Fic Post: Unreliable Narrators (2/2)
Part One
Spencer says: "So. What did you do to Brendon?"
And Ryan says, "What the fuck?"
They're sitting on Ryan's new couch this time, eating frozen pizza. Spencer is waiting for Ryan to talk. Spencer has seemingly forgotten who he's dealing with.
Except that Spencer's actually more stubborn than Ryan, and Ryan breaks first.
"What makes you think I did something to Brendon?"
"He's acting weird."
"He's acting like Brendon."
“Right. Except even weirder.”
“Why is that my fault?”
"You're acting weird too."
"I am not."
"Is this about Keltie?"
"No. What do you mean?"
Spencer sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. "You've been weird since Keltie. And it's okay, I mean, I get it. You were crazy about her and no one likes being dumped, but maybe we should talk about it."
"There's nothing to talk about. It was mutual. She's busy. I'm busy. We never saw each other and then we did and it just. Wasn't what it used to be."
"But you're okay."
"I'm, you know. Break ups suck."
"So, the thing with Brendon." Spencer is nothing if not determined. In this case he is also wrong. Mostly.
"Brendon has nothing to do with anything."
"Okay. Will you let me know when you stop pretending that's true?"
"If something had happened, don't you think I'd tell you?"
"I didn't say something happened. I said there was a thing."
"There's not. There's still not."
"Okay," Spencer nods agreeably, like he's listening to everything Ryan says and thinks Ryan makes perfect sense. That means he doesn't believe a word of it and is snarking in his head. No one but Ryan would know that, but that's what it means. Which is annoying.
"Why are we talking about this?"
"It's just. I don't know; it feels like it used to." Spencer shrugs and looks at him out of the corner of his eye. He’s expecting Ryan to argue or challenge him, but Ryan already knows how that conversation would go. The thing is, they used to have that conversation a lot.
There was awhile there, toward the beginning, when Brendon got a little out of control. It wasn't awful; nothing happened, but Ryan remembers dragging Brendon off The Academy Is . . . bus, away from William (and from Jon, because that was before, and it feels so long ago now, even though it really wasn't) Brendon petulant and resisting, "come on Ryan, we're young."
Usually, Brendon would disappear with William just after the show and he'd come back drunk and malleable and slip into Ryan's bunk, curl up against him smelling like cigarettes (pot) and beertequilarumwhiskey. Whatever. Nothing Ryan wanted to smell, but it wasn’t so bad. Or, if Ryan waited up for him, Brendon would throw himself down on the couch, grabbing absently for Ryan's hand. And Ryan would take it and pet his hair. He'd listen to him ramble more than usual and try not to feel sick with memory.
They kissed exactly once. If it was going to happen, it should have happened before that, Ryan thought. It should have happened at the beginning when he was spending every night at Brendon’s apartment because Brendon wanted the company and Ryan wanted to be anywhere but at home. It should have happened the night they were signed, when they spent the whole night curled up on Brendon’s futon making plans in awed whispers, half convinced it couldn’t really be happening, and half in love with Pete Wentz and the world and each other. It should have happened any number of ways, but Brendon sprawled against him in his bunk, slick and hot with sweat, well into the Truckstops and Statelines tour, wasn’t one of them. Brendon whispered his name, and Ryan looked down as Brendon leaned up, catching Ryan by surprise. Everything about it was awkward and messy and Brendon tasted like tangy leftover booze and cigarettes. It made Ryan dizzy. Ryan let himself be kissed, a little stunned, until Brendon flicked his tongue against Ryan’s lip, and then Ryan startled and pulled away, turning his back to Brendon and ignoring him until he fell asleep.
The next morning Brendon wandered into the kitchen an hour after Ryan was up and stood staring at the empty coffee pot.
“You’ll have to make new,” Ryan said, and Brendon sank down in the chair across from him with his head on his arm and groaned.
“I don’t think I can work the coffee pot, Ross.”
“That’s so sad for you,” Ryan said.
“Help?”
“No.”
Brendon sat up, slumping back against the chair and called, “Spencer! Spencer, coffee!”
“He’s not here,” Ryan said, and looked up from his magazine. Brendon was staring at him pitifully. “You’re pitiful.”
“Yes. Pity me. Coffee, Ryan.”
“Oh, fine.”
Ryan made fresh coffee and when he handed the cup to Brendon, their fingers brushed and Brendon looked up at him, too seriously, eyes suddenly clear.
“Ryan,” he started, but Ryan shook his head and backed away, retreating to the other side of the table.
“No, don’t worry about it. You were drunk,” he said, and held up his copy of Rolling Stone between them, blocking Brendon from view.
It might have gone on indefinitely if all he'd seen was Brendon sloppy and affectionately drunk. It unsettled him, but Brendon was an adult and nothing had happened so, he - probably - could have continued to let it go. Then one night Brendon stumbled onto the bus around three, smelling as bad as he usually did, but more out of it, barely coherent, barely responsive, and oh, fuck no. Ryan held his head when he threw up and then hauled him to his bunk. He woke up Brent and Spencer and they took turns waking Brendon up every hour to make sure they could wake him up. Ryan knows what to do if you’re afraid someone has alcohol poisoning.
When the sun came up he left the bus and didn't come back for the rest of the day.
When Ryan finally got back, the other three were sitting on the couch in the lounge. Spencer took one look at Ryan and then wordlessly grabbed Brent's arm and dragged him off the bus. Brendon looked half-dead, pale and washed out and sick, but he smiled hesitantly. "Hey, thanks for last night."
Ryan nodded tightly.
Brendon reached out for Ryan's hand, but Ryan jerked away, sitting down on the other side of the couch, but far enough away so that they weren't touching. Brendon looked at him warily, "I'm sorry, Ryan."
Part of Ryan was tempted to say "it's okay," but most of him was pretty much done, so what came out was, "God, Brendon, every night? What are you doing?"
Brendon shifted uncomfortably, "I said I was sorry. I didn't mean to. I just . . . I won't do it again."
"You better not," Ryan bit out.
"I won’t,” Brendon's voice got a little harder, indignant. He still looked like movement made him nauseous.
“Really? Because it’s kind of been a pattern. You’re with The Academy all the time . . .”
“And what? They’re corrupting me? I thought you liked William. I know you like Jon.”
Ryan shrugged, “I do. And I didn’t say they were ‘corrupting’ you. I just said maybe you should cool it.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Apparently not.”
“Fuck you. I know what I can handle.”
“Then why aren’t you handling it?”
"Jesus, how is it even your business?"
Ryan was shocked into silence for a minute; the world kind of throbbed and contracted and he felt sick, punched in the gut, because Brendon knew. Brendon had spent months doing his best to crawl inside all of Ryan's defenses until Ryan felt wrecked and open and the idea that Brendon still didn't get it made everything kind of spin out of control. He wanted to say "because of last night, asshole" and "you're my business," but that was too revealing suddenly, and in that moment he didn't really want to be revealed to Brendon anymore, maybe ever again. He did manage to choke out, “This band is my business!”
“And the fucking band is fine! Don't be a controlling ass, Ross.”
“If you weren't such an insensitive dick, I wouldn't have to be.” Ryan got up and stalked off the bus.
They hit some kind of wall that night and it was hard to say what changed exactly afterward, but it was difficult for awhile, with everything between them jagged and cracking. They were okay on stage, like they're always okay on stage. Everything else could be falling apart, and they'd still be in sync with each other while performing. Brendon would slide up next to Ryan and sing into his microphone, press their foreheads together and Ryan wouldn’t even want to pull away, even if he didn’t want to look at Brendon the rest of the time. Brendon would still deflect attention from Ryan if Ryan needed him to, and he could always tell when Ryan needed him to. (And Ryan, Ryan needed too much - needed so much more than he trusted, which was such an old problem he didn’t even recognize it at the time).
When they were alone it was bad. There was too much palpable tension that started whenever they stepped off stage or away from the cameras. There wasn’t enough Spencer or Brent could do.
But it got better. One night Brendon came in late and pushed back the curtain on Ryan's bunk, climbed in and grabbed Ryan's hands, pulling at him until Ryan sat up and looked at him. He was totally sober and he didn't smell like anything but tour bus and the butter from the popcorn Spencer had dumped over his head in the lounge when he’d decided Brendon was being a sore video-game winner.
"I'm sorry," he started.
"You said that already."
"No. No listen.” Brendon’s eyes were huge and earnest and scared and Ryan bit back his retort and looked.
“I'm sorry. I get it, okay? I promise, Ryan. No more. Not like that." He bit his lip and squeezed Ryan's hands and waited, until Ryan finally nodded and pulled one hand away to slip it behind Brendon's neck and tip their foreheads together.
"It's okay. Hey. It's okay." It wasn’t, not totally, and Ryan wasn’t sure he wanted to forgive him that easily, but Brendon meant it and that was all Ryan wanted in the first place.
Ryan suspected that Spencer got to Brendon because Spencer had known Ryan forever and usually stepped in before his self-destructive emo got too out of control. Spencer probably helped, but Ryan never asked and they were okay after that. They were okay, but everything between them felt more fragile than before. The stage show stayed the same, until it escalated, but off stage Ryan and Brendon were more hesitant with each other, more reserved, and by then they had way bigger problems anyway. There were other sources of tension and - increasingly - it became RyanandBrendonandSpencer vs. Brent and everything was charged and tight and uncomfortable and breaking and then Brent was gone and Jon was there and the band dynamic was changed again.
And, if Brendon and Ryan were different at the beginning, if they were under each other's skin and half-way to starting something that never happened, well, there was (Pete and) Jac and Audrey and Brittany and Keltie and a string of Brendon's one night stands, and it didn't matter after awhile. The hyper-awareness of each other settled into familiarity. The cuddliness was just friendly affection. Nothing Rhymes with Circus was for show; the connection they'd always had on stage was about the bizarre forced intimacy that came from the combination of Ryan's words and Brendon's voice. Anything else faded to background noise. They missed their moment.
