Fight Club [Ryan/Brendon][PATD][1/2]

[spottedcricket]

Ryan/Brendon. Overall NC-17.
{I'm so excited about this story that I have butterflies while posting this. I started this only a couple of months ago, and I'm very proud of what it has grown into. Thanks to
rydenyourhog for beta'ing this, and being over-all amazing. 4,146 words.}

Disclaimer: Don't own. Just read, write, and worship. The plot is mine, but Fight Club is not. That belongs to Chuck Palahniuk.

Warnings include violence and extensive use of the S, F, D, and other bad words.

It's the boy he's here to watch. Every one's raving. The boy, scrawny but lean, concentrated but hyper, he's up against a huge bald man. It's all rippling muscles and hard pecks. He towers over the boy, grinning, but in a good natured way. The boy just smiles back.

The boy is quick, taking a few seconds to push in deep, playing into the bigger man's reach, instead of away from it. When he's inside, he jumps, aiming his knee to the bigger man's diaphragm, his elbow coming way up and way over to bash the man in the crown of his head. The bigger man is down. Every one's raving.

"Fuck," is all Ryan says. "Fuck." And he smiles.

Ryan has been in fight club for three months. Ryan was a suicidal teenager, with daddy issues and prescription pills. Ryan is healing. He loves the fights, endorphins and adrenaline coursing through his veins. He thinks it's better than sex, and not much is.

No one asks about the bruises, no one cares enough. No one asks when butterfly bandages adorn his head. No one asks when he pops enough Advil to kill the headache from his skull being bashed into the concrete the night before. He's in a band, he works a nine-to-five, and he has every Saturday off. He claims it's his religion that makes him need Saturdays off. In all honesty, fight club is his religion.

Next fight club, he wants to fight the boy, whatever-his-name-is. He talks to the leader, and the leader says yes. Yes, he can fight the kid. Lots of people want to fight the kid, he says, but yes, he can. The leader likes Ryan.

Fight club starts and the basement is crowded. The basement, this basement, is a basement of some hole-in-the-wall dumpy ass bar. It's packed. The leader says the rules.

"The first rule of fight club is you don't talk about fight club," he says. The second rule is that you don't talk about fight club.

"The third rule of fight club is two men per fight," he says. The fourth rule of fight club is one fight at a time. The fifth rule of fight club is no shoes, no shirts in the fight.

"The sixth rule of fight club is the fights go on as long as they have to," he says.

"And the seventh rule of fight club is that if this is your first night at fight club, you have to fight." Yes, we know, we know, we know the rules. We know what to do. We know no shirts, no shoes, no regrets. We know Tyler Durden is a god, we know. We know.

"Ryan," he says, and flicks his wrists to the center. "Brendon," he says, and flicks his wrist again. Yes, Brendon. Ryan likes the feel of it on his tongue. Everyone knows that kid's name. That kid fights more than any one. The leader disappears into the crowd. The only people who are to be the center of fight club are the two men fighting. We know.

Ryan toes off his shoes and slides them into the crowd; Brendon does the same. Ryan peels off his shirt, already sweaty from the humidity in the basement; Brendon follows his example. They're both scrawny, so Ryan thinks they're even, almost. Brendon slides into a comfortable stance, and Ryan follows his example.

Instantly, Brendon's weight shifts, the muscles in his torso rippling, and he comes after Ryan. He gets in, his fist colliding painfully with Ryan's ribs. Ryan lets out a noise. He retaliates, pushing Brendon out and away, hooking his leg around the back of Brendon's leg; bringing them both to the ground.

Ryan's on top, driving his fist down, down. The punch grazes Brendon's cheek and chin and ear as he jerks away, then slams into the concrete. Pain shoots up Ryan's fist, his arm, and Brendon kicks the heel of his foot into Ryan's side, sending him flying into the crowd.

They pick him up and set him right. Thanks fight club. We know.

Ryan comes back, taking shots at Brendon's face, his shoulders, his ribs, his stomach, kicking his shins. Brendon doesn't crumble though, just stands there, weaving, taking it. His eyes are smiling. Endorphins and adrenaline flood Ryan's body. He loves it.

Brendon comes back, comes up and in, pushes against Ryan, his fist against his ribs, liver, small intestine. Tiny spikes driving into Ryan over and over. Brendon gets a concentrated look on his face, and he hooks his leg around Ryan's. Bringing them to the floor, his fist grazing Ryan's cheek bone before Ryan's fingers tap against the skin of Brendon's shoulder.

They just lay there, catching their breath, Brendon's sweat dripping onto Ryan's face, his chest.

