secret love, and the fastest way to loneliness. [9/?]
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 Kevin Devine. That's all.
He wakes up with a start, his internal clock kicking him in the stomach, you should be awake! He falls off the couch in his attempt to get up, reaching for a bedside table and an alarm clock that isn’t there, landing on the floor with a thud.
Oh, right. He doesn’t have to work today, he can sleep all he wants, do whatever he wants, see whoever he wants. No paper pushing, no burnt coffee, no bitching co-workers, no nothing.
He gets up and goes into the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot, and the bloody cloth is still on the floor, dried and stuck to the linoleum tiles, and of course the fridge is still there, and it’s presence makes his stomach flip up.
See whoever he wants? See whoever he wants.
Brendon, his mind whispers. Brendon.
So what if he shouldn’t really want to go and see him? He does, so he will, and it doesn't really matter why he wants to, there's really no need to examine it.
He kicks at the stiff cloth until it loosens it’s stranglehold on the yellow, diamond patterned floor, picks it up daintily between thumb and forefinger, and chucks it in the sink.
Brendon. He wants to go see Brendon.
Alright, so, he’ll go and see Brendon, then.
Right.
----------
Brendon wakes up when he hears the pounding on his door, pulls on his jeans and stumbles out of his bedroom, heading towards the door.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he yawns, kicking a sneaker out of the way and yanking the door handle.
Ryan is standing there, hands in his pockets, twisting back and forth. He looks good, hair sticking up, and still wearing those damn jeans.
“Oh, hi,” Brendon says, because really, he wasn’t expecting to see him much after last night, if ever, and oh, God, he’s gorgeous, and here’s Brendon in the door, still half asleep with a fucking gash on his mouth.
“I,” Ryan says, blinking a couple times, seeming shocked that he answered the door, that he’s not still facing a slab of painted wood. “I’m not sure why I’m even here.”
Well, at least he’s honest, Brendon thinks.
“But I woke up this morning, and I found that stupid blue washcloth on my kitchen floor, and I looked at the fridge, and I thought, I want to go see Brendon.” He bounces on his heels a couple times, rocking back and forth. “So, uh, if you’re not busy, do you want to like, hang out? Not...not...just, hang out?”
And alright, Brendon can’t stop the smile that’s spreading over his face like fucking leprosy, and he just nods and opens the door.
“Yeah, yeah, come in. I’ll find some clothes, and we can go for coffee or something.”
Ryan nods, hair falling in his eyes, and steps inside hesitantly, eyes darting around the dimly lit room.
“Hey, hey, it’s just like my place,” he says. Brendon looks at him from where he’s digging through laundry, chucking a sweater on the bed.
“Yeah, I noticed that last night. It’s weird.”
Ryan laughs, still bouncing on his heels, and flicks his hair out of his face.
“Yeah, it’s like...” he glances around again, honey eyes roaming. “It’s like a mirror.”
“In more ways than one,” Brendon says, pulling his bedroom door shut and peeking his head out. “One sec, ‘kay?”
Ryan doesn’t ask what he means, about the mirror, because he thinks he knows, fuck, thinks he gets it.
“Yeah,” he says, still rocking on his heels, fidgety.
Brendon smiles and closes his bedroom door, throwing on a t-shirt, Ryan’s t-shirt, actually, and of course it still smells like him. He sticks his head out the window to test the temperature, and then he opts for a hoodie, too, and then opens the bedroom door.
“Now, where to?” he says, and Ryan’s standing beside his couch, looking at a picture in a plain gold frame, Brendon and his family, younger. Brendon points vaguely at the picture, running a hand through his hair. “That’s my mom and dad, and their pastor,” he says, “and that little kid is me.”
“Pastor?” Ryan says, putting the picture down on the cup-stained and burnt end table, standing up straight.
“Yeah,” Brendon says, shrugging his shoulders and shoving his foot into his shoe. “Things have changed a lot since I was little.”
“Right,” Ryan says. “Yeah.”
And they walk out the door, locking it behind them, not that Brendon has anything to steal.
----------
Sitting in that exact same café, drinking the same drinks, eating sandwiches, this time, instead of cheesecake. Ryan didn’t know that Brendon was a vegetarian, and Brendon figured Ryan wasn’t, so Brendon has cucumber and cream cheese on white, and Ryan has turkey and cheese on whole wheat, hold the mayo.
“So,” Brendon says, putting down his sandwich and wiping his mouth, careful to avoid the cut. Bleeding in public is probably not such an awesome idea, he thinks. “This is gonna sound dumb, but who are you, I mean...” he swallows, shrugging. “What else do you like, where are you from, just, who are you?”
Ryan laughs, closed mouthed, and swallows a mouthful of tea, setting the cup down with a clank.
“Uhm. I don’t know. I’m from, well, here, and so are my parents, and before that, we’re something European.” He coughs and scratches his neck, taking another bite of his sandwich and chewing carefully before swallowing. “And other than that, I’m…well, just a guy with a shitty apartment, and not many friends, and possibly some kind of mental disorder.” He chuckles a little bit at that, but Brendon’s pretty sure he’s not kidding, not really.
