Pocket Notes
Title: Pocket Notes [s/a]
Author: selectivelyurie
Beta: my_obsession_xx
Rating: R
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
POV: Third
Summary: Brendon had heaved breaths like questions then. Now he breathes more like accusations.
Disclaimer: Not real, don't believe.
Author Notes: This is me turning Panic's trip to Africa into something angsty.
He’s never been one for airplanes, too loud when they take off, too quiet when they’re in the air, but he’s managing. His bag slung over his shoulder and his headphones crooning songs about skies and fields and endless love.
His eyes rest on Brendon and somehow his fingers immediately change the melody.
It’s cold on the plane, colder than most of the flights Ryan’s ever boarded and Zack is bitching at Spencer because apparently Spencer didn’t really bring Zack desert camo shorts like he’d promised and Zack was kinda, sorta really looking forward to “adapting to the culture.”
Jon’s standing in the aisle, hands at his sides, toes wiggling out of his flip flops and he’s searching the floor with a blank expression. He scrunches his nose a little and says, “I think we’ve been on this plane before.”
“Yeah?” Spencer asks, turning his attention away from Zack who finally punched Spencer playfully, called him a dick and let him be. Zack heads over to fuck with the cords tangled and sprouting like vines from his iPod.
Jon hums and points unenthusiastically to the floor. “I think that’s the wine Brendon spilled on our way back from the UK last summer,” and Spencer steps over to look where Jon’s pointing.
“Oh, yeah! That cheap shit? Dude, that stuff was so gross,” Spencer laughs and Jon’s eyes sparkle the way they always do when Spencer smiles.
Ryan peers over the few seats between him and when he catches the glimpse of a splotch of deep maroon tainting the carpet of the plane, his gut twists in a painfully familiar way that brings back memories of bent heads, talking low and soft, whispering around the lingering sting of cheap, cheap wine on their tongues, their pinkies curled and joined, making promises they swore they’d never break.
Ryan remembers that wine wasn’t the only stain Brendon left on this plane.
“Zack, dude, can you grab this bag, please?” Brendon stumbles in, loaded down with shit he has to carry because the last time they were out of the country, he ran out of shirts and had to go back and reuse his dirty clothes for a second time (and that’s not good for someone who sweats like Brendon). So now he packs extra, just in case and there’s only so many bags this airline lets you put in the cargo hold before the rest becomes carry on.
They’re not huge bags or anything, just his socks and underwear, books and cigarettes and bathroom necessities. There’s an envelope addressed to him, tucked away in a compartment inside the brown one, worn and soft from years of use. It’s from his mom, says ‘I love you, I’m proud of you. Be safe.’ and it’s been in that suitcase since the first time they flew out of the states all those years ago. It’s not visible, hell, it’s probably nonexistent to everyone except for Brendon. Ryan only knows about it because Brendon curled up next to him one night, read it to him in this voice that was constricted with nervous fear and wavering sadness and said, “One day I’ll believe this,” and Ryan had just kissed his fingers and said, “One day.”
Ryan blinks and Brendon’s striding past him, wafting his scent, crisp, clean and shower-fresh, straight into Ryan’s face and it’s all because Jon wants to question Brendon about the wine stain. Jon asks, “Isn’t that-?” and Brendon cackles, “Oh, shit! Dude, I remember how cheap that fucking wine was!” and Spencer laughs and says, “I know, right?” Ryan doesn’t say anything and takes a seat next to the window, away from the burgundy blotched carpet and the blurry taste of more, more, more burning heavy on tongues.
Brendon had heaved breaths like questions then. Now he breathes more like accusations.
When everyone’s settled in, seated and satisfied, Ryan realizes when they start slowly rolling forward that Brendon is sitting in the row just in front of him and Ryan has an entire row to himself.
The thing is, this underlying tension has always been there, since the day Ryan said, “We can’t. I won’t,” and Brendon had said, “Let’s try,” with more blind confidence than any person Ryan’s ever admired. It’s there, beneath the surface, crawling under Ryan’s skin, the chill that ghosts up his spine when he’s feeling a little lonely. It was there when “Hi, I’m Keltie,” sounded sweet and innocent, through the months it turned sour and heavy behind his lips; it was there when Brendon crawled into Ryan’s lap in Asia and confessed, “I miss you,” and it’s there now, with Brendon separated by a plastic seat and a metal armrest and a few weeks silence wedged between it all.
Ryan tears his eyes away and changes the song.
----
Two hours into the flight, Jon falls asleep across three seats and mumbles things about Marley in his sleep. Zack and Spencer are engrossed in a movie they’re sharing on Spencer’s laptop. Ryan doesn’t know what it is, but the screen lights up, bright fire and curling flame and Zack expresses a hearty, “Oh, shit!” before he and Spencer both laugh quietly.
