Sunken in the Quicksands of Love
Title: Sunken in the Quicksands of Love
Author: lumberxjill
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: As far as I know, this is all fiction.
Words: 2,500
Summary: And Ryan had to spend twenty minutes listening to Brendon explain all about how, since he had grown up without it, he liked to make sure there was as much caffeine as possible in everything he ate and drank. At the time, Ryan was doubtful that making the coffee strong meant it had more caffeine but you know, whatever.
Ryan closes his eyes, blocks out the sun, and takes another sip.
Maybe because he needs the boost. Maybe because it’s Brendon’s.
Beta: melody_so_sweet <3.
Notes: Pure fluff. This is a re-vamped version of a fic I wrote a loooong time ago. I hope you guys like it =).
Ryan Ross is sitting, well, slouching, at his tiny kitchen table in his too-small apartment and he’s holding a coffee mug that's so big that even his long fingers can't wrap themselves around it's smooth surface completely. It's freezing, really, and this is absurd because he's in Las Vegas but whatever.
At 11 a.m, it’s a couple of hours too early for the him to even consider being awake, so he’s trying to get as much caffeine in his system as he can as early as possible. The tiny table he's seated at is up against the only window in his kitchen and looking through it, he can see the bright morning sun shining brightly, mocking his less than cheery mood. There are no clouds and the sky is perfectly light and calm. The same shade of comforting baby blue as Brendon’s favorite blanket. The large mug in his hands is warm and feels nicely heavy, comfortingly full in his hands as he lifts it up to take a sip.
But instead of the usual, light hazelnut flavor he is used to, the coffee is bitter and strong. Ryan frowns lightly and remembers. Remembers that he didn’t bother to make coffee when he woke up, had simply heated up the coffee that Brendon had made for him the night before. His dark eyebrows knit together and he winces lightly because, yeah, it’s way too strong and the taste of it makes him want to never ever drink coffee again. But. But Brendon made it for him. And Ryan had to spend twenty minutes listening to Brendon explain all about how, since he had grown up without it, he liked to make sure there was as much caffeine as possible in everything he ate and drank. At the time, Ryan was doubtful that making the coffee strong meant it had more caffeine but you know, whatever.
Ryan closes his eyes, blocks out the sun, and takes another sip.
Maybe because he needs the boost.
Maybe because it’s Brendon’s.
______
Later that afternoon, Ryan is sleeping. The caffeine high Brendon’s death coffee had given him had worn pretty quickly, leaving him suddenly and extremely tired. He had considered drinking more coffee because even though it tasted disgusting, it had kept him awake for the better part of the day.
But on the other hand, sleep. So instead, he ended up sprawled across his rather large bed. He’s resting peacefully with long eyelashes and thin eyelids fluttering in the fits of REM sleep; the first deep sleep he’s been able to achieve in weeks. Touring does that to a person, makes it hard for them to remember that sleeping every night is healthy and normal. He smiles a bit in his sleep, digs a little deeper under the covers.
And then his cell phone rings.
'Uh-huh, holy shit
It's about time you get off my dick'
Ryan groans and flails around a bit because, of course he can’t have a nice nap without being interrupted and, of course, Brendon’s ring-tone just has to be the most ridiculously song ever [and 'It's pretty much my theme song Ryan! Except, you know, for the whole, 'being straight' thing becasue I fell off that band-wagon years ago'].
One of his thin arms shoots out from under the covers to grope blindly for his tiny phone, suddenly wishing he had kept his bulky old Sidekick instead of upgrading to a smaller, if not nicer, phone. With a triumphant little yelp he grabs his phone - which had been hiding under his pillow - and sits up, flipping the small device open and placing it against his ear.
“Hello?” he says, voice rough and scratchy with sleep.
“Hey babe. Can I come over?” asks Brendon, bright, cheerful, and awake. Ryan tries to stay annoyed at him, he really, really, does. But, Brendon called him babe, so it’s kind of a losing battle.
"Yeah, of course. You practically live over here anyway,” Ryan says, attempting to stifle a yawn by turning it into a low chuckle. Instead, he ends up sounding like he’s choking.
“Hey, you okay there, Ry?” asks Brendon, concern weaving through his voice and Ryan sighs. He gives up.
“Yeah, I’m fine. See you in a few, ‘kay?” says Ryan, trying not to yawn again.