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Ryan,” he says, resting his elbow on the table. “Maybe just scared, y'know. Scared of living, scared of yourself."
Ryan looks at him, and his eyes are a shade darker than usual, and it looks like something’s building up, ready to pour out of his mouth, his skin, his everything. He swallows again, and Brendon watches his Adam’s apple rise and fall, and he opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, something, anything.
“Brendon!”
Fuck. Ryan’s eyes dart away, because he knows that voice, knows it, and he doesn’t want to deal with this, not right now.
Brendon knows, fuck!, he knows that the moment is gone, that whatever was burning on Ryan’s tongue is gone when Candy comes sashaying over to the table, out of drag, but still undeniably, so very femme, so very Candy.
“Boys,” he says, she says, whatever, and Brendon just kind of wants to kill her, shut her up. Ryan is staring at the table, staring at his clasped hands, and Brendon doesn’t figure he’ll be finishing his sandwich, or his train of thought. “Boys,” Candy...Carl, says again, “It’s good to see you!” and looks at Brendon with one penciled on eyebrow raised.
Brendon smiles, thin and forced, and the cut on his lip hurts, suddenly, and he wishes he could teleport both of them right the hell out of here.
“Oh, honey,” Carl drawls, tilting his head and looking at Brendon’s mouth. “What happened to that pretty, hard-working mouth of yours?”
Brendon sees Ryan flinch out of the corner of his eye, sees him sinking further into his skin, eyes glazing. He doesn’t even get a chance to answer, because suddenly, suddenly Carl seems to notice, too, and turns his attention to Ryan.
“No need to be shy, baby boy,” he says, sugar sweet, raising an eyebrow, placing a hand on Ryan’s shoulder and either ignoring it or not even noticing when Ryan tries to pull away. “Really, sweetie, I’m not going to bite you.” He throws his head back and laughs. “That is, unless you want me to.”
And Brendon can see Ryan disappearing, sliding backwards into the shadows, and he wants to jump across the table, strangle Carl, Candy, who the fuck ever, and pull Ryan back out, fuck, save him.
“Well,” Carl chirps. “It was...nice to see you boys.” He turns his attention back to Brendon. “I’ll see you around, Brendon,” and winks dramatically.
“Sure,” Brendon murmurs, eyes fixed on Ryan’s vacant eyes, Ryan who’s staring at the table and digging his nails into his palms, but he doesn’t really think so, doesn’t really think he wants to see him again. Carl just trots away, like he doesn’t even notice anything wrong, and out the door, into the street.
And Ryan, well, he’s gone.
Part Ten.
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 Kevin Devine. That's all.
He wakes up with a start, his internal clock kicking him in the stomach, you should be awake! He falls off the couch in his attempt to get up, reaching for a bedside table and an alarm clock that isn’t there, landing on the floor with a thud.
Oh, right. He doesn’t have to work today, he can sleep all he wants, do whatever he wants, see whoever he wants. No paper pushing, no burnt coffee, no bitching co-workers, no nothing.
He gets up and goes into the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot, and the bloody cloth is still on the floor, dried and stuck to the linoleum tiles, and of course the fridge is still there, and it’s presence makes his stomach flip up.
See whoever he wants? See whoever he wants.
Brendon, his mind whispers. Brendon.
So what if he shouldn’t really want to go and see him? He does, so he will, and it doesn't really matter why he wants to, there's really no need to examine it.
He kicks at the stiff cloth until it loosens it’s stranglehold on the yellow, diamond patterned floor, picks it up daintily between thumb and forefinger, and chucks it in the sink.
Brendon. He wants to go see Brendon.
Alright, so, he’ll go and see Brendon, then.
Right.
----------
Brendon wakes up when he hears the pounding on his door, pulls on his jeans and stumbles out of his bedroom, heading towards the door.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he yawns, kicking a sneaker out of the way and yanking the door handle.
Ryan is standing there, hands in his pockets, twisting back and forth. He looks good, hair sticking up, and still wearing those damn jeans.
“Oh, hi,” Brendon says, because really, he wasn’t expecting to see him much after last night, if ever, and oh, God, he’s gorgeous, and here’s Brendon in the door, still half asleep with a fucking gash on his mouth.
“I,” Ryan says, blinking a couple times, seeming shocked that he answered the door, that he’s not still facing a slab of painted wood. “I’m not sure why I’m even here.”
Well, at least he’s honest, Brendon thinks.
“But I woke up this morning, and I found that stupid blue washcloth on my kitchen floor, and I looked at the fridge, and I thought, I want to go see Brendon.” He bounces on his heels a couple times, rocking back and forth. “So, uh, if you’re not busy, do you want to like, hang out? Not...not...just, hang out?”
And alright, Brendon can’t stop the smile that’s spreading over his face like fucking leprosy, and he just nods and opens the door.
“Yeah, yeah, come in. I’ll find some clothes, and we can go for coffee or something.”
Ryan nods, hair falling in his eyes, and steps inside hesitantly, eyes darting around the dimly lit room.
“Hey, hey, it’s just like my place,” he says. Brendon looks at him from where he’s digging through laundry, chucking a sweater on the bed.