The crowd's noise is finally in Ryan's ears again, ripping at his ear drums. The other fighters pull at Brendon, helping him up. Then, warm hands grab at Ryan, lifting him too. Brendon grins at him, and they hug, Brendon's hands humid against the sweat on Ryan's back.

"Good fight," Ryan says.

"Good fight," Brendon echoes. There's a grin in his voice.

Cigarette butts are the most littered item in the world. Ryan tugs the nicotine out of his cancer stick, inhaling deep and exhaling heavy. There's suddenly a body next to him, leaning against the wall. "Hey," it's Brendon, leaning against the wall. Ryan's sitting, so he cranes his head up to look at Brendon. There's a light bruise on his cheek, chin, ear, where Ryan's tiny knuckles hit him. He doesn't want to know what his face looks like.

"Hey," Ryan says, smiling, taking another drag. There's another bruise on Brendon's arm. Ryan knuckles are all scratched up from where bone hit skin hit skin hit muscle hit bone. Like a lazy Perpetual Motion Machine. He scratches at them, making a face when his nails pull away with blood underneath.

"Sorry about the face," Brendon says. Ryan just smiles, and shrugs. Hey, it could happen to any one.

"You're a fast motherfucker," Ryan says, and laughs at himself. Compliments aren't usually his thing. Brendon just smiles down at him. Ryan's going to call that smile the Secret Smile.

"Really?" Brendon asks, just shrugging his shoulders, laughing like it's no big deal.

"Yeah," Ryan allows, "yeah. You're a great fighter, where did you learn?" Brendon just shrugs.

"Streets," he says. There's no darkness in his voice, he's not being nostalgic, or remembering a horrible memory, he's just talking. Ryan likes him more and more. "I grew up kind of here and there," he gestures with his hands, "there and here." He smiles down at Ryan, then thinks and slides down the wall. He takes out his own cigarettes, and lights one. "You're good too; I'm going to be sore tomorrow." Ryan just shrugs, he's sore every day. They sit there, side by side against the wall. Ryan can feel where Brendon's shoulder is touching his; the area warm from the contact. They smoke two cigarettes. Brendon squirms. The silence is uncomfortable.

"Want to get coffee?" Ryan finally asks, rubbing out his cigarette butt on the wall and flicking it away from him. Brendon grins up at him and says yeah, yeah he'd like that. He also flicks his cigarette butt away, and it lands on the sidewalk, still smoking.

"Cigarette butts are the most littered item in the world," Brendon says, raising his eyebrow at Ryan.

"I know," Ryan says, and grins, his face stretching with it, tugging at his bruise.

The warmth from the coffee seeps through Ryan's fingers. His hands were freezing before they got into the cafe. He couldn't put his gloves on though, because of his scratched up knuckles. His hands are humid, but happy. Happy hands. He likes Brendon, he decides, watching him talk. Brendon is animated and happy. Brendon is passionate, and not many people are. He likes when Brendon talks, because he won't have to. He can just nod, and smile, and present his input when it's needed. Brendon hates silence, so Brendon always talks.

"So," Brendon says, towards the end of their run out for coffee. "Well, I don't know how to ask this," and he takes a breath. "Do you think I could crash at your place?" He asks, and his eyes get huge.

"Yeah," Ryan says, rubbing at his knuckles. Yeah, sure, why not.

Brendon sings in the shower. Loudly. Brendon sings in the shower, but he sings well. He sings like he was meant to sing. Ryan just grins at him when he gets out, all soaking wet. He pouts in Ryan's direction, and Ryan just laughs.

"Your hot water sucks," Brendon comments, rubbing at his hair with his towel. Now that he's shirtless Ryan can see his damage. There are little bruises all over Brendon's torso. Like he was attacked by angry monkeys that beat their little fists into him.

He goes to the bathroom and looks in his mirror. The bruise covers his cheekbone, all ugly and big, like he got beat with a rolling pin. He's happy it doesn't reach his eye though. Black eyes are a bitch.

"Damn Brendon," he calls, pushing against the skin on his bruise. "You did a number on my face." He whistles as the bruise stings, the side of his face throbbing slightly. It's an angry bruise with its deep colors.

"Yeah," Brendon calls back, then comes over to the bathroom, leaning his length in the door way. "I noticed," he winces visibly as Ryan pokes at it. "Stop playing with it, you'll make it worse." Ryan just laughs.

