Big Bang Fic, Part 3
A Finer Command of Language
Band(s): Panic at the Disco
Pairing(s): Jon/Ryan
Word Count: 32,021
Rating/Warnings: NC-17/none that I know of
Author Notes: Thank you to Luc, for alphaing and betaing the fic, particularly when it meant dealing with me being a child. Untappedbeauty, for her thorough, awesome grammar beta. Finally, Rossetti, for making sure the sign language in this was actually informed by reality, and really helping me to rework the story in more interesting ways around that.
There was very little research that went into this, Aphasia doesn't work precisely like this and the type of injuries Ryan occurs are probably unlikely to happen in concert.
Title comes from a Sam Rayburn quote: "No one has a finer command of language than the person who keeps his mouth shut."
Summary: I called this the bus accident!fic while I was writing it. Largely because the premise is that Panic gets in a bus accident. I'm clever like that.
Part Two
After a particularly brutal PT session, Ryan would take about five ibuprofen, pass out for an hour or two, and then plunk himself into a bath until the pain passed from "I want to shoot myself" to "cutting off the lower half my body would be acceptable." Then he would come out and use Jon to practice his signing on. That process was becoming suspiciously more and more like having a conversation, but Ryan didn't want to acknowledge that, for fear that his newfound "verbal" abilities would once again escape his hold on them.
It was during one of these practicing hours that Ryan admitted, "I've never shown anyone a first draft of my stuff." He used the word "try" for "draft," lacking anything closer. If Jon figured it out, he would write it on the list of words that he kept around the house, looked up and taught Ryan every morning before Darcy came, so they could ask questions if they needed to. "Not even Spencer."
Jon said, "Yeah. I sort of guessed." His hands left out the "sort of."
"I used to-- I read the stuff to myself again and again and again and fixed it all those times before showing you guys. I don't know if I can 'write' this way." Doing airquotes was a little weirder when signing the words inside of them.
Jon didn't even hesitate. "You can. I'll read it to you as many times as you need. And maybe that will help, hearing it aloud. Maybe your lyrics will sound different, but that's okay. Things change. We have changed. We were in a fucking bus accident. If we didn't change, I'd worry about us."
Valid points all. "I just. I don't want you to be disappointed." In me. "Or angry." At me.
"I won't be disappointed." Jon looked thoughtful. "As for angry-- Let's make a deal. Either of us can stop working on something at any time."
Ryan wasn't sure about that. "I might never get anything done."
"You will. I've seen you push yourself." Jon sounded so unconcerned it was hard for Ryan to hold on to his own worries.
Ryan acknowledged the point with an inclination of his head. He had been waiting weeks, though, weeks and weeks, for his need to write to overwhelm his fear of the new process, and as of yet, that hadn't occurred. After a few moments, Jon said, "Ryan. Brendon won't show us any of what he's working on, Spencer won't work on anything. It's not like you're what's holding us back. We're holding ourselves back. And maybe that just means we're not ready. Or maybe it means we need someone else to kick our asses. I don't know. But you aren't the problem here. I know that."
Ryan said, "We should-- Maybe we should try and write together. The four of us. Make a deal that we don't care if it's actually usable or not."
"I could probably convince Brendon, but Spence--"
"Leave Spencer to me." Ryan and Brendon had been keeping tabs on Spencer's PT. His therapist was very optimistic that he would play like he had before again, and had in fact started in on a series of exercises designed specifically to help Spencer have that range of motion. Ryan knew Spencer was probably trying more often than he should, probably setting himself back, but Ryan couldn't say anything. If Ryan discovered he could play the guitar again after thinking he had lost that, it would probably become surgically attached to him at some point.
"In general, I kinda do," Jon admitted.
Ryan smiled a little. He asked, "Think you can talk Brendon into asking Darcy out at the same time?"
Jon shook his head. "I don't think so, but I've thought about this, and I think I can get Darcy to ask him out."
Ryan chewed at his bottom lip. That felt a little like betraying Brendon, telling Darcy about his crush. Ryan was about 99.3% positive Darcy returned the feeling--he was always teaching Brendon extra words that he'd thought up just for him, and silly things like that that were utterly perfect for Brendon--but there was still that .7%, and Ryan wasn't sure how on board he was with possibly getting Brendon's feelings hurt at this moment. Not that he was usually up for things like that, but Brendon was currently clearly worried about his ability to perform in the way he had, about letting the band down, so the last thing he needed was some unnecessary rejection.
Jon reached out and tugged Ryan's lip free. Then he took his hand back to say, "Trust me, okay?"
It was all too easy to nod.
*
The first time they tried to set down some lyrics, Ryan got so frustrated with his hands and his vocabulary and their inadequacy at saying the things he still knew how to say, if only in his head, that he cried. They weren't big tears, and he shut them down immediately, but Jon definitely noticed. He didn't say anything other than, "I think that's enough for the day."
Ryan almost argued, but his eyes were stinging perilously, and he decided the better part of valor was not tempting fate. Instead, when Jon took his hand and tugged, Ryan followed. He wanted to ask what they were doing, but Jon had his back to him, and one of Ryan's hands was still claimed hostage. Jon led him to the kitchen, herded him to the counter, where he put Ryan's palms flat against the surface, gripped Ryan's hips lightly and said, "Jump."
Ryan took a second and then helped Jon get him up on the counter. It hurt, but not as much as he would have expected, and Jon stayed there, his hands warm and solid through the material of Ryan's sweats. Ryan looked down at him. Jon smiled up for a second and then went to go dismantle Ryan's stove. Ryan kicked a foot against the cabinet behind it to get Jon's attention and signed, "The fuck?"
Jon laughed, but ignored the question. Instead he came over and pushed Ryan's legs to either side of him, once again taking almost instinctive care not to hurt him. He grabbed some stuff out of the cabinets. Ryan asked, "I have--" or, well, started to ask, since he had no idea what the word for "graham" was. He knew, "crackers," though.
Jon grinned. "Graham crackers," he said, with the accompanying sign. Ryan repeated the action several times. Jon said, "And yes, I bought them. For s'mores."
Ryan copied that word, too. Then, with an inquisitive tilt to his head, asked, "S'mores?"
"Spence said you used to ask for them every time you came over as a kid."
Ryan blinked. "He did?" Ryan wasn't entirely sure what was more surprising: that Spencer remembered a detail like that or that he had told Jon.
"It took me about three months of badgering him for tiny secrets about you that I could use in my plans to cheer you up, but yeah, he finally did."
Ryan gave Jon an apologetic look. He wasn't apologizing for Spencer's behavior, rather for having instilled that sort of behavior in Spencer. Jon said, "I can put a little work in to know your secrets, Ryan Ross."
When Jon put it that way, Ryan had to wonder if Spencer had been testing Jon, just a little, since the s'mores thing wasn't such a big deal. And if Spencer was testing Jon, then why. Jon had put a year of his life into fixing them and never looked back, never asked for the time he was owed. Jon crossed the room and grabbed a Villars bar, which was Ryan's absolute favorite type of milk chocolate. That wasn't a secret or even a semi-forgotten fact, though; Ryan had never let them pass a Trader Joe's if he could stop them. Jon pulled a bag of marshmallows from a grocery bag still sitting out on the table. He also removed a couple of skewer sticks from it. He handed one to Ryan and put the marshmallow bag in between them. "Load'er on up."
"What," Ryan asked, "no signs?"
Jon just poked him in the side with his skewer. Ryan giggled. He was still a little surprised that laughter came out sounding right, but glad when it did. Jon grinned, clearly proud of himself. Ryan didn't laugh a lot these day, maybe even less than when Jon had first come along. Then Ryan piled four marshmallows on his skewer and gave Jon a look that dared him to say anything. All Jon said was, "Sure that's all you want?"
Ryan said, "For now."
"Want to toast them or want me to?" Jon's hands asked if Ryan wanted to burn them, but he got the point.
Ryan said, "I like mine black on the outside." He wanted to say "crispy black," but he didn't know the sign for "crispy." The description lacked something, but it would do. Then, because he couldn't help himself for some reason, "Please."
Ryan watched Jon turn the gas stove on and light the marshmallows aflame, one by one. He let them all catch and then quickly, neatly, blew them out while flipping the burner off. He had two graham crackers out and ready, and he neatly broke one, placed half the Villars bar atop it and used the other one to scrape the marshmallows atop the chocolate and compress the whole thing together. Ryan had known Jon for a while now--a little over six years, by his count--and he'd never known that he had mad s'mores-making fu. It seemed like the sort of thing that should have come up in conversation, especially given the two years they'd spent being high a fair amount of the time.
Jon handed Ryan his s'more. Ryan thanked him with his free hand and bit down. He made a noise when the mix of perfect Swiss chocolate-gooey marshmallow-just a hint of sweet graham mixture hit his tongue. He couldn't help it. He'd forgotten how good this was, how simple and rich and sublime the flavors were together. He realized he'd closed his eyes somewhere on the third bite and opened them to see Jon watching him, his own eyes heavy, intent. Ryan stopped with the graham cracker resting on his lips. Jon startled and said, "Sorry, sorry," forgetting to sign in his shock. Ryan reached a hand out, the one that was less sticky. It still caught Jon's arm, sugar connecting them. Jon stopped in his aborted attempt to move away. Ryan took another bite, this time watching Jon watch him, watching Jon's eyes stray to Ryan's lips, his breath catch just a little when Ryan swallowed. Three slow bites, and Ryan was finished. Jon didn't stop looking.