“Okay, love you,” Brendon says, and the line clicks off. Ryan tosses his phone over his shoulder and back onto his bed, no bothering to close it, and closes his eyes.
He hates everything.
_____
“I hate everything,” states Ryan casually as Brendon strides through his front door half an hour later. To his credit, Brendon has the decency to not laugh.
“Of course you do. Hey, feed me?”
Ryan smiles and rolls his eyes from his comfy spot on the couch and waves the younger boy in the direction of his kitchen (which is kind of unnecessary because Brendon spent more time in Ryan's kitchen then he did most of the time). A few minutes later, Brendon re-enters the small living room and Ryan gapes, scanning his eyes over the younger boy's food-laden arms: A bag of Oreos, double stuf, is tucked neatly under one arm, a huge bag of tortilla chips held secure under the other. Plus the red popsicle in his right hand, which he was licking fervently.
"I love popsicles. Especially the cherry ones, they're my favorite kind."
Ryan stares.
"Hey, do you have any lemonade? The only thing better than popsicles is lemonade, except maybe blueberry pop-tarts. But you hate blueberries so I know you don't have any of those," rambles Brendon, setting the food down on the couch beside Ryan and wandering back toward the kitchen.
Ryan scowls.
"No Brendon, I don't have any lemonade. I don't have any lemons either, so you can't make any," he snaps, crossing his arms haughtily and scowling in Brendon's general direction.
Brendon turns back to look at him with a frown.
"Well, I could squeeze you. You're pretty sour," he states with one hand on his hip and a smile tugging lightly at the left side of his mouth.
Ryan's heart flutters and he isn't sure why.
"Whatever. I need salsa," says Brendon as he stalks back into the kitchen, opens the refrigerator door and peers inside, "Which you do have."
For a moment, Ryan wonders where in the world the tiny boy in his kitchen could possibly put all the food he eats. Then he peers around the couch to make sure Brendon isn't trying to make lemonade out of the raspberries he's been saving for cheesecake (because he totally would - 'Ry, it's kind of like raspberry lemonade, except without any lemons!' - he can hear it now).
His eyes end up glued to Brendon's ass and he kind of wants to throw himself out a window.
_____
"I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love me," Brendon whispers in perfect character as he watches the bright screen in front of him. Ryan thinks he might be sort of impressed is he wasn't too busy focusing on not embarrassing himself.
When Ryan had suggested that Brendon spend the night, he hadn't really been planning to watch movies until the early hours of the morning.
He had planned on going to bed early, stashing Brendon on the couch, and dealing with him in the morning. Instead, Brendon has managed to get Ryan to watch everything from Mulan - "Ry, it has a tiny, talking, sarcastic dragon. Yes, we are so watching it" - to their current movie, Notting Hill.
Ryan silently curses his movie collection. His queen-size bed seems huge wtih Brendon curled up on one side, barely visible under Ryan's thick brown comforter. The maybe half-foot distance feels like miles to Ryan. Every few seconds his eyes will wander to Brendon's small form and he'll smile.
Maybe because it's late and his guard is down.
Maybe because it's Brendon.
_____
The next morning, Ryan wakes up with his thin arms full of Brendon.
Sometime during the night, Ryan had ended up on his side and Brendon had migrated over to curl up against his chest, breathing into it softly.
Ryan gulps.
This isn't fair. It's like, 10 in the morning and he's so tired. He just wants to go back to sleep with Brendon for a little while, maybe forever, he thinks. Instead, Brendon's stomach growls and his eyes slowly flutter open.
Ryan sighs and looks down at the man curled up in his arms.
Butterflies tango in his stomach.
Brendon's eyes. They're huge and wide and brown and so fucking innocent in the moring sunlight filtering through the windows. Ryan almost wants to send him right back home to his parents, to keep those dark chocolate eyes as innocent as possible for just a little while longer.
Then Brendon yawns and his soft, full lips brush lightly over his bare chest (Ryan wondering vaguely about when exactly he took his shirt off) and Ryan changes his mind. Ryan wants to say something as he looks down Brendon's sleep-heavy features. Anything, but those stupid butterflies fly up into his windpipe and flap their wings rapidly as soon as he opens his mouth to try. He clears his throat softly and the small creatures float back down into his stomach, defeated.