So Spencer can really, seriously shut up.
----
The record drops and it's a hit and Pete is on the phone all the time (as in actually using the phone to talk rather than just text, which tells Ryan something right there) saying "I told you! What did I say? See, I told you." And Ryan thinks it's as much a relief for Pete as it is for them. Pete has this thing where he feels responsible for Ryan. It's a little fucked up if you ask Ryan (except that no one does and he wouldn't actually admit that out loud if they did, but he thinks it sometimes), especially in hindsight and given everything. But Pete means well and, honestly, it's hardly the most fucked up relationship of Ryan's life, which. He doesn't know what that says, actually.
A lot of the songs are still stories. Only some of them are really autobiographical. Only one of them is about Keltie and sunlight and letting go, and Ryan’s fine as long as he doesn’t look at Brendon when Brendon’s singing it.
Spencer tries to discuss it once, with “so I think we should talk about how things have been a little awkward lately.”
And Ryan says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about” and “Please, Spence, shut up.” And Spencer does shut up, but he doesn’t shut up sincerely and he keeps looking at Ryan and thinking really loudly. Ryan can tell when he’s being handled, damn it
Brendon wrote the music for it (of course). They were in the studio late one night because Ryan’s a perfectionist and Brendon’s obsessive. Ryan was rearranging lyrics in the bridge in a different song and Brendon was at the piano, playing softly, picking out chords and melodies and Ryan hadn't even tried to talk to him in an hour. It's no use when he gets focused like that; his energy swells up until it fills the whole room and he won't hear anything anyway.
Brendon stopped abruptly and Ryan started at the sudden silence, looking up to find Brendon chewing on his lower lip and staring at the piano like he was waiting for it to tell him something. He jerked his head up and met Ryan's eyes, beaming and motioned him over excitedly.
“Come here."
Ryan got up and wandered over by the piano, curiously. The songs were pretty much written; they were just tinkering with details.
"What?" he asked. Brendon smiled up at him, wide eyed and a little smug, vibrating with inspiration. When Brendon gets wrapped up in the music, it's hard not to get wrapped up with him. Ryan knows that Brendon can sometimes seem completely ridiculous - sometimes (often) he is completely ridiculous - but it's usually on purpose, and his passion runs underneath all of that, threads through everything he does. It can be exhilarating to feel tapped into that. It can also be exhausting to be caught in it.
Ryan needed Panic! to work when they started, and Spencer was right there with him, loved the band like he'd always loved Ryan and countered all of Ryan's insecurities with steely determination. But Brendon . . . Brendon wanted it; he wanted it with an intensity completely separate from the ache of need and escape that was itching under Ryan's skin. Ryan found it thrilling and terrifying, Brendon's unapologetic daring, the way he wouldn't even let himself fear failure enough to doubt. It's still dizzying, when he thinks about it too much -- about all the things they didn't know and all the ways things could have gone wrong, what Brendon almost lost and what he was willing to give up. It would have been a lot to ask, if Brendon hadn’t wanted this so badly and they’d ever had to ask at all. But they didn’t, and things went amazingly right, and that look in Brendon's eyes, that charm that says believe in me, it got them a lot.
Brendon just shook his head and said, "No, come here," and accentuated the last word by pulling Ryan around the edge of the piano and down on the bench next to him so their shoulders were pressed so tightly together that Brendon barely had room to play, "now, listen." He launched into a full accompaniment. It was the same as the simple melody they'd had originally, but it was different too. He'd slowed it down, made it into a ballad, and it wasn't how Ryan had heard it in his head, but it was better, fuller and new. Brendon turned to Ryan when he was finished, smiling wide, jittering a little, unable to stay still once his focus dissipated. "Yeah?" He asked.
Ryan nodded, smiling back and squeezing Brendon's arm, "yeah. Definitely."
The new record feels more collaborative than Fever did; Jon and Spencer are all over it, in the rhythms and cadences and the currents underneath. But it’s still Ryan’s words, Brendon’s music at the core, and if it feels sometimes like he and Brendon are living in each other’s head’s again, that’s why the feeling of not-quite-forgotten-awareness is buzzing at the back of his mind. That’s why he feels like he does when Brendon’s looking at him.
----
Brendon is always looking at him now. It’s usually when he thinks Ryan isn’t paying attention, but Ryan can feel it, like pressure starting on the back of his neck and sliding down his spine. They're all used to being watched by cameras and fans, but scrutiny is different when it comes from someone who knows what they're looking at. He expects it from Spencer, where it comes out of protectiveness, out of a lifetime of knowing each other inside out. Coming from Brendon it’s always been harder to take; it's always felt like a risk, and Ryan feels more volatile and conspicuous than he has since the beginning.
Ryan’s gotten better at interviews because he’s learned how to control them. It’s all about being perceived a certain way. He can say what he needs to say. He can be charming. He can talk to reporters without wanting to sink through the floor. He doesn’t like it, though. He doesn’t mind talking about the music, but it’s never just that; that’s never all they want. He doesn’t like interviewers like the one sitting in front of them. She wants more than the persona. She’s too eager to open up his conscious fictions. (When Ryan commented on it, Pete said, “That’s fame,” and shrugged like he didn’t care. That’s a lie because Pete cares about everything, but he doesn’t care like Ryan does.)
The interviewer smiles. Her name is Kara or Karen. Her tone is (invasive) friendly and familiar.
Jon is ribbing on Spencer and Spencer is laughing and Ryan is watching them and Brendon is watching Ryan. Brendon’s been quieter in interviews recently, content to let (Ryan) the others talk. Brendon can’t fade into the background. It isn’t possible; nothing about him is background. But he’s sort of trying, and it’s sort of weird.
KaraKaren leans forward and Ryan can feel the shift in her focus.
“Ryan, you’ve been very quiet about your personal life lately. I know you don’t like talking about the details, but is it true that a lot of the new songs are about your relationship with Keltie Colleen?”
One on side of Ryan, Spencer’s smile drops and he goes rigid. On Ryan’s other side, Brendon’s got his arm is stretched out on the couch behind Ryan’s head and he slides it down the back of the couch, squeezing Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan shifts forward, “A lot of my lyrics are very personal. I take inspiration from what’s going on in my life. But some of them are just stories we’re telling.”
“Can you tell us which category the first single falls into?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Ryan keeps his voice even and doesn’t look away from her.
She looks a little taken aback, but recovers quickly and turns to Brendon, “what about you, Brendon? There have been occasional rumors about a secret girlfriend. Is there any truth to those?”
Brendon shrugs and smiles widely, deceptively innocent and effortlessly charming; his arm is still heavy across Ryan’s shoulders.
“Nah. I’m focused on the band at the moment.”
----
If they’re sitting around at Spencer’s or at Ryan’s or in a bar somewhere, and Ryan looks up too quickly, Brendon will be watching him. If they’re practicing, Brendon’s attention is on Ryan even when they aren’t looking at each other. Brendon hasn’t touched Ryan on stage yet. They haven’t started touring, and it would be just like Brendon to throw something in at the last moment, but there’s nothing scripted; they’re not even near each other for most of the show despite the fact they’re switching off vocals more than they ever have. Brendon hasn’t even brought it up, and that throws Ryan off balance because he was waiting for Brendon to push; nothing definitive ever happened and he can’t bring it up now. It’s too late to give in unprompted, and so he’s jittery and on edge. Ryan's used to being pushed by Brendon, so he's used to pushing back but this isn't pushing; this is holding still, and he feels like he's overbalanced. The tension builds so gradually that he doesn’t even realize it’s there until he realizes it’s oppressive and he’s been waiting for it to break for weeks.
If you’ve thoroughly convinced yourself something is (or isn’t) true, then you aren’t really lying to yourself as long as no one else knows the difference. That’s Ryan Ross’s third rule for narrating your own life. However, narrating your own life requires a certain amount of omniscient self-awareness. So, then, the fact that Ryan is simultaneously consciously in love with Brendon and in denial about it isn’t really a problem. The fact that he can now articulate this and is experiencing actual cognitive dissonance means that the denial piece has stopped working as well as it should and that, well, that could be a problem.
----
They’re practicing with the musicians they’re going to take on tour. Brendon and Ryan have a screaming fight (that involves Brendon yelling and Ryan glaring at a lot - Ryan doesn't scream) about the arrangement on one of the songs that is Not About Keltie, Thanks. It's not that different from the way they always fight about the arrangements, but everything feels heightened and Ryan stalks out of practice and leans on his car, fists clenched, wishing he smoked cigarettes.
That night, Brendon fucks their violinist. He mentions it to Jon in a smirking whisper the next day while they’re tuning and Ryan, who is eavesdropping, breaks a string on his guitar. Brendon startles and looks up at Ryan quickly, expression questioning and a little defiant. He shrugs, one hand held out, palm up. It looks like I don’t know, but Ryan reads the challenge, go on, you know you want to ask. Brendon holds eye contact until Ryan looks away.
But he doesn’t look away even when Ryan does and every time Ryan looks up through the rest of practice, Brendon’s eyes are on him. He’s never done well with his own words being sung at him. It’s affecting the others too. The violinist can barely play. Jon keeps shooting nervous glances at everyone, and Spencer, who never fumbles, drops his sticks three times. He finally calls a break and pinches Ryan’s neck when he walks by him on his way out of the room, hissing, “fix this” in his ear.