"That's the beauty of bruise," Ryan says, pushing his finger against his skin again. "They go away." And he smiles at Brendon in the mirror, the stretch hurting his bruise. Brendon just lifts and drops his shoulders. He watches as Ryan plays with his bruise a bit more. They catch each other's eyes in the mirror a few more times. By that point it's getting awkward.

They decide to watch a movie. Go figure. Brendon's shifting through Ryan's DVDs gasping appropriately. He pulls one out with a flourish and exclaims loudly, "Oh man! I love this one!" Ryan looks at the title.

Fight Club.

Ha. Ha. Very funny. Brendon just winks and puts it back, saying not many people know it's a true story. No shit, Sherlock. He pulls out X-Men. "Because it's a classic," he says, and Ryan puts it into his piece-of-shit DVD player.

"It was made in 2000-fucking-something," Ryan says, getting comfortable.

"The idea is a classic," Brendon clarifies.

They fall asleep.

Ryan wakes up with Brendon laying on him. His body's pressed into the seal of the couch and Brendon's head is on his chest. Not intimate, mostly because it wasn't planned, but just uncomfortable. In an "I just slept on a shitty couch, pressed into the cushions with a grown man on me" way. Not an "I'm sexually frustrated so this is nice, but weird" way. Okay. So maybe it's both.

Ryan groans loudly and pushes against Brendon, making him fall off the edge onto the floor. Brendon sits up, all disoriented. He asks how Ryan got in his house. Ryan just laughs at him, rubbing at his eyes.

"Ow, fuck, ow," Ryan says, as his hand comes in contact with his bruise. "Ow." Brendon's there suddenly, in his personal bubble, being all worried at him. He presses the palm of his hand to the flat of Brendon's shoulder and pushes. "Go away," he quips, accompanying the words with a smile. "I'm fine." Brendon isn't convinced, and says as much, but Ryan just rolls his eyes and gets up.

When Brendon leaves he asks, "What days do you go?" Ryan knows what he's talking about.

"Saturday, you?"

"Everyday," Brendon twinkles.

When Ryan gets there on Saturday, Brendon's already there, leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette. Ryan smiles at him and Brendon smiles back. Inside is more crowded than usually, and Ryan has to push his way to the front. Brendon is across the circle from him, watching the fight with intensity and cheering.

Ryan doesn't want to fight tonight. His knuckles are scabbing and itching.

Brendon fights though. He gets pushed into the center, his shirt and shoes coming off. The light is on his pale chest, accenting the tone in his muscle. He's up against another kid who works for Office Max, or some other shitty copying place. Both of them are fast. Brendon gets sloppy when he stops and grins at Ryan, the copy kid grabs him into a headlock, driving his fist into Brendon's cheek. Again. And again. Blood trickles out of the corner of his mouth.

Ryan feels his heart rabbiting against his chest, breaking limits. Fuck, he doesn't want to see this. Brendon grapples though, twisting out of the hold, muscles rippling attractively under his pale skin. He crashes his elbow into copy boy's face once, twice, three times. The copy boy's nose cracks loudly, blood in a waterfall down his face.  Brendon throws his weight around, bringing them both down to the concrete. Brendon's on top, forcing his fist into the boy's face, splitting his knuckles against skin against muscle against bone. The boy goes limp. The fight's over.

Ryan exhales. Brendon spits blood and just beams.

"I bit the inside of my cheek," Brendon says, tonguing along inside his mouth. "I can feel the little pieces." Ryan watches as Brendon's tongue creates a bump under his cheek. "It's gross." He spits again, the blood clumping on the ground with the spit and the dirt.

"You're gross," Ryan laughs.

Knuckles leave different bruises. If you come down with your fist, concentrating force to just your knuckles, you leave line-bruises. You literally bruise in jagged lines where bone and skin connected with skin and muscle. Then a bigger bruise blossoms. All pretty like a flower. It spreads from where those jagged lines are to where your fist met skin and muscle. It's pretty. Like a flower. If you hit dead on, just straight and fast and there, the bruise is just little spots that you can fit your knuckles into.

Brendon has tons of flower-bruises all over him by the end of the night. He fought three fights. Two with skinny, scrawny, his-sized guys. One with a huge stock-boy, all hardened and cut-glass muscles. Brendon tapped out before his face was pounded in.

"My teeth are wiggly," Brendon says. Ryan can see where his tongue darts inside his mouth to touch the wiggly teeth. Ryan squirms.

"You're fucking stupid," Ryan counters, talking to the cherry of his cigarette.

"Can I stay with you?" Brendon asks. Yeah, sure, yeah, yeah, yeah, why not. Ryan suggests they get a first aid kit.