"Good morning, Bear," he finally manages to get out, voice soft but scratchy. He smiles and lifts a hand up to run it through Brendon's mussed hair. Brendon mewls lightly at this and smiles, slow and lazy.
"Good morning, love," Brendon whispers, his voice heavy with sleep and laced with something else that Ryan can't quite place. Doesn't want to.
Silence.
"Hey Ry?"
"Yeah?"
Brendon lifts his head and blinks up at Ryan, slow, for a moment before resting his head back against Ryan's warm chest; listening to Ryan's heartbeat.
"I love you."
Ryan smiles, content, and closes his eyes. A few more hours of sleep never hurt anyone.
_____
"Ta-da! The breakfast of champions!" Brendon proclaims as he places the food he had just prepared for Ryan in front of him with a large smile.
Ryan stares.
"Brendon," he says, voice low and monotone.
"Yeah?"
And it really isn't fair. Isn't fair because Brendon's hair is a disaster because he hasn't even combed it yet and there are fine little imprints on his cheek from Ryan's pillow. Isn't fair because, Ryan thinks, he just might just be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen anyway.
"This is toast," he states, deadpan, instead of something embarrassing like, 'you're gorgeous'.
Brendon's smile fades a bit, shrinks, but he just shrugs.
"Yeah. And?"
"I thought that Wheaties were the breakfast of champions," says Ryan, staring pointedly at the floor, the window, his plate; anywhere but Brendon and he sighs.
He hates toast.
"Oh. Well, yeah, I guess so," says Brendon as he takes a seat across from Ryan at the tiny table and grabs a piece of toast from Ryan's plate, "but I don't like Wheaties."
He pauses to take a bite. "I do, however, like toast."
Ryan can't decide if he wants to reach over and smack Brendon in his smiling face, or hold him close and keep him forever. Sighing, he takes the other piece of toast and takes a small bite.
Maybe because he's hungry.
Probably because it's Brendon's.
_____
"I should probably go home soon," Brendon says through a yawn later that night. The two boys are seated at Ryan's minuscule kitchen table, playing Scrabble.
It's Brendon's turn.
"Yeah, probably," says Ryan. But the urge to ask him to stay flowers in his stomach and he sighs, running a finger lightly over the small wooden tiles in his tray.
"It's your turn, Bren."
Brendon looks up at him and then back down to his tray of letters, smiling.
"L-O-V-E-M-E. Love me?" says Brendon as he lays the tiles down onto the board, smiling nervously.
Ryan stares.
This, again, is not really what he was planning on. It doesn't matter than he's pretty much loved Brenon since the first time he stumbled into Spencer's basement. And it also doesn't matter that Brendon's been aware of this for years because yeah, they did decide that dating inside the band was probably a really, really bad idea.
"I-uh," Ryan, he's a little bit stunned, wondering if there's really any way to respond to that and sound halfway coherent, "Good one. Um... 56 points."
He's stumbling over words and keeping his eyes glued to the notepad in front of him. He doesn't want to look at Brendon. Can't.
"Oh," Brendon mutters, hovering somewhere between confused and completely fucking crushed because, not to sound cocky, but this isn't really the kind of reaction he had been expecting; not at all.
"But... I got a triple word score, right? Ryan finally looks up, tentative. The look on Brendon's face is one that Ryan can't quite find the right words for and that bothers him. He bites his lip and looks back down because no, this isn't happening. Brendon sighs.
"But doesn't that... I just," he frowns, frustrated, "I thought that meant I got a Ryan," he finishes, eyes huge and pleading and Ryan looks up.
"No, it doesn't."
Everything about Brendon seems to sag at those three words. Even his hair seems to go limp and his face falls, hunched shoulders drooping. Ryan looks back down, almost disbelieving at the fact that he was really going to be honest.
"You've always had a Ryan."
"Oh."
For a moment, nothing happens and a light silence falls between them.
"So. I guess that means you're keeping me forever, yeah?" asked Brendon, standing slowly, relieved and just a little bit deliriously happy.
"I was pretty much counting on it," Ryan answered as he pushed back his chair and stood, walking to Brendon, who looked a little dazed but is smiling brightly.
"So you're stuck with me forever?" asked Brendon, holding his hand out to the older boy beside him. Ryan smiled and took it, threading together their fingers.