With shaky hands, in complete silence, Jon said, "You're sticky. Let me--" Jon stepped forward, against Ryan's legs. Ryan spread them slightly to let him in, and then Jon's tongue was making its way over Ryan's lower lip, swabbing at where the marshmallow had caught, sometimes using his teeth to work at a particularly stubborn spot. When Ryan was "clean," Jon backed away just slightly to look at Ryan. He said, "Ryan," his lips barely moving, his hands at Ryan's knees.
Ryan wondered, looking at Jon, if he'd wanted this nearly as long as Ryan had. Jon Walker wasn't the type to fuck Ryan because he deserved compensation for services rendered, and Ryan had grown out of being the kind of asshole who would accuse him of that roughly four years earlier. Still, it bore saying, so Ryan pushed Jon back a little, just enough to get his hands between them and say, "I will probably always be broken. And I don't--" His hands froze on him and he had to start over again. "I don't want you to think you have to stay."
Jon took Ryan's hands in his and said, "You're not broken. You're you. And if that was the case, maybe you should have said something six years ago."
Ryan knew he must look slightly blindsided. He'd still been head over heels for Brendon at that time, which Jon probably knew. Their crushes were something that rarely ever stayed secret from one another, and they had the grace to act like they didn't know, or it just wasn't a big deal. Except that evidently Ryan was the most oblivious person on the planet, or Jon was trained in ninja emotional warfare, which, okay, was possible. Jon smiled. "You can ask Spencer. He'll tell you."
Suddenly Spencer being hesitant about the s'mores thing made sense. Ryan pulled his hands free. "You told him to get stories."
"It took me a while to realize he was afraid I'd break your heart. Then it took me a while to figure out why he'd have that fear. I can be a little thick."
Evidently Ryan could too, so he wasn't going to throw stones. Instead he said, "Kiss me again?" He wanted more, he wanted everything, but he'd been sitting on the counter for half an hour, and he was pretty sore. Plus, if Jon was telling the truth, he didn't have to have everything this moment. He added, "Please?" but Jon was already moving in, too close to see the circle Ryan was making over his heart.
*
Brendon came over a couple of days after and announced, "I come bearing ice cream, and a song."
There was a pause, and then Spencer and Ryan both signed, "Give me the ice cream," and went for it at once. Ryan ended up letting Spencer have it, but only because Jon was looking at the paper with Brendon's song, humming softly, and Ryan got distracted. Brendon was looking at him, watching him in his distraction, nervous and hopeful at once. Spencer was heading into the kitchen for spoons, but Ryan could tell he was listening, too.
The song was low and melancholy, more classical than folk, more rock than pop. Ryan had never really heard anything like it, nothing of theirs, nor anybody else's. Jon finished humming, and Brendon's gaze darted between Jon and Ryan, then over to where Spencer was prying the lid off the ice cream. Jon gave Brendon back the paper so that he could say, "That's--" His fingers froze in midair. He finished with a resigned, "Amazing." Ryan understood. It wasn't a good enough word.
Brendon looked shyly to Ryan, who nodded dumbly. The stuff he and Jon had was starting to sound good, finally, decent, but it wasn't anything like this. Nothing so evocative, subtly provocative. Spencer stuck a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth, held it there with his lips, and asked, "This is what you've been hiding from us?"
Brendon shrugged. "It wasn't done."
Ryan wondered for a moment if Brendon thought they would have fucked up his writing, but then he went over what he'd just heard in his head and realized that no, Brendon just had something whole he'd wanted to give them, and nothing else would do. Ryan almost said, "You're enough, Brendon," but luckily his hands normally didn't work as quickly as his mouth, so generally there was very little danger of him blurting shit out.
Jon hummed at the chorus a little again. He looked at Ryan. Ryan didn't need him to sign to know what he was thinking. This was backwards, the way they were doing this. Ryan always found his words first, or at least, at the very least, apace with the music. He didn't have to open up a conversation to know that Jon was wondering if Ryan even could write that way, or if they would all have to stop in their tracks, waiting for Ryan to give them something, anything. Jon was wondering if they were going to have to put away this gorgeous, resplendent thing Brendon had because Ryan couldn't find a story for it, at least not a story he could tell the others. There was also the option of Brendon taking lyrics on this album, but he knew nobody was going to bring that up until all other options had been exhausted.
Ryan said, "Fuck that," which occasioned three very confused looks in his direction. He realized, belatedly, that most of that conversation had been going on in his head.
"Ryan?" Spencer asked. Brendon moved over to where Spencer was to take a hit off the ice cream. He never once stopped watching Ryan.
Ryan said, "I've been thinking about doing some of the songs--" Ryan had no idea what the word for "instrumentally" was. He settled for, "Without words."
Jon's eyes narrowed in the exact same way Spencer's did. It was kind of freaky. Jon asked, "Why?"
Ryan had thought and thought about how to explain this. It was doubly hard without tone of voice. He said, "Because sometimes writing lyrics is about knowing when to shut up." Ryan felt that the universe had picked a particularly harsh way to teach him that lesson, but it was valid, all the same.
Brendon gave the spoon back over to Spencer, who held it absently out to Jon. Brendon said, "So it's not--"
They all waited. Finally Ryan said, "Brendon?"
"It's not because you don't want to hear me saying your words?" Brendon didn't look at him as he asked the question.
Ryan could feel a growl in his throat, but knew it would sound different and most likely stupid if he allowed it to verbalize. Instead he said, "No," the snap of his fingers so sharp it cracked. There was a beat of silence after the loudness of Ryan's response, and Jon said, "He wants to hear his words, Brendon. He wants to hear you sing them. They're just not ready."
Brendon nodded. As already proven, he understood the concept of readiness. Spencer, for his part, looked between Ryan and Jon, his eyes flashing comprehension before he stole the spoon back and dug in for himself again. Ryan moved closer to where they were huddled over the pint and coaxed the scoop from Spencer's hand. Spencer gave over fairly easy. He said, "So I guess maybe I should start working on the drum arrangements, huh?"
"That might help, yeah," Jon said casually.
Hesitantly, Brendon said, "I had some ideas about that."
Spencer took the spoon back for himself, planted a ginormous scoop of ice cream in his mouth and told Brendon, "I'm all ears."
*
Ryan didn't really want anyone in the world other than Brendon singing his words, but he liked the way they sounded when Jon was telling them to the computer, saying them aloud like they were a puzzle that needed fitting together. They were more sparse than he had ever chosen to go previously. It wasn't that he didn't have plenty of words at the ready, that he couldn't have figured out how to say them, that Jon wouldn't have taken the time to translate. It was that Ryan was getting used to his own silences, to the newer, trickier syntaxes of signing, and that he wanted to find a way to make that part of his music. He could get the surplus of words out in other ways, he could learn how to do that. They weren't needed on the album.
Most days it could take them three or four hours to get a single stanza done, between the translation process and Ryan's need to refine. It was weird, the way he would be repeating a line over and over to himself and come out of his head to realize Jon was doing the same thing, only aloud. Weird, but comfortable, almost a necessary part of the process at this moment.
At one point, no matter how many times he repeated it to himself, he couldn't hear what was wrong, couldn't figure out what was bugging him, so he said, "What would you do?"
Jon said, "What would-- Oh." He pressed at a button on the keyboard and Ryan saw the symbols disappearing. There was a beep, then, which Ryan knew was the voice recognition software being deactivated. "Hm. Maybe break up the stanza?"
Ryan shook his head. He'd already thought of that. It worked for the first three words, but made the last four clumsy. Ryan explained and Jon tried it out, saying, "Yeah, I see what you mean," before he even finished. Jon tapped his fingers lightly against the arm of the sofa in the measured beat of the stanzas and said, "Are there any synonyms you could fit in for some of the two syllable words that are only one syllable? Because then we could shift the balance of the words and it would probably work."
Ryan sifted through the words, thinking of other words that could possibly fit without losing the rhythmic value of the words themselves. If it was the right number of syllables, it wasn't sharp enough, shaped enough, for the verse. If it popped the right way in Ryan's head, it wouldn't fit. Ryan dug his fingernails into his pants in frustration, only to find Jon pulling his hands away, coaxing them to loosen. Jon said, "Enough, enough for right now."
Ryan thought about arguing, but Jon had his hands. It wasn't exactly a fair way to fight. When Jon covered Ryan's mouth with his own, he got over his ethical issues. Jon kissed him with intent, but without force. Ryan leaned into it, trusting that Jon wouldn't push too hard, wouldn't hurt him. Jon let go of Ryan's hand to hook his own behind Ryan's neck, but by that time Ryan didn't feel the need to say anything, to fight. Jon said, "Hey, hey, you have to help," and Ryan realized that Jon's other hand had slipped beneath the hem of Ryan's t-shirt, was rucking it up his chest. Ryan reached down and pulled it over his head, catching himself in it momentarily until Jon fought to free him. Ryan emerged laughing, and Jon said, "Mmm," and went in for a taste.
Jon rested his hands lightly over Ryan's stomach, questing over his sides to his back and then forward again, fingers finding and exploring Ryan's nipples. Ryan buried his own hands under Jon's shirt, making small sounds of distress when he couldn't have what he wanted. Jon nipped at the corner of his mouth, "Sh, okay." He leaned back enough to allow Ryan to get his shirt off, have what he was interested in. Ryan sighed in relief and pressed his palms gently to where Jon had healed. Jon was fine, but for a moment there, he'd broken. Ryan was glad, for the first time, that he couldn't talk, couldn't say the, "Waited, waited, wanted this," that was lodged, heavy, right out of reach.