Ryan and Brendon are alone in the room. Ryan’s watching the door, his back to Brendon, who is at the piano playing “Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off,” which they have not been practicing and have not talked about doing on this tour. When Ryan turns around, Brendon’s finally looked away and he’s humming under his breath. Ryan wants to strangle him a little bit. He feels uncertain and unprepared and uneasy, vaguely afraid that Brendon will answer any questions he asks. He walks over to the piano and leans against the side of it until Brendon stops and looks up at him.
Ryan says, “Brendon. What?”
Brendon opens his mouth, and closes it again, looking at Ryan for another long minute before he bites his lip and says, “nothing, I guess.”
Ryan sighs, “Look . . .”
Brendon shakes his head, “Nothing. Really.”
Ryan lets it go with both annoyance and relief. The rest of practice goes smoothly and Brendon doesn’t do more than glance at Ryan. But nothing is fixed.
----
On the wall in his bedroom Ryan has a picture of the band right after Jon joined. (Tucked in the frame behind it is a second picture of the band from right after they signed. He keeps it in the frame, but hidden. Sometimes it's still hard to look at them with Brent. There are things you know you can't keep, but that doesn't mean you don't miss them).
He also has a picture of himself and Keltie at his birthday party. They're wrapped around each other, wrapped up in each other, smiling for the camera. He calls her in the middle of the night and she answers, sleepy and concerned, "Ryan? Ryan, what is it? Is everything okay?"
"Sorry! Sorry, Keltie, I didn't realize what time it was. Go back to sleep. I just wanted to talk."
"No, I'm awake now. What is it?" Her voice deepens with affection, but there’s that worry underneath, and he feels a little guilty.
"It's nothing. Just, I love you, you know that?"
"Ryan, we agreed . . ."
"No. No. I'm not asking you to get back together, just . . . we were good for each other, weren't we? We were good."
"We were good. We were really, really good. What's this about?"
"Nothing. I've just been thinking."
"About what?"
"About us. About what happens now."
"Is there someone? That would be okay, you know.”
"What if it's someone I always cared about?"
There's a long pause, and then, "What do you mean?"
"Not like that, Keltie. Not like you're thinking. When it was you, it was always you. It was completely you. But this is . . . it's not new. And I'm not sure it's a good idea. I'm pretty sure it isn't. I don't know what to do. And it might fuck everything up. It kind of is already."
"Just tell me."
"Brendon."
Keltie sighs, "Oh, Ryan. I kind of. Yeah. I always thought, a little bit, that there was something like that there."
"There wasn't. It wasn't like that. I never would have."
"I know that. I always trusted you. Are you looking for my permission? You don't need it."
"No. Not permission. I just kind of wanted you to know. Is that weird?"
She pauses again, and he waits for her, trying to hear everything she might not be saying. When she speaks, her voice is gentle, but not too much so, not like she's coddling, because she's Keltie and she doesn't do that, "Yeah, a little, but I think I get it. Okay. Now I know. Does that help?"
"I don't know."
"Then I don't know what to tell you. But it's okay, whatever you do. It's okay. And you can talk to me if you need to."
"I'm sorry this is weird for you."
"It is, but don't be. It's no weirder for me than it is for you. I'd rather you tell me than not."
"Thanks. Go back to sleep, Keltie."
He feels better when he hangs up, but not really more sure of anything.
----
Brendon turns twenty-one and they go out for his birthday. Brendon wears eyeliner and the royal purple of his shirt looks black in the dim light. Ryan wears a pinstripe suit and feels transitional. Brendon's still watching him, the way he's been watching him for weeks, speculatively, and it makes Ryan feel twitchy and overexposed. The apprehension (anticipation) coiled low and heavy in his stomach makes him nauseous and shaky. Everything in his awareness is pulled taut with building possibility and he's a little afraid of the snap.
His eyes connect with Brendon's from across the room and hold for a moment. He starts to motion Brendon over to him when some scene kid appears behind Brendon and touches his shoulder and the moment breaks, crashes. (The “kid” is a year younger than them, maybe two at the most, older than they were at the beginning. Ryan feels old sometimes, twenty-one and cynical before this even started). Brendon's turned and leaning in, so that Ryan is looking at both Brendon and the kid in profile. Their heads are together so that they can hear each other over the music. The kid is all in black, has multiple piercings and red hair. He’s a little taller than Brendon, a little broader. He's laughing and Brendon's smiling, wide and easy and he’s sliding his left arm around the kid's back and gesturing expansively with his right hand, edging closer, erasing personal space as his whole body gets into whatever story he's telling. They’re walking toward the exit. Ryan turns back to the bar and orders another beer.
----
Ryan bails early, and he leaves Jon, Spencer and Haley whispering in a corner. Spencer and Jon try to get him to stick around just a little longer. “Just until Brendon comes back. It’s his birthday asshole,” Spencer says, looking tired and annoyed.
Ryan doesn’t stay. Haley gives him a sympathetic look when he leaves because Haley also thinks she knows things. She probably does. She knows he’s being an ass at least. He is being an ass. He's very aware of that, but there are times when self-preservation really has to take precedence. He knows that too. It's rule number one.
He’s lost track of Brendon entirely, but Brendon probably left with the scene kid anyway and will, probably, be back. Brendon has an ease with people that Ryan finds exhausting. He gets comfortable too quickly. It seems unsafe.
Ryan doesn’t know what he expected to happen tonight. Maybe nothing. They let things build to the breaking point before, and then he stepped back from the edge. But it felt different then. That was long nights and surface tension until he wanted to explode. This just feels like precipice. He might know what he wants (but not how long he’ll want it). He might know what Brendon wants (but Brendon likes impulses and bad ideas). There are too many potential catastrophes, more ways for things to go wrong than ways for things to go right. There are moments when he wishes he could be more like Pete, who is exhilarated by disaster, unfazed by consequences until they happen, or like Brendon, who is reckless in a way that counts, who is brave even when he has as much to lose as he does to gain. Ryan likes his risks calculated. He’s wary of revelation, of things he can’t take back.
He's never totally comfortable going out in Las Vegas. He always feels too young, too much like he's seventeen again. That was a long time ago, but sometimes he realizes it wasn't as long ago as it feels. He didn’t particularly enjoy being seventeen when he actually was, so he gets a little overwhelmed when the memories get too vivid. It’s three-thirty in the morning, but he’s still awake, curled up on the couch with his notebook, writing lyrics that are more emo than anything he's written in years and then scratching them out violently, when the knock comes at the door. He opens it, and he's not even surprised that Brendon's there, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. His eyeliner's smeared black around his eyes and his hair is mussed. His shirt actually looks dark purple now that he's in better light, and he's got the first couple buttons undone. Ryan wants to run his hand up Brendon's arm to see if the material's as soft as it looks. He crosses his arms tight over his chest to keep from reaching out.
"It's late. What are you doing here?' He tries to keep his voice noncommittal, unchallenging. That kind of neutrality usually works on Brendon, if only because he doesn't understand it. But tonight Brendon just shakes his head, bounces a little more, looks uncertain and younger than Ryan's seen him look in a long time. Ryan's chest clenches.
"Hey, can I come in?"
"Yeah, okay." It doesn't even occur to him to say no. Ryan moves aside, motioning Brendon into the room and Brendon brushes past him, sitting down on the couch and then immediately standing up again to pace to the other side of the room. Ryan stays standing, leaning back against the door with his arms folded across his chest, waiting. "What's going on?"
"Are you pissed at me?"
"What? No, why?"
"You missed cake."
Brendon sounds hurt and a little pissed off on top of that. Ryan shifts uncomfortably, "Oh, hey. Sorry. I was just tired; I couldn't find you, but I told Spence I was taking off. You looked kind of busy anyway."
Ryan meant to keep his voice casual, thought that he'd done a pretty good job, actually, but he must not have because Brendon's head shoots up at that and his eyes narrow and he stops. Stops pacing, stops bouncing, just stops.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just that I saw you with that guy and you looked occupied. What?"
"I was talking, Ryan."
"Okay, whatever, I was wrong. Does it matter? I should have stuck around for the cake; I'm sorry."
"I don't care about cake and yeah. It matters." Brendon's still looking at him with that fucking speculative look in his eyes and it still makes Ryan feel antsy and decipherable. Open. "Ryan?"
"What?" He sounds too nervous, even to himself. Fuck.
"What's going on?" Brendon sounds honestly curious, nervous himself. Ryan shakes his head. He’s never been good at confrontation; he has to write things down to articulate them. He can’t voice emotion. That’s why Brendon gets on stage and does it for him.
"That's what I asked you. You're the one showing up here randomly in the middle of the night."
“Because something’s going on with you!”
"Oh, no. You've been acting weird for weeks."
"You've been acting weird forever, and I'm pretty sick of it. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong."
"You're not pissed?"
"No."
"Ryan?"
"What?"
"Would it have mattered if I was 'occupied'?"
Ryan falters, fumbles, finally says "no, of course not," and it sounds faint and unconvincing even to his own ears and must to Brendon too because Brendon laughs, not unkindly, but almost hysterically, in exasperation, frustration, Ryan's not sure. Brendon drops his head in to his hands, rubs at his eyes, smearing eyeliner in streaks across his temples. It makes his eyes look even darker.
"What are we doing?" he asks, almost to himself.
Ryan takes a step forward, "What do you want, Brendon?"
"Me?" Brendon looks at him again, straight at him, so that Ryan has to look away. "What do I want?" Brendon gestures helplessly and sits down on the couch again, "Nothing I can have. Nothing I have ever been able to have, and you're the one who . . ." he trails off. Then, softer, "Don't make this about me. What do you want?"
And Ryan has to get out of there. Right then, immediately.
There's nowhere really to go, though, so he ends up walking through into his bedroom and standing in front of the window, dropping his head down against the glass. It's cool, which is nice. He hadn't realized how much he felt like he was overheating. He feels Brendon behind him within seconds. Too close. And he's too hot again, and Brendon's hands are on his shoulders, and fuck.
