secret love, and the fastest way to loneliness. [7/?]
TITLE: secret love, and the fastest way to loneliness.
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: Ranges from PG13 to R/NC17 eventually. It'll be marked when it gets higher...
POV: Third, omniscient.
PAIRING: Eventually Ryan/Brendon...who else? I like my comfort zone, thank you.
SUMMARY: AU, in which Ryan is half in denial and picks up transgendered hookers, and Brendon is a not-so-much transgendered whore.
DISCLAIMER: Oh please, honey.
A/N: Title credit to This Providence ♥ Chapter title goes to Bright eyes, also known as my love. That's all.
Ryan is asleep, curled up on the couch with the T.V. flashing blue-white against his face, when he hears the knocking on the door. He sits up groggily, stumbling and tripping his way to the door, trying to wipe the sleep out of his eyes. He grabs the door handle and leans forward, looking out of the peep hole, and sees Brendon standing there.
It takes him a second, in his sleepy disorientation, to figure it out, though; to figure out why Brendon has his crumpled up t-shirt held to his mouth, and his sweater draped over his arm, spotted with something dark. He pulls open the door, and Brendon looks at him through his hair and forces a weak smile.
“Hey, Ryan, I’m really sorry to wake you...” He pulls the shirt away from his lip, revealing an interesting looking gash, and frowns at it before putting it back. “But, uh, I was wondering if you had a first aid kit or something?”
Ryan just kind of stands there in his jeans for a second, blinking at Brendon and his bloody, topless glory, and then he nods and steps backwards, motioning for Brendon to come in.
“Yeah, yeah, I think I at least have some peroxide or something...I’ll be right back.”
Brendon nods and steps inside, closing the door, and Ryan heads off, flicking on a light switch. Brendon looks around the apartment, the old couch and the dirty carpet, an overflowing ashtray, and he thinks it looks just like his place, like they’ve been living the same lives from across the hall.
Ryan reappears from nowhere, comes back with a washcloth and peroxide and ointment, two cigarettes and a lighter in his back pocket. He motions his arm at the couch, looking anywhere but at Brendon.
“Sit, and I’ll get you cleaned up.”
Brendon shakes his head,
“No, no, just...I’ll go into the bathroom and clean it up, and then I’ll leave you alone.”
Ryan sighs and crosses his arms, tapping his foot on the floor.
“Seriously, Brendon. You woke me up, now do as I say and sit your ass down and be quiet, or you leave without anything.”
But Ryan’s smiling, can barely keep a straight face, and Brendon just raises his eyebrows, holding his hands out to the sides, and falls backwards into the couch.
“Alright, alright, fine!”
“Good boy,” Ryan says, and Brendon laughs low in his throat, muffled through the shirt.
“You say that to me a lot, and I don’t think it’s quite founded.”
Ryan rolls his eyes and sits beside Brendon on the couch, curling his legs under him.
“Shut up,” he mutters, “and sit still.” He fumbles with the cloth in his hand and murmurs, “Okay, first...” and presses the warm cloth to Brendon’s split lip, wiping away crusted blood and trying to be as gentle as possible.
Brendon winces when Ryan spills the peroxide on the cloth and wipes at the cut, and Ryan says “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” over and over again, because he knows it stings, and Brendon just shrugs and sits there with his hands folded.
“Alright, now that's better," he says, and stands up and chucks the cloth into the kitchen, and it lands on the floor with a wet splat. “Now,” he says, and pulls the cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket.
Brendon smiles, and his lip splits and starts to bleed again, and Ryan sighs.
“Shouldn’t have done that, man,” and Brendon laughs, and Ryan runs off to get the cloth, to stop the bleeding again, and when he's done he lands it expertly in the same damn spot on the floor.
Then he hands Brendon the cigarette, flicks the lighter, and Brendon leans back and inhales.
“Thanks,” he says, and Ryan smiles, lighting his own cigarette.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Now, uh, seriously...what the hell happened to you?”
Brendon shrugs, flicking ashes into the container on the end table, and leans back.
“Some asshole john thought it’d be funny to crack me across the mouth a couple times,” he says. “And I wouldn’t have come over and bothered you, but I got home and realized I didn’t have shit in the way of first aid except for whiskey and Tylenol.” He laughs and looks over at Ryan, realizing for the first time that he’s only wearing jeans, those fucking nice jeans, and takes in the sleep in Ryan’s eyes. “I’m not bothering you, am I?”
“No, no,” Ryan says, scratching at his neck. “I don’t have to work in the morning anymore, at least for a while, so I’m totally up for late night visits.” He looks over at Brendon, sitting on his couch in just jeans and shoes, at the bloody shirts in his hand, and he says, “Hey, uh, you want me to get you a clean shirt?”
Brendon shrugs, looks down at the bloodied ball of cloth in his hand, and takes a drag off the cigarette.
“I don’t care. If you’ve got something, I’ll take it. I’ll just do laundry this afternoon.”
Ryan stands up and grabs the dirty bundle of clothes, sticking his cigarette in the ashtray.
“I’ll go rinse these out,” he says, “and get you a clean shirt.”
Brendon just shrugs his shoulders, and tries to pretend that he can’t feel Ryan’s eyes burning into him.
“Alright, I won’t go anywhere,” and he just tries to keep from staring at the small of Ryan’s retreating back, at the jeans sliding down his hips, and smokes his cigarette down to the filter. He can hear the water running in the next room, hear Ryan rummaging around in his dresser, and he thinks that if whoring himself doesn’t kill him, this boy, this boy is going to.