"Why do you fight so much?" Ryan asks, tucking his feet under Brendon's thigh, warming them. Brendon just shrugs.

"It's good stress relief," he says. Ryan says, he knows, but seriously. It gets rid of his stress too, but Brendon fights a lot. "I like the bruises?" Ryan laughs at him.

"Do people ask?" Ryan asks. He's talking about the bruises. The pretty flowers on his cheeks, peeking over his stomach, and on his arms. They're breaking rule one and two of fight club, it doesn't matter though.

"Not really," Brendon says, and this time his eyes darken. Ryan's surprised at the emotion there. "No one pays attention." Right, of course not. All our fucked up lives. Fight club is for the kids who never got enough attention. They need the crowd's screams in their ears. Poor tortured souls. They need blood to make them feel human. We're all dead-end kids, Ryan thinks.

"Why didn't you fight?" Brendon asks.

"I can't go to work bloody again," Ryan says. "I usually have to wait a few weeks." His shoulders shrug up, and then drop. Brendon says, yeah, and they watch Peter Pan and fall asleep.

Some how they've fallen into this weird living arrangement. Brendon's around sometimes, staying a few nights. Ryan doesn't know where he is most of the time though. Some times he wakes up and Brendon's making breakfast, or watching a movie. Some times he wakes up and there's a note on his pillow. There's a toothbrush next to his. There's extra clothes littering the floor of the studio. There's Brendon around the corner every day.

Ryan works his nine-to-five, plays in his band, and comes home to Brendon.

Next fight club there's these two guys. One's taller, black hair and pale with a pointy nose. The other's small, tattooed to hell and back. They fight hard, and breathe hard. The taller one wins. The other bleeds all over the floor.

Brendon and Ryan smoke outside. The two are there, leaning against the wall. They're close and personal, intimate. The taller one's hands are flitting from the smaller one's eyebrow, where his skin is cracked and bleeding, down to his lips, his tattooed arms, his waist.

There's smiling though, and laughing, then there's a kiss. Brendon makes a noise in his throat. Ryan feels like he shouldn't be watching, but he does. The couple, Ryan guesses, just fought each other. They fought hard too, like there were issues they needed to get out, and the only way to do that was punch the fuck out of each other.

"Shit," Brendon says, sucking on his cigarette.

"Shit," Ryan echoes.

Brendon's a kid. Brendon is six, seven, whatever months younger than Ryan. Brendon treats Ryan like he's the younger one. Brendon doesn't have a home. Brendon hops from couch to couch, from club to club, from back alley to back alley. Brendon is the product of an ever-changing society. We are all social out casts, leader had said. Brendon is the prime example of a down-the-drain boy. Brendon makes Ryan fall in love with him.

"There is no God," Brendon says, his lips pulling up at the sides, his breath tugging nicotine from the cigarette. "There is no right," he says.

"No wrong?" Ryan asks, his feet are tucked under Brendon's thighs.

"No wrong," Brendon confirms. He nods sharply. "There's no influence."

"It's just us," Ryan says. Right, right, you've got it. "It's just us, and our choices. We are..."

"Who we want to be," Brendon finishes, there's a chuckle tickling the edges of his voice.

"When we want to be." Ryan plucks the cigarette from Brendon's fingers. He lays his lips where Brendon's were, metaphorical, hypothetical kisses. Brendon's sitting with his shirt off. There's an angry, huge, purple bruise on his side. It's yellowed at the edges. It looks like he got hit by a car. "Does that hurt?" Ryan asks, gesturing with his hand. Brendon just shrugs and grabs his cigarette back. Metaphorical, hypothetical kisses.

"When I stretch," he says, blowing out and up. "When I twist." When he lays on it wrong. When he turns too fast. It hurt like a mother fucker when that door hit him in the side the other day. "I think I broke something." Ryan's mentally panicking. Brendon's calm.

"That's a relief," Ryan says, his voice sharp with sarcasm. He tugs the cigarette from Brendon's fingers. Hypothetical kisses. "Want to get it checked out?" Brendon just lifts and drops his sharp shoulders.

"Do I look like someone with health insurance?" he asks finally, good naturedly. Ryan just laughs at him. No, Brendon, you do not look like someone with health insurance.

They watch Domino and fall asleep.

Ryan wakes up with his face pressed into Brendon's hair. He twists and yawns and shoves at Brendon.

"Wake up," he says. Wake up fat ass, I need breakfast and you're in my way. "Brendon, move." Ryan almost pushes Brendon off the couch, but thinks of the bruise, big and horrid, and decides against it. "Brendon," he groans. Brendon doesn't budge. Ryan stays put. He lays his head on top of Brendon's again and falls asleep.