And Brendon. He’s curled up in a tight ball, headphones eating his ears, hair that’s finally growing back out sticking up and battling around the arch of plastic fitting around the top of his head. Ryan’s not really sure why he cut it, never really asked him. Jon did though, and Brendon just said, “I need a change,” and looked pointedly at Ryan. It’s a bit foolish and probably not anywhere relevant to Brendon’s look, but Ryan’s glad Brendon’s hair is getting longer again because maybe that’s a sign that things are getting back to how they used to be. Back to when Brendon’s hair was shaggy and sometimes wild and he and Ryan actually spoke to each other with more than one syllable replies.
Brendon shifts, takes a deep, sleep-stirring breath and arches his back in a stretch. The softest, smallest grunt puffs out from behind his lips and he yawns before ditching his iPod into the seat next to him and standing up to shake out his fatigue. The blades of his shoulders protrude under his shirt and when he twists to pop his back, his mouth hangs open in this sort of pained pleasure that Ryan remembers staring down at most nights. In the shadowed cramped space of Ryan’s bunk, keen, shallow thrusts and gnawed lips desperate not to let a sound louder than Brendon’s quiet gasps slip by. Under the scattered light of the chandelier above Brendon’s dining room table, wood scraping the floor and fingers slipping on the polished surface. Bright and glistening on Ryan’s living room carpet, spread out and begging for it, throat raw and eyes burning but so, so gone.
Brendon’s back cracks and he heads towards the bathrooms.
Two rows up and three seats to the left of Zack is where Brendon sucked Ryan off somewhere over the Atlantic on their way to Europe last summer.
Everyone had passed out an hour after take off and even Ryan had been wavering between dreams and reality, but Brendon just kept pawing at him, making these sweet mewling sounds and whispering, “Please. Ryan, please, I want to.” Ryan relented only because Brendon took advantage of his grogginess and by the time Ryan thought to protest, Brendon’s lips were wet and insistent around his cock and there was no going back. He was quiet, despite the internal stream of filthy incoherencies bubbling over and out of his brain like a cauldron spewing the smoke of a potion broiling within, and when he came, Brendon choked it down, sat upright in his seat and breathed, “Good?” Licked his lips and swallowed, “You were really quiet so…”
Ryan shook his head at Brendon’s concern and wrapped his long fingers around the locks of Brendon’s hair - god, it was longer then - and pressed his trembling lips to Brendon’s mouth and murmured, “So good,” fingers brushing back Brendon’s unruly hair.
Later, when the buzzing river in Ryan’s veins slowed to a lazy, rippling stream, he pulled Brendon into the bathroom and returned the favor, door locked with Brendon pressed against it, scrambling and clawing at the slightly slanted ceiling and garbling a slew of, “Fuckshityesohmygod” before filling Ryan’s mouth with a taste he finds synonymous with settling.
The bathroom door clicks closed and Ryan chances a look at Zack and Spencer - they’re still enthralled - before shifting out of his seat and towards the bathroom. He stands for three, four, five seconds and raps softly.
Brendon says, “Yeah?”
Ryan says, “Open up.”
Brendon says, “Who is it?”
Ryan says, “Lemme in,” and pretends not to feel the swell of sadness rise in his chest. Brendon doesn’t know his voice anymore and the thought is terrifying.
The door swings open and so far Brendon’s only got his belt unbuckled, but he looks up at Ryan like he’s offended and Ryan maybe fights back a burning behind his eyes. “What?” Brendon says, hand splayed across the door like his fingers are weapons on display. “I have to piss.”
“Can we talk?” Ryan thinks it’s probably the worst way to start a conversation in general, but especially one where the question isn’t just a normal request but an imploring need, an unquenchable thirst and a desperate search for water. It’s Ryan’s way of saying ‘Let me fix this.’
“Dude, I’m trying to use the bathroom. Give me a minute,” Brendon says and steps back out of the frame to close the door. Ryan puts his hand on the cool plastic, fingers splayed like surrendering and says, “Please. Don’t- don’t shut me out.”
“Stop with all your symbolic bullshit, Ross, and let me piss,” Brendon scoffs, goes to shut the door again but Ryan pushes harder against Brendon’s strength and begs with his eyes.
“Please.”
Brendon sizes him up, drinks in Ryan’s defeated posture, a little broken and a lot tired before he relents with an aggravated sigh, rolls his eyes and says, “Fine,” and Ryan slips inside before Brendon can move out.
“Fuck, Ryan, I’m not having a conversation with you in a goddamn airplane bathroom,” Brendon rants, moving to open the door, but Ryan locks it to punctuate his purpose. “What the hell, man? It’s cramped as fuck in here, move.”
“Just hear me out, okay?” Ryan asks, voice calm although he’s panicking just a little internally. Brendon’s knees bump against his and it makes his breath tremble.
They’re practically one being, fitting together in all the right places and extraordinarily close, but physical distance isn’t the issue Ryan knows they need to address.
“What could you possibly have to say to me that would be less dire out there, where I can fucking breathe?” Brendon growls and wiggles closer to the door. Ryan pushes against his chest and the electricity beneath his fingers is warm and familiar.