“What do you want?” Brendon asks again, even softer this time, voice right in Ryan’s ear,
"The band," Ryan says.
"You've got that."
"I don't want to screw that up."
"Won't happen. What else?"
"I don't know."
"Really?"
Ryan shrugs and Brendon sighs, tightening his hands and digging his fingers into Ryan's shoulder blades. It's uncomfortable, too much, might leave bruises. Ryan suppresses an involuntary and not entirely unpleasant shudder at the thought. "Don't be a dick, Ross. Because I'm all in here. I'm all in. And I always fucking was, and if you didn't know that all along then you know it now. Come on. I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.” Brendon's words come out in a rush, muffled, where he's got his head tipped down, forehead resting on Ryan's shoulder. “Say something,” he whispers, a little desperate, when Ryan doesn’t respond.
Ryan thinks I've been terrified of this for a long time but he’s well past the point where that even mattered. He didn’t realize that until this moment, but it’s true.
He just says, "Brendon,” his voice cracking on the word and he reaches up to where Brendon's still gripping his shoulder and squeezes Brendon's hand, and that must be enough, it must, because Brendon huffs out a breath and says "Oh, thank God," and then his arms are around Ryan's waist and Ryan's sagging back against him. He's dizzy and uncertain and vaguely aware that something fucking huge just happened.
"You're shaking," Brendon whispers against his ear, breathless and disbelieving. Ryan is, but he didn't realize it, didn't know it was external, he attributed the spinning sensation to the anticipation knotting his stomach. He feels blurred and unfocused, like everything else is suddenly too sharp. He's hyper aware of Brendon's touch, which is intense, but suddenly more hesitant than Ryan needs.
Brendon's shaking too, irrepressible energy spilling over and out and he's trembling with it where he's pressed against Ryan's back. Ryan can't get enough touch suddenly, turning in Brendon's arms so that they're facing each other, pressed close, more sustained contact than he ever allows himself, and Brendon's face is buried against Ryan's neck. Ryan's arms are around him, one hand in Brendon's hair, the other fisted in his shirt so that he can feel Brendon breathing unevenly. Ryan pulls back to actually look at Brendon, to try and read him by something other than the heat flaring between them. Brendon's so tactile, but Ryan isn't and he finds it distracting. He can't focus through the pressure of Brendon's proximity and he needs something else to go by, to hold on to. Brendon's eyes are dark, huge and blown open, everything Ryan can see and Ryan should be able to tell something from that, but he's too overwhelmed, beyond oversensitized now, and he either has to get as much distance between them as possible immediately, or get somehow closer, close enough that he can actually, finally stop thinking.
He says, "Hey, Brendon, hey," and his voice comes out low and jagged and he doesn't know what he even meant to say, but it doesn't matter because then Brendon kisses him before he can finish. It's awkward and tentative and softer than he expected, despite the fact they're pressed flush against each other, but this is new, or it seemingly so, the symbolic crossing of a line that barely existed to begin with. Brendon's hand tightens on Ryan's waist, slides under his shirt so that he's digging his fingers into Ryan's hipbone. The other comes up to the back of his neck. Brendon's touch on his bare skin is all it takes; it's electric and hot and Brendon's hauling Ryan against him, closer still and that shouldn't even be possible, but Ryan goes with it, half pulling and half letting himself be shoved over against the wall. Brendon's licking into his mouth and its still awkward, a little, still new, but Ryan doesn't have time to be unsure because its urgent now and messier and Brendon slides his thigh between Ryan's legs, grinding up and Ryan is suddenly, blindingly, almost painfully hard and it doesn't matter that two minutes ago he would have thought he was too freaked out and apprehensive to even be turned on. He can feel Brendon's length against him through their jeans and they're both panting a little into the kiss, until Ryan rolls his hips, moving almost involuntarily, and Brendon breaks away, moaning shakily and burying his face in the crook of Ryan's neck again. Ryan can feel the puff of Brendon's breath against his skin and shivers, trying to will his heartbeat to slow, but it's no good. It was pounding before they started kissing, and he's still shaking, more now, rubbing his hands up and down Brendon's arms in an effort to calm them both.
"Brendon," he says, still not sure what he wants to say, how to finish any of the thoughts whirling around in his head. And Brendon whimpers a little, but doesn't say anything, just kisses Ryan's neck, up under his jawline. "Hey, come on . . ." Ryan starts again.
Brendon bites down on his earlobe, just enough to make Ryan gasp, and whispers, "you come on, Ross, do you really want to keep talking right now?" And no, not really, actually. Talking wasn’t his idea to begin with. He gives up and gives in, shakes his head and lets Brendon pull him off the wall and turn him around, back him up against the bed until they fall over on it, Ryan underneath with Brendon's weight hot and welcome on top of him. They're kissing again, hands everywhere and God, still not close enough together. Brendon's mumbling things Ryan can't even understand, into the kisses, against his skin. Brendon can't ever be quiet or still, but it leaves Ryan vibrating and unfocused and frantic himself, fumbling with the buttons on Brendon's shirt. Brendon laughs at him a little, and rolls off of him, nudging Ryan further up onto the bed, so they aren't halfway hanging off of it, grinding up against each other. Ryan sits up enough to pull his own shirt off, and Brendon's is somehow already gone, he pulls Brendon back down on top of him and they're skin to skin, which is better, but also . . . not worse, not at all, but overwhelming still and almost too much, too soon, too intense, like everything about this entire night.
He lets his hands skate over Brendon's back, up into his hair and every place they're touching is charged and sparking. Ryan's uncomfortably hard, still confined in his jeans, and Brendon's grinding down heavily, bucking against him, neither one of them willing to separate at all.
Ryan twists his hips, moans, feels the slide of Brendon's cock against his through the layer of clothing and even that’s too much. This is going to be over fast, he can already tell. Their movements are erratic and desperate and Ryan hasn't felt like this, so young, so new, so scared in a long time. Brendon's sucking bruises into his neck, whimpering and Ryan's got his hands on Brendon's hips, sliding them down the back of his pants and gripping Brendon's ass, pulling him down hard and twisting up and Brendon lets out a low moan, and shudders and stills.
Ryan pauses, still shaking and panting and not sure what just happened. "Did you just?" he asks and he can feel Brendon nod and moan, where he's got his face nuzzled into Ryan's neck. Everything slows and threatens to sharpen again and Ryan takes a deep breath, moving his hand up to Brendon's head to stroke his hair and murmuring "it's okay" against Brendon's obvious embarrassment and trying to stop thinking so damn much. He's still so turned on he aches. He's close, if it hadn't been Brendon, it would have been him, he's close, but he needs and doesn't care so much about Brendon's recovery time. "Brendon," he whispers urgently, undulating a little.
"Okay, okay," Brendon breathes, and he levers himself up, falling onto his side so they're lying next to each other. Then they're kissing again, and Brendon can get his hand on the button of Ryan's pants, he fumbles them open and curls his fingers around Ryan's cock and pumps once, slowly, then faster and Ryan is shaking and whimpering and all of his consciousness is centered in where Brendon's touching him, every nerve ending on his body feels raw and overstimulated and he wants it done, actually. He's fucking into Brendon's hand, but it's not enough, not quite, not there, not yet and Brendon's mouth is right against his ear, murmuring, "Come on, Ross." He tightens his hand, jerks faster, harder and Ryan needs that, to be pushed through it and that's almost enough, almost, but then Brendon pulls back, looks him right in the eye and says "Ryan," his voice rough and low and out of context, says Ryan's name like he's always sung Ryan's words, and that is it. Ryan's coming for what feels like forever, spilling wet and sticky over Brendon's hand and they're kissing again, and Ryan doesn't want to stop kissing, maybe ever, he thinks, his brain hazy from the afterglow, and then he really doesn't want to stop kissing because the second they do then reality comes back and he's not sure what happens then, isn't sure he wants to be sure. Just because something's inevitable doesn't necessarily mean it's a good idea.
But it's not his choice, in the end, and Brendon breaks the kiss and groans, rolling off of Ryan and dramatically flinging one arm over his eyes. "Oh, God. I promise that I usually have more stamina than that." Ryan laughs and relaxes a bit, the tension he was expecting evaporating before it really has a chance to coalesce.
"It's okay."
"Seriously."
"Your sex god reputation is safe with me."
Ryan grins and Brendon looks at him sideways, "So, are you gonna give me a chance to prove the stamina?" He looks down, suddenly awkward, "it's just . . . it was you, you know?"
Ryan's heart speeds up again, and he bites his lip, not answering. Then Brendon's forcing Ryan's head around, looking at him again, eyes huge and too serious and he says, "Stop panicking. I really can't, okay?"
Ryan closes his eyes, breathes out. He pulls his pants off the rest of the way and lets Brendon cuddle up against him so that his head's on Ryan's chest. He still feels hot and sensitive, but it's pleasant now, a low flicker underneath his skin.
"I'm not panicking," Ryan says, and he's actually kind of surprised that it's true, because he sort of expected to be freaking right the fuck out, "and I do know. Okay? I do." Brendon's heart is beating too fast, still. Ryan can feel it against his chest and against his wrist where it rests against Brendon's neck because he's got one hand tangled in Brendon's hair. Brendon's smiling, though. He can feel that too.
"Really?"
"Yeah, asshole. Really."
"I knew it."
Ryan laughs and tightens his arm around Brendon, and then Brendon laughs too, happy, relieved, and buries his face in Ryan’s shoulder.
Brendon falls asleep quickly, but Ryan doesn't. He lies in the dark and stares at the ceiling, listening to Brendon breathe and letting the world slow back down around him.