"I hope so."
Author: lumberxjill
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: As far as I know, this is all fiction.
Words: 2,500
Summary: And Ryan had to spend twenty minutes listening to Brendon explain all about how, since he had grown up without it, he liked to make sure there was as much caffeine as possible in everything he ate and drank. At the time, Ryan was doubtful that making the coffee strong meant it had more caffeine but you know, whatever.
Ryan closes his eyes, blocks out the sun, and takes another sip.
Maybe because he needs the boost. Maybe because it’s Brendon’s.
Beta: melody_so_sweet <3.
Notes: Pure fluff. This is a re-vamped version of a fic I wrote a loooong time ago. I hope you guys like it =).
Ryan Ross is sitting, well, slouching, at his tiny kitchen table in his too-small apartment and he’s holding a coffee mug that's so big that even his long fingers can't wrap themselves around it's smooth surface completely. It's freezing, really, and this is absurd because he's in Las Vegas but whatever.
At 11 a.m, it’s a couple of hours too early for the him to even consider being awake, so he’s trying to get as much caffeine in his system as he can as early as possible. The tiny table he's seated at is up against the only window in his kitchen and looking through it, he can see the bright morning sun shining brightly, mocking his less than cheery mood. There are no clouds and the sky is perfectly light and calm. The same shade of comforting baby blue as Brendon’s favorite blanket. The large mug in his hands is warm and feels nicely heavy, comfortingly full in his hands as he lifts it up to take a sip.
But instead of the usual, light hazelnut flavor he is used to, the coffee is bitter and strong. Ryan frowns lightly and remembers. Remembers that he didn’t bother to make coffee when he woke up, had simply heated up the coffee that Brendon had made for him the night before. His dark eyebrows knit together and he winces lightly because, yeah, it’s way too strong and the taste of it makes him want to never ever drink coffee again. But. But Brendon made it for him. And Ryan had to spend twenty minutes listening to Brendon explain all about how, since he had grown up without it, he liked to make sure there was as much caffeine as possible in everything he ate and drank. At the time, Ryan was doubtful that making the coffee strong meant it had more caffeine but you know, whatever.
Ryan closes his eyes, blocks out the sun, and takes another sip.
Maybe because he needs the boost.
Maybe because it’s Brendon’s.
______
Later that afternoon, Ryan is sleeping. The caffeine high Brendon’s death coffee had given him had worn pretty quickly, leaving him suddenly and extremely tired. He had considered drinking more coffee because even though it tasted disgusting, it had kept him awake for the better part of the day.
But on the other hand, sleep. So instead, he ended up sprawled across his rather large bed. He’s resting peacefully with long eyelashes and thin eyelids fluttering in the fits of REM sleep; the first deep sleep he’s been able to achieve in weeks. Touring does that to a person, makes it hard for them to remember that sleeping every night is healthy and normal. He smiles a bit in his sleep, digs a little deeper under the covers.
And then his cell phone rings.
'Uh-huh, holy shit
It's about time you get off my dick'
Ryan groans and flails around a bit because, of course he can’t have a nice nap without being interrupted and, of course, Brendon’s ring-tone just has to be the most ridiculously song ever [and 'It's pretty much my theme song Ryan! Except, you know, for the whole, 'being straight' thing becasue I fell off that band-wagon years ago'].
One of his thin arms shoots out from under the covers to grope blindly for his tiny phone, suddenly wishing he had kept his bulky old Sidekick instead of upgrading to a smaller, if not nicer, phone. With a triumphant little yelp he grabs his phone - which had been hiding under his pillow - and sits up, flipping the small device open and placing it against his ear.
“Hello?” he says, voice rough and scratchy with sleep.
“Hey babe. Can I come over?” asks Brendon, bright, cheerful, and awake. Ryan tries to stay annoyed at him, he really, really, does. But, Brendon called him babe, so it’s kind of a losing battle.
"Yeah, of course. You practically live over here anyway,” Ryan says, attempting to stifle a yawn by turning it into a low chuckle. Instead, he ends up sounding like he’s choking.
“Hey, you okay there, Ry?” asks Brendon, concern weaving through his voice and Ryan sighs. He gives up.
“Yeah, I’m fine. See you in a few, ‘kay?” says Ryan, trying not to yawn again.