“Brendon,” Ryan says softly and Brendon backs away from him quickly, like he’s been scalded. Brendon’s hostility eases after he bites something spiteful at Ryan and does his belt back up before crossing his arms resentfully.
“What?” Brendon snaps. His leg is bouncing and he’s staring at Ryan like he’s ready to bloody his face.
Ryan doesn’t know how to say, ‘I’m sorry,’ or ‘I miss you,’ or ‘I love you.’ He doesn’t know how to start a conversation driven by his own heartbreak and stupid, self-inflicted blindness and make it sound like an apology. He doesn’t know how to function with Brendon so close with such far away eyes.
“You don’t recognize my voice,” Ryan mumbles.
“Wha-? Are you serious? The fuck, Ryan?” Brendon gasps, shocked and slightly appalled by Ryan’s statement, unsure if it’s uncertainty or an accusation clinging to his tone.
“You don’t,” Ryan says and Brendon’s face screws up into this frown that is almost painful to look at.
Ryan looks at the tip of his shoes and Brendon takes a deep, defeated, angry breath and says, “I told you not to get all fucking cryptic with me, Ryan.”
“I’m not-” Ryan pauses, sighs, closes his eyes hard and feels his entire body shaking. “I’m not being cryptic I just. I don’t know how to say what I mean without-”
“Without what?” Brendon interrupts, “Without sounding like a complete asshole?”
“Without sounding like I’m driving myself up the wall without you.”
Brendon takes a moment, lets it sink in and says, “Don’t even, Ross. Just don’t, okay? I’m not having this conversation with you right now. Get the fuck out so I can piss.” He takes Ryan by the elbow to steer him out the door but Ryan swats his hand away and huffs, “Brendon, don’t.”
“What are you here to say to me, Ryan? Tell me you’re sorry and apologize for being a dick?” Brendon says, voice dripping with resentment. “Admit all the wrongs you’ve ever done and ask if we can start over?”
Ryan’s head is bent, ashamed. “Yeah,” he says, voice too quiet. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Well, it means shit to me.” Brendon’s words cut deeper than Ryan expected. When he’d imagined finally braving this conversation with Brendon, he’d known he was going to hurt, going to get chewed up and spit out and probably mocked. But the unwavering honesty in Brendon’s eyes is painful and prominent and Ryan feels so small.
“I figured it would,” Ryan says, more to himself but also an statement to Brendon that, yeah, he knows, but he’s determined to change it. Brendon huffs and Ryan traces the seam on the outside of his jeans up to the seam of his shirt and all the way up his chest to Brendon’s eyes and hopes to god Brendon can see every single white flag he’s throwing up. “I just. Wanted to try to make things okay again.”
“By apologizing to me in an airplane bathroom?” Brendon laughs, but it’s not the light, fluttery laugh Ryan revels in; it’s drenched in ridicule. “You’re crazy if you think my forgiveness is that cheap.”
“I’m not asking for your forgiveness, Bren,” Ryan replies, “Fuck, I’m not asking anything from you except for you to just listen to me, okay?”
“Why? Because you ‘need’ this?” Brendon sneers. “Because you ‘feel bad’ that we haven’t talked in the past month except for when we have to? No, fuck that, Ryan. This isn’t just about you.”
“It is when I’m willing to do fucking anything to fix whatever I did,” Ryan says with a fire blazing behind his tongue. “It’s about me and my mistakes and my insecurities and my inability to hold on to something I never knew I was letting go. It is all about me, Brendon. I fucked up.”
Brendon chuckles, something bitter and stagnant, “You’re so damn selfish you can’t even share blame, you asshole.”
Ryan’s eyes sting when he says, “You never did anything-”
When Brendon gets nervous, feels trapped or scared or angry, he gets hysterical:
“I let her have two fucking years with you and you wasted it!” he screams. Brendon’s voice shrivels into something smaller, like the roar of a lion dissolving into the meek cry of a kitten. “Two fucking years,” Ryan stands rigid and Brendon spits, “I let you take two years that could have been mine and you turned them into nothing but your own goddamned regret.”
The only thing Ryan knows to do when Brendon cries is just. Cling. It’s Brendon’s nature to wrap himself around anything distressed and just soothe them with his voice; he’s made a living out of it for fuck’s sake. And Ryan, he’s been around Brendon long enough to know that the boy craves physical affection like an addiction. But when all of Brendon’s hostility melts away and the fear and heartbreak just explodes from his eyes, shaking through his entire body and he’s cracking, Ryan knows he’s done this. Two years of regulated affection and defeated acceptance stream down Brendon’s face and Ryan just sinks to his knees and lets Brendon sob, “I let you fuck this up.”
Like it’s Brendon’s fault.
They’re thousands of feet in the air yet Ryan feels like he’s hit rock bottom and digging deeper with every breath he takes. It’s just like one year ago, Ryan on his knees for Brendon in this exact same bathroom, only now the air is suffocating them with remorse and Ryan just can’t stand the full circle of it all.
