(no subject)
Title: Hold Your Breath
Author:
qtlymakingnoise
Rating: R
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
Summary: Brendon struggles with a crisis of faith.
Word Count: ~1600
Disclaimer: I own none of the people involved in this story, and none of it actually happened.
Warning: Minor breathplay, but it is not the focus of the story.
Author Notes: Much love to Tess,
relaxrelapsex, who betaed, and Aldous Huxley, who inspired me.
--
"I'm scared." His voice was a slinky whisper on a warm night. It wasn't visible, but it felt tangible to Ryan. Like he could reach out and grip it, and the silk would slide softly through his fingers.
"Why?" Ryan asked.
"I can't believe like my parents do. They're just so... genuine. Like that's what they truly believe. And I can't. I can't believe it. It doesn't make any sense to me."
"Why does that scare you?" They were lying somewhere on Ryan's car in a desert, humid and thick-aired. Their arms were barely touching, and even that hint of body heat seemed like it might be too much for Ryan. He just couldn't bring himself to move.
"Because if it's not true... No, wait. Since it's not true... What's the point? What's the fucking point? Why should I even try if bad things happen to good people and awful people are rewarded? Why should I try to be a good person if it doesn't matter?"
Ryan shifted closer.
"Because you don't have to try to be a good person. You just are. And because you're a good person, you do good things. That's the end of it."
"But it's so lonely." He sounded choked up, voice thick and struggling to sound normal. Ryan slid his hand into Brendon's and squeezed.
"It doesn't have to be."
--
"I don't want to go to church anymore." Brendon was sitting on Ryan's bed, clothes spread out on the floor and strewn on furniture. There was a guitar in his hands, his fingers cradling the neck gently, like that was where his hands were meant to be, wrapped around a neck and squeezing just the right amount. Ryan tried to hold back a shudder.
"Then don't." It was pretty simple in Ryan's eyes. If Brendon doesn't want to go to church, he shouldn't.
"What am I supposed to tell my parents? They would freak."
"Tell them your Satan-worshipping band needs you on Sundays so we can sacrifice goats and hold orgies."
Brendon snorted a laugh, strumming a C Major chord. "I'm sure that would go over real well."
"I dunno. Tell them you're sick. That you have a project you need to work on. That you need to stay home and masturbate."
"Hmm. Maybe I'll give that one a try," he said absentmindedly, plucking at the stings, his hands tensed just right.
"Tell them you don't believe in God anymore."
Brendon strummed a D Minor.
--
Brendon, Ryan, Spencer, and Brent were sitting on Spencer's grandmother's couch, the blue glow from the television dancing across their faces.
"This is my favorite movie," Brendon said, quietly enough for only Ryan to hear it, tucked into his side as he was.
"Sound of Music? That's pretty gay."
"Ryan, we're teenage boys squished on a loveseat that has a flowery pattern, I might add, watching a musical. I think I'm allowed to be a little gay."
Ryan couldn't swallow. Or breathe. "Are... Are you?"
Brendon furrowed his eyebrows, opened his mouth to speak, but then Spencer threw a handful of popcorn at them, yelling, "Oh my God, we're trying to watch a movie!"
Brent snickered, saying, "Dude, don't waste all the popcorn." He tugged the bowl from Spencer's hands and turned his attention back toward the movie.
Ryan felt electric.
--
Ryan tried really hard not to drown in self-pity. He knew, objectively, that his life wasn't that hard. His dad yelled sometimes, yes, and sometimes he hit, but he still had a house and a well stocked fridge and a guitar. His life wasn't that bad.
But it still sucked sometimes, like when his dad did get violent and he had to seek refuge in Spencer's home, where they would set him up on the couch with a blanket that they had designated as his, where they set him a place at the dinner table with extra meat and less vegetables ("Because you need to put some meat on those skinny bones, dear."), where they had Sunday game nights and didn't mind if Ryan joined in.
So even when his life did suck, it wasn't actually that bad.
Ryan didn't think Brendon realized this.
Because sometimes, Brendon looked at Ryan like he hung the moon. Like the words that spilled out of his mouth were gospel, were the written words of God, were something for him to grasp onto and hold tight, when all the rest of his faith had eluded him. Like Ryan was something to believe in.
(And Ryan liked to pretend that this didn't fill him with terror, like this didn't creep up his spine and clench around his windpipe, like the thought of disappointing the hopes of one Brendon Urie, with wide eyes and a bright grin, didn't settle a ball of abject horror in the pit of his stomach. Brendon had already lost so much. Ryan didn't want to be responsible for more.
