Every Saint Has A Past - Chapter 4
B0ERating: PG-13
Author:
x_trademistakes (me) & cricketsinyourclothing (Sarah)
Pairings: Ryan/Brendon [Other Minor Pairings]
POV: 1st, Brendon's, Ryan's
Beta:
asbesdehyde
Summary: As adults, best friends Brendon and Ryan continue the odd game they started as children -- a fearless competition to outdo one another with daring and outrageous stunts. While they often act out to relieve one another's pain, their game might be a way to avoid the fact that they are truly meant for one another.
Disclaimer: All of this is fictional, I don’t own songs or anything unless I mention it, this is a crossover with the movie Love Me If You Dare. I don’t own anything of it either.
Author's Note: I want to dedicate this to my beautiful friend Jade. She's an amazing girl, an amazing friend and she's always there when I need her <3 plus, she found out something really important in the story! Anyway this chapter is for you girl! I love you <3 And last but not least, thanks to Sarah again for making this one of my favourites chapters :')
BTW, Ryan's POV.
Previous Chapter
Chapter 4
"Scenes From An Italian Restaurant"
Staring at the can, I down the tumbler of liquid courage I had poured myself and sink into the cushion of my ugly second-hand couch. There are crumpled papers littering my coffee table that’s never even seen a cup of coffee, decorated with scratches of envy, malice, love, and vague constellations of other thoughts.
I thought it would be easy to write this note-just a few simple lines that encapsulate the venom I’ve been drowning in for years. Clearly, I was horribly misinformed. I’ve written seven already, all of them too needy or too harsh, all of them just wrong. Nine years ago, this would have been easy. The anger boiled within me, allowing me to lash out-to hate beyond hate-but now it only simmered. It sat, a quiet tingling in the pit of my stomach (or maybe that’s just the whiskey…) waiting, trembling.
I twirl my pen as I curl up, notebook in hand, on my ridiculous couch. These words just won’t come. This is my job-words, thoughts, putting them together-this is my life. And of course, when I actually want ideas, I’ve got nothing; but, when I would rather forget everything and just let go, oh no. That’s when these rickety bones shake like a house-boat in a hurricane, moan like lonely wolves in the arctic.
Of course the poetry won’t come easy when I want it to.
I tap my pen against the spiraled edge of the notebook, savoring the light metallic clicking. It blends itself into a steady rhythm-a monophonic rain-dance coaxing the right words out of the dusty air. Sonic inspiration.
It never seemed so difficult with Thomas. The words came easy. Perhaps that is because they were lies-insincere, and dripping with the man I pretended to be rather than the man that I am. I am a wanderlust king. I am a train wreck; I have been since the day I promised I would never look back.
**
He looks troubled, even asleep.
I watch him toss and turn, uncomfortable on the three-star mattress and sheets stained with the memories of loves won, loves lost, and the skin of a thousand meaningless nights. I may not smoke, but I’ve never wanted a cigarette more in my life than I do now. Something to do with my hands…
He cried before he fell asleep. It took everything, all my reserves of non-feeling, to keep myself from taking those four or five steps into the dim, fluorescent light of the L.A. night as he argued with his so-called conscience. I waited for his breathing to steady and deepen with the burdens of sleep before I allowed myself to move.
Stooping low near the foot of the bed, I tug artfully at his bag, undoing the zipper with the fluidity of well-trained fingers. I roll the can towards me, admiring its seeming glow in the neon moonlight, as I twirl it between my fingers. Ten fucking years I’ve stared at this thing. Ten fucking years I’ve wanted to throw it, smash it, drown it in wet cement. Ten years I’ve held on with the hope that maybe there was a reason for all this-the pain, the fear, the want so bad it nearly killed me. Ten years I’ve waited; ten fucking years.
I rummage through the bag, digging through socks and underwear for a worthy hiding spot. Instead, I find a picture-a young girl, black hair, sparkling eyes, the same naturally sun-kissed skin and aquiline shoulders as her father. I stifle a stiff, sarcastic laugh as I replace the picture face down in the bag and place the can on top.
Nudging the bag back under the edge of the bed with my foot, I slowly creep to the head of the bed where he seems to have quieted a little. The gentle trembling snore from deep in his chest-I remembered it well-sent a shiver through me. That sound was a lullaby to me-soft and peaceful, warm and safe. I’ve never heard another noise quite as comforting as that snore since I was a child. It is mesmerizing.