He’s sorry , he really and truly is and damn it, there should be another word that comes to mind to describe how utterly sick he is towards himself, but Ryan can’t think of anything other than that one word. So he says it, whispers, “I’m sorry,” and stares at Brendon’s shoes. There’s hardly any air in this box and Ryan can’t breathe well.
Brendon says, “Get up,” and pulls Ryan to his feet, Ryan dead weight and weak bones. “Just. Get out,” Brendon chokes, unlocking the door without protest from Ryan and squeezing back against the wall in order to open it. “Get out and don’t fucking talk to me, okay?” Brendon instructs and pushes Ryan weakly out of the small space.
Ryan turns as quickly as possible to say something else, to say all the words that just crawled up his throat like vomit because this isn’t how this is supposed to end. But Brendon just forces the door shut and leaves Ryan on the outside. Ryan pounds on it earnestly, says, “Brendon, don’t do this,” through the door and then Zack clears his throat. Ryan’s face is tinted, eyes red and lips trembling and he avoids Zack and Spencer’s questioning eyes when he travels back to his seat.
----
They’re scheduled to have a five hour layover in Heathrow and Jon gets a haircut. Zack spends his time dicking around the small station they’ve set up for themselves, a mound of suitcases, bags and jackets and Spencer calls Hayley to tell her how the first flight went. Brendon sits on the ground, drinking a bottled water, phone clutched in his hand and he watches the people filtering around him. Zack kicks him lightly and Brendon abandons all inhibitions and crawls after him laughing, trying to grab hold of Zack’s foot and make him pay. He doesn’t go far, just up to the barrier of luggage Zack has placed between them and he gives an exaggerated scowl before returning to his belongings.
Ryan sits on a bench not too far away and observes Brendon observing people. Once Brendon told Ryan that he liked to make up lives for the people he sees based on their posture, their company, their mood. Brendon’s imagination runs wild at times, but Ryan’s always gotten the feeling that Brendon really could read people and that his predictions weren’t that far off. Sometimes Ryan wonders what Brendon assumes when he watches Ryan.
Nothing’s resolved. Brendon’s even more closed off from Ryan than he was before and now Zack and Spencer are picking up on the tension between them. He tried, he really did. He’d torn down all walls, surrendered to Brendon with more sincerity than he’d ever given anyone and Brendon had told Ryan not to talk to him. Now, Ryan realizes, he’s only made things worse; before they weren’t speaking because they chose not to, now they’re not speaking because Brendon demands it.
Brendon watches a man in blue jeans and a suit jacket with interest when he slinks by, scribbling ferociously on a notepad and glancing up every second or two to avoid a collision with anyone. Ryan’s body reacts faster than his subconscious and before he knows it, he’s standing in line at a gift shop, clutching a notebook filled with blank paper.
He rushes back to his bench, takes out a pen, uncaps it and scribbles onto the first page before ripping it out and presenting it to Brendon.
Brendon stares up at him confused, doesn’t even bother to look at the paper and Ryan kind of thrusts it at him again for emphasis. He takes it and brings it to eye level after tearing his eyes away from Ryan and reads:
Hey.
Brendon stares hard at it, like he’s trying to decide if Ryan really just handed him a piece of paper with one word. Like Ryan thinks he’s being fucking cute or something by finding a loophole in Brendon’s request.
“Very funny,” Brendon laughs, tone dry and eyes narrowed. “You’re so clever.”
Ryan writes on another sheet and tears it out for Brendon to read.
Not clever, just desperate.
Brendon snarls, “That’s the most honesty I’ve heard from you in a while, Ross,” and Ryan feels the blow hit his stomach, imagines if it were really a fist instead of words he’d be doubled over, gasping. Nodding, taking it all in stride, Ryan jots down a few more words, tears off the paper, hands it to Brendon.
You want honesty?
Brendon scans the words, frowns like he’s about to say something equally as bitter but instead just lays all three pages on top of each other and says, “You don’t know the meaning of the word,” before tearing them all in half. He stands up abruptly, turns on his heel and strides to the nearest trash can where he lets them flutter into the bin with the rest of the waste. Ryan meets him before he walks away and hands him one last sheet of paper. Brendon pushes it away and says, “Fucking leave me alone. I don’t even want to be near you, Ry-”
The paper is shoved into Brendon’s hands anyway and Brendon’s rant is cut short when he sees the words written out for him, cursive lettering like when Ryan’s writing something important, the same swooping dance of his pen Brendon’s seen in Ryan’s writing journal when he’s finally got something worth keeping.
I love you.
The lump in Brendon’s throat bobs harshly and his brows dive inward; it’s completely silent now, despite the hustle and bustle going on around them and Ryan feels everything in this extra sensitive clothing of skin. Brendon’s eyes slowly peel away from the three words written for him, because of him and he looks at Ryan. Ryan looks back, searches Brendon’s eyes and everything inside of him is screaming for Brendon to just say something.
But Brendon doesn’t.
He simply folds the paper, brushes past Ryan quietly and tucks the note (promise? confession? lie?) into the same pocket he keeps his mother’s.