Spencer says: "So. What did you do to Brendon?"
And Ryan says, "What the fuck?"
They're sitting on Ryan's new couch this time, eating frozen pizza. Spencer is waiting for Ryan to talk. Spencer has seemingly forgotten who he's dealing with.
Except that Spencer's actually more stubborn than Ryan, and Ryan breaks first.
"What makes you think I did something to Brendon?"
"He's acting weird."
"He's acting like Brendon."
“Right. Except even weirder.”
“Why is that my fault?”
"You're acting weird too."
"I am not."
"Is this about Keltie?"
"No. What do you mean?"
Spencer sighs and rubs at the back of his neck. "You've been weird since Keltie. And it's okay, I mean, I get it. You were crazy about her and no one likes being dumped, but maybe we should talk about it."
"There's nothing to talk about. It was mutual. She's busy. I'm busy. We never saw each other and then we did and it just. Wasn't what it used to be."
"But you're okay."
"I'm, you know. Break ups suck."
"So, the thing with Brendon." Spencer is nothing if not determined. In this case he is also wrong. Mostly.
"Brendon has nothing to do with anything."
"Okay. Will you let me know when you stop pretending that's true?"
"If something had happened, don't you think I'd tell you?"
"I didn't say something happened. I said there was a thing."
"There's not. There's still not."
"Okay," Spencer nods agreeably, like he's listening to everything Ryan says and thinks Ryan makes perfect sense. That means he doesn't believe a word of it and is snarking in his head. No one but Ryan would know that, but that's what it means. Which is annoying.
"Why are we talking about this?"
"It's just. I don't know; it feels like it used to." Spencer shrugs and looks at him out of the corner of his eye. He’s expecting Ryan to argue or challenge him, but Ryan already knows how that conversation would go. The thing is, they used to have that conversation a lot.
There was awhile there, toward the beginning, when Brendon got a little out of control. It wasn't awful; nothing happened, but Ryan remembers dragging Brendon off The Academy Is . . . bus, away from William (and from Jon, because that was before, and it feels so long ago now, even though it really wasn't) Brendon petulant and resisting, "come on Ryan, we're young."
Usually, Brendon would disappear with William just after the show and he'd come back drunk and malleable and slip into Ryan's bunk, curl up against him smelling like cigarettes (pot) and beertequilarumwhiskey. Whatever. Nothing Ryan wanted to smell, but it wasn’t so bad. Or, if Ryan waited up for him, Brendon would throw himself down on the couch, grabbing absently for Ryan's hand. And Ryan would take it and pet his hair. He'd listen to him ramble more than usual and try not to feel sick with memory.
They kissed exactly once. If it was going to happen, it should have happened before that, Ryan thought. It should have happened at the beginning when he was spending every night at Brendon’s apartment because Brendon wanted the company and Ryan wanted to be anywhere but at home. It should have happened the night they were signed, when they spent the whole night curled up on Brendon’s futon making plans in awed whispers, half convinced it couldn’t really be happening, and half in love with Pete Wentz and the world and each other. It should have happened any number of ways, but Brendon sprawled against him in his bunk, slick and hot with sweat, well into the Truckstops and Statelines tour, wasn’t one of them. Brendon whispered his name, and Ryan looked down as Brendon leaned up, catching Ryan by surprise. Everything about it was awkward and messy and Brendon tasted like tangy leftover booze and cigarettes. It made Ryan dizzy. Ryan let himself be kissed, a little stunned, until Brendon flicked his tongue against Ryan’s lip, and then Ryan startled and pulled away, turning his back to Brendon and ignoring him until he fell asleep.
The next morning Brendon wandered into the kitchen an hour after Ryan was up and stood staring at the empty coffee pot.
“You’ll have to make new,” Ryan said, and Brendon sank down in the chair across from him with his head on his arm and groaned.
“I don’t think I can work the coffee pot, Ross.”
“That’s so sad for you,” Ryan said.
“Help?”
“No.”
Brendon sat up, slumping back against the chair and called, “Spencer! Spencer, coffee!”
“He’s not here,” Ryan said, and looked up from his magazine. Brendon was staring at him pitifully. “You’re pitiful.”
“Yes. Pity me. Coffee, Ryan.”
“Oh, fine.”
Ryan made fresh coffee and when he handed the cup to Brendon, their fingers brushed and Brendon looked up at him, too seriously, eyes suddenly clear.
“Ryan,” he started, but Ryan shook his head and backed away, retreating to the other side of the table.
“No, don’t worry about it. You were drunk,” he said, and held up his copy of Rolling Stone between them, blocking Brendon from view.
It might have gone on indefinitely if all he'd seen was Brendon sloppy and affectionately drunk. It unsettled him, but Brendon was an adult and nothing had happened so, he - probably - could have continued to let it go. Then one night Brendon stumbled onto the bus around three, smelling as bad as he usually did, but more out of it, barely coherent, barely responsive, and oh, fuck no. Ryan held his head when he threw up and then hauled him to his bunk. He woke up Brent and Spencer and they took turns waking Brendon up every hour to make sure they could wake him up. Ryan knows what to do if you’re afraid someone has alcohol poisoning.
When the sun came up he left the bus and didn't come back for the rest of the day.
When Ryan finally got back, the other three were sitting on the couch in the lounge. Spencer took one look at Ryan and then wordlessly grabbed Brent's arm and dragged him off the bus. Brendon looked half-dead, pale and washed out and sick, but he smiled hesitantly. "Hey, thanks for last night."
Ryan nodded tightly.
Brendon reached out for Ryan's hand, but Ryan jerked away, sitting down on the other side of the couch, but far enough away so that they weren't touching. Brendon looked at him warily, "I'm sorry, Ryan."
Part of Ryan was tempted to say "it's okay," but most of him was pretty much done, so what came out was, "God, Brendon, every night? What are you doing?"
Brendon shifted uncomfortably, "I said I was sorry. I didn't mean to. I just . . . I won't do it again."
"You better not," Ryan bit out.
"I won’t,” Brendon's voice got a little harder, indignant. He still looked like movement made him nauseous.
“Really? Because it’s kind of been a pattern. You’re with The Academy all the time . . .”
“And what? They’re corrupting me? I thought you liked William. I know you like Jon.”
Ryan shrugged, “I do. And I didn’t say they were ‘corrupting’ you. I just said maybe you should cool it.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Apparently not.”
“Fuck you. I know what I can handle.”
“Then why aren’t you handling it?”
"Jesus, how is it even your business?"
Ryan was shocked into silence for a minute; the world kind of throbbed and contracted and he felt sick, punched in the gut, because Brendon knew. Brendon had spent months doing his best to crawl inside all of Ryan's defenses until Ryan felt wrecked and open and the idea that Brendon still didn't get it made everything kind of spin out of control. He wanted to say "because of last night, asshole" and "you're my business," but that was too revealing suddenly, and in that moment he didn't really want to be revealed to Brendon anymore, maybe ever again. He did manage to choke out, “This band is my business!”
“And the fucking band is fine! Don't be a controlling ass, Ross.”
“If you weren't such an insensitive dick, I wouldn't have to be.” Ryan got up and stalked off the bus.
They hit some kind of wall that night and it was hard to say what changed exactly afterward, but it was difficult for awhile, with everything between them jagged and cracking. They were okay on stage, like they're always okay on stage. Everything else could be falling apart, and they'd still be in sync with each other while performing. Brendon would slide up next to Ryan and sing into his microphone, press their foreheads together and Ryan wouldn’t even want to pull away, even if he didn’t want to look at Brendon the rest of the time. Brendon would still deflect attention from Ryan if Ryan needed him to, and he could always tell when Ryan needed him to. (And Ryan, Ryan needed too much - needed so much more than he trusted, which was such an old problem he didn’t even recognize it at the time).
When they were alone it was bad. There was too much palpable tension that started whenever they stepped off stage or away from the cameras. There wasn’t enough Spencer or Brent could do.
But it got better. One night Brendon came in late and pushed back the curtain on Ryan's bunk, climbed in and grabbed Ryan's hands, pulling at him until Ryan sat up and looked at him. He was totally sober and he didn't smell like anything but tour bus and the butter from the popcorn Spencer had dumped over his head in the lounge when he’d decided Brendon was being a sore video-game winner.
"I'm sorry," he started.
"You said that already."
"No. No listen.” Brendon’s eyes were huge and earnest and scared and Ryan bit back his retort and looked.
“I'm sorry. I get it, okay? I promise, Ryan. No more. Not like that." He bit his lip and squeezed Ryan's hands and waited, until Ryan finally nodded and pulled one hand away to slip it behind Brendon's neck and tip their foreheads together.
"It's okay. Hey. It's okay." It wasn’t, not totally, and Ryan wasn’t sure he wanted to forgive him that easily, but Brendon meant it and that was all Ryan wanted in the first place.
Ryan suspected that Spencer got to Brendon because Spencer had known Ryan forever and usually stepped in before his self-destructive emo got too out of control. Spencer probably helped, but Ryan never asked and they were okay after that. They were okay, but everything between them felt more fragile than before. The stage show stayed the same, until it escalated, but off stage Ryan and Brendon were more hesitant with each other, more reserved, and by then they had way bigger problems anyway. There were other sources of tension and - increasingly - it became RyanandBrendonandSpencer vs. Brent and everything was charged and tight and uncomfortable and breaking and then Brent was gone and Jon was there and the band dynamic was changed again.
And, if Brendon and Ryan were different at the beginning, if they were under each other's skin and half-way to starting something that never happened, well, there was (Pete and) Jac and Audrey and Brittany and Keltie and a string of Brendon's one night stands, and it didn't matter after awhile. The hyper-awareness of each other settled into familiarity. The cuddliness was just friendly affection. Nothing Rhymes with Circus was for show; the connection they'd always had on stage was about the bizarre forced intimacy that came from the combination of Ryan's words and Brendon's voice. Anything else faded to background noise. They missed their moment.