Ryan wakes up with Brendon's face inches from his. "Wake up sleepy head." Brendon talks in a sing-song voice. Ryan makes a face at him, and pushes his palm against Brendon's forehead.

"Go. Away."

Brendon sits on Ryan's legs and bounces.

"You're going to be late for work," he says. So be it. Ryan falls asleep. Brendon watches him then presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Ryan makes Brendon fall in love with him.

Ryan has tried to commit suicide. Tried. Pills dissolve in your stomach. There's a liter of vodka, and 48 500mg capsules of Gluthethimide in Ryan's stomach. Sleeping pills. Certainty: unreliable. Thank you Suicide FAQ. He wakes up, freshly pumped stomach and all. There are tubes and needles running under his skin. He itches all over, like his skin is on fire, and he hates it.

"They stuck a tube down your throat," his sister says. She's a year younger than him. She's down to Earth. She's there. She didn't just try to commit suicide. She only loves him because they are family. She blinks at him, all 13 years of her wisdom and love shining in her eyes. Then, "why?" Why? Why would you do that? Why did you feel the need? What if I wasn't home? Then, "fuck you." And she leaves.

He doesn't try to explain. He hates himself. He hates his life.

The doctors come in and avoid his eyes. The nurses come in and avoid his eyes. His family comes in and stares at him too hard.

The news tells him his sister and his mom get into a car accident the next night. Passenger-side, full-force collision. His sister dies on impact. Thank you Guilt Trip 101.

Ryan runs away to become Family Write-Off Number One.

Ryan wakes up on Wednesday with no Brendon. He's not worried, he really isn't. His brow pinches together all morning though. He's making coffee and eating breakfast. Sometimes he paces. He's not worried. Not really.

The door opens and Ryan is about to give Brendon a piece of his mind. Brendon's not alone though. There's that guy with the tattoos and the pale dude too. They follow him all wide-eyed and what-not. Ryan stops and stands off to the side as Brendon says, "Yeah, yeah this is where I crash. It's not my house though, my friend Ryan lets me stay. He's really cool." They're still in the hall, and Ryan busies himself with coffee so he doesn't seem awkward.

"Hi Ryan," Brendon says, sitting on the counter where Ryan is measuring coffee.

"Hi," Ryan says, smiling quickly, slightly irritated. He says hi to the two guys too, because it would be rude not to. He learns they are Frank and Gerard. Gerard and Frank. They're the couple that fought each other.

Brendon has a butterfly bandage on his eyebrow and a bruise on his throat. Ryan gives him a look and Brendon just grins.

They talk. They talk for a long time. Ryan's sitting with his feet tucked under Brendon's thighs in one couch. Frank and Gerard take up another couch, cuddling lazily.

Gerard and Frank are both from New Jersey. Frank and Gerard have been together 5 years. Five. Onetwothreefourfive. Shit.

"Have a girlfriend?" Frank asks Ryan. Ryan just shakes his head. No, not really. I'm too busy getting my face beat in and trying to keep track of my nine-to-five. Brendon answers with, "I don't like girls," and a shrug.

Ryan rearranges his face so it seems like that wasn't surprising news. Gerard notices though. He raises an eyebrow. When Brendon's not looking, Ryan pulls a face that pleads 'don't say anything. Not now. Not ever.' Gerard gets it.

Frank and Gerard leave after a little bit. Seemingly by Gerard's bidding, but Ryan chooses to ignore that fact. Brendon puts on The Little Mermaid and settles down.

"You didn't tell me," Ryan says, disturbed by the scarcity of his own voice. Brendon blinks up at him, turns red, and shrugs.

"I didn't know it was a requirement," he says. Right, it's not, it's just, you could have said something. Ryan shrugs and sighs and wrings his hands and lights a cigarette.

"No, it's not," Ryan finally allows, his teeth worrying his lip. "It's just, a surprise." Brendon raises an eyebrow at him. No, what. Really? "Just a surprise," Ryan says.

Ryan sleeps in his bed that night.

When Ryan comes home from his nine-to-five the next day, Brendon isn't there. Brendon isn't there that night, or the next. Or the next. Or the next. Ryan peels loose skin off his bottom lip every five seconds. He stops to bleed a bit into his mouth, then starts again. Every pull causes a sting, but Ryan's too worried about if Brendon's dead to care. Ryan keeps reminding himself that he's not Brendon's keeper. He never was.

Part II