[FIC] Kithara (Brendon/Ryan, NC-17)
Kithara
Brendon/Ryan (Spencer/Ryan [minor Jon/Ryan, Alex Greenwald/Ryan, Ryan/hipster friends]) | NC-17 | ~7k
Warnings: sexpollen/aphrodisiacs, post-breakup fic.
Thank you to the lovely softlyforgotten for her beta work, and to stephanometra and summertea for their general awesomeness.
For tardis80.
Ryan sees the chocolatier's when he's running late to meet Alex and Z for lunch/dinner/breakfast (Ryan's been up since noon, but he knows that Alex has some where to be at eight tomorrow, and when they go to Curry Up, it means that Z has just rolled out of bed), and he has to stop. The sign looks hand-carved and painted, letters in a faux-Greek design that spell out "Erato's Chocolates." There's a lady beneath it, a weird Greek instrument in her lap as she samples what could be candy.
The door feels like old wood when he pushes into the shop, like it's been crafted from the hull of a shipwrecked vessel, and he grins when he pushes inside and sees recreations of Greek art all over the walls. He wonders how he's misses this place in the months that he's lived in LA but doesn't put too much thought into it as he peruses the boxes of chocolates and other candies that are lined up.
Most of them have silly names, like Darker than Hades for a chocolate that is 83% cacao or the milk chocolate chunks that come wrapped in gold tinfoil (Golden Fleece - 4.99 a pound). He looks around for free samples, and instead meets the eye of the bored shopkeeper. She's tall and pale and not looking at him at all.
He looks for ten minutes before his phone rings, and it's Alex, telling him about how he and Z have already ordered and they will eat his food if he doesn't get here soon.
Ryan grabs the biggest sampler he can find and smiles when the shopkeeper waves off his money. "Consider it advertising," she says with a smile, before she disappears into the back again.
***
He means to break out the chocolate at lunch/dinner/breakfast, but he forgets because Z starts talking about how Savage Garden was a more musically adventurous band than Silverchair. Ryan has a hard time wrapping his brain around that, and the free box of chocolates just sits under his chair while he tries to suss out her reasoning.
It's only when he and Alex are walking along the street after, slowly making their way back to Ryan's, that Alex pokes the bag around Ryan's wrist. "What's that?"
Ryan blinks and pulls it up, opening the bag and then the box. "I found this new chocolate place, so I got it." He doesn't want to say that it was free for some reason. Alex gets kind of suspicious when people offer Ryan free things. He's not as bad as Zack or Spencer, but it's a little chafing none the less.
"Oh." Alex wrinkles his nose at them. "They're kind of shaped weird."
The chocolates are shaped weird, as much as chocolate can be shaped weird. They're just rough looking little globs, instead of being shaped smooth and round, but each of them has the same Greek instrument as the sign. It's not a lyre, bigger and kind of guitar shaped.
He starts to think that Brendon would know, but he stops himself. It doesn't matter if Brendon would know. He's probably not going to have a chance to share these with him.
"Yeah, well. They were a good deal." Ryan picks one out and takes a bite. There's no little guide saying what it is, but it taste really fucking good. The chocolate is rich and creamy on his tongue, and there's a hint of some fruity syrup. It may be the best chocolate he's had while sober (everything tastes better high).
At least until he starts to chew, and then the chocolate and sweet fruit is overtaken by the feel of ashes on his tongue, cigarette smoke and just the barest hint of something that could be tuna.
Ryan has a moment of watery-eyed panic where he can't decide if he wants to spit it out or swallow it, because he's wearing his favorite mustard yellow shirt. But at the same time his chocolate tastes like tuna.
Alex starts laughing at him, and then Ryan swallows quickly, tossing the chocolate on the ground as he snaps, "Asshole."
"No good?" Alex pokes at the chocolates in the box again.
"Fuck, no," Ryan says. His entire mouth feels weird, like his teeth are vibrating and his lips are numb, and there's this ache that's starting to creep down his fingers. He shoves the chocolates back into the bag. "I should have known."
He tries really hard not to think of hair cookies.
Then the fading sunlight does some weird thing--it has to, because Ryan's not wearing sunglasses--and suddenly Ryan can't stop looking at Alex, the way his shirt moves as they walk or the way his hair is falling into his eyes and over his ears.
He can smell Alex, the hint of beer and cigarettes and unwashed hair that is normally just background, but now it's in the forefront, and Ryan can't stop himself. He grabs at Alex's shoulders and starts shoving him backwards, at least until they are against a building and Ryan can push his mouth against Alex's.
