We'll Reinvent Love [6/10]
Title: We'll Reinvent Love [6/10]
Rating: NC-17
Summary:All he can think about is how his heart is melting, because that’s Ryan, Ryan blushing as he picks up his pants from the floor, Ryan awkwardly hopping on one foot trying to hold the blanket and put on pants at the same time, Ryan’s hair all mussed from sleep and, well, that, and Ryan’s smell still lingering on his pillow.
Brendon drifts slowly into consciousness, becoming only gradually aware of the smooth warm skin pressed up against his side, of Ryan’s head buried in the crook of his neck. He smiles, eyes still closed, and takes in a deep, blissful breath of Ryan-scented air.
Ryan stirs next to him, stirs then stiffens, and his eyes snap open.
Brendon looks at him, and they hover like that for an eternity, eyes locked together, and Brendon knows, this is it.
“Hey,” Ryan says softly, and Brendon lets out the breath he doesn’t remember holding. It’ll be okay, then. He’s not running for the door, at least.
“Hey,” he replies. His voice cracks. He smiles tentatively, and Ryan smiles back, and that’s definitely a good thing.
“Why is there a shirt in the driveway?” he hears Jon’s voice inquire from outside. Oh, shit.
He looks at Ryan again. A giggle bubbles up through Ryan’s lips, Brendon snorts, and suddenly they’re both pressing hands over their mouths, and Brendon’s stomach hurts from the effort of holding back the noise.
Even when they get themselves under control, Brendon feels like his face might split in two from smiling.
“I should go,” Ryan whispers, and Brendon nods, and neither of them move, they just stare at each other some more.
Brendon kisses him, light and questioning, and Ryan kisses back.
“I should go,” Ryan says, more breathily this time, thumb still stroking Brendon’s cheek. He nods again, not trusting words at the moment. Ryan sighs and pulls the blanket off the bed to cover himself. Brendon can see him wince when he leans forward.
But really, all he can think about is how his heart is melting, because that’s Ryan, Ryan blushing as he picks up his pants from the floor, Ryan awkwardly hopping on one foot trying to hold the blanket and put on pants at the same time, Ryan’s hair all mussed from sleep and, well, that, and Ryan’s smell still lingering on his pillow.
Ryan grabs Brendon’s shirt off the floor and slips it on. Brendon watches reverently from the bed, wanting, aching, for Ryan to stay, but he heads for the door, raising a hand in a shy wave.
But he pauses with one hand on the doorknob, looks back to where Brendon’s still staring. He darts over to the bed before Brendon can blink, brushes a soft kiss on Brendon’s cheek, and whispers, “Best sex of my life, by the way.” And then he’s gone, shutting the door carefully behind him.
Brendon jumps to his feet and does a victory dance, smile too big for his face.
*****
Ryan’s expression is carefully composed, staring pointedly down into his oatmeal, when Brendon goes downstairs for breakfast. Spencer’s grimacing into his cell phone and Jon’s buzzing around the room looking for a flip-flop, and Brendon feels like it shouldn’t be this normal, the world should be shaking and people should be singing and birds should be chirping.
But every time Brendon moves, the bruises on his hipbones remind him that it wasn’t a dream, and he smiles.
*****
Brendon really loves Europe. They stay in hotels in Europe.
Only problem is, Zack just randomly throws room keys at them, and on the first night, Brendon ends up with Jon, which was not part of the Plan.
But Jon was right, the jet lag hits hard, and they go to sleep at nine. Brendon barely has five seconds to wish he was cuddled next to Ryan before his eyes droop closed.
Brendon wakes up early and slips down to the lobby for breakfast. Ryan’s already there, sipping his coffee and scribbling on hotel stationary.
“Hey,” Brendon says. Ryan looks up only briefly, and then his eyes flicker back down to his coffee.
“Missed you last night,” Ryan mumbles, low and indistinct and questioning. Brendon’s heart does a happy little dance in his chest, because that’s a fucking promise.
“Me too,” he answers. His face is starting to hurt from smiling so much.
Spencer comes down to breakfast just a minute later, and the rest of the day is torture. Brendon’s fingers itch constantly, aching to reach out and tuck Ryan’s hair behind his ear, aching to massage the jetlagged tension out of his neck, aching to just touch.
They don’t have a moment alone for the whole fucking day, and it gets so bad that Brendon wants to shout at people for existing.
The worst part is when Ryan starts doing Brendon’s makeup. Brendon’s sitting on the counter, Ryan standing between his knees so his body heat and his breath are right there, and Brendon wants to scream, because he’s so close.
“Hold fucking still, you’re so fucking twitchy,” Ryan hisses, touchy like he always gets before shows.
“I still don’t get the makeup,” Jon mutters from the couch.