Jon's hands found their way to the waist of Ryan's sweats and he said, "Okay, careful, careful," when Ryan worked to rise up a little. Jon worked as quickly as he could to slip Ryan's pants past his hips so that Ryan could settle again. He stroked gently over the crest of Ryan's hipbone and asked, "All right?"
Ryan nodded. It was more dull pain than anything else these days unless Ryan walked too much, or hit up against something, or turned too quickly, or it rained, or Ryan just had a bad day. But it was bearable, moreso than it had been at first, certainly. Jon pulled his pants the rest of the way down, over his ankles, and settled on the floor between Ryan's barely-spread legs. He didn't try to open Ryan up anymore--flexibility was a thing of the past. Jon looked up at Ryan, smiling, and mouthed, "Ryan." Then he leaned in and swallowed Ryan slowly, like he was getting used to Ryan, taking his time, establishing familiarity. Ryan moaned, and that, at least, sounded like it was supposed to. He threaded his fingers in Jon's hair, not to force anything, just because it was Jon's hair, soft and perfectly brown, and Ryan had wanted to lose his fingers in it for so, so fucking long.
Jon established a rhythm that was easy on both of them, one that made Ryan boneless rather than taut, one that Jon had full control of. Ryan bit his lips, because if he tried to say, "Jon" it would come out wrong, ugly, and he couldn't have that, he couldn't. Instead he thought it, thought the name and the chords that they'd been playing together, over and over, their fingers in time with each other. Jon took him in deeper, deeper, and when Ryan couldn't help himself anymore, he closed his eyes and let Jon have him, have whatever he would take.
Jon pulled off when he was finished and rose up on his knees, shoving at his jeans and boxers. He gasped when his cock came in contact with Ryan's leg. Ryan signed, "Jon, Jon," but Jon just captured Ryan's right hand and sucked on his fingers, frantic in a way he hadn't been until now. Ryan watched, his breath caught in his chest, as Jon came apart without Ryan doing so much as flexing the muscles of his leg. Jon panted, "Ryan, fuck. Ryan," around Ryan's fingers, and came. He slumped over Ryan, but even in the aftermath of orgasm was careful not to lay his head too far up Ryan's thigh. Instead he perched it gently on Ryan's knee.
Ryan took his fingers back and tapped Jon's shoulder. Jon looked up, somewhat hazily. Ryan said, "I know what's wrong. With the lyrics."
Jon blinked. "You think a lot during sex, huh?"
"I feel a lot during sex," Ryan corrected. "I think a lot the rest of the time."
"Okay," Jon agreed.
Ryan said, "The lyrics are--" He didn't know the word he needed. "Dishonest." It would have to do.
"Dishonest?" Jon cocked his head. "I don't know. I think they're pretty fucking honest, Ry."
Ryan shook his head. Then he came up with an idea. He signed, "Sounds like."
Jon frowned for a second and then brightened. "Oh, hey, I rock at charades."
He didn't, but none of them ever wanted to tell him that. Ryan signed, "Miss."
"Miss."
"In."
"In."
"Genius."
"Genius."
Ryan looked at him expectantly. Jon looked perplexed. Ryan said, "Push the words together."
"Miss-in-genius." He muttered it a few times. "Oh! Dishonest, disingenuous."
Ryan grinned. Jon said, "Yeah, we'll look that one up for next time." Then, "Why do you think that?"
"Because when I stop thinking, I hear different ones."
"Oh," Jon said. Ryan laughed a little. Jon looked at him. "So, basically, for the good of this album, we're going to need to have sex a lot."
Ryan thought for a moment. Then he nodded solemnly. "For the album."
*
Resolutions to have sex for The Good of the Album and the Band aside, the actual carrying out of said resolution was a bit harder than Ryan had intended it to be. For one thing, on the days when Ryan had physical therapy--which was still most days--if they didn't have sex in the morning, Ryan was generally too worn out and sore to do it afterward, unless he slept for most of the afternoon and they stayed up and wrote through the night. They had tried that a few times, but it meant being even more tired for his next session of PT, which wasn't helpful to anyone.
Another, even more pertinent obstacle was that there were very few positions that were comfortable for Ryan to be in beside lying prone. He couldn't take Jon's weight, though, which was a) inconvenient for the purposes of having sex and b) made him feel like a complete pussy. Lying on his side started out uncomfortable and escalated slowly into agonizing, the same for being on his hands and knees, bending over anything at the waist--this position tended to reach excruciating before most of the others--and sitting on his knees.
Jon seemed completely untroubled by all of this, perfectly happy to settle Ryan on his lap and have them jerk each other at their own pace, dependent entirely on their respective moods. And that was great except for the part where Ryan had kind of waited a really long time to have lots and lots of sex with Jon Walker, and he just wasn't sated by--admittedly hot--mutual jerking off sessions. He was watching Jon's ass as Jon made himself a snack one day when he said, "Fuck. We're both idiots." Of course, Jon wasn't watching him, he was intent on spreading his peanut butter on his apples, so he didn't get the sentiment. Ryan frowned. That was problematic to his idea, but at this point, it was between mildly problematic positions and being a functional eunuch, so far as Ryan was concerned. He knew which one he was going to choose.
He came up behind Jon and draped himself over Jon, his chin on Jon's shoulder, his arms over Jon's arms. He did his best to say, "I have an idea." It was a little hard with his hands effectively separated from his body. Jon seemed to catch on. He asked, "Yeah?"
Ryan took back his arms and looped them under Jon's to undo the button on his jeans. Jon's reaction was immediate. "Oh. Oh. Fuck, you have condoms?"
Ryan had stolen some from Spencer when it became clear he might have need of them. And by stolen, he meant he'd said, "Spence, can I have some of your stash?" and Spencer thought to say, "Don't break up the band," a few minutes after handing Ryan an entire box. Spencer was a Costco shopper.
Ryan told Jon , "Night stand and medicine cabinet," and undid his jeans, waiting impatiently while Jon ran for the bedroom. Ryan wasn't sure he'd ever seen Jon move with such haste. He was back in seconds, condoms and lube in hand. He threw the stuff on the counter and pushed impatiently at his jeans. Ryan helped him, laughing. It wasn't mocking laughter; Ryan agreed completely. He barely managed to form the signs for, "We'll have to try this slow sometime."
"Later," Jon bit out and turned to the counter. Ryan grabbed the lube and poured it quickly onto his palm, sliding in and slicking Jon up. He'd barely gotten two fingers in when Jon said, "Enough, enough, just--"
It was hard enough for Ryan to talk from this position that he wasn't going to argue. He rolled the condom on and pressed in. He took it a bit slowly, just because he was pretty sure Jon hadn't done this in a while, not to Ryan's knowledge, anyway, and those sorts of things were hard to hide. Jon made a sound, half pleased, half something that made Ryan wish he could see his face, or say, "Jon," or communicate at all. Jon said, "Yes," then, and Ryan was a little reassured, pushed as far as he could, settling gently against Jon.
Ryan kissed at the back of Jon's neck, sucked a little violently in the place of saying, "Jesus, so fucking good." He couldn't move as quick or as hard as he really wanted to, had to keep things relatively gentle for his own sake, the sake of his hips, but if he bent Jon forward just a little, he was able to go deep, able to grind long and slow. He found a rhythm and then just let himself go, get lost in the back forth, up down. Jon was panting, making hot, low little sounds that Ryan wanted to swallow, wanted to write, wanted to let everyone hear, just so that they could know it was his and only his, wanted to keep it entirely for himself.
He bit into Jon's neck, just a nip, just a hold, and Jon said, "Ryan, Ryan, touch me."
Ryan reached down, his hand still slick with lube, and wrapped his fingers at the base of Jon's cock, just holding for a bit, holding him back, holding him with Ryan. Then he slid his hand all the way down to the head, his grip tight, tight as he could manage. Jon said, "Fuck, yes," and bucked into Ryan's hand, coming back a little too hard. Pain sparked behind Ryan's eyes at the impact against his hips, and he gasped, more at the paradoxical nature of the two sensations than anything. They were both so intense, maybe too intense, and Ryan came, squeezing his hand, shaking.
He worked to keep breathing, to keep himself on his feet. Falling would hurt like a bitch, and Jon wasn't done yet. Ryan stayed in him, every nerve on edge but wanting to be there, wanting to be in this until the end. He worked Jon's cock steadily, a litany of "Jon," and "like this, come on," playing in his head, no way to get out, to transmit itself. Ryan kissed at Jon's ear as a proxy for the things he wanted to say, a trade-off for telling Jon that he was fucking everything Ryan had ever wanted. Jon seemed to get it, since his breath caught at the sensation and he came, spilling onto Ryan's fingers.
Ryan extricated himself then, and tried not to have his first thought be, "Tylenol." It was. It was also really, completely worth it. Jon pulled them over to the sink and cleaned them up with water and papers towels before grabbing the bottle of Tylenol closest and shaking four out for Ryan. Ryan smiled at him and dry swallowed. Jon said, "Writing and then nap, or nap and then writing?"
Ryan bit his lip. Jon grinned. "Yeah, my thoughts on the subject, too."
*
When they shared the basic melodies, harmonies and lyrics with Brendon, Ryan said, "It needs a touch of..." he tilted his head and changed the word "polish" to "you," at the last moment.
Brendon was still looking at the page as he signed, "And Spencer," without even moving his mouth.
Ryan waited until Brendon looked up to say, "Obviously." There were some things that Ryan was beginning to feel really could go unsaid.
Brendon went over to the piano and plucked out the chorus. "I don't-- I don't want to mess with this too much. It's pretty fucking rich."