His lips itch, all the way around his mouth and onto his tongue, and this should work. It should make it better, and it does. It does for the moment that Alex kisses back with his hands on Ryan's arms, and his mouth open and willing when Ryan pushes his tongue inside.
They've kissed before, slow and lazy with pots smoke passing between their lips, and sometimes when they were bored and alone in the house. It's never been quite like this, not when Ryan kind of wants to crawl inside Alex's mouth and bite his lips until they bleed. He wants Alex to touch him, all of him.
Then the moment passes, when he has his hands in Alex's hair and it doesn't feel right to him, like it should be coarser somehow, shorter. He backs up, and Alex stares at him.
"Sorry," he mumbles. The itching hasn't gone away, but he knows, somehow, if he keeps kissing Alex, that it won't get better.
"It's all right," Alex says with a shrug as he pulls out his cigarettes. "Just warn me next time."
***
Ryan means to throw the chocolates out, but he forgets, shoving them in the cabinet next to the peppercorn-ranch Sunchips that no one likes.
He forgets about them, mostly, in between working on new songs and trying to remember Spencer's schedule because he needs to call him back, just so something is normal still, and the parties he still goes to with Z and her friends.
It's life as normal, except that he still feels the buzzing sometimes. Sometimes, after he's done a line or smoked a bowl, he'll try to find someone to take the itch away. He tries Z and he tries Chad, a few nameless girls that are friends with someone he can't remember. Nothing works.
If the kissing leads to sex, he can't enjoy it because it always feels wrong, too many freckles or skin too soft. Their fingers should be rough from callouses or their skin dry.
He feels like there's something just on the edges of his consciousness, something he should know. It's frustrating, clawing in his skull for hours, like a melody he should know but has forgotten.
***
Jon finds the chocolates a month later, when they're dicking around with a guitar in the kitchen and he's cleaning. He's the one who throws out the nasty chips and a few half-empty jars of salsa. Ryan doesn't understand why cleaning helps Jon work, but he's more than content to sit on the kitchen counter with a notebook at his side and an acoustic in his lap while Jon cleans.
He's especially okay with it because this means he doesn't have to clear out the mouse traps if they're full. Ryan hates the mouse traps.
"Dude, did you forget you had these?" Jon says, and he sets the box down on the stove.
Ryan makes a face at them. "I tried one and it wasn't very good."
"You probably got the weird green one. Everyone hates that." Jon picks up a piece from the middle. "This one could be caramel," he says carefully, studying it. "Or it might be peanut."
Ryan studies the weird shaped chocolate again. Under the light, he can see the variations of shapes. Maybe he did get the weird green one. He never looked at the color of the filling. He picks up the one that might be almond. "They were free samples," he tells Jon.
Jon stares at the chocolate in his hand. "Did they know who you were?"
He tries to remember the shopkeeper, and he can't. His brain gets jumbled up with the rough hands and soft mouth, the biting kisses that he wants.
He shakes his head to clear it, and Jon is apparently satisfied with the answer before he pops an entire chocolate into his mouth. He makes an appreciative sound.
Ryan takes that as a good sign and bites into his. He's right; it is some kind of nut. It's crunchy without being too hard on his teeth, and the chocolate is just as good he remembers.
He's still chewing when Jon's face suddenly contorts, arm flailing out to grab at the paper towels. Ryan wants to ask what's wrong, but he knows what it is. The flavor of his own candy changes again.
It's not tuna and cigarettes this time--thank god--but it's still kind of disgusting. The chocolate turns hard, sticky in his teeth. It reminds him of the Nik-L-Nips he and Spencer used to steal from the grocery store when they were ten and eleven, only worse because there isn't any sugary syrup, and it's stickier, like his teeth are going to be glued together.
There's a weird aftertaste, too. A combination of the waxy flavor and what he thinks is beer, something a little cheaper and more low-brow than he likes if he has to drink beer at all.
The buzzing is back before he can swallow, and it's rushing all over his body now. He can feel how close Jon is, how his arm is brushing against Ryan's leg as he scrubs at his tongue. "Those are gross," Jon says, but his voice is soft, far away.
Ryan goes to nod, but then he looks up and his eyes click with Jon's.
He's not sure who makes the first move, not sure of anything until Jon's got his hands under Ryan's thighs and is lifting him off the counter. He's fucking Ryan's mouth with his tongue, and Ryan's lips already sting from Jon's beard. He's distantly aware that the guitar's fallen away, crashed on the floor with an ugly sound, but he doesn't care.
He doesn't care when Jon can't really hold him up. He's too awkward in Jon's arms, gangly, and he can't bring himself to stop moving, clawing at Jon's t-shirt and shivering when Jon pulls back enough to bite hard at Ryan's lips.