But he still couldn't help feeling honored.)
--
"Sometimes it's frustrating."
Ryan didn't look up from his notebook, but he did ask, "What is?"
"That people can't just be happy with the world we have. I mean. Fuck. Life is amazing. Why can't they just appreciate it without minimizing it? It's fucking magical enough without it being supernatural."
"...I think that says more about you than it does about them."
"In what way?" Brendon sounded defensive, to Ryan's ears, like he wasn't expecting anything but a sympathetic nod.
"It says that you can appreciate the beauty in the world. And that you want everyone else to see it, too. It's a good thing, don't worry."
Brendon leaned back, relaxed his hackles. "It's just... frustrating."
"Yeah. I know."
--
The lights were off in Ryan's bedroom, starlight streaming through half-open curtains, avoiding their faces, instead falling on the twisted comforter they shared. They hadn't spoken since the lights had been turned off, too tired from school and band practice and sibling squabbles and parental knock-down, drag-out screaming matches. They weren't quite touching, but Ryan could feel Brendon from sheer proximity, feel his tense muscles and tired expression.
"I don't know who I can trust anymore."
Ryan didn't say anything.
"It's like. Everybody's deluded themselves. Nobody can see fact from fiction. They're all brainwashed. Even Spencer. Especially Brent. My whole school. My whole family. I don't know who to trust."
Ryan moved quickly, swiftly, without thinking, softly pressing his lips against Brendon's. Backing only a hair's breadth away, he whispered, "You can trust me. You can always trust me."
Ryan could feel Brendon's breath spread over his lips, could taste the faintest hint of mint. "I would trust you with my life."
Brendon lifted his mouth to Ryan's, tilted just slightly, and in between kisses, Ryan thought he heard him ask, "Would you trust me?"
--
Brendon kisses like Ryan imagines he worships. Reverently. Gently. Passionately. Like it's something to be savored.
Brendon kisses Ryan like Ryan is God, and Ryan doesn't mind at all.
--
Brendon started catching his eye, during rehearsal, or when they're just hanging out. Catching his eye and smiling mischievously, biting his lip and grinning, like he had a filthy secret to hide.
Spencer noticed, and after a silent conversation with Ryan, decided to politely ignore it. Brent didn't notice.
Brendon was different. He was happier, it seemed, ebullient, but still darker, sharp edged beneath his lavender hoodies and skinny jeans. Like there was glass beneath his skin.
Brendon was out of control, kept carefully under wraps. He needed something to take hold of.
Ryan was happy to acquiesce.
--
Brendon's hands were hot. They were gripping, tight, everywhere, all over Ryan's body. Ryan loved it, gasped with it, groaned with every caress and lifted his hips towards Brendon, pleading for pressure, for release.
Brendon had a wicked grin as shook his head just slightly, holding Ryan down by his hips, tight enough to bruise. Ryan moaned. "Please," he could just barely speak, "Please, I can't... I need..."
"What? What do you need?" Brendon's breath fanned across his face, and Ryan couldn't help biting his lip and repeating, "Please, please, please," as if that made it any clearer to Brendon what Ryan was begging for.
And for Ryan, it wasn't just Brendon that was hot. The whole room was overheated, the air too thin and warm, going into his lungs too quickly, and his mind. His mind was cluttered. He wanted so badly for Brendon to be happy, to not be disappointed in him, to trust him. He wanted the band to be successful, for Brent to be closer to them, for Spencer to stop worrying. He wanted Brendon inside of him, he wanted Brendon to not be scared of hurting him, for Brendon to not be scared of hurting himself. He wanted Brendon to stop being so cautious of the world, so overwhelmed with nihilism and atheism and frustration, and to just appreciate the beauty that existed without a god, without the worries. He wanted Brendon to find control where he could. He wanted Brendon to take control.
"Please," he begged, taking Brendon's hands and moving them up to his throat, "Please."
"Ryan..."
"I trust you. Believe in me."
Brendon's hands, still hot, still shorter and squarer than Ryan's, were just big enough to wrap around Ryan's neck and squeeze, squeeze, until Ryan's vision was spotty and his chest was tight, until gravity shifted and aligned, and Brendon, with fear and trust and absolution in his eyes, released.
--
"I don't believe in anything, Ryan Ross."
"I know."
"I don't believe in God, or fairytales, or aliens, or the supernatural."
"Me neither."
"I only believe in what can be proven."
"Mmm."
"I believe in you, Ryan."
