been years since kissing made him think of song lyrics.
But it’s Ryan, so maybe he should have expected that.
Ryan’s hand is cupping Brendon’s cheek, and his thumb is stroking the skin there in sweet little circles, and a tiny part of Brendon’s mind wonders idly if this means he’s gay but then he stores that question for some other time. They pull apart for a moment, rest their foreheads together so their lips are only barely separated and their breath mingles, and Ryan traces his fingers down from Brendon’s cheekbone to his jaw to his mouth, running an index finger gently over the bottom lip, and Brendon doesn’t think anyone’s ever touched him so nicely. There’s no other word for it, it’s just nice, ice cream nice and fluffy puppy nice and finding rare records in secondhand stores nice. But then Ryan replaces his finger with his mouth, and that’s just as wonderful.
The kiss isn’t demanding. It’s not deep or passionate and it’s not turning Brendon on. It’s just lazy and soft and curious and intimate beyond words. Brendon’s tongue is curling between Ryan’s lips, exploring every dip and curve of his mouth, and his hands are exploring Ryan’s torso, and he can’t believe how lucky he is to be allowed to touch Ryan.
He’s just so smooth and soft, Brendon can’t help himself. He’s stroking every bit of Ryan he can find, the hollow behind his ear and the tiny little hairs at the nape of his neck and the protrusion of his collarbone, and Ryan’s sliding his hand under Brendon’s shirt and rubbing gently at his stomach and chest, leaving tingles wherever his hands go.
Brendon rolls over on his back and pulls Ryan on top of him, and he barely notices the weight but the warmth is so, so perfect. It’s like he’s got his own little blanket of warm bony guitarist. And those hipbones really should hurt, but instead they’re kinda turning him on, and when Ryan shifts so he can kiss Brendon easier the movement sparks some delicious friction, and, yeah, Brendon’s definitely turned on now.
And then the door handle rattles and Ryan practically jumps off him, quick fumbles for the remote and takes off the mute, and Brendon bounds over to the bathroom while Ryan goes to open the door, because it would be a very, very bad thing for anyone to see his boner right now.
“Hey,” hears Brendon as he leans against the closed bathroom door. Spencer and Brent are back. Shit.
He shuffles over to the mirror, looks at his own flushed face and puffy lips and touseled hair and confused eyes. Shit.
Even with his thirty-minute shower, Brent and Spencer are still there when Brendon emerges from the bathroom. They’re all settled on Brendon’s bed, eating chips and laughing at the movie. Brendon avoids eye contact with Ryan, just sits on the bed next to Brent and tries to act normal. This shouldn’t be this difficult. I mean, it happened before, right? And they were fine then.
But he and Ryan don’t say a word to each other for the rest of the night, and Ryan sleeps in his own bed, and when Brendon’s sitting awake in the chair again and he hears Ryan whimpering, he stays put and tries to ignore how much it hurts to hear Ryan hurting.
Chapter Four