secret love, and the fastest way to loneliness. [8/?]
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 Elliott Smith. Oh, and I forgot this yesterday...if you are reading this note and are of the male persuasion, please leave me a comment even if you don't read the story just to prove to me that there are, in fact, boys around here. That's all.
He comes back in a few minutes, with Brendon’s dirty shirts dripping bloody water, hanging to dry on his bathtub, and a clean black t-shirt draped over his arm.
“Here,” he says, flinging the shirt at Brendon’s head, and Brendon catches it in mid-air, right before it makes contact with his face.
“Thanks,” he says, yanking it over his head, messing up his hair. Ryan just nods and walks into the kitchen, yanking open the fridge.
“Want anything to drink, or something?” he calls around the corner, and Brendon stands up, pulling at the hem of the shirt and walking into the kitchen.
“I don’t know, whatcha got?” He peers over Ryan’s shoulder, into the fridge, and Ryan shrugs.
“Uh, actually, not really a whole lot.” He closes the door and sighs, shutting off all light in the kitchen, and turns around to face Brendon, to try and walk back into the living room.
And okay, so the air totally thickens and time totally slows down for a minute, and they’re just standing there in the dark and staring at each other, tick tock, tick tock.
And Brendon knows it’s a totally stupid decision for about a thousand reasons. He knows it, looking in Ryan’s eyes, darting and a little frightened. The reasons ticker-tape across his brain, innumerable and flashing in the dark. But the air is just getting thicker and thicker, he can taste the tension, and he either needs to leave right now, or he needs to do this. And he really, really doesn’t want to leave... without doing this.
So he just goes for it. He closes the space between them and kisses him, and God, he’s so stupid, but God, he needed this, maybe. It’s nothing spectacular, not fireworks or passion, but a little finger of warmth curls in his stomach when their lips brush, and he prays that Ryan doesn’t push him away, please don’t push me away.
A second, two, three, and then Ryan pushes back, just a little, and then pulls his head away, breaking their lips apart, breath hitting warm against Brendon’s mouth.
“I’m,” Ryan breathes, “I...” and he looks at Brendon, pleading in his eyes, please don’t do this, please don’t make me do this.
And Brendon knows he can’t force this, he knows how hard it can be to come to terms with this, because he’s been there, he knows. He opens his mouth to say he’s sorry, I don’t know why I just kissed you, but he doesn’t get the chance.
Because against his better judgment, against the voice screaming in the back of his head, Ryan’s kissing him, now, slow and chaste, even if his mouth is screaming for more. And when he pulls away again, bracing himself on the fridge, the tang of blood and something else sticking on his lips, and his vision swirling and swimming, he doesn’t even know who he is anymore.
They stand there, still and staring for a few more seconds, before Brendon fidgets and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, awkward.
“So,” he starts, “sorry, I...”
“No, no,” Ryan says, shaking his head, biting the corner of his lip. “I...no, don’t worry about it.”
Brendon sighs and rubs at his neck, kicking the toe of his shoe on the tile floor, and Ryan brushes past him into the living room, flopping down on the couch, resting his head on his hand. Brendon follows him, stands beside the couch, and Ryan chews on his nail until Brendon’s sure it must be bleeding.
“I know how hard it is to...” Brendon says, and Ryan just holds up his hand, still chewing on the other, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” he says to the television. “I know, of course, it’s just...”
“You’re not ready yet,” Brendon says, and Ryan sinks even further into the couch and shakes his head around, hair shining blue in the light.
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t necessary,” Brendon says, glancing around the room again. “I’ll just grab my stuff and go.”
And he does, rings out his shirts in the bathtub and check his lip in the mirror, and then stops somewhere between the door and the couch and looks at Ryan, profile illuminated white and blue in the light. Ryan is glad for the T.V.'s unnatural glow, because it makes it so Brendon can't see the flush flaming across his cheeks.
“I’ll see you around,” Brendon says, and it’s half question and half statement, and Ryan nods and flicks his hair out of his eyes.
“Yeah,” Ryan says, eyes never leaving the T.V., and he stays like that, even as Brendon opens the door and shuts it, takes three steps across the hall and into his apartment.
And as soon as he knows he’s alone, Ryan falls sideways on the couch and brings his fingers to his still-tingling mouth, the metallic taste of blood somehow still lingering, the cold handle of the fridge still imprinted in his palm. It seems like all of the last few years of hiding behind a brick wall of denial, they were wasted, and even if he’s not ready, he still needs this more than he needs his next cigarette.
That even if this is the craziest thing that’s ever happened to him, even if his entire life is backwards right now, maybe that’s okay. That even though things are moving along at an incredible speed, even if he’s quit his dead-end job, kissed a guy, started smoking again and stopped picking up whores, all in the space of three days - maybe, maybe, that’s just how it’s meant to be.
He falls asleep with his fingers still pressed to his mouth, curled up on the couch, listening to the drone and buzz of the television.
----------
Across the hall, Brendon lies awake and stares at the stucco ceiling, watching the light creep across, inching its way towards daylight. And when the sun comes up, orange and pink against his eyes, he closes them and falls asleep, replaying the night like a movie.
I’ll see you around.
...
Yeah.
And he thinks, for now, that’s good enough.