Ryan was deeply glad that Brendon was still paying attention to the music, the keys, when the, "Yeah?" erupted from his hands. Jon smiled, but he kept Ryan's need for approval-by-Brendon a secret. Ryan really, really needed some blackmail material on Jon. Just to assure mutual destruction if Jon ever decided-- Well, blackmail material was always a practical thing to acquire.
Ryan heard the lock turn, and a second later Spencer was there, his hands already moving. "Sorry, traffic was crazy in the city."
Brendon continued to play. "Always is this time of year."
"What was it you wanted to talk about?" Ryan asked. It wasn't as though they probably wouldn't have seen each other anyway--they still did most days, even with Spencer only being in physical therapy two days a week and Brendon being down to one--but Spencer had called this meeting, said there was something he needed to discuss with them.
Spencer said, "I'm gonna grab a water. Anybody want anything?"
Brendon just motioned at the ginormous Slurpees the other three of them had. Spencer glared. "You couldn't be bothered to pick one up for me, dickface?"
All three said, "Fridge," at the same time.
Spencer said, "Oh," but didn't have the grace to blush or otherwise show remorse. Instead he went and got his and then came back to find the three of them on the couch, a spot between Ryan and Brendon waiting for him. Spencer fit himself in easily. He put his drink on the coffee table, signed, "Ow, brain freeze." Ryan wondered idly if there was an actual sign for that, or just the two words as Spencer had signed them. When Spencer had recovered, he said, "Haley's been kinda...bugging me, I guess, the way Pete's been bugging you." The sign for the last word made it clear he was talking about Ryan, as if Ryan might be unsure about whose ass Pete Wentz had been riding lately.
Brendon frowned. "She wants to see us? She sees us."
"She wants us to get out a little. And she thinks we should be trying out the new stuff, rough as it is, on ears that aren't our own."
Ryan pressed his shoulder into Jon. Jon said, "And you think it's a good idea?"
Spencer scratched at the back of his neck for a long moment. "I think-- I think it's been really easy for us to get lost in each other since the accident. Even more than before. And I think that if we want these songs we've been piecing together to ever be an album, ever be performed, that we're going to have to get out there sooner or later. I'd sort of like it to be on our own terms."
"True," Brendon said after a second. He was looking at Ryan, but Ryan wasn't ready to chime in on this conversation, not yet.
Jon asked, "What were you imagining?"
"I was thinking maybe a birthday party for the three of us, right in the middle. September ninth or so--"
"Allow me to reiterate my hatred for your freakishly close birthdays," Brendon interrupted.
Spencer patted his knee. "Don't worry, you're invited."
Brendon flipped him off, but Spencer was already on his next thought. "Close friends, significant others, family, nothing big. I'm thinking not even the whole label like we usually feel we have to. Just who we want. And we say maybe we'll play. Maybe. If we don't feel like it, we can always punk out. The people we invite aren't gonna say shit, not even Pete, not in that venue. He'll wait for it as long as he thinks we're actually trying to get there."
Spencer looked straight at Ryan while saying this last bit. Ryan knew. For all that Pete could be obnoxious and in his face and push so hard it hurt, in the end, Pete would--always had--allow Ryan, allow them, to go at their own pace. It was why they'd never left the label, not even when the better offers had started coming and failed to stop. Finally, finally Ryan said, "I could use a good, old-fashioned party."
"You just want to dress up," Brendon accused without any real accusation to his tone.
"I think he wants to see me dressed up," Jon said dryly. Ryan nodded fervently. Spencer and Brendon signed, "Pervs," in perfect unison.
*
It was halfway though August when Pete called and asked, "Hey, I know the invite was for me and the guys, but can I bring Mikey?"
Ryan didn't have a sign for Mikey, so instead he asked, "From My Chemical Romance?"
"How many Mikeys do you know?"
Ryan found that somewhat irrelevant, since he wasn't the one asking to bring Mikey to the party, but okay. He looked over at Jon, who shrugged and signed, "What's one more person?"
"Is Jon Walker saying something about me behind my back?" Pete asked, pressing his face closer to the lens of his camera, like that might allow him to see around the corner of Ryan's screen.
"Yes," Ryan told him, and then asked, "Why?"
"Why?"
"Why do you want to bring him?"
"Well, for one thing, because his birthday's the next day and he deserves some party shenanigans. My Chem's got a show the night of his birthday. For another, because we, uh." Pete's head dropped down for a second and he scratched at the back of his ear. "You know. Again." He looked up at Ryan a bit sheepishly.
"Brendon so owes me twenty bucks."
"You bet on him taking me back at some point?" Pete looked disproportionately pleased.
Ryan rolled his eyes. "You're a convincing guy. And yes."
"Yes?"
"He can come."
"You're my favorite ever, Ryan Ross."
Ryan gave Pete his best unimpressed look, since it was nearly impossible to sign, "Mhm," and relay the amount of blase-ness that Ryan felt was necessary in this case. Pete said, "No, for reals," laughing even as he said it.
Jon called from the side, "You making moves on my boyfriend, Wentz? Don't think we can't find another label."
"He may be my favorite, but he's just not as pretty as Mikeyway," Pete told Jon sincerely.
Jon laughed. "Um, okay." He cut the call. "Our boss is crazy, Ryan, we should get out while we can."
Ryan spared a half-hearted smile for him. Jon said, "Whoa, hey, you are so prettier than Mikeyway."
Ryan rolled his eyes. "He can be prettier than me."
"Then what's going on?" Jon tapped a finger at Ryan's forehead gently.
"Just-- Before it was just people that we know, really know."
Jon nodded.
"Now we have less than a month and four songs that are at best rough drafts to play for a member of My Chemical Romance."
"We need to come up with a sign for him, huh?" Jon said, but Ryan could tell he was thinking about what Ryan had said. Finally Jon sat down and said, "Maybe that's a good thing."
Ryan raised an eyebrow. Jon shrugged. "We've always been so worried about the level of polish on our stuff, but maybe this is like everything else. Maybe it's time for something completely new, in every way. Not that we leave the stuff the way it is now, just-- I dunno, stop thinking of it as less because it's not ready for public consumption."
Ryan considered the suggestion, the way it was human nature to actually start hearing once a person stopped judging. It didn't necessarily make him feel comfortable, but writing good music wasn't always about that. He'd had it be, and he'd had it not be. In this case, he told Jon, "You're right."
Jon smirked. "Always."
Ryan smiled, in spite of his intention not to. Jon said, "Hey, how about this?" and made the signs for "pretty" and "way," right in a row.
"Perfect," Ryan told him.
*
Oddly enough, once Ryan accepted that they were probably going to be presenting themselves guts first and smiles second, the songs started to come along in their own right. Brendon began letting them in on more of the process, and Ryan forced the issue of Spencer working with them instead of taking what they gave him and going from there. Ryan still wouldn't work on the lyrics with anybody but Jon in the room, but nobody seemed to expect it. At one point Ryan asked Spencer if it bothered him, and Spencer said, "I sort of like that there's still some mystery to you."
Spencer had said it in that droll way that usually indicated he was kidding, but Ryan knew Spencer, through and through. There was some part of Spencer, no matter how small, that really meant it. Spencer knew how to allow Ryan his space, even when there wasn't enough of it physically.
Writing meant what it had almost always meant between them, which was a lot of hanging out and eating ice cream and paying no attention to personal hygiene. So when Tom called and said, "Hey, look, we're playing our last show for this round in LA three days before your party, then we were just gonna head out there and hang for a bit," Ryan said to Jon, "Maybe I should shower, huh?"
Jon said, "Hey, Tom, can I call you back?" and Tom hung up on him without acknowledging the question. Jon asked Ryan, "You think you could sit in a car for long enough to get down to LA?"
Ryan was finally down to one PT session a week, but it was still brutal. And the thought of being in a club, with crowds of people who would recognize him, was a little beyond terrifying. Jon wasn't looking at him with any expectation in his eyes, but he also hadn't seen his best friend since Tom had come to see them in the hospital, right after the crash. He said, "Why don't you go by yourself? Fly down, drive back with him?"
"Ryan, I don't have to--"
Ryan knocked Jon's hands aside, which got him to stop speaking as well. "Seriously. Go have a good time. I'm not ready, but I'll be fine here. I can call Brendon or Spencer if I need anything."
Jon was quiet for a second before asking, "You're sure?"
"Jon." Ryan rolled his eyes.
Jon grinned. "Okay, okay. But next time I'm dragging you with."
Ryan figured that gave him at least another few months to remember how to socialize with people who didn't share his brain. "If you say so."
"Mm," Jon said, because he could actually use his mouth to make himself sound highly doubtful. Ryan wasn't going to pretend that he wasn't jealous. Then Jon said, "Tom'll be sad. You'll have to make it up to him."
"If you're suggesting a threesome--"
This time it was Jon who knocked Ryan's hands away, laughing. He kissed Ryan long and hard and when he pulled away said, "I don't share."
That was a total lie--Jon shared all the time--but Ryan didn't call him on it, as he sensed Jon probably knew that and was trying to make a point. Ryan could catch on, given enough time. Ryan said, "Me neither," and that was much, much closer to the truth, but Ryan only took what he actually wanted, so it didn't lessen the power of the statement, he felt.
"Not even with Spencer?" Jon asked, his tone light. He was kidding.
Ryan said, with as much solemnity as he could inject into his fingers, "Not in this case."
Jon said, "I love you," casual and easy and true, and Ryan was amazed at how the one sentence he'd known in sign language since third grade looked utterly new.