They end up in a heap on Ryan's kitchen floor, with Ryan straddling Jon, and he's fighting with Jon's shirt when the feeling of this is wrong wells up again. The itch under his skin is worse, and Jon isn't stopping.
Ryan pushes it away, scooting down so his hips line up over Jon's, where they're both hard and rutting against each other. Jon's pulling at Ryan's shirt now, and he knows that Jon is going to rip something, but he doesn't care. Jon's fingers are rough on Ryan's wrists and neck, where he's trying to find a weak spot in the fabric, something that's going to give.
He braces his hands on Jon's shoulders, moving his hips again, and Jon groans, one hand on the side of Ryan's neck. That hand tightens, just a little, and it's enough to make Jon's eyes fly open.
Then Ryan finds himself scrambling away from Jon, and Jon trying to sit up.
They stare at each other, panting. Jon's shirt is ripped at the neck, stretched out of shape, and Ryan's is coming apart at the sleeve. He doesn't remember that happening. His skin feels like it's boiling, and the itch is unbearable.
"This isn't--" Jon shakes his head and scrubs a hand over his mouth. "Fuck," he whispers.
Ryan has to swallow three times before he nods and touches the sleeve of his shirt. "It'll get worse," he says, softly. He doesn't say I'm sorry, but it feels like he has anyway.
***
Jon doesn't let him throw away the candy ("What if we need to know what it's made out of?") because Ryan can't find the shop again. There's a custard shop where he remembers the chocolatier being, and everyone swears that it's been there for months.
Instead, they put the chocolates in the freezer with put Mr. Yuk plastered all over it. The box is taped shut with a roll of purple duct tape that happens to be laying around Ryan's room.
They don't have sex, but there are more incidents, moments where they start on each other without realizing. It's getting to be too much, and Ryan's skin feels tight, pins and needles all the time. He can't get away from it.
He might make out with Eric, too, once or twice, and he knows that Jon has, too, from the way his ears turn pink when he has to sit on the couch next to him.
***
Spencer's tour ends August 22nd, and Ryan is on his doorstep on the 25th because Spencer's the one he goes to for this kind of shit. (Spencer will always be the one he goes to for this kind of shit.) He knows Spencer always sleeps for two days straight, and then he starts himself back on his home schedule. It's a little awkward because Spencer's doorstep is, in fact, Brendon's.
It's only more awkward because he rings the doorbell, and he can hear the dogs barking but no one answers. Their cars are all in the driveway and parked on the street, except for Brendon's Nissan and Regan's, well, what ever Regan drives, so he doesn't know where they are.
Ryan has the chocolates with him, wrapped up in a bag left over from Chinese carryout, and he tries not to touch them for too long, in case they'll make the itching worse by osmosis or something. Or meiosis. (It's possible science wasn't Ryan's best school subject.)
He sits on the doorstep and waits, pulling out his phone. He wonders if Spencer's sleeping habits have changed that much, since when he and Ryan were still touring together, and he pushes the thoughts away as quickly as they come and tries the doorbell again.
This time, Spencer does answer, in a pair of sweat pants. His hair is wet, and there's a towel around his shoulders. Ryan stares at him for a minute, because the itching is back and it's Spencer and Spencer's presence shouldn't make the itching worse.
"Hey," Spencer says carefully, but he's smiling. "I was going to call you today."
"Hi," Ryan says, and he feels a little stupid for not calling, worse because it only occurred to come see Spencer because he needs help.
"So I'm going to open this door, and you're going to rush in here, before the dogs realize that the door is open," Spencer says, and he does.
The barking starts again immediately, and Ryan isn't really prepared for the barrelling rush of all the dogs. When he was here last, there was only Dylan, Indie, and Bogart. Now it's those three plus Spencer's dogs, and he flails for a minute because Spencer leaves him to all five of them. While Brendon's aren't going to knock him over, Boba and Milo have no such qualms.
***
"So, you think these chocolates made you make out with Jon," Spencer drawls carefully, looking at Ryan like he's insane. There's something else in his voice, a little pouty and put-out maybe. "And Alex. And Eric. And Z and your party friends."
Ryan nods. "I know how it sounds."
Spencer raises his eyebrow and cuts off the tape, popping the box open. He lifts one out at looks at it carefully, before he cuts it open with a knife. It's toffee-chip, or at least that's how it looks to Ryan. There's no goo oozing out. "And you got them for free."
"Yeah." He shrugs.
"After all Zack taught you, you accepted free food?" Spencer looks at him with the corner of his mouth turning up.