Closing my eyes, I swallow hard trying to steady myself. I drink the air like cheap whisky. Watching him sleep was too much; I needed to leave. I lean close, basking in the scent of him-his hair, his breath-so nearly foreign that it was intoxicating. My voice soft and low, I whisper in his sleeping ear, “Every saint has a past, Bren. Let’s hope your perfect little present can handle it.”
I slip from the room as light as a wraith, feeling as though I left a part of myself lingering in the air, pervading his dreams.
**
“Oh my God, oh my fucking God Ryan. Ryan!” Chantal was screaming in my ear. “Oh my God. There’s Matteo! Oh God. And Thomas! Oh, God!”
“I don’t even understand what they’re saying,” I remind her. The music is interesting, but I can pick more words out the noise my garbage disposal makes than I could the waves washing over us from the stage.
“You obviously don’t care what they’re saying. You’ve got l’aspetto volere.”
“What?” I asked, confused.
“’The look’! I can see it in your eyes…I can see it in your smile, you’re all I ever wanted and my arms are open wide,” she ends up singing and giggling, spreading her arms and shifting her attention back to the stage with a knowing grin.
As the song ended and the crowd began screeching its approval, Chantal turned to me. “You can lie to yourself, pretty boy, but you can’t lie to me. You didn’t even glance at any of the girls on that beach yesterday, and you nearly swooned over that waiter at lunch.”
I glare at her, not bothered that she supposed-my objective promiscuity managed to get us a free lunch, so what did it matter? The assumption that she understands me is annoying. I don’t understand me; she has no right to.
“¡Buona note, Roma!” One of them-Matteo maybe-screams into his microphone, “Devo dire che sono bellissima stasera.” He smiles and the crowd screams again, surging forward toward the stage like waving kelp toward the shore.
“What is he saying?” I ask Chantal.
“He said: ‘I must say you all look beautiful tonight’ and Oh my God, oh my God Ryan! Ryan! Thomas is talking! Oh God, I’m going to faint.”
“You can’t! You’re my translator, remember?”
I laugh as she replies, “Fuck you!” and pretends to swoon.
“…Vedono il cielo stellato oggi? Così semplice e così bello. Per il semplice, semplice è perfetto.”
It honestly doesn’t matter what the sounds coming from his microphone meant; his voice was warm, even through the electric chill of voice amplification. It is delicate, but full-rounded. It reminds me of Brendon’s…
“What’s he saying,” I ask, tongue thick and unwieldy.
“He’s saying that simple things are perfect and beautiful.” She smiled at me and started to cry, “He’s so perfect, God, I want to marry him!”
The concert begins in earnest. Chantal is singing along to all of the songs but I am bored by the end of the third one. The only moments the stage gathers my full attention are the moments that Thomas, their guitarist, speaks. His voice wraps me in a feeling like a warm breeze. He sang backing harmonies on almost every song, letting Matteo give introductions and sing all the main melodies. Until what seems to be the end of their set.
“ My God Ry- Wait, are you crying?” Chantal looked at me worriedly. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“I…I don’t know. His voice….” I wipe my cheeks quickly, almost angry at myself for being so affected by a song in a language I can’t even understand. The song doesn’t sound particularly sad; but it is beautiful. Thomas’s mellow voice coaxes butterflies from my stomach lining, sending gentle and fluttering shivers up my spine.
“Let’s go. You need fresh air and water. C’mon,” she grabs my hand and begins to walk away, weaving expertly between the crowd entranced by the exceptional melody resounding from the stage, but I do not follow. “Ryan?” She squeezes my hand, evidently worried. Good; at least she doesn’t think I am the weepy type. She starts to walk away again and this time, I let her guide me through the warm and pulsing bodies of the audience. I pause her at the door, waiting, listening unexpectedly with more than ears as Thomas sings the last words of the song: “Ed era l'ultimo saluto…e non ci penso più.”
**
She leads me to a bench near the Coliseum. The tourist couples take us for one of their own as they continue to jabber and photograph themselves and their lovers in the shadow of history. I work to master my errant emotions; Chantal buys a bottle of water from a street vendor, offering it to me wordlessly.
“Better?” She asks, her accent light and vibrant.
I nod, listening to one of the giggling couples behind us. So happily jaunting through their honeymoons and vacations, so desperately in love. That song rattled me into a sentimental mood, I think as my stomach growls. It was late, and lunch had been ages ago.
“Is there anywhere good to eat around here?”
“Yes,” she smiled. “There’s a nice place around the corner, let’s go.”