“Mmrf,” comes Spencer’s grunt of agreement.
Ryan huffs exasperatedly, his breath a gentle puff on Brendon’s face, and Brendon can’t help but squirm.
“I’m gonna go check out the crowd,” announces Jon.
“Mmrf.”
The second they’re out the door, the room is silent and electric. Brendon opens his eyes ever so slowly to find Ryan staring right back at him. There’s a brief clatter as the eyeliner falls from Ryan’s hand, and then all Brendon can hear is the blood rushing in his ears and the pounding of his heart as they kiss, re-exploring each others mouths after what feels like a lifetime.
Fate still hates them, though. That night, Brendon’s roomed with Spencer again. The night after, it’s Jon.
They steal moments together during the day, sneaking off to bathrooms and closets, and it’s not romantic and it’s not sexy and it’s terrifying, because someone could walk in at any second. But it’s oxygen.
The third day, they sneak off to the venue’s boiler room right after sound check. Ryan’s wrapped around Brendon even before the door closes, pressing greedy little kisses over his cheeks and nose and eyes and neck before landing on his lips, and Brendon starts to believe that maybe Ryan needs this as much as he does. When he jerks Ryan off, pressed against the dingy cinderblock wall, Ryan bites into Brendon’s shoulder to silence himself as he comes, and Brendon sneaks off to the bathroom five times that night, just to stare at the bruise in the mirror.
*****
The fourth night, they finally get matching room keys.
When they crawl into bed and settle next to each other, their lips meet languidly, unhurried and careful. It feels like they kiss for hours, just exploring, hands caressing and stroking. It keeps hitting Brendon how breathtakingly beautiful Ryan is close up, the planes and angles of his face all new in this intimate perspective, and Brendon’s vision goes all fuzzy and dreamy just trying to soak him in.
It’s almost an accident that their clothes end up peeled away, layer by layer, almost an accident that Brendon’s hard, and when they have sex, it’s gentle and deliberate and slow, so that Brendon can watch every shift in Ryan’s expression, revel in every brush of sweat-slick skin. He kisses Ryan through his orgasm, swallowing every moan into his own mouth, breathing out Ryan’s name in return.
“Hey, Ry,” Brendon smiles, a while later, as they’re lying in bed, Ryan’s fingers running absentmindedly over Brendon’s hair.
“Mmph?”
“Want to take a bubble bath?” He raises an eyebrow, and Ryan looks half bemused and half exasperated.
“You’re a ten year old girl, anyone ever tell you that?”
“You. Constantly. But, seriously?”
“Yeah, sure, what the fuck.”
So Brendon hops out of bed and runs the water. He’s already in by the time Ryan comes through the door, scrubbing a hand through his hair and yawning.
“’Bout time, slowpoke,” Brendon teases. Ryan just stares down at him, this delicate half-smile curving his lips.
“You’re adorable. You know that, Bren?” he says softly, before sliding into the water. He crawls up so he’s straddling Brendon and kisses him, slow and deep, and Brendon has no idea what he did to deserve this. He runs his fingers up the ridges of Ryan’s spine and curls them around Ryan’s neck to pull him closer.
His brain is screaming I love you. He manages to hold it in.
They kiss like that for an hour, until the bubbles are gone and the water’s cold and Brendon’s breathless and his fingers are all pruny, and then they turn on some History Channel special about the Vikings and climb into bed and kiss some more.
“Ry, are you ticklish?” Brendon asks lazily.
“Nope. Not at all.”
Brendon gives his side an experimental pinch, and Ryan squeaks and wriggles away.
“Liar, you filthy little liar!” Brendon giggles, and he pounces, tickling Ryan’s stomach mercilessly until Ryan topples off the bed, breathless and helpless with laughter. When he climbs back under the covers, he’s smiling, carefree, eyes sparkling, his expression open and unguarded like Brendon’s rarely seen him, his hair touseled and damp from the bath and his cheeks flushed and glowing. Brendon’s breath catches in his throat. He starts to let himself hope.
They wake up tangled together, Ryan’s arm thrown over Brendon’s waist, Brendon’s leg hooked between Ryan’s thighs, grasping at their last moments of intimacy.
*****
“Why can’t we tell the band?” Brendon whispers one morning, wrapping his arms around Ryan’s waist from behind as Ryan brushes his teeth.
Ryan glares at him in the mirror and spits out a mouthful of foam.
“Please tell me you’re kidding?” he snaps.
“No, seriously.”
“Duh, Brendon. Because then they start making awkward jokes, and as much as they pretend to be okay with it they’ll feel really weird whenever we all hang out, and because they feel awkward we’ll feel awkward, and nobody can keep their mouths shut around here so everyone would find out, and-“
“Fine,” says Brendon, taken aback by the vehemence in Ryan’s voice. “It would just be nice, you know, if I could kiss you in public for once.”