Ryan breathed.
--
Author:
qtlymakingnoise
Rating: R
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
Summary: Brendon struggles with a crisis of faith.
Word Count: ~1600
Disclaimer: I own none of the people involved in this story, and none of it actually happened.
Warning: Minor breathplay, but it is not the focus of the story.
Author Notes: Much love to Tess,
relaxrelapsex, who betaed, and Aldous Huxley, who inspired me.
--
"I'm scared." His voice was a slinky whisper on a warm night. It wasn't visible, but it felt tangible to Ryan. Like he could reach out and grip it, and the silk would slide softly through his fingers.
"Why?" Ryan asked.
"I can't believe like my parents do. They're just so... genuine. Like that's what they truly believe. And I can't. I can't believe it. It doesn't make any sense to me."
"Why does that scare you?" They were lying somewhere on Ryan's car in a desert, humid and thick-aired. Their arms were barely touching, and even that hint of body heat seemed like it might be too much for Ryan. He just couldn't bring himself to move.
"Because if it's not true... No, wait. Since it's not true... What's the point? What's the fucking point? Why should I even try if bad things happen to good people and awful people are rewarded? Why should I try to be a good person if it doesn't matter?"
Ryan shifted closer.
"Because you don't have to try to be a good person. You just are. And because you're a good person, you do good things. That's the end of it."
"But it's so lonely." He sounded choked up, voice thick and struggling to sound normal. Ryan slid his hand into Brendon's and squeezed.
"It doesn't have to be."
--
"I don't want to go to church anymore." Brendon was sitting on Ryan's bed, clothes spread out on the floor and strewn on furniture. There was a guitar in his hands, his fingers cradling the neck gently, like that was where his hands were meant to be, wrapped around a neck and squeezing just the right amount. Ryan tried to hold back a shudder.
"Then don't." It was pretty simple in Ryan's eyes. If Brendon doesn't want to go to church, he shouldn't.
"What am I supposed to tell my parents? They would freak."
"Tell them your Satan-worshipping band needs you on Sundays so we can sacrifice goats and hold orgies."
Brendon snorted a laugh, strumming a C Major chord. "I'm sure that would go over real well."
"I dunno. Tell them you're sick. That you have a project you need to work on. That you need to stay home and masturbate."
"Hmm. Maybe I'll give that one a try," he said absentmindedly, plucking at the stings, his hands tensed just right.
"Tell them you don't believe in God anymore."
Brendon strummed a D Minor.
--
Brendon, Ryan, Spencer, and Brent were sitting on Spencer's grandmother's couch, the blue glow from the television dancing across their faces.
"This is my favorite movie," Brendon said, quietly enough for only Ryan to hear it, tucked into his side as he was.
"Sound of Music? That's pretty gay."
"Ryan, we're teenage boys squished on a loveseat that has a flowery pattern, I might add, watching a musical. I think I'm allowed to be a little gay."
Ryan couldn't swallow. Or breathe. "Are... Are you?"
Brendon furrowed his eyebrows, opened his mouth to speak, but then Spencer threw a handful of popcorn at them, yelling, "Oh my God, we're trying to watch a movie!"
Brent snickered, saying, "Dude, don't waste all the popcorn." He tugged the bowl from Spencer's hands and turned his attention back toward the movie.
Ryan felt electric.
--
Ryan tried really hard not to drown in self-pity. He knew, objectively, that his life wasn't that hard. His dad yelled sometimes, yes, and sometimes he hit, but he still had a house and a well stocked fridge and a guitar. His life wasn't that bad.
But it still sucked sometimes, like when his dad did get violent and he had to seek refuge in Spencer's home, where they would set him up on the couch with a blanket that they had designated as his, where they set him a place at the dinner table with extra meat and less vegetables ("Because you need to put some meat on those skinny bones, dear."), where they had Sunday game nights and didn't mind if Ryan joined in.
So even when his life did suck, it wasn't actually that bad.
Ryan didn't think Brendon realized this.
Because sometimes, Brendon looked at Ryan like he hung the moon. Like the words that spilled out of his mouth were gospel, were the written words of God, were something for him to grasp onto and hold tight, when all the rest of his faith had eluded him. Like Ryan was something to believe in.
(And Ryan liked to pretend that this didn't fill him with terror, like this didn't creep up his spine and clench around his windpipe, like the thought of disappointing the hopes of one Brendon Urie, with wide eyes and a bright grin, didn't settle a ball of abject horror in the pit of his stomach. Brendon had already lost so much. Ryan didn't want to be responsible for more.