“Okay, love you,” Brendon says, and the line clicks off. Ryan tosses his phone over his shoulder and back onto his bed, no bothering to close it, and closes his eyes.
He hates everything.
_____
“I hate everything,” states Ryan casually as Brendon strides through his front door half an hour later. To his credit, Brendon has the decency to not laugh.
“Of course you do. Hey, feed me?”
Ryan smiles and rolls his eyes from his comfy spot on the couch and waves the younger boy in the direction of his kitchen (which is kind of unnecessary because Brendon spent more time in Ryan's kitchen then he did most of the time). A few minutes later, Brendon re-enters the small living room and Ryan gapes, scanning his eyes over the younger boy's food-laden arms: A bag of Oreos, double stuf, is tucked neatly under one arm, a huge bag of tortilla chips held secure under the other. Plus the red popsicle in his right hand, which he was licking fervently.
"I love popsicles. Especially the cherry ones, they're my favorite kind."
Ryan stares.
"Hey, do you have any lemonade? The only thing better than popsicles is lemonade, except maybe blueberry pop-tarts. But you hate blueberries so I know you don't have any of those," rambles Brendon, setting the food down on the couch beside Ryan and wandering back toward the kitchen.
Ryan scowls.
"No Brendon, I don't have any lemonade. I don't have any lemons either, so you can't make any," he snaps, crossing his arms haughtily and scowling in Brendon's general direction.
Brendon turns back to look at him with a frown.
"Well, I could squeeze you. You're pretty sour," he states with one hand on his hip and a smile tugging lightly at the left side of his mouth.
Ryan's heart flutters and he isn't sure why.
"Whatever. I need salsa," says Brendon as he stalks back into the kitchen, opens the refrigerator door and peers inside, "Which you do have."
For a moment, Ryan wonders where in the world the tiny boy in his kitchen could possibly put all the food he eats. Then he peers around the couch to make sure Brendon isn't trying to make lemonade out of the raspberries he's been saving for cheesecake (because he totally would - 'Ry, it's kind of like raspberry lemonade, except without any lemons!' - he can hear it now).
His eyes end up glued to Brendon's ass and he kind of wants to throw himself out a window.
_____
"I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love me," Brendon whispers in perfect character as he watches the bright screen in front of him. Ryan thinks he might be sort of impressed is he wasn't too busy focusing on not embarrassing himself.
When Ryan had suggested that Brendon spend the night, he hadn't really been planning to watch movies until the early hours of the morning.
He had planned on going to bed early, stashing Brendon on the couch, and dealing with him in the morning. Instead, Brendon has managed to get Ryan to watch everything from Mulan - "Ry, it has a tiny, talking, sarcastic dragon. Yes, we are so watching it" - to their current movie, Notting Hill.
Ryan silently curses his movie collection. His queen-size bed seems huge wtih Brendon curled up on one side, barely visible under Ryan's thick brown comforter. The maybe half-foot distance feels like miles to Ryan. Every few seconds his eyes will wander to Brendon's small form and he'll smile.
Maybe because it's late and his guard is down.
Maybe because it's Brendon.
_____
The next morning, Ryan wakes up with his thin arms full of Brendon.
Sometime during the night, Ryan had ended up on his side and Brendon had migrated over to curl up against his chest, breathing into it softly.
Ryan gulps.
This isn't fair. It's like, 10 in the morning and he's so tired. He just wants to go back to sleep with Brendon for a little while, maybe forever, he thinks. Instead, Brendon's stomach growls and his eyes slowly flutter open.
Ryan sighs and looks down at the man curled up in his arms.
Butterflies tango in his stomach.
Brendon's eyes. They're huge and wide and brown and so fucking innocent in the moring sunlight filtering through the windows. Ryan almost wants to send him right back home to his parents, to keep those dark chocolate eyes as innocent as possible for just a little while longer.
Then Brendon yawns and his soft, full lips brush lightly over his bare chest (Ryan wondering vaguely about when exactly he took his shirt off) and Ryan changes his mind. Ryan wants to say something as he looks down Brendon's sleep-heavy features. Anything, but those stupid butterflies fly up into his windpipe and flap their wings rapidly as soon as he opens his mouth to try. He clears his throat softly and the small creatures float back down into his stomach, defeated.