Part Four
Band(s): Panic at the Disco
Pairing(s): Jon/Ryan
Word Count: 32,021
Rating/Warnings: NC-17/none that I know of
Author Notes: Thank you to Luc, for alphaing and betaing the fic, particularly when it meant dealing with me being a child. Untappedbeauty, for her thorough, awesome grammar beta. Finally, Rossetti, for making sure the sign language in this was actually informed by reality, and really helping me to rework the story in more interesting ways around that.
There was very little research that went into this, Aphasia doesn't work precisely like this and the type of injuries Ryan occurs are probably unlikely to happen in concert.
Title comes from a Sam Rayburn quote: "No one has a finer command of language than the person who keeps his mouth shut."
Summary: I called this the bus accident!fic while I was writing it. Largely because the premise is that Panic gets in a bus accident. I'm clever like that.
Part Two
After a particularly brutal PT session, Ryan would take about five ibuprofen, pass out for an hour or two, and then plunk himself into a bath until the pain passed from "I want to shoot myself" to "cutting off the lower half my body would be acceptable." Then he would come out and use Jon to practice his signing on. That process was becoming suspiciously more and more like having a conversation, but Ryan didn't want to acknowledge that, for fear that his newfound "verbal" abilities would once again escape his hold on them.
It was during one of these practicing hours that Ryan admitted, "I've never shown anyone a first draft of my stuff." He used the word "try" for "draft," lacking anything closer. If Jon figured it out, he would write it on the list of words that he kept around the house, looked up and taught Ryan every morning before Darcy came, so they could ask questions if they needed to. "Not even Spencer."
Jon said, "Yeah. I sort of guessed." His hands left out the "sort of."
"I used to-- I read the stuff to myself again and again and again and fixed it all those times before showing you guys. I don't know if I can 'write' this way." Doing airquotes was a little weirder when signing the words inside of them.
Jon didn't even hesitate. "You can. I'll read it to you as many times as you need. And maybe that will help, hearing it aloud. Maybe your lyrics will sound different, but that's okay. Things change. We have changed. We were in a fucking bus accident. If we didn't change, I'd worry about us."
Valid points all. "I just. I don't want you to be disappointed." In me. "Or angry." At me.
"I won't be disappointed." Jon looked thoughtful. "As for angry-- Let's make a deal. Either of us can stop working on something at any time."
Ryan wasn't sure about that. "I might never get anything done."
"You will. I've seen you push yourself." Jon sounded so unconcerned it was hard for Ryan to hold on to his own worries.
Ryan acknowledged the point with an inclination of his head. He had been waiting weeks, though, weeks and weeks, for his need to write to overwhelm his fear of the new process, and as of yet, that hadn't occurred. After a few moments, Jon said, "Ryan. Brendon won't show us any of what he's working on, Spencer won't work on anything. It's not like you're what's holding us back. We're holding ourselves back. And maybe that just means we're not ready. Or maybe it means we need someone else to kick our asses. I don't know. But you aren't the problem here. I know that."
Ryan said, "We should-- Maybe we should try and write together. The four of us. Make a deal that we don't care if it's actually usable or not."
"I could probably convince Brendon, but Spence--"
"Leave Spencer to me." Ryan and Brendon had been keeping tabs on Spencer's PT. His therapist was very optimistic that he would play like he had before again, and had in fact started in on a series of exercises designed specifically to help Spencer have that range of motion. Ryan knew Spencer was probably trying more often than he should, probably setting himself back, but Ryan couldn't say anything. If Ryan discovered he could play the guitar again after thinking he had lost that, it would probably become surgically attached to him at some point.
"In general, I kinda do," Jon admitted.
Ryan smiled a little. He asked, "Think you can talk Brendon into asking Darcy out at the same time?"
Jon shook his head. "I don't think so, but I've thought about this, and I think I can get Darcy to ask him out."
Ryan chewed at his bottom lip. That felt a little like betraying Brendon, telling Darcy about his crush. Ryan was about 99.3% positive Darcy returned the feeling--he was always teaching Brendon extra words that he'd thought up just for him, and silly things like that that were utterly perfect for Brendon--but there was still that .7%, and Ryan wasn't sure how on board he was with possibly getting Brendon's feelings hurt at this moment. Not that he was usually up for things like that, but Brendon was currently clearly worried about his ability to perform in the way he had, about letting the band down, so the last thing he needed was some unnecessary rejection.
Jon reached out and tugged Ryan's lip free. Then he took his hand back to say, "Trust me, okay?"
It was all too easy to nod.
*
The first time they tried to set down some lyrics, Ryan got so frustrated with his hands and his vocabulary and their inadequacy at saying the things he still knew how to say, if only in his head, that he cried. They weren't big tears, and he shut them down immediately, but Jon definitely noticed. He didn't say anything other than, "I think that's enough for the day."
Ryan almost argued, but his eyes were stinging perilously, and he decided the better part of valor was not tempting fate. Instead, when Jon took his hand and tugged, Ryan followed. He wanted to ask what they were doing, but Jon had his back to him, and one of Ryan's hands was still claimed hostage. Jon led him to the kitchen, herded him to the counter, where he put Ryan's palms flat against the surface, gripped Ryan's hips lightly and said, "Jump."
Ryan took a second and then helped Jon get him up on the counter. It hurt, but not as much as he would have expected, and Jon stayed there, his hands warm and solid through the material of Ryan's sweats. Ryan looked down at him. Jon smiled up for a second and then went to go dismantle Ryan's stove. Ryan kicked a foot against the cabinet behind it to get Jon's attention and signed, "The fuck?"
Jon laughed, but ignored the question. Instead he came over and pushed Ryan's legs to either side of him, once again taking almost instinctive care not to hurt him. He grabbed some stuff out of the cabinets. Ryan asked, "I have--" or, well, started to ask, since he had no idea what the word for "graham" was. He knew, "crackers," though.
Jon grinned. "Graham crackers," he said, with the accompanying sign. Ryan repeated the action several times. Jon said, "And yes, I bought them. For s'mores."
Ryan copied that word, too. Then, with an inquisitive tilt to his head, asked, "S'mores?"
"Spence said you used to ask for them every time you came over as a kid."
Ryan blinked. "He did?" Ryan wasn't entirely sure what was more surprising: that Spencer remembered a detail like that or that he had told Jon.
"It took me about three months of badgering him for tiny secrets about you that I could use in my plans to cheer you up, but yeah, he finally did."
Ryan gave Jon an apologetic look. He wasn't apologizing for Spencer's behavior, rather for having instilled that sort of behavior in Spencer. Jon said, "I can put a little work in to know your secrets, Ryan Ross."
When Jon put it that way, Ryan had to wonder if Spencer had been testing Jon, just a little, since the s'mores thing wasn't such a big deal. And if Spencer was testing Jon, then why. Jon had put a year of his life into fixing them and never looked back, never asked for the time he was owed. Jon crossed the room and grabbed a Villars bar, which was Ryan's absolute favorite type of milk chocolate. That wasn't a secret or even a semi-forgotten fact, though; Ryan had never let them pass a Trader Joe's if he could stop them. Jon pulled a bag of marshmallows from a grocery bag still sitting out on the table. He also removed a couple of skewer sticks from it. He handed one to Ryan and put the marshmallow bag in between them. "Load'er on up."
"What," Ryan asked, "no signs?"
Jon just poked him in the side with his skewer. Ryan giggled. He was still a little surprised that laughter came out sounding right, but glad when it did. Jon grinned, clearly proud of himself. Ryan didn't laugh a lot these day, maybe even less than when Jon had first come along. Then Ryan piled four marshmallows on his skewer and gave Jon a look that dared him to say anything. All Jon said was, "Sure that's all you want?"
Ryan said, "For now."
"Want to toast them or want me to?" Jon's hands asked if Ryan wanted to burn them, but he got the point.
Ryan said, "I like mine black on the outside." He wanted to say "crispy black," but he didn't know the sign for "crispy." The description lacked something, but it would do. Then, because he couldn't help himself for some reason, "Please."
Ryan watched Jon turn the gas stove on and light the marshmallows aflame, one by one. He let them all catch and then quickly, neatly, blew them out while flipping the burner off. He had two graham crackers out and ready, and he neatly broke one, placed half the Villars bar atop it and used the other one to scrape the marshmallows atop the chocolate and compress the whole thing together. Ryan had known Jon for a while now--a little over six years, by his count--and he'd never known that he had mad s'mores-making fu. It seemed like the sort of thing that should have come up in conversation, especially given the two years they'd spent being high a fair amount of the time.
Jon handed Ryan his s'more. Ryan thanked him with his free hand and bit down. He made a noise when the mix of perfect Swiss chocolate-gooey marshmallow-just a hint of sweet graham mixture hit his tongue. He couldn't help it. He'd forgotten how good this was, how simple and rich and sublime the flavors were together. He realized he'd closed his eyes somewhere on the third bite and opened them to see Jon watching him, his own eyes heavy, intent. Ryan stopped with the graham cracker resting on his lips. Jon startled and said, "Sorry, sorry," forgetting to sign in his shock. Ryan reached a hand out, the one that was less sticky. It still caught Jon's arm, sugar connecting them. Jon stopped in his aborted attempt to move away. Ryan took another bite, this time watching Jon watch him, watching Jon's eyes stray to Ryan's lips, his breath catch just a little when Ryan swallowed. Three slow bites, and Ryan was finished. Jon didn't stop looking.