But he still couldn't help feeling honored.)
--
"Sometimes it's frustrating."
Ryan didn't look up from his notebook, but he did ask, "What is?"
"That people can't just be happy with the world we have. I mean. Fuck. Life is amazing. Why can't they just appreciate it without minimizing it? It's fucking magical enough without it being supernatural."
"...I think that says more about you than it does about them."
"In what way?" Brendon sounded defensive, to Ryan's ears, like he wasn't expecting anything but a sympathetic nod.
"It says that you can appreciate the beauty in the world. And that you want everyone else to see it, too. It's a good thing, don't worry."
Brendon leaned back, relaxed his hackles. "It's just... frustrating."
"Yeah. I know."
--
The lights were off in Ryan's bedroom, starlight streaming through half-open curtains, avoiding their faces, instead falling on the twisted comforter they shared. They hadn't spoken since the lights had been turned off, too tired from school and band practice and sibling squabbles and parental knock-down, drag-out screaming matches. They weren't quite touching, but Ryan could feel Brendon from sheer proximity, feel his tense muscles and tired expression.
"I don't know who I can trust anymore."
Ryan didn't say anything.
"It's like. Everybody's deluded themselves. Nobody can see fact from fiction. They're all brainwashed. Even Spencer. Especially Brent. My whole school. My whole family. I don't know who to trust."
Ryan moved quickly, swiftly, without thinking, softly pressing his lips against Brendon's. Backing only a hair's breadth away, he whispered, "You can trust me. You can always trust me."
Ryan could feel Brendon's breath spread over his lips, could taste the faintest hint of mint. "I would trust you with my life."
Brendon lifted his mouth to Ryan's, tilted just slightly, and in between kisses, Ryan thought he heard him ask, "Would you trust me?"
--
Brendon kisses like Ryan imagines he worships. Reverently. Gently. Passionately. Like it's something to be savored.
Brendon kisses Ryan like Ryan is God, and Ryan doesn't mind at all.
--
Brendon started catching his eye, during rehearsal, or when they're just hanging out. Catching his eye and smiling mischievously, biting his lip and grinning, like he had a filthy secret to hide.
Spencer noticed, and after a silent conversation with Ryan, decided to politely ignore it. Brent didn't notice.
Brendon was different. He was happier, it seemed, ebullient, but still darker, sharp edged beneath his lavender hoodies and skinny jeans. Like there was glass beneath his skin.
Brendon was out of control, kept carefully under wraps. He needed something to take hold of.
Ryan was happy to acquiesce.
--
Brendon's hands were hot. They were gripping, tight, everywhere, all over Ryan's body. Ryan loved it, gasped with it, groaned with every caress and lifted his hips towards Brendon, pleading for pressure, for release.
Brendon had a wicked grin as shook his head just slightly, holding Ryan down by his hips, tight enough to bruise. Ryan moaned. "Please," he could just barely speak, "Please, I can't... I need..."
"What? What do you need?" Brendon's breath fanned across his face, and Ryan couldn't help biting his lip and repeating, "Please, please, please," as if that made it any clearer to Brendon what Ryan was begging for.
And for Ryan, it wasn't just Brendon that was hot. The whole room was overheated, the air too thin and warm, going into his lungs too quickly, and his mind. His mind was cluttered. He wanted so badly for Brendon to be happy, to not be disappointed in him, to trust him. He wanted the band to be successful, for Brent to be closer to them, for Spencer to stop worrying. He wanted Brendon inside of him, he wanted Brendon to not be scared of hurting him, for Brendon to not be scared of hurting himself. He wanted Brendon to stop being so cautious of the world, so overwhelmed with nihilism and atheism and frustration, and to just appreciate the beauty that existed without a god, without the worries. He wanted Brendon to find control where he could. He wanted Brendon to take control.
"Please," he begged, taking Brendon's hands and moving them up to his throat, "Please."
"Ryan..."
"I trust you. Believe in me."
Brendon's hands, still hot, still shorter and squarer than Ryan's, were just big enough to wrap around Ryan's neck and squeeze, squeeze, until Ryan's vision was spotty and his chest was tight, until gravity shifted and aligned, and Brendon, with fear and trust and absolution in his eyes, released.
--
"I don't believe in anything, Ryan Ross."
"I know."
"I don't believe in God, or fairytales, or aliens, or the supernatural."
"Me neither."
"I only believe in what can be proven."
"Mmm."
"I believe in you, Ryan."
Ryan breathed.
--