Author: selectivelyurie
Beta: my_obsession_xx
Rating: R
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
POV: Third
Summary: Brendon had heaved breaths like questions then. Now he breathes more like accusations.
Disclaimer: Not real, don't believe.
Author Notes: This is me turning Panic's trip to Africa into something angsty.
He’s never been one for airplanes, too loud when they take off, too quiet when they’re in the air, but he’s managing. His bag slung over his shoulder and his headphones crooning songs about skies and fields and endless love.
His eyes rest on Brendon and somehow his fingers immediately change the melody.
It’s cold on the plane, colder than most of the flights Ryan’s ever boarded and Zack is bitching at Spencer because apparently Spencer didn’t really bring Zack desert camo shorts like he’d promised and Zack was kinda, sorta really looking forward to “adapting to the culture.”
Jon’s standing in the aisle, hands at his sides, toes wiggling out of his flip flops and he’s searching the floor with a blank expression. He scrunches his nose a little and says, “I think we’ve been on this plane before.”
“Yeah?” Spencer asks, turning his attention away from Zack who finally punched Spencer playfully, called him a dick and let him be. Zack heads over to fuck with the cords tangled and sprouting like vines from his iPod.
Jon hums and points unenthusiastically to the floor. “I think that’s the wine Brendon spilled on our way back from the UK last summer,” and Spencer steps over to look where Jon’s pointing.
“Oh, yeah! That cheap shit? Dude, that stuff was so gross,” Spencer laughs and Jon’s eyes sparkle the way they always do when Spencer smiles.
Ryan peers over the few seats between him and when he catches the glimpse of a splotch of deep maroon tainting the carpet of the plane, his gut twists in a painfully familiar way that brings back memories of bent heads, talking low and soft, whispering around the lingering sting of cheap, cheap wine on their tongues, their pinkies curled and joined, making promises they swore they’d never break.
Ryan remembers that wine wasn’t the only stain Brendon left on this plane.
“Zack, dude, can you grab this bag, please?” Brendon stumbles in, loaded down with shit he has to carry because the last time they were out of the country, he ran out of shirts and had to go back and reuse his dirty clothes for a second time (and that’s not good for someone who sweats like Brendon). So now he packs extra, just in case and there’s only so many bags this airline lets you put in the cargo hold before the rest becomes carry on.
They’re not huge bags or anything, just his socks and underwear, books and cigarettes and bathroom necessities. There’s an envelope addressed to him, tucked away in a compartment inside the brown one, worn and soft from years of use. It’s from his mom, says ‘I love you, I’m proud of you. Be safe.’ and it’s been in that suitcase since the first time they flew out of the states all those years ago. It’s not visible, hell, it’s probably nonexistent to everyone except for Brendon. Ryan only knows about it because Brendon curled up next to him one night, read it to him in this voice that was constricted with nervous fear and wavering sadness and said, “One day I’ll believe this,” and Ryan had just kissed his fingers and said, “One day.”
Ryan blinks and Brendon’s striding past him, wafting his scent, crisp, clean and shower-fresh, straight into Ryan’s face and it’s all because Jon wants to question Brendon about the wine stain. Jon asks, “Isn’t that-?” and Brendon cackles, “Oh, shit! Dude, I remember how cheap that fucking wine was!” and Spencer laughs and says, “I know, right?” Ryan doesn’t say anything and takes a seat next to the window, away from the burgundy blotched carpet and the blurry taste of more, more, more burning heavy on tongues.
Brendon had heaved breaths like questions then. Now he breathes more like accusations.
When everyone’s settled in, seated and satisfied, Ryan realizes when they start slowly rolling forward that Brendon is sitting in the row just in front of him and Ryan has an entire row to himself.
The thing is, this underlying tension has always been there, since the day Ryan said, “We can’t. I won’t,” and Brendon had said, “Let’s try,” with more blind confidence than any person Ryan’s ever admired. It’s there, beneath the surface, crawling under Ryan’s skin, the chill that ghosts up his spine when he’s feeling a little lonely. It was there when “Hi, I’m Keltie,” sounded sweet and innocent, through the months it turned sour and heavy behind his lips; it was there when Brendon crawled into Ryan’s lap in Asia and confessed, “I miss you,” and it’s there now, with Brendon separated by a plastic seat and a metal armrest and a few weeks silence wedged between it all.
Ryan tears his eyes away and changes the song.
----
Two hours into the flight, Jon falls asleep across three seats and mumbles things about Marley in his sleep. Zack and Spencer are engrossed in a movie they’re sharing on Spencer’s laptop. Ryan doesn’t know what it is, but the screen lights up, bright fire and curling flame and Zack expresses a hearty, “Oh, shit!” before he and Spencer both laugh quietly.