So Spencer can really, seriously shut up.
----
The record drops and it's a hit and Pete is on the phone all the time (as in actually using the phone to talk rather than just text, which tells Ryan something right there) saying "I told you! What did I say? See, I told you." And Ryan thinks it's as much a relief for Pete as it is for them. Pete has this thing where he feels responsible for Ryan. It's a little fucked up if you ask Ryan (except that no one does and he wouldn't actually admit that out loud if they did, but he thinks it sometimes), especially in hindsight and given everything. But Pete means well and, honestly, it's hardly the most fucked up relationship of Ryan's life, which. He doesn't know what that says, actually.
A lot of the songs are still stories. Only some of them are really autobiographical. Only one of them is about Keltie and sunlight and letting go, and Ryan’s fine as long as he doesn’t look at Brendon when Brendon’s singing it.
Spencer tries to discuss it once, with “so I think we should talk about how things have been a little awkward lately.”
And Ryan says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about” and “Please, Spence, shut up.” And Spencer does shut up, but he doesn’t shut up sincerely and he keeps looking at Ryan and thinking really loudly. Ryan can tell when he’s being handled, damn it
Brendon wrote the music for it (of course). They were in the studio late one night because Ryan’s a perfectionist and Brendon’s obsessive. Ryan was rearranging lyrics in the bridge in a different song and Brendon was at the piano, playing softly, picking out chords and melodies and Ryan hadn't even tried to talk to him in an hour. It's no use when he gets focused like that; his energy swells up until it fills the whole room and he won't hear anything anyway.
Brendon stopped abruptly and Ryan started at the sudden silence, looking up to find Brendon chewing on his lower lip and staring at the piano like he was waiting for it to tell him something. He jerked his head up and met Ryan's eyes, beaming and motioned him over excitedly.
“Come here."
Ryan got up and wandered over by the piano, curiously. The songs were pretty much written; they were just tinkering with details.
"What?" he asked. Brendon smiled up at him, wide eyed and a little smug, vibrating with inspiration. When Brendon gets wrapped up in the music, it's hard not to get wrapped up with him. Ryan knows that Brendon can sometimes seem completely ridiculous - sometimes (often) he is completely ridiculous - but it's usually on purpose, and his passion runs underneath all of that, threads through everything he does. It can be exhilarating to feel tapped into that. It can also be exhausting to be caught in it.
Ryan needed Panic! to work when they started, and Spencer was right there with him, loved the band like he'd always loved Ryan and countered all of Ryan's insecurities with steely determination. But Brendon . . . Brendon wanted it; he wanted it with an intensity completely separate from the ache of need and escape that was itching under Ryan's skin. Ryan found it thrilling and terrifying, Brendon's unapologetic daring, the way he wouldn't even let himself fear failure enough to doubt. It's still dizzying, when he thinks about it too much -- about all the things they didn't know and all the ways things could have gone wrong, what Brendon almost lost and what he was willing to give up. It would have been a lot to ask, if Brendon hadn’t wanted this so badly and they’d ever had to ask at all. But they didn’t, and things went amazingly right, and that look in Brendon's eyes, that charm that says believe in me, it got them a lot.
Brendon just shook his head and said, "No, come here," and accentuated the last word by pulling Ryan around the edge of the piano and down on the bench next to him so their shoulders were pressed so tightly together that Brendon barely had room to play, "now, listen." He launched into a full accompaniment. It was the same as the simple melody they'd had originally, but it was different too. He'd slowed it down, made it into a ballad, and it wasn't how Ryan had heard it in his head, but it was better, fuller and new. Brendon turned to Ryan when he was finished, smiling wide, jittering a little, unable to stay still once his focus dissipated. "Yeah?" He asked.
Ryan nodded, smiling back and squeezing Brendon's arm, "yeah. Definitely."
The new record feels more collaborative than Fever did; Jon and Spencer are all over it, in the rhythms and cadences and the currents underneath. But it’s still Ryan’s words, Brendon’s music at the core, and if it feels sometimes like he and Brendon are living in each other’s head’s again, that’s why the feeling of not-quite-forgotten-awareness is buzzing at the back of his mind. That’s why he feels like he does when Brendon’s looking at him.
----
Brendon is always looking at him now. It’s usually when he thinks Ryan isn’t paying attention, but Ryan can feel it, like pressure starting on the back of his neck and sliding down his spine. They're all used to being watched by cameras and fans, but scrutiny is different when it comes from someone who knows what they're looking at. He expects it from Spencer, where it comes out of protectiveness, out of a lifetime of knowing each other inside out. Coming from Brendon it’s always been harder to take; it's always felt like a risk, and Ryan feels more volatile and conspicuous than he has since the beginning.
Ryan’s gotten better at interviews because he’s learned how to control them. It’s all about being perceived a certain way. He can say what he needs to say. He can be charming. He can talk to reporters without wanting to sink through the floor. He doesn’t like it, though. He doesn’t mind talking about the music, but it’s never just that; that’s never all they want. He doesn’t like interviewers like the one sitting in front of them. She wants more than the persona. She’s too eager to open up his conscious fictions. (When Ryan commented on it, Pete said, “That’s fame,” and shrugged like he didn’t care. That’s a lie because Pete cares about everything, but he doesn’t care like Ryan does.)
The interviewer smiles. Her name is Kara or Karen. Her tone is (invasive) friendly and familiar.
Jon is ribbing on Spencer and Spencer is laughing and Ryan is watching them and Brendon is watching Ryan. Brendon’s been quieter in interviews recently, content to let (Ryan) the others talk. Brendon can’t fade into the background. It isn’t possible; nothing about him is background. But he’s sort of trying, and it’s sort of weird.
KaraKaren leans forward and Ryan can feel the shift in her focus.
“Ryan, you’ve been very quiet about your personal life lately. I know you don’t like talking about the details, but is it true that a lot of the new songs are about your relationship with Keltie Colleen?”
One on side of Ryan, Spencer’s smile drops and he goes rigid. On Ryan’s other side, Brendon’s got his arm is stretched out on the couch behind Ryan’s head and he slides it down the back of the couch, squeezing Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan shifts forward, “A lot of my lyrics are very personal. I take inspiration from what’s going on in my life. But some of them are just stories we’re telling.”
“Can you tell us which category the first single falls into?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Ryan keeps his voice even and doesn’t look away from her.
She looks a little taken aback, but recovers quickly and turns to Brendon, “what about you, Brendon? There have been occasional rumors about a secret girlfriend. Is there any truth to those?”
Brendon shrugs and smiles widely, deceptively innocent and effortlessly charming; his arm is still heavy across Ryan’s shoulders.
“Nah. I’m focused on the band at the moment.”
----
If they’re sitting around at Spencer’s or at Ryan’s or in a bar somewhere, and Ryan looks up too quickly, Brendon will be watching him. If they’re practicing, Brendon’s attention is on Ryan even when they aren’t looking at each other. Brendon hasn’t touched Ryan on stage yet. They haven’t started touring, and it would be just like Brendon to throw something in at the last moment, but there’s nothing scripted; they’re not even near each other for most of the show despite the fact they’re switching off vocals more than they ever have. Brendon hasn’t even brought it up, and that throws Ryan off balance because he was waiting for Brendon to push; nothing definitive ever happened and he can’t bring it up now. It’s too late to give in unprompted, and so he’s jittery and on edge. Ryan's used to being pushed by Brendon, so he's used to pushing back but this isn't pushing; this is holding still, and he feels like he's overbalanced. The tension builds so gradually that he doesn’t even realize it’s there until he realizes it’s oppressive and he’s been waiting for it to break for weeks.
If you’ve thoroughly convinced yourself something is (or isn’t) true, then you aren’t really lying to yourself as long as no one else knows the difference. That’s Ryan Ross’s third rule for narrating your own life. However, narrating your own life requires a certain amount of omniscient self-awareness. So, then, the fact that Ryan is simultaneously consciously in love with Brendon and in denial about it isn’t really a problem. The fact that he can now articulate this and is experiencing actual cognitive dissonance means that the denial piece has stopped working as well as it should and that, well, that could be a problem.
----
They’re practicing with the musicians they’re going to take on tour. Brendon and Ryan have a screaming fight (that involves Brendon yelling and Ryan glaring at a lot - Ryan doesn't scream) about the arrangement on one of the songs that is Not About Keltie, Thanks. It's not that different from the way they always fight about the arrangements, but everything feels heightened and Ryan stalks out of practice and leans on his car, fists clenched, wishing he smoked cigarettes.
That night, Brendon fucks their violinist. He mentions it to Jon in a smirking whisper the next day while they’re tuning and Ryan, who is eavesdropping, breaks a string on his guitar. Brendon startles and looks up at Ryan quickly, expression questioning and a little defiant. He shrugs, one hand held out, palm up. It looks like I don’t know, but Ryan reads the challenge, go on, you know you want to ask. Brendon holds eye contact until Ryan looks away.
But he doesn’t look away even when Ryan does and every time Ryan looks up through the rest of practice, Brendon’s eyes are on him. He’s never done well with his own words being sung at him. It’s affecting the others too. The violinist can barely play. Jon keeps shooting nervous glances at everyone, and Spencer, who never fumbles, drops his sticks three times. He finally calls a break and pinches Ryan’s neck when he walks by him on his way out of the room, hissing, “fix this” in his ear.