With shaky hands, in complete silence, Jon said, "You're sticky. Let me--" Jon stepped forward, against Ryan's legs. Ryan spread them slightly to let him in, and then Jon's tongue was making its way over Ryan's lower lip, swabbing at where the marshmallow had caught, sometimes using his teeth to work at a particularly stubborn spot. When Ryan was "clean," Jon backed away just slightly to look at Ryan. He said, "Ryan," his lips barely moving, his hands at Ryan's knees.
Ryan wondered, looking at Jon, if he'd wanted this nearly as long as Ryan had. Jon Walker wasn't the type to fuck Ryan because he deserved compensation for services rendered, and Ryan had grown out of being the kind of asshole who would accuse him of that roughly four years earlier. Still, it bore saying, so Ryan pushed Jon back a little, just enough to get his hands between them and say, "I will probably always be broken. And I don't--" His hands froze on him and he had to start over again. "I don't want you to think you have to stay."
Jon took Ryan's hands in his and said, "You're not broken. You're you. And if that was the case, maybe you should have said something six years ago."
Ryan knew he must look slightly blindsided. He'd still been head over heels for Brendon at that time, which Jon probably knew. Their crushes were something that rarely ever stayed secret from one another, and they had the grace to act like they didn't know, or it just wasn't a big deal. Except that evidently Ryan was the most oblivious person on the planet, or Jon was trained in ninja emotional warfare, which, okay, was possible. Jon smiled. "You can ask Spencer. He'll tell you."
Suddenly Spencer being hesitant about the s'mores thing made sense. Ryan pulled his hands free. "You told him to get stories."
"It took me a while to realize he was afraid I'd break your heart. Then it took me a while to figure out why he'd have that fear. I can be a little thick."
Evidently Ryan could too, so he wasn't going to throw stones. Instead he said, "Kiss me again?" He wanted more, he wanted everything, but he'd been sitting on the counter for half an hour, and he was pretty sore. Plus, if Jon was telling the truth, he didn't have to have everything this moment. He added, "Please?" but Jon was already moving in, too close to see the circle Ryan was making over his heart.
*
Brendon came over a couple of days after and announced, "I come bearing ice cream, and a song."
There was a pause, and then Spencer and Ryan both signed, "Give me the ice cream," and went for it at once. Ryan ended up letting Spencer have it, but only because Jon was looking at the paper with Brendon's song, humming softly, and Ryan got distracted. Brendon was looking at him, watching him in his distraction, nervous and hopeful at once. Spencer was heading into the kitchen for spoons, but Ryan could tell he was listening, too.
The song was low and melancholy, more classical than folk, more rock than pop. Ryan had never really heard anything like it, nothing of theirs, nor anybody else's. Jon finished humming, and Brendon's gaze darted between Jon and Ryan, then over to where Spencer was prying the lid off the ice cream. Jon gave Brendon back the paper so that he could say, "That's--" His fingers froze in midair. He finished with a resigned, "Amazing." Ryan understood. It wasn't a good enough word.
Brendon looked shyly to Ryan, who nodded dumbly. The stuff he and Jon had was starting to sound good, finally, decent, but it wasn't anything like this. Nothing so evocative, subtly provocative. Spencer stuck a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth, held it there with his lips, and asked, "This is what you've been hiding from us?"
Brendon shrugged. "It wasn't done."
Ryan wondered for a moment if Brendon thought they would have fucked up his writing, but then he went over what he'd just heard in his head and realized that no, Brendon just had something whole he'd wanted to give them, and nothing else would do. Ryan almost said, "You're enough, Brendon," but luckily his hands normally didn't work as quickly as his mouth, so generally there was very little danger of him blurting shit out.
Jon hummed at the chorus a little again. He looked at Ryan. Ryan didn't need him to sign to know what he was thinking. This was backwards, the way they were doing this. Ryan always found his words first, or at least, at the very least, apace with the music. He didn't have to open up a conversation to know that Jon was wondering if Ryan even could write that way, or if they would all have to stop in their tracks, waiting for Ryan to give them something, anything. Jon was wondering if they were going to have to put away this gorgeous, resplendent thing Brendon had because Ryan couldn't find a story for it, at least not a story he could tell the others. There was also the option of Brendon taking lyrics on this album, but he knew nobody was going to bring that up until all other options had been exhausted.
Ryan said, "Fuck that," which occasioned three very confused looks in his direction. He realized, belatedly, that most of that conversation had been going on in his head.
"Ryan?" Spencer asked. Brendon moved over to where Spencer was to take a hit off the ice cream. He never once stopped watching Ryan.
Ryan said, "I've been thinking about doing some of the songs--" Ryan had no idea what the word for "instrumentally" was. He settled for, "Without words."
Jon's eyes narrowed in the exact same way Spencer's did. It was kind of freaky. Jon asked, "Why?"
Ryan had thought and thought about how to explain this. It was doubly hard without tone of voice. He said, "Because sometimes writing lyrics is about knowing when to shut up." Ryan felt that the universe had picked a particularly harsh way to teach him that lesson, but it was valid, all the same.
Brendon gave the spoon back over to Spencer, who held it absently out to Jon. Brendon said, "So it's not--"
They all waited. Finally Ryan said, "Brendon?"
"It's not because you don't want to hear me saying your words?" Brendon didn't look at him as he asked the question.
Ryan could feel a growl in his throat, but knew it would sound different and most likely stupid if he allowed it to verbalize. Instead he said, "No," the snap of his fingers so sharp it cracked. There was a beat of silence after the loudness of Ryan's response, and Jon said, "He wants to hear his words, Brendon. He wants to hear you sing them. They're just not ready."
Brendon nodded. As already proven, he understood the concept of readiness. Spencer, for his part, looked between Ryan and Jon, his eyes flashing comprehension before he stole the spoon back and dug in for himself again. Ryan moved closer to where they were huddled over the pint and coaxed the scoop from Spencer's hand. Spencer gave over fairly easy. He said, "So I guess maybe I should start working on the drum arrangements, huh?"
"That might help, yeah," Jon said casually.
Hesitantly, Brendon said, "I had some ideas about that."
Spencer took the spoon back for himself, planted a ginormous scoop of ice cream in his mouth and told Brendon, "I'm all ears."
*
Ryan didn't really want anyone in the world other than Brendon singing his words, but he liked the way they sounded when Jon was telling them to the computer, saying them aloud like they were a puzzle that needed fitting together. They were more sparse than he had ever chosen to go previously. It wasn't that he didn't have plenty of words at the ready, that he couldn't have figured out how to say them, that Jon wouldn't have taken the time to translate. It was that Ryan was getting used to his own silences, to the newer, trickier syntaxes of signing, and that he wanted to find a way to make that part of his music. He could get the surplus of words out in other ways, he could learn how to do that. They weren't needed on the album.
Most days it could take them three or four hours to get a single stanza done, between the translation process and Ryan's need to refine. It was weird, the way he would be repeating a line over and over to himself and come out of his head to realize Jon was doing the same thing, only aloud. Weird, but comfortable, almost a necessary part of the process at this moment.
At one point, no matter how many times he repeated it to himself, he couldn't hear what was wrong, couldn't figure out what was bugging him, so he said, "What would you do?"
Jon said, "What would-- Oh." He pressed at a button on the keyboard and Ryan saw the symbols disappearing. There was a beep, then, which Ryan knew was the voice recognition software being deactivated. "Hm. Maybe break up the stanza?"
Ryan shook his head. He'd already thought of that. It worked for the first three words, but made the last four clumsy. Ryan explained and Jon tried it out, saying, "Yeah, I see what you mean," before he even finished. Jon tapped his fingers lightly against the arm of the sofa in the measured beat of the stanzas and said, "Are there any synonyms you could fit in for some of the two syllable words that are only one syllable? Because then we could shift the balance of the words and it would probably work."
Ryan sifted through the words, thinking of other words that could possibly fit without losing the rhythmic value of the words themselves. If it was the right number of syllables, it wasn't sharp enough, shaped enough, for the verse. If it popped the right way in Ryan's head, it wouldn't fit. Ryan dug his fingernails into his pants in frustration, only to find Jon pulling his hands away, coaxing them to loosen. Jon said, "Enough, enough for right now."
Ryan thought about arguing, but Jon had his hands. It wasn't exactly a fair way to fight. When Jon covered Ryan's mouth with his own, he got over his ethical issues. Jon kissed him with intent, but without force. Ryan leaned into it, trusting that Jon wouldn't push too hard, wouldn't hurt him. Jon let go of Ryan's hand to hook his own behind Ryan's neck, but by that time Ryan didn't feel the need to say anything, to fight. Jon said, "Hey, hey, you have to help," and Ryan realized that Jon's other hand had slipped beneath the hem of Ryan's t-shirt, was rucking it up his chest. Ryan reached down and pulled it over his head, catching himself in it momentarily until Jon fought to free him. Ryan emerged laughing, and Jon said, "Mmm," and went in for a taste.
Jon rested his hands lightly over Ryan's stomach, questing over his sides to his back and then forward again, fingers finding and exploring Ryan's nipples. Ryan buried his own hands under Jon's shirt, making small sounds of distress when he couldn't have what he wanted. Jon nipped at the corner of his mouth, "Sh, okay." He leaned back enough to allow Ryan to get his shirt off, have what he was interested in. Ryan sighed in relief and pressed his palms gently to where Jon had healed. Jon was fine, but for a moment there, he'd broken. Ryan was glad, for the first time, that he couldn't talk, couldn't say the, "Waited, waited, wanted this," that was lodged, heavy, right out of reach.