“Sorry,” Ryan says shortly. “It’s not worth it.”
Brendon can’t help hearing that as you’re not worth it.
Later that day, they do an interview.
“So, Brendon, a lot of the fans want to know. Anyone special in your life these days?” the interviewer asks, sugary-sweet. Brendon wants to punch her.
“Nobody worth talking about,” he says sourly, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Ryan’s face go limp with hurt. Brendon sort of hates himself.
“What the fuck was that all about?” Ryan spits when they’re safely back at the hotel.
“You said it, not me,” Brendon says, equally venomous.
“Bren-“ Ryan says, whines almost, and Brendon spins around to face him. “I can’t lose the band, Bren,” Ryan says simply. Brendon knows that’s the last word.
*****
They have almost three complete days in Paris, and no show the first night, with the leaves just beginning to glow yellow around the edges and the air starting to bite in the evenings. The first afternoon, Spencer and Jon decide to do the European thing and go to a soccer game. Ryan decides to go to a museum, and because Brendon’s a pathetic little puppy dog who would follow Ryan to the ends of the earth, he goes along.
The Louvre is dead boring. It’s too crowded and too big. They can’t get remotely close to the Mona Lisa even when they find it, and the rest of the place is full of dull-colored portraits of bleeding saints and fly-covered pig heads. Brendon decides to play tour guide.
“Here, we have a real masterpiece,” he whispers in Ryan’s ear, as Ryan stops to consider a painting. “This is by some old dead guy, and the subject is some other dead guy. Notice the strikingly depressing usage of monotone browns and greys.”
Ryan looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or be scandalized.
“Bren, it’s a Caravaggio,” he hisses.
“Let me guess. He’s old, and he’s dead.”
Ryan smiles, wide and honest and amused in spite of himself, and grabs Brendon’s hand, entwining their fingers. All the boring paintings in the world are worth it, for that smile.
*****
They’re somewhere in Germany, and Brendon’s barely awake after three orgasms, tracing soft mindless patterns into Ryan’s hip, when he feels Ryan’s lips move against his neck.
“Bren?”
“Mm?”
“How the fuck did this happen?” He wriggles slightly away, rolling onto his side so he can look Brendon in the eye.
“Good question?” Brendon not-really-answers, and some explanation would be nice, because he was so close to asleep.
“I mean…” Ryan trails off, picking at the sheet, and when he looks back up his eyes are carefully blank in that way nobody but Ryan can ever manage. “This is just sex, right?” And he’s not asking, he’s convincing, his voice thin and terrified.
“Yeah, Ry. It’s just sex,” Brendon echoes.
“We’ll stop if they ever suspect anything.”
“Yeah.” And he pulls Ryan close again, but they both know they’re lying.
Because whatever comes out of Ryan’s mouth when he’s having one of these quiet freakouts about the band, it’s not what his eyes say when he wakes up with Brendon’s breath in his hair and his hand over Brendon’s heart.
*****
“Fucker gave us the stinkeye,” Ryan mutters under his breath. “Wanker, they call them here, I think.”
“Good golly, old chap, I do say, bloody hell, I have a rather large stick up my arse,” Brendon says, in his best pompous British accent, sticking out his tongue at the retreating back of the old man who had just glared at their intertwined fingers. Ryan giggles and gives Brendon’s hand a squeeze.
“Ooh, look,” he says, and drags Brendon over to yet another stall. London flea markets seem to carry exactly Ryan’s brand of weird vintage ruffly things. Ryan rummages in a bin and pulls out a flowered scarf.
“It’ll clash perfectly with everything you own,” Brendon says dryly. Ryan scowls. “Not that you won’t look perfect anyway,” Brendon amends. Ryan smiles blindingly and kisses him on the nose.
“Aren’t we feeling precious today,” Brendon says, before nuzzling into Ryan’s neck.
“Shut up, just because you make me go all mushy,” mumbles Ryan, and then he seems to realize what he said, and whips around to pay for his scarf.
“Did you mean that?” Brendon asks, once they’re on their way again, Ryan still flushed pink.
“Maybe.”
“Good,” Brendon smiles, and reaches out to take Ryan’s hand.
“You just…I feel alive, when you’re around,” Ryan says shyly, still refusing to look at Brendon. Brendon can’t answer; he’s too busy smiling.
*****
“Where the fuck have you guys been? We were supposed to be on five minutes ago,” Spencer grumbles.
“Sorry, got lost,” says Ryan stiffly. It’s the feeblest excuse ever, and Spencer looks like he’s going to call them on it, but Zack shows up.
“Okay. Last show! Let’s get this over with,” he says, and starts shooing them onstage.
Ryan doesn’t meet Brendon’s eyes when they play their guitar parts facing each other.