Part Nine.
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 Elliott Smith. Oh, and I forgot this yesterday...if you are reading this note and are of the male persuasion, please leave me a comment even if you don't read the story just to prove to me that there are, in fact, boys around here. That's all.
He comes back in a few minutes, with Brendon’s dirty shirts dripping bloody water, hanging to dry on his bathtub, and a clean black t-shirt draped over his arm.
“Here,” he says, flinging the shirt at Brendon’s head, and Brendon catches it in mid-air, right before it makes contact with his face.
“Thanks,” he says, yanking it over his head, messing up his hair. Ryan just nods and walks into the kitchen, yanking open the fridge.
“Want anything to drink, or something?” he calls around the corner, and Brendon stands up, pulling at the hem of the shirt and walking into the kitchen.
“I don’t know, whatcha got?” He peers over Ryan’s shoulder, into the fridge, and Ryan shrugs.
“Uh, actually, not really a whole lot.” He closes the door and sighs, shutting off all light in the kitchen, and turns around to face Brendon, to try and walk back into the living room.
And okay, so the air totally thickens and time totally slows down for a minute, and they’re just standing there in the dark and staring at each other, tick tock, tick tock.
And Brendon knows it’s a totally stupid decision for about a thousand reasons. He knows it, looking in Ryan’s eyes, darting and a little frightened. The reasons ticker-tape across his brain, innumerable and flashing in the dark. But the air is just getting thicker and thicker, he can taste the tension, and he either needs to leave right now, or he needs to do this. And he really, really doesn’t want to leave... without doing this.
So he just goes for it. He closes the space between them and kisses him, and God, he’s so stupid, but God, he needed this, maybe. It’s nothing spectacular, not fireworks or passion, but a little finger of warmth curls in his stomach when their lips brush, and he prays that Ryan doesn’t push him away, please don’t push me away.
A second, two, three, and then Ryan pushes back, just a little, and then pulls his head away, breaking their lips apart, breath hitting warm against Brendon’s mouth.
“I’m,” Ryan breathes, “I...” and he looks at Brendon, pleading in his eyes, please don’t do this, please don’t make me do this.
And Brendon knows he can’t force this, he knows how hard it can be to come to terms with this, because he’s been there, he knows. He opens his mouth to say he’s sorry, I don’t know why I just kissed you, but he doesn’t get the chance.
Because against his better judgment, against the voice screaming in the back of his head, Ryan’s kissing him, now, slow and chaste, even if his mouth is screaming for more. And when he pulls away again, bracing himself on the fridge, the tang of blood and something else sticking on his lips, and his vision swirling and swimming, he doesn’t even know who he is anymore.
They stand there, still and staring for a few more seconds, before Brendon fidgets and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, awkward.
“So,” he starts, “sorry, I...”
“No, no,” Ryan says, shaking his head, biting the corner of his lip. “I...no, don’t worry about it.”
Brendon sighs and rubs at his neck, kicking the toe of his shoe on the tile floor, and Ryan brushes past him into the living room, flopping down on the couch, resting his head on his hand. Brendon follows him, stands beside the couch, and Ryan chews on his nail until Brendon’s sure it must be bleeding.
“I know how hard it is to...” Brendon says, and Ryan just holds up his hand, still chewing on the other, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” he says to the television. “I know, of course, it’s just...”
“You’re not ready yet,” Brendon says, and Ryan sinks even further into the couch and shakes his head around, hair shining blue in the light.
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t necessary,” Brendon says, glancing around the room again. “I’ll just grab my stuff and go.”
And he does, rings out his shirts in the bathtub and check his lip in the mirror, and then stops somewhere between the door and the couch and looks at Ryan, profile illuminated white and blue in the light. Ryan is glad for the T.V.'s unnatural glow, because it makes it so Brendon can't see the flush flaming across his cheeks.
“I’ll see you around,” Brendon says, and it’s half question and half statement, and Ryan nods and flicks his hair out of his eyes.
“Yeah,” Ryan says, eyes never leaving the T.V., and he stays like that, even as Brendon opens the door and shuts it, takes three steps across the hall and into his apartment.
And as soon as he knows he’s alone, Ryan falls sideways on the couch and brings his fingers to his still-tingling mouth, the metallic taste of blood somehow still lingering, the cold handle of the fridge still imprinted in his palm. It seems like all of the last few years of hiding behind a brick wall of denial, they were wasted, and even if he’s not ready, he still needs this more than he needs his next cigarette.
That even if this is the craziest thing that’s ever happened to him, even if his entire life is backwards right now, maybe that’s okay. That even though things are moving along at an incredible speed, even if he’s quit his dead-end job, kissed a guy, started smoking again and stopped picking up whores, all in the space of three days - maybe, maybe, that’s just how it’s meant to be.
He falls asleep with his fingers still pressed to his mouth, curled up on the couch, listening to the drone and buzz of the television.
----------
Across the hall, Brendon lies awake and stares at the stucco ceiling, watching the light creep across, inching its way towards daylight. And when the sun comes up, orange and pink against his eyes, he closes them and falls asleep, replaying the night like a movie.
I’ll see you around.
...
Yeah.
And he thinks, for now, that’s good enough.
Part Nine.