“Yeah, I noticed that last night. It’s weird.”
Ryan laughs, still bouncing on his heels, and flicks his hair out of his face.
“Yeah, it’s like...” he glances around again, honey eyes roaming. “It’s like a mirror.”
“In more ways than one,” Brendon says, pulling his bedroom door shut and peeking his head out. “One sec, ‘kay?”
Ryan doesn’t ask what he means, about the mirror, because he thinks he knows, fuck, thinks he gets it.
“Yeah,” he says, still rocking on his heels, fidgety.
Brendon smiles and closes his bedroom door, throwing on a t-shirt, Ryan’s t-shirt, actually, and of course it still smells like him. He sticks his head out the window to test the temperature, and then he opts for a hoodie, too, and then opens the bedroom door.
“Now, where to?” he says, and Ryan’s standing beside his couch, looking at a picture in a plain gold frame, Brendon and his family, younger. Brendon points vaguely at the picture, running a hand through his hair. “That’s my mom and dad, and their pastor,” he says, “and that little kid is me.”
“Pastor?” Ryan says, putting the picture down on the cup-stained and burnt end table, standing up straight.
“Yeah,” Brendon says, shrugging his shoulders and shoving his foot into his shoe. “Things have changed a lot since I was little.”
“Right,” Ryan says. “Yeah.”
And they walk out the door, locking it behind them, not that Brendon has anything to steal.
----------
Sitting in that exact same café, drinking the same drinks, eating sandwiches, this time, instead of cheesecake. Ryan didn’t know that Brendon was a vegetarian, and Brendon figured Ryan wasn’t, so Brendon has cucumber and cream cheese on white, and Ryan has turkey and cheese on whole wheat, hold the mayo.
“So,” Brendon says, putting down his sandwich and wiping his mouth, careful to avoid the cut. Bleeding in public is probably not such an awesome idea, he thinks. “This is gonna sound dumb, but who are you, I mean...” he swallows, shrugging. “What else do you like, where are you from, just, who are you?”
Ryan laughs, closed mouthed, and swallows a mouthful of tea, setting the cup down with a clank.
“Uhm. I don’t know. I’m from, well, here, and so are my parents, and before that, we’re something European.” He coughs and scratches his neck, taking another bite of his sandwich and chewing carefully before swallowing. “And other than that, I’m…well, just a guy with a shitty apartment, and not many friends, and possibly some kind of mental disorder.” He chuckles a little bit at that, but Brendon’s pretty sure he’s not kidding, not really.
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Ryan,” he says, resting his elbow on the table. “Maybe just scared, y'know. Scared of living, scared of yourself."
Ryan looks at him, and his eyes are a shade darker than usual, and it looks like something’s building up, ready to pour out of his mouth, his skin, his everything. He swallows again, and Brendon watches his Adam’s apple rise and fall, and he opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, something, anything.
“Brendon!”
Fuck. Ryan’s eyes dart away, because he knows that voice, knows it, and he doesn’t want to deal with this, not right now.
Brendon knows, fuck!, he knows that the moment is gone, that whatever was burning on Ryan’s tongue is gone when Candy comes sashaying over to the table, out of drag, but still undeniably, so very femme, so very Candy.
“Boys,” he says, she says, whatever, and Brendon just kind of wants to kill her, shut her up. Ryan is staring at the table, staring at his clasped hands, and Brendon doesn’t figure he’ll be finishing his sandwich, or his train of thought. “Boys,” Candy...Carl, says again, “It’s good to see you!” and looks at Brendon with one penciled on eyebrow raised.
Brendon smiles, thin and forced, and the cut on his lip hurts, suddenly, and he wishes he could teleport both of them right the hell out of here.
“Oh, honey,” Carl drawls, tilting his head and looking at Brendon’s mouth. “What happened to that pretty, hard-working mouth of yours?”
Brendon sees Ryan flinch out of the corner of his eye, sees him sinking further into his skin, eyes glazing. He doesn’t even get a chance to answer, because suddenly, suddenly Carl seems to notice, too, and turns his attention to Ryan.
“No need to be shy, baby boy,” he says, sugar sweet, raising an eyebrow, placing a hand on Ryan’s shoulder and either ignoring it or not even noticing when Ryan tries to pull away. “Really, sweetie, I’m not going to bite you.” He throws his head back and laughs. “That is, unless you want me to.”
And Brendon can see Ryan disappearing, sliding backwards into the shadows, and he wants to jump across the table, strangle Carl, Candy, who the fuck ever, and pull Ryan back out, fuck, save him.
“Well,” Carl chirps. “It was...nice to see you boys.” He turns his attention back to Brendon. “I’ll see you around, Brendon,” and winks dramatically.
“Sure,” Brendon murmurs, eyes fixed on Ryan’s vacant eyes, Ryan who’s staring at the table and digging his nails into his palms, but he doesn’t really think so, doesn’t really think he wants to see him again. Carl just trots away, like he doesn’t even notice anything wrong, and out the door, into the street.
And Ryan, well, he’s gone.
Part Ten.