"Fuck off. She didn't even look at me."
Spencer pokes another chocolate with his knife. "Did Jon say what his tasted like?"
"No, just that it was nasty." He hasn't really been able to talk to Jon for too long. If they're alone for an extended period of time, they end up mauling each other, and that does not lead to mystery solving.
Spencer sighs and looks at the chocolate again. "I want to try something," he says finally, and he gives half the piece to Ryan. "Eat this and tell me what it tastes like."
Ryan looks at the chocolate, than at Spencer. "What are you going to do?"
"Eat the other half."
"We're going to make out," Ryan says, and he knocks his shoulder against Spencer's. "We're going to make out and fall on the floor, and the dogs will find us and it'll be awkward."
"If we make out, I'm pretty sure I can at least carry you to the couch, like a real gentleman," Spencer says with a smirk. "Besides, it's not like we've never made out before."
"That was different," Ryan says. "This is--"
"A mind-altering agent. Trust me, Ry. It won't be that bad. I promise that I won't rip your shirt."
Ryan sincerely, sincerely doubts that if Spencer can hold himself to that, if Jon started ripping at his clothes, but he sighs and pops the chocolate into his mouth. He doesn't chew though, just letting the chocolate melt down on his tongue.
Spencer eats the other half, chewing. Ryan can tell the moment the taste changes, the way he stops chewing and wrinkles his nose. "Okay," he says, after he forces himself to swallow. "That tastes like body lotion." He swallows again. "What does your side taste like?"
He sighs and bites down. The texture changes, gritty instead of crunchy, like sand, and then he can taste saltwater, the tartness of it. "Not like that," he says. He tightens his hand into fists, and he tries to keep his body still. "Ocean water and sand."
"That wouldn't be so bad," Spencer murmurs, and Ryan can see the way Spencer's looking at him. His entire body feels like it's filled up with needles, and Spencer's just wearing sweatpants. Ryan wants to touch the hair on Spencer's chest, where it seems thicker than he remembers.
Spencer, though, doesn't seem to care. He puts his hands on either side of Ryan, and he looms close. He's so much bigger than Ryan remembers, broader and taller, and Ryan swallows a little. "Spence," he tries to say, but it comes out breathy before Spencer's kissing him.
It's almost, almost right, and Ryan can touch all of Spencer's bare skin, scratch at his back. Spencer's already hard at his hip, and he stops kissing Ryan and starts biting at his neck. "Is this what happened with Jon?" Spencer gasps, and his voice is strangled, like he has to force himself to pay attention to something else than what's happening now.
"Yeah, like this," Ryan murmurs, and he's wearing a v-neck today, something that's easier for Spencer to grab and yank over his head. The t-shirt falls in the kitchen sink, with the nasty murky water because Jon doesn't live here to remind them than there's a dishwasher.
Ryan doesn't care. He can slide his hands into Spencer's sweats, wrap his fingers around his cock, and he can jerk him off. The buzzing is almost painful, but it feels better, just a little, when he brushes his lips over Spencer's jaw, scratching his mouth against Spencer's beard.
"Tell me what happened with Jon, Ry," Spencer gasps, bucking into Ryan's hand, and he nods. The small impulse of this isn't right is there, but the need for this makes it hard to ignore. He just wants now, needs to feel Spencer jerking in his grip and he can't help but press his hand over his own cock.
"We just started kissing," he gasps, and his pants are too tight, Spencer too hot. He feels like he's suffocating slowly. The counter is digging into his back, but he doesn't care. "He ripped my shirt."
Spencer nods and he bites at Ryan's mouth, at his chin. It's sloppy and painful, and Ryan doesn't care. He keeps his fist sliding over Spencer, using his thumb to slide some precome down, so the pace is easier. Spencer groans, sucking his stomach in.
"Why didn't you just fuck him?" Spencer asks, and his voice breaks on "fuck," and it may be the hottest thing Ryan's heard.
"Because, it's not right," he murmurs, and it sounds wrong to say, but it's not what he wants. "It's not exactly."
"Yeah," Spencer says, before he moves one hand down, unzipping Ryan's pants and pulling him out. He licks his palm, and Ryan tips his head back and groans. "Like you're too skinny," he whispers, before he wraps his wet, wet hand around Ryan's cock. It's tight, good, and Spencer twists his hand on the upstroke.
Ryan groans. "Too tall," he murmurs when he goes to bite at Spencer's lips, stretch the bottom one between his teeth. The part of him that makes him think that this isn't right doesn't want to tip his head up to kiss.
Spencer squeezes his hand, and he growls when Ryan stop, pressing his hand against the underside of his cock, against the ridge. "I want to see you and Jon, like this."