Part Eight.
AUTHOR: therecordskipsx
RATING: Ranges from PG13 to R/NC17 eventually. It'll be marked when it gets higher...
POV: Third, omniscient.
PAIRING: Eventually Ryan/Brendon...who else? I like my comfort zone, thank you.
SUMMARY: AU, in which Ryan is half in denial and picks up transgendered hookers, and Brendon is a not-so-much transgendered whore.
DISCLAIMER: Oh please, honey.
A/N: Title credit to This Providence ♥ Chapter title goes to Bright eyes, also known as my love. That's all.
Ryan is asleep, curled up on the couch with the T.V. flashing blue-white against his face, when he hears the knocking on the door. He sits up groggily, stumbling and tripping his way to the door, trying to wipe the sleep out of his eyes. He grabs the door handle and leans forward, looking out of the peep hole, and sees Brendon standing there.
It takes him a second, in his sleepy disorientation, to figure it out, though; to figure out why Brendon has his crumpled up t-shirt held to his mouth, and his sweater draped over his arm, spotted with something dark. He pulls open the door, and Brendon looks at him through his hair and forces a weak smile.
“Hey, Ryan, I’m really sorry to wake you...” He pulls the shirt away from his lip, revealing an interesting looking gash, and frowns at it before putting it back. “But, uh, I was wondering if you had a first aid kit or something?”
Ryan just kind of stands there in his jeans for a second, blinking at Brendon and his bloody, topless glory, and then he nods and steps backwards, motioning for Brendon to come in.
“Yeah, yeah, I think I at least have some peroxide or something...I’ll be right back.”
Brendon nods and steps inside, closing the door, and Ryan heads off, flicking on a light switch. Brendon looks around the apartment, the old couch and the dirty carpet, an overflowing ashtray, and he thinks it looks just like his place, like they’ve been living the same lives from across the hall.
Ryan reappears from nowhere, comes back with a washcloth and peroxide and ointment, two cigarettes and a lighter in his back pocket. He motions his arm at the couch, looking anywhere but at Brendon.
“Sit, and I’ll get you cleaned up.”
Brendon shakes his head,
“No, no, just...I’ll go into the bathroom and clean it up, and then I’ll leave you alone.”
Ryan sighs and crosses his arms, tapping his foot on the floor.
“Seriously, Brendon. You woke me up, now do as I say and sit your ass down and be quiet, or you leave without anything.”
But Ryan’s smiling, can barely keep a straight face, and Brendon just raises his eyebrows, holding his hands out to the sides, and falls backwards into the couch.
“Alright, alright, fine!”
“Good boy,” Ryan says, and Brendon laughs low in his throat, muffled through the shirt.
“You say that to me a lot, and I don’t think it’s quite founded.”
Ryan rolls his eyes and sits beside Brendon on the couch, curling his legs under him.
“Shut up,” he mutters, “and sit still.” He fumbles with the cloth in his hand and murmurs, “Okay, first...” and presses the warm cloth to Brendon’s split lip, wiping away crusted blood and trying to be as gentle as possible.
Brendon winces when Ryan spills the peroxide on the cloth and wipes at the cut, and Ryan says “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” over and over again, because he knows it stings, and Brendon just shrugs and sits there with his hands folded.
“Alright, now that's better," he says, and stands up and chucks the cloth into the kitchen, and it lands on the floor with a wet splat. “Now,” he says, and pulls the cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket.
Brendon smiles, and his lip splits and starts to bleed again, and Ryan sighs.
“Shouldn’t have done that, man,” and Brendon laughs, and Ryan runs off to get the cloth, to stop the bleeding again, and when he's done he lands it expertly in the same damn spot on the floor.
Then he hands Brendon the cigarette, flicks the lighter, and Brendon leans back and inhales.
“Thanks,” he says, and Ryan smiles, lighting his own cigarette.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Now, uh, seriously...what the hell happened to you?”
Brendon shrugs, flicking ashes into the container on the end table, and leans back.
“Some asshole john thought it’d be funny to crack me across the mouth a couple times,” he says. “And I wouldn’t have come over and bothered you, but I got home and realized I didn’t have shit in the way of first aid except for whiskey and Tylenol.” He laughs and looks over at Ryan, realizing for the first time that he’s only wearing jeans, those fucking nice jeans, and takes in the sleep in Ryan’s eyes. “I’m not bothering you, am I?”
“No, no,” Ryan says, scratching at his neck. “I don’t have to work in the morning anymore, at least for a while, so I’m totally up for late night visits.” He looks over at Brendon, sitting on his couch in just jeans and shoes, at the bloody shirts in his hand, and he says, “Hey, uh, you want me to get you a clean shirt?”
Brendon shrugs, looks down at the bloodied ball of cloth in his hand, and takes a drag off the cigarette.
“I don’t care. If you’ve got something, I’ll take it. I’ll just do laundry this afternoon.”
Ryan stands up and grabs the dirty bundle of clothes, sticking his cigarette in the ashtray.
“I’ll go rinse these out,” he says, “and get you a clean shirt.”
Brendon just shrugs his shoulders, and tries to pretend that he can’t feel Ryan’s eyes burning into him.
“Alright, I won’t go anywhere,” and he just tries to keep from staring at the small of Ryan’s retreating back, at the jeans sliding down his hips, and smokes his cigarette down to the filter. He can hear the water running in the next room, hear Ryan rummaging around in his dresser, and he thinks that if whoring himself doesn’t kill him, this boy, this boy is going to.
Part Eight.