They’re not great, but even so, the adrenaline rush is the same as always, and they run offstage to tumultuous applause. Brendon bounces on the tips of his toes and hums at the mirror as he dabs off some sweat.
“What was that shit?” says Ryan, slamming the door as he enters. Brendon freezes. Spencer and Jon stop mid-conversation.
“What do you mean?” says Brendon, trying to keep his voice level.
“That was awful! Did you not warm up or something?” Ryan spits.
No, I was busy with your dick, Brendon doesn’t say. Instead, he mumbles, “I warmed up.”
“Well, that was shitty,” Ryan says, his voice low and accusatory, and he storms out of the room.
Brendon tries to hold back the tears.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Jon says.
“Ignore him,” says Spencer gruffly. “I think he worries everything’s gonna get taken away from him if we hit one bad note.”
Brendon thinks, that again.
He finds Ryan in the bathroom, sitting on the sink with tears streaming down his face.
“Sorry,” he whispers when Brendon comes in.
“You’d better be.”
“They can’t find out. They can’t suspect anything,” Ryan says, a desperate edge making his voice crack.
“I know. I get it. The band. I know,” Brendon says defeatedly. Ryan doesn’t answer, just slides off the sink and buries his face in Brendon’s chest.
*****
The next day, they say goodbye to Jon at the airport and fly home.
“It smells like feet and rotten Chinese food,” says Spencer, as soon as they walk in the door of the condo.
“I think maybe we should’ve cleaned up before we left,” Brendon agrees.
“I have Febreeze,” Ryan volunteers, and while he runs around spraying every surface, Spencer and Brendon settle down to play Halo.
“I’m making nachos, anyone else want some?” calls Ryan from the refrigerator, a few hours later, when the house has been successfully de-odored. Everything now smells overpoweringly of lavender, but it could be worse.
“You’re gonna made a great housewife someday, Ry,” Spencer grins. “Hah, gotcha, motherfucker,” he crows at the TV, and Brendon curses.
The phone rings, and Ryan darts over to pick it up. There’s a long pause, broken only by the sounds of battle onscreen.
“What? When?” Ryan croaks. Brendon looks up. “Thank you,” he whispers, and hangs up.
“The fuck’s going on, Ry?” says Spencer sharply.
Ryan turns to him slowly, like he’s moving underwater. His face is ghastly white, his chest heaving. His lips move soundlessly for a second. Brendon’s chest goes tight and panicky.
“My dad’s dead,” Ryan says, monotone, staring intently at a spot on the wall.
There’s a rushing noise in Brendon’s ears and his heartbeat seems to have gone painfully irregular. Ryan turns around, stiff and deliberate, and heads for the stairs.
“Wait, no, let us help-“ says Spencer quickly, but Ryan cuts him off with a shake of his head.
“I just want to be alone,” he says, still in that deadly monotone. They watch him go, stunned into silence.
“Shit,” Spencer breathes. Brendon nods. That about sums it up.
“I should try to talk to him,” says Spencer after a long pause. He follows Ryan upstairs.
Brendon’s chest aches, helpless and panicked, as he watches Spencer go. He wants to be the one doing the comforting. He wants to wrap Ryan up in his arms and kiss it all away. Fuck lifelong friendships, he’s the one who makes Ryan smile these days.
It’s stupid and it’s petty and it’s completely fucking irrelevant, but he hates Spencer for having a part of Ryan that he can’t have.
He goes upstairs. In the hallway, Spencer’s carefully shutting Ryan’s door.
“What happened?” Brendon asks. Spencer just shakes his head. “I could try,” Brendon says hopefully.
“No, I don’t think there’s anything you can do for him,” Spencer says. “I’m just gonna go to bed, I’m jetlagged.”
“It’s only midnight, it’s early,” says Brendon pointlessly, but Spencer’s already closing his door behind him. Then Spencer’s first sentence hits him, and hot tears prick at his eyes. “Fuck you,” he growls at the door.
Brendon paces on his balcony for half an hour, anxious and close to tears. He can’t think straight.
His feet carry him to Ryan’s door before he can make an official decision. “Ry?” he calls softly, and knocks. When there’s no answer, he lets himself in.
Ryan’s curled on his bed, back to the door, and Brendon’s reminded forcefully of that very first afternoon.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Go away,” comes Ryan’s voice.
“I just though…you know. That maybe you’d want to talk to someone?” Brendon asks, and Ryan finally turns around. His face is collapsed and pinched, and he somehow looks smaller than usual, but he’s not crying.
“If I didn’t want to talk to Spencer, what makes you think you’d be any different?” he says viciously, his eyes cold and hard, unreadable and unreachable.
Brendon turns around before Ryan can see the tears. Because, yeah, who was he kidding.