Jon's hands found their way to the waist of Ryan's sweats and he said, "Okay, careful, careful," when Ryan worked to rise up a little. Jon worked as quickly as he could to slip Ryan's pants past his hips so that Ryan could settle again. He stroked gently over the crest of Ryan's hipbone and asked, "All right?"
Ryan nodded. It was more dull pain than anything else these days unless Ryan walked too much, or hit up against something, or turned too quickly, or it rained, or Ryan just had a bad day. But it was bearable, moreso than it had been at first, certainly. Jon pulled his pants the rest of the way down, over his ankles, and settled on the floor between Ryan's barely-spread legs. He didn't try to open Ryan up anymore--flexibility was a thing of the past. Jon looked up at Ryan, smiling, and mouthed, "Ryan." Then he leaned in and swallowed Ryan slowly, like he was getting used to Ryan, taking his time, establishing familiarity. Ryan moaned, and that, at least, sounded like it was supposed to. He threaded his fingers in Jon's hair, not to force anything, just because it was Jon's hair, soft and perfectly brown, and Ryan had wanted to lose his fingers in it for so, so fucking long.
Jon established a rhythm that was easy on both of them, one that made Ryan boneless rather than taut, one that Jon had full control of. Ryan bit his lips, because if he tried to say, "Jon" it would come out wrong, ugly, and he couldn't have that, he couldn't. Instead he thought it, thought the name and the chords that they'd been playing together, over and over, their fingers in time with each other. Jon took him in deeper, deeper, and when Ryan couldn't help himself anymore, he closed his eyes and let Jon have him, have whatever he would take.
Jon pulled off when he was finished and rose up on his knees, shoving at his jeans and boxers. He gasped when his cock came in contact with Ryan's leg. Ryan signed, "Jon, Jon," but Jon just captured Ryan's right hand and sucked on his fingers, frantic in a way he hadn't been until now. Ryan watched, his breath caught in his chest, as Jon came apart without Ryan doing so much as flexing the muscles of his leg. Jon panted, "Ryan, fuck. Ryan," around Ryan's fingers, and came. He slumped over Ryan, but even in the aftermath of orgasm was careful not to lay his head too far up Ryan's thigh. Instead he perched it gently on Ryan's knee.
Ryan took his fingers back and tapped Jon's shoulder. Jon looked up, somewhat hazily. Ryan said, "I know what's wrong. With the lyrics."
Jon blinked. "You think a lot during sex, huh?"
"I feel a lot during sex," Ryan corrected. "I think a lot the rest of the time."
"Okay," Jon agreed.
Ryan said, "The lyrics are--" He didn't know the word he needed. "Dishonest." It would have to do.
"Dishonest?" Jon cocked his head. "I don't know. I think they're pretty fucking honest, Ry."
Ryan shook his head. Then he came up with an idea. He signed, "Sounds like."
Jon frowned for a second and then brightened. "Oh, hey, I rock at charades."
He didn't, but none of them ever wanted to tell him that. Ryan signed, "Miss."
"Miss."
"In."
"In."
"Genius."
"Genius."
Ryan looked at him expectantly. Jon looked perplexed. Ryan said, "Push the words together."
"Miss-in-genius." He muttered it a few times. "Oh! Dishonest, disingenuous."
Ryan grinned. Jon said, "Yeah, we'll look that one up for next time." Then, "Why do you think that?"
"Because when I stop thinking, I hear different ones."
"Oh," Jon said. Ryan laughed a little. Jon looked at him. "So, basically, for the good of this album, we're going to need to have sex a lot."
Ryan thought for a moment. Then he nodded solemnly. "For the album."
*
Resolutions to have sex for The Good of the Album and the Band aside, the actual carrying out of said resolution was a bit harder than Ryan had intended it to be. For one thing, on the days when Ryan had physical therapy--which was still most days--if they didn't have sex in the morning, Ryan was generally too worn out and sore to do it afterward, unless he slept for most of the afternoon and they stayed up and wrote through the night. They had tried that a few times, but it meant being even more tired for his next session of PT, which wasn't helpful to anyone.
Another, even more pertinent obstacle was that there were very few positions that were comfortable for Ryan to be in beside lying prone. He couldn't take Jon's weight, though, which was a) inconvenient for the purposes of having sex and b) made him feel like a complete pussy. Lying on his side started out uncomfortable and escalated slowly into agonizing, the same for being on his hands and knees, bending over anything at the waist--this position tended to reach excruciating before most of the others--and sitting on his knees.
Jon seemed completely untroubled by all of this, perfectly happy to settle Ryan on his lap and have them jerk each other at their own pace, dependent entirely on their respective moods. And that was great except for the part where Ryan had kind of waited a really long time to have lots and lots of sex with Jon Walker, and he just wasn't sated by--admittedly hot--mutual jerking off sessions. He was watching Jon's ass as Jon made himself a snack one day when he said, "Fuck. We're both idiots." Of course, Jon wasn't watching him, he was intent on spreading his peanut butter on his apples, so he didn't get the sentiment. Ryan frowned. That was problematic to his idea, but at this point, it was between mildly problematic positions and being a functional eunuch, so far as Ryan was concerned. He knew which one he was going to choose.
He came up behind Jon and draped himself over Jon, his chin on Jon's shoulder, his arms over Jon's arms. He did his best to say, "I have an idea." It was a little hard with his hands effectively separated from his body. Jon seemed to catch on. He asked, "Yeah?"
Ryan took back his arms and looped them under Jon's to undo the button on his jeans. Jon's reaction was immediate. "Oh. Oh. Fuck, you have condoms?"
Ryan had stolen some from Spencer when it became clear he might have need of them. And by stolen, he meant he'd said, "Spence, can I have some of your stash?" and Spencer thought to say, "Don't break up the band," a few minutes after handing Ryan an entire box. Spencer was a Costco shopper.
Ryan told Jon , "Night stand and medicine cabinet," and undid his jeans, waiting impatiently while Jon ran for the bedroom. Ryan wasn't sure he'd ever seen Jon move with such haste. He was back in seconds, condoms and lube in hand. He threw the stuff on the counter and pushed impatiently at his jeans. Ryan helped him, laughing. It wasn't mocking laughter; Ryan agreed completely. He barely managed to form the signs for, "We'll have to try this slow sometime."
"Later," Jon bit out and turned to the counter. Ryan grabbed the lube and poured it quickly onto his palm, sliding in and slicking Jon up. He'd barely gotten two fingers in when Jon said, "Enough, enough, just--"
It was hard enough for Ryan to talk from this position that he wasn't going to argue. He rolled the condom on and pressed in. He took it a bit slowly, just because he was pretty sure Jon hadn't done this in a while, not to Ryan's knowledge, anyway, and those sorts of things were hard to hide. Jon made a sound, half pleased, half something that made Ryan wish he could see his face, or say, "Jon," or communicate at all. Jon said, "Yes," then, and Ryan was a little reassured, pushed as far as he could, settling gently against Jon.
Ryan kissed at the back of Jon's neck, sucked a little violently in the place of saying, "Jesus, so fucking good." He couldn't move as quick or as hard as he really wanted to, had to keep things relatively gentle for his own sake, the sake of his hips, but if he bent Jon forward just a little, he was able to go deep, able to grind long and slow. He found a rhythm and then just let himself go, get lost in the back forth, up down. Jon was panting, making hot, low little sounds that Ryan wanted to swallow, wanted to write, wanted to let everyone hear, just so that they could know it was his and only his, wanted to keep it entirely for himself.
He bit into Jon's neck, just a nip, just a hold, and Jon said, "Ryan, Ryan, touch me."
Ryan reached down, his hand still slick with lube, and wrapped his fingers at the base of Jon's cock, just holding for a bit, holding him back, holding him with Ryan. Then he slid his hand all the way down to the head, his grip tight, tight as he could manage. Jon said, "Fuck, yes," and bucked into Ryan's hand, coming back a little too hard. Pain sparked behind Ryan's eyes at the impact against his hips, and he gasped, more at the paradoxical nature of the two sensations than anything. They were both so intense, maybe too intense, and Ryan came, squeezing his hand, shaking.
He worked to keep breathing, to keep himself on his feet. Falling would hurt like a bitch, and Jon wasn't done yet. Ryan stayed in him, every nerve on edge but wanting to be there, wanting to be in this until the end. He worked Jon's cock steadily, a litany of "Jon," and "like this, come on," playing in his head, no way to get out, to transmit itself. Ryan kissed at Jon's ear as a proxy for the things he wanted to say, a trade-off for telling Jon that he was fucking everything Ryan had ever wanted. Jon seemed to get it, since his breath caught at the sensation and he came, spilling onto Ryan's fingers.
Ryan extricated himself then, and tried not to have his first thought be, "Tylenol." It was. It was also really, completely worth it. Jon pulled them over to the sink and cleaned them up with water and papers towels before grabbing the bottle of Tylenol closest and shaking four out for Ryan. Ryan smiled at him and dry swallowed. Jon said, "Writing and then nap, or nap and then writing?"
Ryan bit his lip. Jon grinned. "Yeah, my thoughts on the subject, too."
*
When they shared the basic melodies, harmonies and lyrics with Brendon, Ryan said, "It needs a touch of..." he tilted his head and changed the word "polish" to "you," at the last moment.
Brendon was still looking at the page as he signed, "And Spencer," without even moving his mouth.
Ryan waited until Brendon looked up to say, "Obviously." There were some things that Ryan was beginning to feel really could go unsaid.
Brendon went over to the piano and plucked out the chorus. "I don't-- I don't want to mess with this too much. It's pretty fucking rich."