Ryan and Brendon are alone in the room. Ryan’s watching the door, his back to Brendon, who is at the piano playing “Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off,” which they have not been practicing and have not talked about doing on this tour. When Ryan turns around, Brendon’s finally looked away and he’s humming under his breath. Ryan wants to strangle him a little bit. He feels uncertain and unprepared and uneasy, vaguely afraid that Brendon will answer any questions he asks. He walks over to the piano and leans against the side of it until Brendon stops and looks up at him.
Ryan says, “Brendon. What?”
Brendon opens his mouth, and closes it again, looking at Ryan for another long minute before he bites his lip and says, “nothing, I guess.”
Ryan sighs, “Look . . .”
Brendon shakes his head, “Nothing. Really.”
Ryan lets it go with both annoyance and relief. The rest of practice goes smoothly and Brendon doesn’t do more than glance at Ryan. But nothing is fixed.
----
On the wall in his bedroom Ryan has a picture of the band right after Jon joined. (Tucked in the frame behind it is a second picture of the band from right after they signed. He keeps it in the frame, but hidden. Sometimes it's still hard to look at them with Brent. There are things you know you can't keep, but that doesn't mean you don't miss them).
He also has a picture of himself and Keltie at his birthday party. They're wrapped around each other, wrapped up in each other, smiling for the camera. He calls her in the middle of the night and she answers, sleepy and concerned, "Ryan? Ryan, what is it? Is everything okay?"
"Sorry! Sorry, Keltie, I didn't realize what time it was. Go back to sleep. I just wanted to talk."
"No, I'm awake now. What is it?" Her voice deepens with affection, but there’s that worry underneath, and he feels a little guilty.
"It's nothing. Just, I love you, you know that?"
"Ryan, we agreed . . ."
"No. No. I'm not asking you to get back together, just . . . we were good for each other, weren't we? We were good."
"We were good. We were really, really good. What's this about?"
"Nothing. I've just been thinking."
"About what?"
"About us. About what happens now."
"Is there someone? That would be okay, you know.”
"What if it's someone I always cared about?"
There's a long pause, and then, "What do you mean?"
"Not like that, Keltie. Not like you're thinking. When it was you, it was always you. It was completely you. But this is . . . it's not new. And I'm not sure it's a good idea. I'm pretty sure it isn't. I don't know what to do. And it might fuck everything up. It kind of is already."
"Just tell me."
"Brendon."
Keltie sighs, "Oh, Ryan. I kind of. Yeah. I always thought, a little bit, that there was something like that there."
"There wasn't. It wasn't like that. I never would have."
"I know that. I always trusted you. Are you looking for my permission? You don't need it."
"No. Not permission. I just kind of wanted you to know. Is that weird?"
She pauses again, and he waits for her, trying to hear everything she might not be saying. When she speaks, her voice is gentle, but not too much so, not like she's coddling, because she's Keltie and she doesn't do that, "Yeah, a little, but I think I get it. Okay. Now I know. Does that help?"
"I don't know."
"Then I don't know what to tell you. But it's okay, whatever you do. It's okay. And you can talk to me if you need to."
"I'm sorry this is weird for you."
"It is, but don't be. It's no weirder for me than it is for you. I'd rather you tell me than not."
"Thanks. Go back to sleep, Keltie."
He feels better when he hangs up, but not really more sure of anything.
----
Brendon turns twenty-one and they go out for his birthday. Brendon wears eyeliner and the royal purple of his shirt looks black in the dim light. Ryan wears a pinstripe suit and feels transitional. Brendon's still watching him, the way he's been watching him for weeks, speculatively, and it makes Ryan feel twitchy and overexposed. The apprehension (anticipation) coiled low and heavy in his stomach makes him nauseous and shaky. Everything in his awareness is pulled taut with building possibility and he's a little afraid of the snap.
His eyes connect with Brendon's from across the room and hold for a moment. He starts to motion Brendon over to him when some scene kid appears behind Brendon and touches his shoulder and the moment breaks, crashes. (The “kid” is a year younger than them, maybe two at the most, older than they were at the beginning. Ryan feels old sometimes, twenty-one and cynical before this even started). Brendon's turned and leaning in, so that Ryan is looking at both Brendon and the kid in profile. Their heads are together so that they can hear each other over the music. The kid is all in black, has multiple piercings and red hair. He’s a little taller than Brendon, a little broader. He's laughing and Brendon's smiling, wide and easy and he’s sliding his left arm around the kid's back and gesturing expansively with his right hand, edging closer, erasing personal space as his whole body gets into whatever story he's telling. They’re walking toward the exit. Ryan turns back to the bar and orders another beer.
----
Ryan bails early, and he leaves Jon, Spencer and Haley whispering in a corner. Spencer and Jon try to get him to stick around just a little longer. “Just until Brendon comes back. It’s his birthday asshole,” Spencer says, looking tired and annoyed.
Ryan doesn’t stay. Haley gives him a sympathetic look when he leaves because Haley also thinks she knows things. She probably does. She knows he’s being an ass at least. He is being an ass. He's very aware of that, but there are times when self-preservation really has to take precedence. He knows that too. It's rule number one.
He’s lost track of Brendon entirely, but Brendon probably left with the scene kid anyway and will, probably, be back. Brendon has an ease with people that Ryan finds exhausting. He gets comfortable too quickly. It seems unsafe.
Ryan doesn’t know what he expected to happen tonight. Maybe nothing. They let things build to the breaking point before, and then he stepped back from the edge. But it felt different then. That was long nights and surface tension until he wanted to explode. This just feels like precipice. He might know what he wants (but not how long he’ll want it). He might know what Brendon wants (but Brendon likes impulses and bad ideas). There are too many potential catastrophes, more ways for things to go wrong than ways for things to go right. There are moments when he wishes he could be more like Pete, who is exhilarated by disaster, unfazed by consequences until they happen, or like Brendon, who is reckless in a way that counts, who is brave even when he has as much to lose as he does to gain. Ryan likes his risks calculated. He’s wary of revelation, of things he can’t take back.
He's never totally comfortable going out in Las Vegas. He always feels too young, too much like he's seventeen again. That was a long time ago, but sometimes he realizes it wasn't as long ago as it feels. He didn’t particularly enjoy being seventeen when he actually was, so he gets a little overwhelmed when the memories get too vivid. It’s three-thirty in the morning, but he’s still awake, curled up on the couch with his notebook, writing lyrics that are more emo than anything he's written in years and then scratching them out violently, when the knock comes at the door. He opens it, and he's not even surprised that Brendon's there, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. His eyeliner's smeared black around his eyes and his hair is mussed. His shirt actually looks dark purple now that he's in better light, and he's got the first couple buttons undone. Ryan wants to run his hand up Brendon's arm to see if the material's as soft as it looks. He crosses his arms tight over his chest to keep from reaching out.
"It's late. What are you doing here?' He tries to keep his voice noncommittal, unchallenging. That kind of neutrality usually works on Brendon, if only because he doesn't understand it. But tonight Brendon just shakes his head, bounces a little more, looks uncertain and younger than Ryan's seen him look in a long time. Ryan's chest clenches.
"Hey, can I come in?"
"Yeah, okay." It doesn't even occur to him to say no. Ryan moves aside, motioning Brendon into the room and Brendon brushes past him, sitting down on the couch and then immediately standing up again to pace to the other side of the room. Ryan stays standing, leaning back against the door with his arms folded across his chest, waiting. "What's going on?"
"Are you pissed at me?"
"What? No, why?"
"You missed cake."
Brendon sounds hurt and a little pissed off on top of that. Ryan shifts uncomfortably, "Oh, hey. Sorry. I was just tired; I couldn't find you, but I told Spence I was taking off. You looked kind of busy anyway."
Ryan meant to keep his voice casual, thought that he'd done a pretty good job, actually, but he must not have because Brendon's head shoots up at that and his eyes narrow and he stops. Stops pacing, stops bouncing, just stops.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just that I saw you with that guy and you looked occupied. What?"
"I was talking, Ryan."
"Okay, whatever, I was wrong. Does it matter? I should have stuck around for the cake; I'm sorry."
"I don't care about cake and yeah. It matters." Brendon's still looking at him with that fucking speculative look in his eyes and it still makes Ryan feel antsy and decipherable. Open. "Ryan?"
"What?" He sounds too nervous, even to himself. Fuck.
"What's going on?" Brendon sounds honestly curious, nervous himself. Ryan shakes his head. He’s never been good at confrontation; he has to write things down to articulate them. He can’t voice emotion. That’s why Brendon gets on stage and does it for him.
"That's what I asked you. You're the one showing up here randomly in the middle of the night."
“Because something’s going on with you!”
"Oh, no. You've been acting weird for weeks."
"You've been acting weird forever, and I'm pretty sick of it. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong."
"You're not pissed?"
"No."
"Ryan?"
"What?"
"Would it have mattered if I was 'occupied'?"
Ryan falters, fumbles, finally says "no, of course not," and it sounds faint and unconvincing even to his own ears and must to Brendon too because Brendon laughs, not unkindly, but almost hysterically, in exasperation, frustration, Ryan's not sure. Brendon drops his head in to his hands, rubs at his eyes, smearing eyeliner in streaks across his temples. It makes his eyes look even darker.
"What are we doing?" he asks, almost to himself.
Ryan takes a step forward, "What do you want, Brendon?"
"Me?" Brendon looks at him again, straight at him, so that Ryan has to look away. "What do I want?" Brendon gestures helplessly and sits down on the couch again, "Nothing I can have. Nothing I have ever been able to have, and you're the one who . . ." he trails off. Then, softer, "Don't make this about me. What do you want?"
And Ryan has to get out of there. Right then, immediately.
There's nowhere really to go, though, so he ends up walking through into his bedroom and standing in front of the window, dropping his head down against the glass. It's cool, which is nice. He hadn't realized how much he felt like he was overheating. He feels Brendon behind him within seconds. Too close. And he's too hot again, and Brendon's hands are on his shoulders, and fuck.