Chapter Seven
Rating: NC-17
Summary:All he can think about is how his heart is melting, because that’s Ryan, Ryan blushing as he picks up his pants from the floor, Ryan awkwardly hopping on one foot trying to hold the blanket and put on pants at the same time, Ryan’s hair all mussed from sleep and, well, that, and Ryan’s smell still lingering on his pillow.
Brendon drifts slowly into consciousness, becoming only gradually aware of the smooth warm skin pressed up against his side, of Ryan’s head buried in the crook of his neck. He smiles, eyes still closed, and takes in a deep, blissful breath of Ryan-scented air.
Ryan stirs next to him, stirs then stiffens, and his eyes snap open.
Brendon looks at him, and they hover like that for an eternity, eyes locked together, and Brendon knows, this is it.
“Hey,” Ryan says softly, and Brendon lets out the breath he doesn’t remember holding. It’ll be okay, then. He’s not running for the door, at least.
“Hey,” he replies. His voice cracks. He smiles tentatively, and Ryan smiles back, and that’s definitely a good thing.
“Why is there a shirt in the driveway?” he hears Jon’s voice inquire from outside. Oh, shit.
He looks at Ryan again. A giggle bubbles up through Ryan’s lips, Brendon snorts, and suddenly they’re both pressing hands over their mouths, and Brendon’s stomach hurts from the effort of holding back the noise.
Even when they get themselves under control, Brendon feels like his face might split in two from smiling.
“I should go,” Ryan whispers, and Brendon nods, and neither of them move, they just stare at each other some more.
Brendon kisses him, light and questioning, and Ryan kisses back.
“I should go,” Ryan says, more breathily this time, thumb still stroking Brendon’s cheek. He nods again, not trusting words at the moment. Ryan sighs and pulls the blanket off the bed to cover himself. Brendon can see him wince when he leans forward.
But really, all he can think about is how his heart is melting, because that’s Ryan, Ryan blushing as he picks up his pants from the floor, Ryan awkwardly hopping on one foot trying to hold the blanket and put on pants at the same time, Ryan’s hair all mussed from sleep and, well, that, and Ryan’s smell still lingering on his pillow.
Ryan grabs Brendon’s shirt off the floor and slips it on. Brendon watches reverently from the bed, wanting, aching, for Ryan to stay, but he heads for the door, raising a hand in a shy wave.
But he pauses with one hand on the doorknob, looks back to where Brendon’s still staring. He darts over to the bed before Brendon can blink, brushes a soft kiss on Brendon’s cheek, and whispers, “Best sex of my life, by the way.” And then he’s gone, shutting the door carefully behind him.
Brendon jumps to his feet and does a victory dance, smile too big for his face.
*****
Ryan’s expression is carefully composed, staring pointedly down into his oatmeal, when Brendon goes downstairs for breakfast. Spencer’s grimacing into his cell phone and Jon’s buzzing around the room looking for a flip-flop, and Brendon feels like it shouldn’t be this normal, the world should be shaking and people should be singing and birds should be chirping.
But every time Brendon moves, the bruises on his hipbones remind him that it wasn’t a dream, and he smiles.
*****
Brendon really loves Europe. They stay in hotels in Europe.
Only problem is, Zack just randomly throws room keys at them, and on the first night, Brendon ends up with Jon, which was not part of the Plan.
But Jon was right, the jet lag hits hard, and they go to sleep at nine. Brendon barely has five seconds to wish he was cuddled next to Ryan before his eyes droop closed.
Brendon wakes up early and slips down to the lobby for breakfast. Ryan’s already there, sipping his coffee and scribbling on hotel stationary.
“Hey,” Brendon says. Ryan looks up only briefly, and then his eyes flicker back down to his coffee.
“Missed you last night,” Ryan mumbles, low and indistinct and questioning. Brendon’s heart does a happy little dance in his chest, because that’s a fucking promise.
“Me too,” he answers. His face is starting to hurt from smiling so much.
Spencer comes down to breakfast just a minute later, and the rest of the day is torture. Brendon’s fingers itch constantly, aching to reach out and tuck Ryan’s hair behind his ear, aching to massage the jetlagged tension out of his neck, aching to just touch.
They don’t have a moment alone for the whole fucking day, and it gets so bad that Brendon wants to shout at people for existing.
The worst part is when Ryan starts doing Brendon’s makeup. Brendon’s sitting on the counter, Ryan standing between his knees so his body heat and his breath are right there, and Brendon wants to scream, because he’s so close.
“Hold fucking still, you’re so fucking twitchy,” Ryan hisses, touchy like he always gets before shows.
“I still don’t get the makeup,” Jon mutters from the couch.
“Mmrf,” comes Spencer’s grunt of agreement.