"Good morning, Bear," he finally manages to get out, voice soft but scratchy. He smiles and lifts a hand up to run it through Brendon's mussed hair. Brendon mewls lightly at this and smiles, slow and lazy.
"Good morning, love," Brendon whispers, his voice heavy with sleep and laced with something else that Ryan can't quite place. Doesn't want to.
Silence.
"Hey Ry?"
"Yeah?"
Brendon lifts his head and blinks up at Ryan, slow, for a moment before resting his head back against Ryan's warm chest; listening to Ryan's heartbeat.
"I love you."
Ryan smiles, content, and closes his eyes. A few more hours of sleep never hurt anyone.
_____
"Ta-da! The breakfast of champions!" Brendon proclaims as he places the food he had just prepared for Ryan in front of him with a large smile.
Ryan stares.
"Brendon," he says, voice low and monotone.
"Yeah?"
And it really isn't fair. Isn't fair because Brendon's hair is a disaster because he hasn't even combed it yet and there are fine little imprints on his cheek from Ryan's pillow. Isn't fair because, Ryan thinks, he just might just be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen anyway.
"This is toast," he states, deadpan, instead of something embarrassing like, 'you're gorgeous'.
Brendon's smile fades a bit, shrinks, but he just shrugs.
"Yeah. And?"
"I thought that Wheaties were the breakfast of champions," says Ryan, staring pointedly at the floor, the window, his plate; anywhere but Brendon and he sighs.
He hates toast.
"Oh. Well, yeah, I guess so," says Brendon as he takes a seat across from Ryan at the tiny table and grabs a piece of toast from Ryan's plate, "but I don't like Wheaties."
He pauses to take a bite. "I do, however, like toast."
Ryan can't decide if he wants to reach over and smack Brendon in his smiling face, or hold him close and keep him forever. Sighing, he takes the other piece of toast and takes a small bite.
Maybe because he's hungry.
Probably because it's Brendon's.
_____
"I should probably go home soon," Brendon says through a yawn later that night. The two boys are seated at Ryan's minuscule kitchen table, playing Scrabble.
It's Brendon's turn.
"Yeah, probably," says Ryan. But the urge to ask him to stay flowers in his stomach and he sighs, running a finger lightly over the small wooden tiles in his tray.
"It's your turn, Bren."
Brendon looks up at him and then back down to his tray of letters, smiling.
"L-O-V-E-M-E. Love me?" says Brendon as he lays the tiles down onto the board, smiling nervously.
Ryan stares.
This, again, is not really what he was planning on. It doesn't matter than he's pretty much loved Brenon since the first time he stumbled into Spencer's basement. And it also doesn't matter that Brendon's been aware of this for years because yeah, they did decide that dating inside the band was probably a really, really bad idea.
"I-uh," Ryan, he's a little bit stunned, wondering if there's really any way to respond to that and sound halfway coherent, "Good one. Um... 56 points."
He's stumbling over words and keeping his eyes glued to the notepad in front of him. He doesn't want to look at Brendon. Can't.
"Oh," Brendon mutters, hovering somewhere between confused and completely fucking crushed because, not to sound cocky, but this isn't really the kind of reaction he had been expecting; not at all.
"But... I got a triple word score, right? Ryan finally looks up, tentative. The look on Brendon's face is one that Ryan can't quite find the right words for and that bothers him. He bites his lip and looks back down because no, this isn't happening. Brendon sighs.
"But doesn't that... I just," he frowns, frustrated, "I thought that meant I got a Ryan," he finishes, eyes huge and pleading and Ryan looks up.
"No, it doesn't."
Everything about Brendon seems to sag at those three words. Even his hair seems to go limp and his face falls, hunched shoulders drooping. Ryan looks back down, almost disbelieving at the fact that he was really going to be honest.
"You've always had a Ryan."
"Oh."
For a moment, nothing happens and a light silence falls between them.
"So. I guess that means you're keeping me forever, yeah?" asked Brendon, standing slowly, relieved and just a little bit deliriously happy.
"I was pretty much counting on it," Ryan answered as he pushed back his chair and stood, walking to Brendon, who looked a little dazed but is smiling brightly.
"So you're stuck with me forever?" asked Brendon, holding his hand out to the older boy beside him. Ryan smiled and took it, threading together their fingers.
"I hope so."