And that's--that's good, the image of Spencer watching Jon and Ryan rip at each other's clothes because they're too desperate to stop. For a split second, he can see in his mind's eye, Spencer's face as he watched them, Jon squirming beneath him. Maybe Brendon would be there, watching his wide-dark eyes, maybe with his mouth stretched over Spencer's cock and that's it. That's enough. He's coming then, sticky over Spencer's hand, and he can't keep kissing Spencer, panting hard against his jaw.
Spencer's still hard in his hand, and he looks up at Spencer, when he's come down. His hand is lazy now, even if the itch is just barely sated. Spencer wraps his sticky hand around Ryan's, wrapping their fingers together, and his eyes stay on Ryan as he jerks himself off like that, taking control of Ryan's hand. He only closes them when he comes, and it's quiet, just a hissed breath and panting.
Ryan wonders briefly what would make Spencer completely lose it, shake apart and groan as he comes, but then it's like the switch is flipped again. He looks at Spencer, and the come that's all over both their hands, and Spencer stares at him.
"I'm going to go clean up in the bathroom," he says, and Spencer nods, turning on the kitchen sink for his own hands. Ryan's v-neck is still in the water, draped on a few dirty plates, but Spencer doesn't move to take it out. It's probably ruined anyway. "I'm borrowing something, too," he calls before he runs up the stairs.
***
Ryan doesn't mean to put on one of Brendon's shirts, but he's past the point where he can tolerate wearing Spencer's. Right now, it feels weird, like anyone will look at him and just know he and Spencer fucked around in the living room, and they talked about Jon and it's all just such a mess.
Brendon's shirts still fit, except that Brendon's room is pretty much the same as it always was. There are two rumpled laundry baskets, and then clothes all over the floor. He knows the shit on the floor is dirty to the point that Brendon won't wear anymore. The laundry baskets are kind of hit or miss, though. Brendon has a system, of course, but all the shirts are either washed and not folded, or worn at least once.
He makes a face, but he picks out one of Brendon's t-shirts. It looks like he's barely worn it, but Ryan sniffs it just to be safe.
It's a mistake. He sniffs the shirt, and the tingling is back. The burning under his skin is worse now, like the thing downstairs with Spencer never happened. He's hard like he didn't come ten minutes ago, and it hurts.
Ryan drops the shirt in the laundry basket again and runs back into Spencer's. The blue Bears t-shirt is much too big for him, but he doesn't care. It's too big, and he thinks Spencer's been wearing it to bed, but it doesn't make his damn fingernails itch.
Except that now that he's smelled Brendon's shirt, all he wants is Brendon. It's enough to make his toes curl. He has to leave.
"Spence, I'm booking," he calls as he thunders down the stairs into the hallway.
He doesn't see Spencer, but he sees Shane and Brendon standing next to the chocolates they left open. Ryan knows he needs to run. He's ready for something else already, and Shane and Brendon are both chewing.
Shane waves to him first, and he swallows easily. "Ryan, I didn't know you were coming over."
Ryan feels rooted to the ground then, just as Brendon turns and looks at him. He's still in his wet suit, hair still wet from the water. He probably has sand in it, and Ryan's fingers itch to touch and see.
"I was checking something with Spence. I'm gonna leave, though. Jon's at home," Ryan says, but his voice is far away as he stares at Brendon. His skin feels like it's on fire.
Brendon wrinkles his nose a little, like he's hit the weird taste in the chocolate. "You brought candy," he says, voice husky.
"It's not very good," he whispers back. His face feels flushed.
"I've had worse," Brendon says. He's staring at Ryan, eyes dark. He's biting his bottom lip.
Shane wrinkles his nose. "It taste like perfume, Brendon." And he tosses the box in the garbage, like it's nothing. He doesn't seem bothered by it. "Why did you even buy them, Ryan?"
Ryan shakes his head. He can't talk. He feels like, if he moves, something in the moment will shatter. He can see Brendon starting to get hard through his wetsuit, and he hasn't even done anything.
He gasps a little, when he sees it, and that's enough. Brendon shifts, stepping like he's going to walk up next to Ryan.
And Ryan runs, runs up the stairs. He knows that he won't escape Brendon. His legs are longer, but Brendon works out. He runs and surfs and doesn't usually party until three am. He doesn't think he'll get far, but he doesn't want to flash Shane. That's the only thing that passes through his mind.
Brendon catches his ankle on the stair, and he trips, sliding a little, and then Brendon's on top of him. He doesn't give Ryan a chance to say anything, just pushes him down and kisses his open mouth, his tongue pushing in over Ryan's.