Ryan huffs exasperatedly, his breath a gentle puff on Brendon’s face, and Brendon can’t help but squirm.
“I’m gonna go check out the crowd,” announces Jon.
“Mmrf.”
The second they’re out the door, the room is silent and electric. Brendon opens his eyes ever so slowly to find Ryan staring right back at him. There’s a brief clatter as the eyeliner falls from Ryan’s hand, and then all Brendon can hear is the blood rushing in his ears and the pounding of his heart as they kiss, re-exploring each others mouths after what feels like a lifetime.
Fate still hates them, though. That night, Brendon’s roomed with Spencer again. The night after, it’s Jon.
They steal moments together during the day, sneaking off to bathrooms and closets, and it’s not romantic and it’s not sexy and it’s terrifying, because someone could walk in at any second. But it’s oxygen.
The third day, they sneak off to the venue’s boiler room right after sound check. Ryan’s wrapped around Brendon even before the door closes, pressing greedy little kisses over his cheeks and nose and eyes and neck before landing on his lips, and Brendon starts to believe that maybe Ryan needs this as much as he does. When he jerks Ryan off, pressed against the dingy cinderblock wall, Ryan bites into Brendon’s shoulder to silence himself as he comes, and Brendon sneaks off to the bathroom five times that night, just to stare at the bruise in the mirror.
*****
The fourth night, they finally get matching room keys.
When they crawl into bed and settle next to each other, their lips meet languidly, unhurried and careful. It feels like they kiss for hours, just exploring, hands caressing and stroking. It keeps hitting Brendon how breathtakingly beautiful Ryan is close up, the planes and angles of his face all new in this intimate perspective, and Brendon’s vision goes all fuzzy and dreamy just trying to soak him in.
It’s almost an accident that their clothes end up peeled away, layer by layer, almost an accident that Brendon’s hard, and when they have sex, it’s gentle and deliberate and slow, so that Brendon can watch every shift in Ryan’s expression, revel in every brush of sweat-slick skin. He kisses Ryan through his orgasm, swallowing every moan into his own mouth, breathing out Ryan’s name in return.
“Hey, Ry,” Brendon smiles, a while later, as they’re lying in bed, Ryan’s fingers running absentmindedly over Brendon’s hair.
“Mmph?”
“Want to take a bubble bath?” He raises an eyebrow, and Ryan looks half bemused and half exasperated.
“You’re a ten year old girl, anyone ever tell you that?”
“You. Constantly. But, seriously?”
“Yeah, sure, what the fuck.”
So Brendon hops out of bed and runs the water. He’s already in by the time Ryan comes through the door, scrubbing a hand through his hair and yawning.
“’Bout time, slowpoke,” Brendon teases. Ryan just stares down at him, this delicate half-smile curving his lips.
“You’re adorable. You know that, Bren?” he says softly, before sliding into the water. He crawls up so he’s straddling Brendon and kisses him, slow and deep, and Brendon has no idea what he did to deserve this. He runs his fingers up the ridges of Ryan’s spine and curls them around Ryan’s neck to pull him closer.
His brain is screaming I love you. He manages to hold it in.
They kiss like that for an hour, until the bubbles are gone and the water’s cold and Brendon’s breathless and his fingers are all pruny, and then they turn on some History Channel special about the Vikings and climb into bed and kiss some more.
“Ry, are you ticklish?” Brendon asks lazily.
“Nope. Not at all.”
Brendon gives his side an experimental pinch, and Ryan squeaks and wriggles away.
“Liar, you filthy little liar!” Brendon giggles, and he pounces, tickling Ryan’s stomach mercilessly until Ryan topples off the bed, breathless and helpless with laughter. When he climbs back under the covers, he’s smiling, carefree, eyes sparkling, his expression open and unguarded like Brendon’s rarely seen him, his hair touseled and damp from the bath and his cheeks flushed and glowing. Brendon’s breath catches in his throat. He starts to let himself hope.
They wake up tangled together, Ryan’s arm thrown over Brendon’s waist, Brendon’s leg hooked between Ryan’s thighs, grasping at their last moments of intimacy.
*****
“Why can’t we tell the band?” Brendon whispers one morning, wrapping his arms around Ryan’s waist from behind as Ryan brushes his teeth.
Ryan glares at him in the mirror and spits out a mouthful of foam.
“Please tell me you’re kidding?” he snaps.
“No, seriously.”
“Duh, Brendon. Because then they start making awkward jokes, and as much as they pretend to be okay with it they’ll feel really weird whenever we all hang out, and because they feel awkward we’ll feel awkward, and nobody can keep their mouths shut around here so everyone would find out, and-“
“Fine,” says Brendon, taken aback by the vehemence in Ryan’s voice. “It would just be nice, you know, if I could kiss you in public for once.”