And Brendon. He’s curled up in a tight ball, headphones eating his ears, hair that’s finally growing back out sticking up and battling around the arch of plastic fitting around the top of his head. Ryan’s not really sure why he cut it, never really asked him. Jon did though, and Brendon just said, “I need a change,” and looked pointedly at Ryan. It’s a bit foolish and probably not anywhere relevant to Brendon’s look, but Ryan’s glad Brendon’s hair is getting longer again because maybe that’s a sign that things are getting back to how they used to be. Back to when Brendon’s hair was shaggy and sometimes wild and he and Ryan actually spoke to each other with more than one syllable replies.
Brendon shifts, takes a deep, sleep-stirring breath and arches his back in a stretch. The softest, smallest grunt puffs out from behind his lips and he yawns before ditching his iPod into the seat next to him and standing up to shake out his fatigue. The blades of his shoulders protrude under his shirt and when he twists to pop his back, his mouth hangs open in this sort of pained pleasure that Ryan remembers staring down at most nights. In the shadowed cramped space of Ryan’s bunk, keen, shallow thrusts and gnawed lips desperate not to let a sound louder than Brendon’s quiet gasps slip by. Under the scattered light of the chandelier above Brendon’s dining room table, wood scraping the floor and fingers slipping on the polished surface. Bright and glistening on Ryan’s living room carpet, spread out and begging for it, throat raw and eyes burning but so, so gone.
Brendon’s back cracks and he heads towards the bathrooms.
Two rows up and three seats to the left of Zack is where Brendon sucked Ryan off somewhere over the Atlantic on their way to Europe last summer.
Everyone had passed out an hour after take off and even Ryan had been wavering between dreams and reality, but Brendon just kept pawing at him, making these sweet mewling sounds and whispering, “Please. Ryan, please, I want to.” Ryan relented only because Brendon took advantage of his grogginess and by the time Ryan thought to protest, Brendon’s lips were wet and insistent around his cock and there was no going back. He was quiet, despite the internal stream of filthy incoherencies bubbling over and out of his brain like a cauldron spewing the smoke of a potion broiling within, and when he came, Brendon choked it down, sat upright in his seat and breathed, “Good?” Licked his lips and swallowed, “You were really quiet so…”
Ryan shook his head at Brendon’s concern and wrapped his long fingers around the locks of Brendon’s hair - god, it was longer then - and pressed his trembling lips to Brendon’s mouth and murmured, “So good,” fingers brushing back Brendon’s unruly hair.
Later, when the buzzing river in Ryan’s veins slowed to a lazy, rippling stream, he pulled Brendon into the bathroom and returned the favor, door locked with Brendon pressed against it, scrambling and clawing at the slightly slanted ceiling and garbling a slew of, “Fuckshityesohmygod” before filling Ryan’s mouth with a taste he finds synonymous with settling.
The bathroom door clicks closed and Ryan chances a look at Zack and Spencer - they’re still enthralled - before shifting out of his seat and towards the bathroom. He stands for three, four, five seconds and raps softly.
Brendon says, “Yeah?”
Ryan says, “Open up.”
Brendon says, “Who is it?”
Ryan says, “Lemme in,” and pretends not to feel the swell of sadness rise in his chest. Brendon doesn’t know his voice anymore and the thought is terrifying.
The door swings open and so far Brendon’s only got his belt unbuckled, but he looks up at Ryan like he’s offended and Ryan maybe fights back a burning behind his eyes. “What?” Brendon says, hand splayed across the door like his fingers are weapons on display. “I have to piss.”
“Can we talk?” Ryan thinks it’s probably the worst way to start a conversation in general, but especially one where the question isn’t just a normal request but an imploring need, an unquenchable thirst and a desperate search for water. It’s Ryan’s way of saying ‘Let me fix this.’
“Dude, I’m trying to use the bathroom. Give me a minute,” Brendon says and steps back out of the frame to close the door. Ryan puts his hand on the cool plastic, fingers splayed like surrendering and says, “Please. Don’t- don’t shut me out.”
“Stop with all your symbolic bullshit, Ross, and let me piss,” Brendon scoffs, goes to shut the door again but Ryan pushes harder against Brendon’s strength and begs with his eyes.
“Please.”
Brendon sizes him up, drinks in Ryan’s defeated posture, a little broken and a lot tired before he relents with an aggravated sigh, rolls his eyes and says, “Fine,” and Ryan slips inside before Brendon can move out.
“Fuck, Ryan, I’m not having a conversation with you in a goddamn airplane bathroom,” Brendon rants, moving to open the door, but Ryan locks it to punctuate his purpose. “What the hell, man? It’s cramped as fuck in here, move.”
“Just hear me out, okay?” Ryan asks, voice calm although he’s panicking just a little internally. Brendon’s knees bump against his and it makes his breath tremble.
They’re practically one being, fitting together in all the right places and extraordinarily close, but physical distance isn’t the issue Ryan knows they need to address.
“What could you possibly have to say to me that would be less dire out there, where I can fucking breathe?” Brendon growls and wiggles closer to the door. Ryan pushes against his chest and the electricity beneath his fingers is warm and familiar.