He's damp all over, and the wetsuit is cold, but Ryan doesn't care. He wraps an arm around Brendon's neck and pulls him close, letting Brendon push him down against the stairs. He has brush burn on his palm and there's water seeping into his clothes, but he doesn't care.
He doesn't care when Brendon starts biting him, at his neck and sucking hard on his skin. There will be marks in the morning, and they're too high to hide. Brendon's everywhere and Ryan loves it. Everything has come together, the tingling in his mouth and fingers feeling less and less every time he touches Brendon or Brendon touches him.
Brendon bites hard at his bottom lip, and he has his hands wrapped around Ryan's wrists. "I'm still mad at you," he says, before he bites at Ryan's mouth again, and this time he misses, catches his chin.
Ryan hisses in pain and bucks up against Brendon. His clothes don't smell like Spencer anymore, what happened before. Instead it's all Brendon, the saltwater from his wetsuit and the weird coconut smell of his surfing wax. There's nothing in Ryan's house that smells like that, just weed and Eric's cooking experiments and Alex's laundry, unless Jon is there and it all smells like lysol.
He missed the filmy feel of drying salt water. Ryan tries to say it, but all that comes out, as Brendon tightens his grip and pulls on Ryan's earlobe with his teeth, is a whimper and a whispered, "I know. Me too." And then he breathes, and "I miss you" slips out from between his lips. It fills the hallways like steam, and that makes Brendon pull back.
Brendon doesn't let go of Ryan's wrists.
His eyes are clearer than Ryan's head feels, and Ryan wonders if maybe the chocolate told him to go to Brendon, but Brendon's told him to go to someone else. He freezes up at the thought.
"I'm not fucking you on the stairs," Brendon whispers before he climbs off of Ryan all together. He has to let one wrist go, but he holds the left one tight enough to bruise. Ryan can't pretend he doesn't like it, that he doesn't have a flash of Brendon tying him down and doing exactly as he wants.
"Okay," Ryan says, like that's that. He lets Brendon pull him up into his room, where there's clothes all over the floor, in baskets, and everything smells like Brendon. It's overwhelming and heady, and he kisses Brendon again because he can't help himself.
His free hand scratches at the wetsuit, and he whimpers, actually whimpers like he's in pain, before he says, "Off, off, off."
Brendon laughs and guides Ryan's hand to the zipper in the back, where it's hidden so no one can undo it accidentally, and Ryan can't stop himself. He tangles his fingers with Brendon's and tries to pull his hand back. He wants to taste Brendon's hands suddenly, the way they probably taste like car and cigarettes, maybe a little bit like the ocean still.
Brendon laughs, just a little, before Ryan takes his first two fingers into his mouth, and then he just whispers, "Shit, Ryan." Ryan can't help but look at Brendon's face as he does it, as he wraps his tongue around the pads of his fingers, so he can see Brendon's eyes go darker, widen just a bit more, and then he's pushing Ryan back, onto the bed.
Ryan would be jealous of how fast Brendon manages to get out of his wetsuit, pulling it down off his chest and then down his legs, but he can't. He doesn't care. He can't concentrate on anything besides the way Brendon is watching him with his eyes dark and half-lidded. He doesn't care how easy it is for Brendon to get naked, just that Brendon is naked.
He doesn't know what happened to Spencer's t-shirt, or what happened to his pants. He knows that he was damp before, but his skin felt hot enough to make them steam, like rain on sun-fried asphalt. That didn't happen, of course it didn't happen, but he's naked, and Brendon's hands are all over him: on his stomach, on his cock, on the insides of his thighs.
Ryan almost chokes on his tongue when Brendon scratches up his leg, up to where his knuckles brush over Ryan's balls and then so close to his hole that he bucks off the bed. He hadn't thought about it before, not really, but he knows now that it's exactly what he wants. He wants Brendon, he wants Brendon and when he's had Brendon, the burning will stop.
But he feels empty, cold, and he didn't realize that was there, not until Brendon's trying to push a finger inside with his other hand digging around behind his mattress. "Please," Ryan begs, and he doesn't care that it burns, doesn't care that there's no lube at all, just the little bit of wet left from Ryan's tongue.
"Shit, shit, shit," Brendon gasps, and he presses his head against Ryan's collarbone. "We need, Ry--We have to have."
"Don't care, don't care, please." Ryan tries to buck his hips up, to get Brendon's finger in deeper, and he cries out when Brendon pulls his hand back completely, going up on his knees and scrambling back.