“Sorry,” Ryan says shortly. “It’s not worth it.”
Brendon can’t help hearing that as you’re not worth it.
Later that day, they do an interview.
“So, Brendon, a lot of the fans want to know. Anyone special in your life these days?” the interviewer asks, sugary-sweet. Brendon wants to punch her.
“Nobody worth talking about,” he says sourly, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Ryan’s face go limp with hurt. Brendon sort of hates himself.
“What the fuck was that all about?” Ryan spits when they’re safely back at the hotel.
“You said it, not me,” Brendon says, equally venomous.
“Bren-“ Ryan says, whines almost, and Brendon spins around to face him. “I can’t lose the band, Bren,” Ryan says simply. Brendon knows that’s the last word.
*****
They have almost three complete days in Paris, and no show the first night, with the leaves just beginning to glow yellow around the edges and the air starting to bite in the evenings. The first afternoon, Spencer and Jon decide to do the European thing and go to a soccer game. Ryan decides to go to a museum, and because Brendon’s a pathetic little puppy dog who would follow Ryan to the ends of the earth, he goes along.
The Louvre is dead boring. It’s too crowded and too big. They can’t get remotely close to the Mona Lisa even when they find it, and the rest of the place is full of dull-colored portraits of bleeding saints and fly-covered pig heads. Brendon decides to play tour guide.
“Here, we have a real masterpiece,” he whispers in Ryan’s ear, as Ryan stops to consider a painting. “This is by some old dead guy, and the subject is some other dead guy. Notice the strikingly depressing usage of monotone browns and greys.”
Ryan looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or be scandalized.
“Bren, it’s a Caravaggio,” he hisses.
“Let me guess. He’s old, and he’s dead.”
Ryan smiles, wide and honest and amused in spite of himself, and grabs Brendon’s hand, entwining their fingers. All the boring paintings in the world are worth it, for that smile.
*****
They’re somewhere in Germany, and Brendon’s barely awake after three orgasms, tracing soft mindless patterns into Ryan’s hip, when he feels Ryan’s lips move against his neck.
“Bren?”
“Mm?”
“How the fuck did this happen?” He wriggles slightly away, rolling onto his side so he can look Brendon in the eye.
“Good question?” Brendon not-really-answers, and some explanation would be nice, because he was so close to asleep.
“I mean…” Ryan trails off, picking at the sheet, and when he looks back up his eyes are carefully blank in that way nobody but Ryan can ever manage. “This is just sex, right?” And he’s not asking, he’s convincing, his voice thin and terrified.
“Yeah, Ry. It’s just sex,” Brendon echoes.
“We’ll stop if they ever suspect anything.”
“Yeah.” And he pulls Ryan close again, but they both know they’re lying.
Because whatever comes out of Ryan’s mouth when he’s having one of these quiet freakouts about the band, it’s not what his eyes say when he wakes up with Brendon’s breath in his hair and his hand over Brendon’s heart.
*****
“Fucker gave us the stinkeye,” Ryan mutters under his breath. “Wanker, they call them here, I think.”
“Good golly, old chap, I do say, bloody hell, I have a rather large stick up my arse,” Brendon says, in his best pompous British accent, sticking out his tongue at the retreating back of the old man who had just glared at their intertwined fingers. Ryan giggles and gives Brendon’s hand a squeeze.
“Ooh, look,” he says, and drags Brendon over to yet another stall. London flea markets seem to carry exactly Ryan’s brand of weird vintage ruffly things. Ryan rummages in a bin and pulls out a flowered scarf.
“It’ll clash perfectly with everything you own,” Brendon says dryly. Ryan scowls. “Not that you won’t look perfect anyway,” Brendon amends. Ryan smiles blindingly and kisses him on the nose.
“Aren’t we feeling precious today,” Brendon says, before nuzzling into Ryan’s neck.
“Shut up, just because you make me go all mushy,” mumbles Ryan, and then he seems to realize what he said, and whips around to pay for his scarf.
“Did you mean that?” Brendon asks, once they’re on their way again, Ryan still flushed pink.
“Maybe.”
“Good,” Brendon smiles, and reaches out to take Ryan’s hand.
“You just…I feel alive, when you’re around,” Ryan says shyly, still refusing to look at Brendon. Brendon can’t answer; he’s too busy smiling.
*****
“Where the fuck have you guys been? We were supposed to be on five minutes ago,” Spencer grumbles.
“Sorry, got lost,” says Ryan stiffly. It’s the feeblest excuse ever, and Spencer looks like he’s going to call them on it, but Zack shows up.
“Okay. Last show! Let’s get this over with,” he says, and starts shooing them onstage.
Ryan doesn’t meet Brendon’s eyes when they play their guitar parts facing each other.