Ryan was deeply glad that Brendon was still paying attention to the music, the keys, when the, "Yeah?" erupted from his hands. Jon smiled, but he kept Ryan's need for approval-by-Brendon a secret. Ryan really, really needed some blackmail material on Jon. Just to assure mutual destruction if Jon ever decided-- Well, blackmail material was always a practical thing to acquire.
Ryan heard the lock turn, and a second later Spencer was there, his hands already moving. "Sorry, traffic was crazy in the city."
Brendon continued to play. "Always is this time of year."
"What was it you wanted to talk about?" Ryan asked. It wasn't as though they probably wouldn't have seen each other anyway--they still did most days, even with Spencer only being in physical therapy two days a week and Brendon being down to one--but Spencer had called this meeting, said there was something he needed to discuss with them.
Spencer said, "I'm gonna grab a water. Anybody want anything?"
Brendon just motioned at the ginormous Slurpees the other three of them had. Spencer glared. "You couldn't be bothered to pick one up for me, dickface?"
All three said, "Fridge," at the same time.
Spencer said, "Oh," but didn't have the grace to blush or otherwise show remorse. Instead he went and got his and then came back to find the three of them on the couch, a spot between Ryan and Brendon waiting for him. Spencer fit himself in easily. He put his drink on the coffee table, signed, "Ow, brain freeze." Ryan wondered idly if there was an actual sign for that, or just the two words as Spencer had signed them. When Spencer had recovered, he said, "Haley's been kinda...bugging me, I guess, the way Pete's been bugging you." The sign for the last word made it clear he was talking about Ryan, as if Ryan might be unsure about whose ass Pete Wentz had been riding lately.
Brendon frowned. "She wants to see us? She sees us."
"She wants us to get out a little. And she thinks we should be trying out the new stuff, rough as it is, on ears that aren't our own."
Ryan pressed his shoulder into Jon. Jon said, "And you think it's a good idea?"
Spencer scratched at the back of his neck for a long moment. "I think-- I think it's been really easy for us to get lost in each other since the accident. Even more than before. And I think that if we want these songs we've been piecing together to ever be an album, ever be performed, that we're going to have to get out there sooner or later. I'd sort of like it to be on our own terms."
"True," Brendon said after a second. He was looking at Ryan, but Ryan wasn't ready to chime in on this conversation, not yet.
Jon asked, "What were you imagining?"
"I was thinking maybe a birthday party for the three of us, right in the middle. September ninth or so--"
"Allow me to reiterate my hatred for your freakishly close birthdays," Brendon interrupted.
Spencer patted his knee. "Don't worry, you're invited."
Brendon flipped him off, but Spencer was already on his next thought. "Close friends, significant others, family, nothing big. I'm thinking not even the whole label like we usually feel we have to. Just who we want. And we say maybe we'll play. Maybe. If we don't feel like it, we can always punk out. The people we invite aren't gonna say shit, not even Pete, not in that venue. He'll wait for it as long as he thinks we're actually trying to get there."
Spencer looked straight at Ryan while saying this last bit. Ryan knew. For all that Pete could be obnoxious and in his face and push so hard it hurt, in the end, Pete would--always had--allow Ryan, allow them, to go at their own pace. It was why they'd never left the label, not even when the better offers had started coming and failed to stop. Finally, finally Ryan said, "I could use a good, old-fashioned party."
"You just want to dress up," Brendon accused without any real accusation to his tone.
"I think he wants to see me dressed up," Jon said dryly. Ryan nodded fervently. Spencer and Brendon signed, "Pervs," in perfect unison.
*
It was halfway though August when Pete called and asked, "Hey, I know the invite was for me and the guys, but can I bring Mikey?"
Ryan didn't have a sign for Mikey, so instead he asked, "From My Chemical Romance?"
"How many Mikeys do you know?"
Ryan found that somewhat irrelevant, since he wasn't the one asking to bring Mikey to the party, but okay. He looked over at Jon, who shrugged and signed, "What's one more person?"
"Is Jon Walker saying something about me behind my back?" Pete asked, pressing his face closer to the lens of his camera, like that might allow him to see around the corner of Ryan's screen.
"Yes," Ryan told him, and then asked, "Why?"
"Why?"
"Why do you want to bring him?"
"Well, for one thing, because his birthday's the next day and he deserves some party shenanigans. My Chem's got a show the night of his birthday. For another, because we, uh." Pete's head dropped down for a second and he scratched at the back of his ear. "You know. Again." He looked up at Ryan a bit sheepishly.
"Brendon so owes me twenty bucks."
"You bet on him taking me back at some point?" Pete looked disproportionately pleased.
Ryan rolled his eyes. "You're a convincing guy. And yes."
"Yes?"
"He can come."
"You're my favorite ever, Ryan Ross."
Ryan gave Pete his best unimpressed look, since it was nearly impossible to sign, "Mhm," and relay the amount of blase-ness that Ryan felt was necessary in this case. Pete said, "No, for reals," laughing even as he said it.
Jon called from the side, "You making moves on my boyfriend, Wentz? Don't think we can't find another label."
"He may be my favorite, but he's just not as pretty as Mikeyway," Pete told Jon sincerely.
Jon laughed. "Um, okay." He cut the call. "Our boss is crazy, Ryan, we should get out while we can."
Ryan spared a half-hearted smile for him. Jon said, "Whoa, hey, you are so prettier than Mikeyway."
Ryan rolled his eyes. "He can be prettier than me."
"Then what's going on?" Jon tapped a finger at Ryan's forehead gently.
"Just-- Before it was just people that we know, really know."
Jon nodded.
"Now we have less than a month and four songs that are at best rough drafts to play for a member of My Chemical Romance."
"We need to come up with a sign for him, huh?" Jon said, but Ryan could tell he was thinking about what Ryan had said. Finally Jon sat down and said, "Maybe that's a good thing."
Ryan raised an eyebrow. Jon shrugged. "We've always been so worried about the level of polish on our stuff, but maybe this is like everything else. Maybe it's time for something completely new, in every way. Not that we leave the stuff the way it is now, just-- I dunno, stop thinking of it as less because it's not ready for public consumption."
Ryan considered the suggestion, the way it was human nature to actually start hearing once a person stopped judging. It didn't necessarily make him feel comfortable, but writing good music wasn't always about that. He'd had it be, and he'd had it not be. In this case, he told Jon, "You're right."
Jon smirked. "Always."
Ryan smiled, in spite of his intention not to. Jon said, "Hey, how about this?" and made the signs for "pretty" and "way," right in a row.
"Perfect," Ryan told him.
*
Oddly enough, once Ryan accepted that they were probably going to be presenting themselves guts first and smiles second, the songs started to come along in their own right. Brendon began letting them in on more of the process, and Ryan forced the issue of Spencer working with them instead of taking what they gave him and going from there. Ryan still wouldn't work on the lyrics with anybody but Jon in the room, but nobody seemed to expect it. At one point Ryan asked Spencer if it bothered him, and Spencer said, "I sort of like that there's still some mystery to you."
Spencer had said it in that droll way that usually indicated he was kidding, but Ryan knew Spencer, through and through. There was some part of Spencer, no matter how small, that really meant it. Spencer knew how to allow Ryan his space, even when there wasn't enough of it physically.
Writing meant what it had almost always meant between them, which was a lot of hanging out and eating ice cream and paying no attention to personal hygiene. So when Tom called and said, "Hey, look, we're playing our last show for this round in LA three days before your party, then we were just gonna head out there and hang for a bit," Ryan said to Jon, "Maybe I should shower, huh?"
Jon said, "Hey, Tom, can I call you back?" and Tom hung up on him without acknowledging the question. Jon asked Ryan, "You think you could sit in a car for long enough to get down to LA?"
Ryan was finally down to one PT session a week, but it was still brutal. And the thought of being in a club, with crowds of people who would recognize him, was a little beyond terrifying. Jon wasn't looking at him with any expectation in his eyes, but he also hadn't seen his best friend since Tom had come to see them in the hospital, right after the crash. He said, "Why don't you go by yourself? Fly down, drive back with him?"
"Ryan, I don't have to--"
Ryan knocked Jon's hands aside, which got him to stop speaking as well. "Seriously. Go have a good time. I'm not ready, but I'll be fine here. I can call Brendon or Spencer if I need anything."
Jon was quiet for a second before asking, "You're sure?"
"Jon." Ryan rolled his eyes.
Jon grinned. "Okay, okay. But next time I'm dragging you with."
Ryan figured that gave him at least another few months to remember how to socialize with people who didn't share his brain. "If you say so."
"Mm," Jon said, because he could actually use his mouth to make himself sound highly doubtful. Ryan wasn't going to pretend that he wasn't jealous. Then Jon said, "Tom'll be sad. You'll have to make it up to him."
"If you're suggesting a threesome--"
This time it was Jon who knocked Ryan's hands away, laughing. He kissed Ryan long and hard and when he pulled away said, "I don't share."
That was a total lie--Jon shared all the time--but Ryan didn't call him on it, as he sensed Jon probably knew that and was trying to make a point. Ryan could catch on, given enough time. Ryan said, "Me neither," and that was much, much closer to the truth, but Ryan only took what he actually wanted, so it didn't lessen the power of the statement, he felt.
"Not even with Spencer?" Jon asked, his tone light. He was kidding.
Ryan said, with as much solemnity as he could inject into his fingers, "Not in this case."
Jon said, "I love you," casual and easy and true, and Ryan was amazed at how the one sentence he'd known in sign language since third grade looked utterly new.
Part Four