"Ryan, sh, sh," he whispers, and his voice is strangled. Ryan doesn't know how he's able to keep in control. He wishes Brendon would lose control.
Except then Brendon finds the lube, and Ryan can hear the crinkle of an open condom wrapper. "Now, now," he whispers, and then Brendon's back, slick fingers pushing into Ryan.
It's been a long time since he's been fucked, since before the band split down the center, and he's tight. Brendon's gentler now than he was before, but Ryan knows it's could be gentler, that they could take more time. He doesn't want that, though, just wants Brendon inside and fucking him.
"Brendon," he whines when Brendon adds a third finger. Three is totally unnecessary. He needs Brendon. His skin is burning from the inside.
"Hang on, hang on," Brendon keeps saying, with his fingers too-slowly stretching. The burn fades, and it's almost right, almost exactly what he wants, before Brendon pulls his fingers away all together. Ryan can hear him squeezing more lube out, slick sounds of it over his cock, and he rubs a little more around Ryan's hole.
And then, finally, finally, he pushes in. He's still too slow; Ryan still arches his hips for more, still wants it to be faster, more brutal, and he hates that Brendon still has some control, that he can keep a rhythm going while he's biting savagely at Ryan's lips. He think he might taste blood, but Brendon doesn't shy away.
Ryan can feel the heat building in his gut, the way everything goes crystal sharp around the edges. Brendon's fingers are caging around his hips, pulling him up so he can push in. Ryan doesn't know when Brendon--Brendon who used to strain muscles carrying guitar cases--got strong enough to do that, when he could lift Ryan like he was a rag doll and just pummel into him.
He can feel the strain of it in his back, and the mattress is hitting the wall in the same rhythm as Brendon's fucking him, just a beat behind. It's lower than then slap of their flesh meeting, like a bad harmony, and he wants to laugh, but then Brendon is biting down on his neck.
That's the thing that sends him slamming into those crystal edges and coming messy over his own stomach and a little onto Brendon's. "Shit, I didn't--" Brendon murmurs, and he shakes his head. He keeps fucking Ryan.
Ryan hates being touched right after an orgasm, needs to scramble away, but this time, he can't help but lie there. He's dead weight in Brendon's hands now, but Brendon just keeps fucking him, with Ryan clenching weakly around him.
He doesn't know why Brendon hasn't come, doesn't want to know why. It's like they're animals at this point, rutting against each other. Ryan's control comes back in stages, and he does his best to keep the pace going. Brendon's sweating all over him, his eyes bright and face flushed. He hasn't faltered, hasn't even hesitated, since Ryan came, and again, Ryan has to wonder when that changed. He remembers listening to Brendon jerk off in the bunks, how it was barely a minute, sometimes two, before he was gasping and groaning into his pillow, when everything would go quiet.
Now, though, now it has to have been five minutes, maybe seven, and Brendon's still going. Ryan's cock twitches when Brendon drags over his prostate, and he can't get hard again. It's been under an hour, maybe ninety minutes, and even at fifteen, he couldn't have done it. His body wants to, and he gasps out in pain that's not entirely good. "Please," he says, "Brendon, you have to--"
Brendon nods, even though he can't know what Ryan was about to say, and then he lowers his head, sweat beading from his bangs onto Ryan's neck and collar, and, fuck, he wants to get hard over that. (Ryan swears to god that he is never eating chocolate again.)
It's a surprise when Brendon comes, and it's a moment of complete stillness. His fingers flex on Ryan's hips, squeezing so tight that Ryan knows he'll bruise, and he pants out this low, low groan. Ryan can feel the way his cock spasms inside, or at least he thinks he does, and he's almost ready to pass out from the overstimulation, from the feeling of finally, finally, finally. Then Brendon pulls out and cleans up enough that he can pull Ryan close.
Ryan shouldn't let him. Brendon's like a personal furnace, and he's already going to wake up sticky and disgusting from lube. There's nothing he can do about it now, though, not when he's dropping into sleep before Brendon can pull the sheets over them.
***
He wakes up to someone humming, and he thinks he might be able to hear the ocean from the open window. Only one of those things is true, but it's enough to make him crack an eye open and see Brendon's shit strew all over the floor.
"Fuck," he murmurs. He wants to sit up, but his head feels like it's been loaded with sand while the rest of his body doesn't have bones. It's like no hangover he's ever had.
"What happened?" Brendon's across the room, sitting with his legs crossed. He has his iPhone out, but he doesn't look like he's doing anything more than turning it over and over in his hands. He looks a little stricken, and Ryan tries not to stare at the marks on Brendon's neck, the scratches on his arms.