They’re not great, but even so, the adrenaline rush is the same as always, and they run offstage to tumultuous applause. Brendon bounces on the tips of his toes and hums at the mirror as he dabs off some sweat.
“What was that shit?” says Ryan, slamming the door as he enters. Brendon freezes. Spencer and Jon stop mid-conversation.
“What do you mean?” says Brendon, trying to keep his voice level.
“That was awful! Did you not warm up or something?” Ryan spits.
No, I was busy with your dick, Brendon doesn’t say. Instead, he mumbles, “I warmed up.”
“Well, that was shitty,” Ryan says, his voice low and accusatory, and he storms out of the room.
Brendon tries to hold back the tears.
“It wasn’t that bad,” Jon says.
“Ignore him,” says Spencer gruffly. “I think he worries everything’s gonna get taken away from him if we hit one bad note.”
Brendon thinks, that again.
He finds Ryan in the bathroom, sitting on the sink with tears streaming down his face.
“Sorry,” he whispers when Brendon comes in.
“You’d better be.”
“They can’t find out. They can’t suspect anything,” Ryan says, a desperate edge making his voice crack.
“I know. I get it. The band. I know,” Brendon says defeatedly. Ryan doesn’t answer, just slides off the sink and buries his face in Brendon’s chest.
*****
The next day, they say goodbye to Jon at the airport and fly home.
“It smells like feet and rotten Chinese food,” says Spencer, as soon as they walk in the door of the condo.
“I think maybe we should’ve cleaned up before we left,” Brendon agrees.
“I have Febreeze,” Ryan volunteers, and while he runs around spraying every surface, Spencer and Brendon settle down to play Halo.
“I’m making nachos, anyone else want some?” calls Ryan from the refrigerator, a few hours later, when the house has been successfully de-odored. Everything now smells overpoweringly of lavender, but it could be worse.
“You’re gonna made a great housewife someday, Ry,” Spencer grins. “Hah, gotcha, motherfucker,” he crows at the TV, and Brendon curses.
The phone rings, and Ryan darts over to pick it up. There’s a long pause, broken only by the sounds of battle onscreen.
“What? When?” Ryan croaks. Brendon looks up. “Thank you,” he whispers, and hangs up.
“The fuck’s going on, Ry?” says Spencer sharply.
Ryan turns to him slowly, like he’s moving underwater. His face is ghastly white, his chest heaving. His lips move soundlessly for a second. Brendon’s chest goes tight and panicky.
“My dad’s dead,” Ryan says, monotone, staring intently at a spot on the wall.
There’s a rushing noise in Brendon’s ears and his heartbeat seems to have gone painfully irregular. Ryan turns around, stiff and deliberate, and heads for the stairs.
“Wait, no, let us help-“ says Spencer quickly, but Ryan cuts him off with a shake of his head.
“I just want to be alone,” he says, still in that deadly monotone. They watch him go, stunned into silence.
“Shit,” Spencer breathes. Brendon nods. That about sums it up.
“I should try to talk to him,” says Spencer after a long pause. He follows Ryan upstairs.
Brendon’s chest aches, helpless and panicked, as he watches Spencer go. He wants to be the one doing the comforting. He wants to wrap Ryan up in his arms and kiss it all away. Fuck lifelong friendships, he’s the one who makes Ryan smile these days.
It’s stupid and it’s petty and it’s completely fucking irrelevant, but he hates Spencer for having a part of Ryan that he can’t have.
He goes upstairs. In the hallway, Spencer’s carefully shutting Ryan’s door.
“What happened?” Brendon asks. Spencer just shakes his head. “I could try,” Brendon says hopefully.
“No, I don’t think there’s anything you can do for him,” Spencer says. “I’m just gonna go to bed, I’m jetlagged.”
“It’s only midnight, it’s early,” says Brendon pointlessly, but Spencer’s already closing his door behind him. Then Spencer’s first sentence hits him, and hot tears prick at his eyes. “Fuck you,” he growls at the door.
Brendon paces on his balcony for half an hour, anxious and close to tears. He can’t think straight.
His feet carry him to Ryan’s door before he can make an official decision. “Ry?” he calls softly, and knocks. When there’s no answer, he lets himself in.
Ryan’s curled on his bed, back to the door, and Brendon’s reminded forcefully of that very first afternoon.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Go away,” comes Ryan’s voice.
“I just though…you know. That maybe you’d want to talk to someone?” Brendon asks, and Ryan finally turns around. His face is collapsed and pinched, and he somehow looks smaller than usual, but he’s not crying.
“If I didn’t want to talk to Spencer, what makes you think you’d be any different?” he says viciously, his eyes cold and hard, unreadable and unreachable.
Brendon turns around before Ryan can see the tears. Because, yeah, who was he kidding.
Chapter Seven