The restaurant is full when we arrive, something I am slowly learning is absurdly common in Italy. We snatch a table near the front corner from a departing couple, Chantal thanking them lightly. I tell her to order for me as I stand, making my way through narrow aisles lined with occupied chairs to the bathroom. Near the bathrooms, there appears to be a private dining room, erupting with noise from a party in full swing. I shrug, squeezing past a few people milling about in the hallway, preoccupied with my search for a urinal.
The bathroom is small and the sink is tucked neatly just behind the door. As I am drying my hands, the universe clearly decides that I haven’t gotten my ass kicked in a while; the door swings inward without warning, knocking me back into a sink and onto the floor.
“Mi dispiace, mi dispiace! Mi dispiace, sono stato spinto e non ho visto. Mi dispiace. Stai bene?”
Normally, I’d have started cursing, but I am too disoriented, being surrounded by a slightly echoing Italian tenor. Shaking my head, I try as best to mime my incomprehension spluttering as much of “I only speak English,” as I could remember the translation of.
He stretches out a hand, calloused but gentle, as he offers, “I take it you are not Italian, then?” I let him help me up, pushing the hair back out of my face as I lean against the sink, my head still throbbing.
“Ah, your nose!” He reaches over me, pressing lightly into my side as he reaches for a paper towel. “Here…I am sorry.”
I close my eyes as he presses the paper towel to my nose, staunching the thin stream of blood that began as I stood. I replace his hand with my own before I open my eyes, scanning his face slowly. His voice had sounded familiar.
“My name is Thomas,” he smiles apologetically, leaning back against the wall behind him. “You are?”
“Ryan,” I mumble, still moderately stunned by taking a door to the head and by the fact that a man who had me crying for no apparent reason less than twenty minutes ago was standing in front of me, toes nearly touching, in a public bathroom.
“Ryan…” He seems to roll the syllables of my name around his tongue, contemplating each one. His accent was no less beautiful reverberating against cool tile and porcelain than it was echoing from a stage. He glances up at me, a vague grin curling his lips.
“Pleasure to meet you.”
Fuck.
**
I always knew I wanted to travel the world. If I’d have known that by “traveling the world” I meant curling up on a balcony in Florence with a cup of coffee fifteen times better than the typical American industrial sludge, I’d have done it sooner.
The sunrise shimmers more than usual this morning-the heat of the day already building over the wakening city. I curl my bare toes into the decorative gaps in the cool metal of my chair, luxuriating in the silkiness of my coffee. Thomas is still asleep. Not unusual; I am often the first awake. I prefer it this way; nothing disturbs the gentle hum of the fresh morning creeping over the ancient city’s rooftops. It is one luxury I am not sure I deserve.
“You are always up too early,” Thomas whispers to me softly as he drapes his arms around my shoulders from behind. His accent is thick, still heavy with sleep. I stare into my mug as he moves to caress my neck with his breath. He pulls my earlobe between his teeth mumbling, “Come back to bed…”
I sigh and turn my face towards him. He greets my lips with his, parting mine with a movement of his jaw. His kiss is somehow still delicate despite its brute masculinity; his stubble scratches my skin. There is a brief flicker of want that shivers up my spine at the exploratory touch of his fingers against my abdomen. He tugs at my shirt creating small tingles where the fabric shifts against my skin.
Our kiss grows hungrier as his fingers sink lower, exposing a bare inch of my skin to the still-damp morning air. A whine from deep in his throat passes between our lips when he breaks our kiss. Drawing idle circles across my stomach, he presses his face into my neck, kissing and speaking all at once, “Bel finocchio…let me love you…”
And I do. Thomas leads me back into our bedroom and I allow him to lavish me with his kisses, his praise, and his wanton groans. I do not force myself to process or to question my reactions to his body. I take solace in the animalism and instinctiveness of his guttural foreign mumblings and my shuddering moans as he fucks me. I find solace in his skin.
I pity this man who believes he loves me, because I cannot love him back. He is only a distraction, a pleasant interruption; he makes me forget.
He curls himself into my side, still breathing heavily after he’s done, without bothering to even attempt cleaning up our mess. This habit of his disgusts me. I pull away from him, shrugging off his grasping arms. His damp hair clings to me with its scent of sweat, smoke, and sex. As I walk towards our bathroom, intent on a scorching shower to draw the sense of guilt and the smell of him from my pores, he wolf-whistles after me.
“Stitico,” he mutters as I ignore him. ‘Prude’… delightful.
**
I wake up shaking, tears stinging the corners of my eyes as I try to steady my breathing. The clock flashes a crimson “5:30” at me; despite the two hours of darkness that still lay between me and the sunrise, I sigh, speaking softly to no one but myself.
“Time to get up, then.”
I make myself a cup of coffee and drink it black.
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