“Brendon,” Ryan says softly and Brendon backs away from him quickly, like he’s been scalded. Brendon’s hostility eases after he bites something spiteful at Ryan and does his belt back up before crossing his arms resentfully.
“What?” Brendon snaps. His leg is bouncing and he’s staring at Ryan like he’s ready to bloody his face.
Ryan doesn’t know how to say, ‘I’m sorry,’ or ‘I miss you,’ or ‘I love you.’ He doesn’t know how to start a conversation driven by his own heartbreak and stupid, self-inflicted blindness and make it sound like an apology. He doesn’t know how to function with Brendon so close with such far away eyes.
“You don’t recognize my voice,” Ryan mumbles.
“Wha-? Are you serious? The fuck, Ryan?” Brendon gasps, shocked and slightly appalled by Ryan’s statement, unsure if it’s uncertainty or an accusation clinging to his tone.
“You don’t,” Ryan says and Brendon’s face screws up into this frown that is almost painful to look at.
Ryan looks at the tip of his shoes and Brendon takes a deep, defeated, angry breath and says, “I told you not to get all fucking cryptic with me, Ryan.”
“I’m not-” Ryan pauses, sighs, closes his eyes hard and feels his entire body shaking. “I’m not being cryptic I just. I don’t know how to say what I mean without-”
“Without what?” Brendon interrupts, “Without sounding like a complete asshole?”
“Without sounding like I’m driving myself up the wall without you.”
Brendon takes a moment, lets it sink in and says, “Don’t even, Ross. Just don’t, okay? I’m not having this conversation with you right now. Get the fuck out so I can piss.” He takes Ryan by the elbow to steer him out the door but Ryan swats his hand away and huffs, “Brendon, don’t.”
“What are you here to say to me, Ryan? Tell me you’re sorry and apologize for being a dick?” Brendon says, voice dripping with resentment. “Admit all the wrongs you’ve ever done and ask if we can start over?”
Ryan’s head is bent, ashamed. “Yeah,” he says, voice too quiet. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Well, it means shit to me.” Brendon’s words cut deeper than Ryan expected. When he’d imagined finally braving this conversation with Brendon, he’d known he was going to hurt, going to get chewed up and spit out and probably mocked. But the unwavering honesty in Brendon’s eyes is painful and prominent and Ryan feels so small.
“I figured it would,” Ryan says, more to himself but also an statement to Brendon that, yeah, he knows, but he’s determined to change it. Brendon huffs and Ryan traces the seam on the outside of his jeans up to the seam of his shirt and all the way up his chest to Brendon’s eyes and hopes to god Brendon can see every single white flag he’s throwing up. “I just. Wanted to try to make things okay again.”
“By apologizing to me in an airplane bathroom?” Brendon laughs, but it’s not the light, fluttery laugh Ryan revels in; it’s drenched in ridicule. “You’re crazy if you think my forgiveness is that cheap.”
“I’m not asking for your forgiveness, Bren,” Ryan replies, “Fuck, I’m not asking anything from you except for you to just listen to me, okay?”
“Why? Because you ‘need’ this?” Brendon sneers. “Because you ‘feel bad’ that we haven’t talked in the past month except for when we have to? No, fuck that, Ryan. This isn’t just about you.”
“It is when I’m willing to do fucking anything to fix whatever I did,” Ryan says with a fire blazing behind his tongue. “It’s about me and my mistakes and my insecurities and my inability to hold on to something I never knew I was letting go. It is all about me, Brendon. I fucked up.”
Brendon chuckles, something bitter and stagnant, “You’re so damn selfish you can’t even share blame, you asshole.”
Ryan’s eyes sting when he says, “You never did anything-”
When Brendon gets nervous, feels trapped or scared or angry, he gets hysterical:
“I let her have two fucking years with you and you wasted it!” he screams. Brendon’s voice shrivels into something smaller, like the roar of a lion dissolving into the meek cry of a kitten. “Two fucking years,” Ryan stands rigid and Brendon spits, “I let you take two years that could have been mine and you turned them into nothing but your own goddamned regret.”
The only thing Ryan knows to do when Brendon cries is just. Cling. It’s Brendon’s nature to wrap himself around anything distressed and just soothe them with his voice; he’s made a living out of it for fuck’s sake. And Ryan, he’s been around Brendon long enough to know that the boy craves physical affection like an addiction. But when all of Brendon’s hostility melts away and the fear and heartbreak just explodes from his eyes, shaking through his entire body and he’s cracking, Ryan knows he’s done this. Two years of regulated affection and defeated acceptance stream down Brendon’s face and Ryan just sinks to his knees and lets Brendon sob, “I let you fuck this up.”
Like it’s Brendon’s fault.
They’re thousands of feet in the air yet Ryan feels like he’s hit rock bottom and digging deeper with every breath he takes. It’s just like one year ago, Ryan on his knees for Brendon in this exact same bathroom, only now the air is suffocating them with remorse and Ryan just can’t stand the full circle of it all.