“What do you want?” Brendon asks again, even softer this time, voice right in Ryan’s ear,
"The band," Ryan says.
"You've got that."
"I don't want to screw that up."
"Won't happen. What else?"
"I don't know."
"Really?"
Ryan shrugs and Brendon sighs, tightening his hands and digging his fingers into Ryan's shoulder blades. It's uncomfortable, too much, might leave bruises. Ryan suppresses an involuntary and not entirely unpleasant shudder at the thought. "Don't be a dick, Ross. Because I'm all in here. I'm all in. And I always fucking was, and if you didn't know that all along then you know it now. Come on. I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.” Brendon's words come out in a rush, muffled, where he's got his head tipped down, forehead resting on Ryan's shoulder. “Say something,” he whispers, a little desperate, when Ryan doesn’t respond.
Ryan thinks I've been terrified of this for a long time but he’s well past the point where that even mattered. He didn’t realize that until this moment, but it’s true.
He just says, "Brendon,” his voice cracking on the word and he reaches up to where Brendon's still gripping his shoulder and squeezes Brendon's hand, and that must be enough, it must, because Brendon huffs out a breath and says "Oh, thank God," and then his arms are around Ryan's waist and Ryan's sagging back against him. He's dizzy and uncertain and vaguely aware that something fucking huge just happened.
"You're shaking," Brendon whispers against his ear, breathless and disbelieving. Ryan is, but he didn't realize it, didn't know it was external, he attributed the spinning sensation to the anticipation knotting his stomach. He feels blurred and unfocused, like everything else is suddenly too sharp. He's hyper aware of Brendon's touch, which is intense, but suddenly more hesitant than Ryan needs.
Brendon's shaking too, irrepressible energy spilling over and out and he's trembling with it where he's pressed against Ryan's back. Ryan can't get enough touch suddenly, turning in Brendon's arms so that they're facing each other, pressed close, more sustained contact than he ever allows himself, and Brendon's face is buried against Ryan's neck. Ryan's arms are around him, one hand in Brendon's hair, the other fisted in his shirt so that he can feel Brendon breathing unevenly. Ryan pulls back to actually look at Brendon, to try and read him by something other than the heat flaring between them. Brendon's so tactile, but Ryan isn't and he finds it distracting. He can't focus through the pressure of Brendon's proximity and he needs something else to go by, to hold on to. Brendon's eyes are dark, huge and blown open, everything Ryan can see and Ryan should be able to tell something from that, but he's too overwhelmed, beyond oversensitized now, and he either has to get as much distance between them as possible immediately, or get somehow closer, close enough that he can actually, finally stop thinking.
He says, "Hey, Brendon, hey," and his voice comes out low and jagged and he doesn't know what he even meant to say, but it doesn't matter because then Brendon kisses him before he can finish. It's awkward and tentative and softer than he expected, despite the fact they're pressed flush against each other, but this is new, or it seemingly so, the symbolic crossing of a line that barely existed to begin with. Brendon's hand tightens on Ryan's waist, slides under his shirt so that he's digging his fingers into Ryan's hipbone. The other comes up to the back of his neck. Brendon's touch on his bare skin is all it takes; it's electric and hot and Brendon's hauling Ryan against him, closer still and that shouldn't even be possible, but Ryan goes with it, half pulling and half letting himself be shoved over against the wall. Brendon's licking into his mouth and its still awkward, a little, still new, but Ryan doesn't have time to be unsure because its urgent now and messier and Brendon slides his thigh between Ryan's legs, grinding up and Ryan is suddenly, blindingly, almost painfully hard and it doesn't matter that two minutes ago he would have thought he was too freaked out and apprehensive to even be turned on. He can feel Brendon's length against him through their jeans and they're both panting a little into the kiss, until Ryan rolls his hips, moving almost involuntarily, and Brendon breaks away, moaning shakily and burying his face in the crook of Ryan's neck again. Ryan can feel the puff of Brendon's breath against his skin and shivers, trying to will his heartbeat to slow, but it's no good. It was pounding before they started kissing, and he's still shaking, more now, rubbing his hands up and down Brendon's arms in an effort to calm them both.
"Brendon," he says, still not sure what he wants to say, how to finish any of the thoughts whirling around in his head. And Brendon whimpers a little, but doesn't say anything, just kisses Ryan's neck, up under his jawline. "Hey, come on . . ." Ryan starts again.
Brendon bites down on his earlobe, just enough to make Ryan gasp, and whispers, "you come on, Ross, do you really want to keep talking right now?" And no, not really, actually. Talking wasn’t his idea to begin with. He gives up and gives in, shakes his head and lets Brendon pull him off the wall and turn him around, back him up against the bed until they fall over on it, Ryan underneath with Brendon's weight hot and welcome on top of him. They're kissing again, hands everywhere and God, still not close enough together. Brendon's mumbling things Ryan can't even understand, into the kisses, against his skin. Brendon can't ever be quiet or still, but it leaves Ryan vibrating and unfocused and frantic himself, fumbling with the buttons on Brendon's shirt. Brendon laughs at him a little, and rolls off of him, nudging Ryan further up onto the bed, so they aren't halfway hanging off of it, grinding up against each other. Ryan sits up enough to pull his own shirt off, and Brendon's is somehow already gone, he pulls Brendon back down on top of him and they're skin to skin, which is better, but also . . . not worse, not at all, but overwhelming still and almost too much, too soon, too intense, like everything about this entire night.
He lets his hands skate over Brendon's back, up into his hair and every place they're touching is charged and sparking. Ryan's uncomfortably hard, still confined in his jeans, and Brendon's grinding down heavily, bucking against him, neither one of them willing to separate at all.
Ryan twists his hips, moans, feels the slide of Brendon's cock against his through the layer of clothing and even that’s too much. This is going to be over fast, he can already tell. Their movements are erratic and desperate and Ryan hasn't felt like this, so young, so new, so scared in a long time. Brendon's sucking bruises into his neck, whimpering and Ryan's got his hands on Brendon's hips, sliding them down the back of his pants and gripping Brendon's ass, pulling him down hard and twisting up and Brendon lets out a low moan, and shudders and stills.
Ryan pauses, still shaking and panting and not sure what just happened. "Did you just?" he asks and he can feel Brendon nod and moan, where he's got his face nuzzled into Ryan's neck. Everything slows and threatens to sharpen again and Ryan takes a deep breath, moving his hand up to Brendon's head to stroke his hair and murmuring "it's okay" against Brendon's obvious embarrassment and trying to stop thinking so damn much. He's still so turned on he aches. He's close, if it hadn't been Brendon, it would have been him, he's close, but he needs and doesn't care so much about Brendon's recovery time. "Brendon," he whispers urgently, undulating a little.
"Okay, okay," Brendon breathes, and he levers himself up, falling onto his side so they're lying next to each other. Then they're kissing again, and Brendon can get his hand on the button of Ryan's pants, he fumbles them open and curls his fingers around Ryan's cock and pumps once, slowly, then faster and Ryan is shaking and whimpering and all of his consciousness is centered in where Brendon's touching him, every nerve ending on his body feels raw and overstimulated and he wants it done, actually. He's fucking into Brendon's hand, but it's not enough, not quite, not there, not yet and Brendon's mouth is right against his ear, murmuring, "Come on, Ross." He tightens his hand, jerks faster, harder and Ryan needs that, to be pushed through it and that's almost enough, almost, but then Brendon pulls back, looks him right in the eye and says "Ryan," his voice rough and low and out of context, says Ryan's name like he's always sung Ryan's words, and that is it. Ryan's coming for what feels like forever, spilling wet and sticky over Brendon's hand and they're kissing again, and Ryan doesn't want to stop kissing, maybe ever, he thinks, his brain hazy from the afterglow, and then he really doesn't want to stop kissing because the second they do then reality comes back and he's not sure what happens then, isn't sure he wants to be sure. Just because something's inevitable doesn't necessarily mean it's a good idea.
But it's not his choice, in the end, and Brendon breaks the kiss and groans, rolling off of Ryan and dramatically flinging one arm over his eyes. "Oh, God. I promise that I usually have more stamina than that." Ryan laughs and relaxes a bit, the tension he was expecting evaporating before it really has a chance to coalesce.
"It's okay."
"Seriously."
"Your sex god reputation is safe with me."
Ryan grins and Brendon looks at him sideways, "So, are you gonna give me a chance to prove the stamina?" He looks down, suddenly awkward, "it's just . . . it was you, you know?"
Ryan's heart speeds up again, and he bites his lip, not answering. Then Brendon's forcing Ryan's head around, looking at him again, eyes huge and too serious and he says, "Stop panicking. I really can't, okay?"
Ryan closes his eyes, breathes out. He pulls his pants off the rest of the way and lets Brendon cuddle up against him so that his head's on Ryan's chest. He still feels hot and sensitive, but it's pleasant now, a low flicker underneath his skin.
"I'm not panicking," Ryan says, and he's actually kind of surprised that it's true, because he sort of expected to be freaking right the fuck out, "and I do know. Okay? I do." Brendon's heart is beating too fast, still. Ryan can feel it against his chest and against his wrist where it rests against Brendon's neck because he's got one hand tangled in Brendon's hair. Brendon's smiling, though. He can feel that too.
"Really?"
"Yeah, asshole. Really."
"I knew it."
Ryan laughs and tightens his arm around Brendon, and then Brendon laughs too, happy, relieved, and buries his face in Ryan’s shoulder.
Brendon falls asleep quickly, but Ryan doesn't. He lies in the dark and stares at the ceiling, listening to Brendon breathe and letting the world slow back down around him.