He’s sorry , he really and truly is and damn it, there should be another word that comes to mind to describe how utterly sick he is towards himself, but Ryan can’t think of anything other than that one word. So he says it, whispers, “I’m sorry,” and stares at Brendon’s shoes. There’s hardly any air in this box and Ryan can’t breathe well.
Brendon says, “Get up,” and pulls Ryan to his feet, Ryan dead weight and weak bones. “Just. Get out,” Brendon chokes, unlocking the door without protest from Ryan and squeezing back against the wall in order to open it. “Get out and don’t fucking talk to me, okay?” Brendon instructs and pushes Ryan weakly out of the small space.
Ryan turns as quickly as possible to say something else, to say all the words that just crawled up his throat like vomit because this isn’t how this is supposed to end. But Brendon just forces the door shut and leaves Ryan on the outside. Ryan pounds on it earnestly, says, “Brendon, don’t do this,” through the door and then Zack clears his throat. Ryan’s face is tinted, eyes red and lips trembling and he avoids Zack and Spencer’s questioning eyes when he travels back to his seat.
----
They’re scheduled to have a five hour layover in Heathrow and Jon gets a haircut. Zack spends his time dicking around the small station they’ve set up for themselves, a mound of suitcases, bags and jackets and Spencer calls Hayley to tell her how the first flight went. Brendon sits on the ground, drinking a bottled water, phone clutched in his hand and he watches the people filtering around him. Zack kicks him lightly and Brendon abandons all inhibitions and crawls after him laughing, trying to grab hold of Zack’s foot and make him pay. He doesn’t go far, just up to the barrier of luggage Zack has placed between them and he gives an exaggerated scowl before returning to his belongings.
Ryan sits on a bench not too far away and observes Brendon observing people. Once Brendon told Ryan that he liked to make up lives for the people he sees based on their posture, their company, their mood. Brendon’s imagination runs wild at times, but Ryan’s always gotten the feeling that Brendon really could read people and that his predictions weren’t that far off. Sometimes Ryan wonders what Brendon assumes when he watches Ryan.
Nothing’s resolved. Brendon’s even more closed off from Ryan than he was before and now Zack and Spencer are picking up on the tension between them. He tried, he really did. He’d torn down all walls, surrendered to Brendon with more sincerity than he’d ever given anyone and Brendon had told Ryan not to talk to him. Now, Ryan realizes, he’s only made things worse; before they weren’t speaking because they chose not to, now they’re not speaking because Brendon demands it.
Brendon watches a man in blue jeans and a suit jacket with interest when he slinks by, scribbling ferociously on a notepad and glancing up every second or two to avoid a collision with anyone. Ryan’s body reacts faster than his subconscious and before he knows it, he’s standing in line at a gift shop, clutching a notebook filled with blank paper.
He rushes back to his bench, takes out a pen, uncaps it and scribbles onto the first page before ripping it out and presenting it to Brendon.
Brendon stares up at him confused, doesn’t even bother to look at the paper and Ryan kind of thrusts it at him again for emphasis. He takes it and brings it to eye level after tearing his eyes away from Ryan and reads:
Hey.
Brendon stares hard at it, like he’s trying to decide if Ryan really just handed him a piece of paper with one word. Like Ryan thinks he’s being fucking cute or something by finding a loophole in Brendon’s request.
“Very funny,” Brendon laughs, tone dry and eyes narrowed. “You’re so clever.”
Ryan writes on another sheet and tears it out for Brendon to read.
Not clever, just desperate.
Brendon snarls, “That’s the most honesty I’ve heard from you in a while, Ross,” and Ryan feels the blow hit his stomach, imagines if it were really a fist instead of words he’d be doubled over, gasping. Nodding, taking it all in stride, Ryan jots down a few more words, tears off the paper, hands it to Brendon.
You want honesty?
Brendon scans the words, frowns like he’s about to say something equally as bitter but instead just lays all three pages on top of each other and says, “You don’t know the meaning of the word,” before tearing them all in half. He stands up abruptly, turns on his heel and strides to the nearest trash can where he lets them flutter into the bin with the rest of the waste. Ryan meets him before he walks away and hands him one last sheet of paper. Brendon pushes it away and says, “Fucking leave me alone. I don’t even want to be near you, Ry-”
The paper is shoved into Brendon’s hands anyway and Brendon’s rant is cut short when he sees the words written out for him, cursive lettering like when Ryan’s writing something important, the same swooping dance of his pen Brendon’s seen in Ryan’s writing journal when he’s finally got something worth keeping.
I love you.
The lump in Brendon’s throat bobs harshly and his brows dive inward; it’s completely silent now, despite the hustle and bustle going on around them and Ryan feels everything in this extra sensitive clothing of skin. Brendon’s eyes slowly peel away from the three words written for him, because of him and he looks at Ryan. Ryan looks back, searches Brendon’s eyes and everything inside of him is screaming for Brendon to just say something.
But Brendon doesn’t.
He simply folds the paper, brushes past Ryan quietly and tucks the note (promise? confession? lie?) into the same pocket he keeps his mother’s.