"I think there was something in the chocolate," Ryan whispers. He gathers the sheets up around his waist, even though Brendon's still naked and there's really no point now.
"What the fuck?" Brendon sighs. "What, like it was sex drugs or something? Or like--"
"I don't know," Ryan says, and he rubs his eyes. He thinks it might almost be dawn from the light filtering in through Brendon's curtains. It's a pretty neat trick, considering it was almost dinner time when he saw Brendon and Shane in the kitchen.
"I should go," Ryan says, because he's suddenly aware that he's in Brendon's bed, with marks from Brendon's teeth all over his neck and shoulders. They haven't talked, not really, since after South Africa.
Brendon doesn't let him, getting out of the chair and sitting on the bed close to Ryan. "Oh, we are talking about this, Ross."
"There's nothing to talk about, Brendon," Ryan says, except that there is. That he wanted Brendon and only Brendon, no matter how much sex he had otherwise. Brendon only had two pieces, two in rapid succession, and that doesn't mean it was the same for him.
"Oh, I think there is," Brendon says carefully. He's not looking at Ryan. "Regan's car is outside on the driveway, and the windows are a little steamy, and I don't know where Spencer is. He won't answer his phone."
"I don't--"
"I happen to know for a fact that Regan and Shane are in that car, Ross," Brendon says, giving him a Look. "It's California. No windows stay that steamy for long, and I didn't really need a look at Shane's naked ass."
"So?"
"I also happen to know that Shane and Regan have been dating long enough that they've gotten over the whole sex-in-the-back-seat thing." Brendon taps his fingers off the sheet. "Shane said the chocolate tasted like perfume."
Ryan's throat feels dry. He knows what the chocolate tasted like for him, what it means now that he's had Brendon and has Brendon sitting in front of him. "So?" His voice is strained.
"I thought that the chocolate tasted like Easy Mac, kind of gritty, and like weed and cigarettes. Not perfume." Ryan's heart is pounding. He wants to throw up, and he doesn't understand what all of this means.
He doesn't want to understand.
"You should tell me what yours tasted like," Brendon says, not looking at Ryan now.
Ryan wrinkles his nose and tries to cover his face with a pillow. "Can we have sex again?" Ryan's pretty sure that his dick will fall off if he has sex again, has sex at all in the next twenty-four hours. He'd rather be a eunuch than talk about this.
"No, it's either you tell me this, or we go surfing, Ross, because both of my surfing buddies are a little busy apparently, and someone locked all three dogs in the downstairs bathroom." Brendon taps a finger against Ryan's leg, and Ryan's whole body feels that.
Ryan blinks, and he decides that he doesn't like Brendon's tone, how he's leading Ryan to a conclusion that makes him feel a little shaky and unsteady, like he's trying to stand in an old canoe without it capsizing.
"But if Shane went for Regan and Spencer went for who ever Spencer joneses for now, you went for me." Brendon licks his lips. "And I went for you."
Ryan blinks, and he tries to find a way to say that it's true and it's not, that he went for Jon and Spencer too, but they weren't exactly what he needed. There's no way to say that, and there's no hiding from the look in Brendon's eyes.
He just sighs, and he kisses Brendon. His mouth tastes like sleep, and Brendon's is minty fresh. "I'm going to need a wetsuit," he murmurs.
Brendon snorts, and he pinches Ryan's side. "Good. We can talk in the car on our way."
And he's gone, out of the room, before Ryan realizes that he's been had.
Brendon/Ryan (Spencer/Ryan [minor Jon/Ryan, Alex Greenwald/Ryan, Ryan/hipster friends]) | NC-17 | ~7k
Warnings: sexpollen/aphrodisiacs, post-breakup fic.
Thank you to the lovely softlyforgotten for her beta work, and to stephanometra and summertea for their general awesomeness.
For tardis80.
Ryan sees the chocolatier's when he's running late to meet Alex and Z for lunch/dinner/breakfast (Ryan's been up since noon, but he knows that Alex has some where to be at eight tomorrow, and when they go to Curry Up, it means that Z has just rolled out of bed), and he has to stop. The sign looks hand-carved and painted, letters in a faux-Greek design that spell out "Erato's Chocolates." There's a lady beneath it, a weird Greek instrument in her lap as she samples what could be candy.
The door feels like old wood when he pushes into the shop, like it's been crafted from the hull of a shipwrecked vessel, and he grins when he pushes inside and sees recreations of Greek art all over the walls. He wonders how he's misses this place in the months that he's lived in LA but doesn't put too much thought into it as he peruses the boxes of chocolates and other candies that are lined up.
Most of them have silly names, like Darker than Hades for a chocolate that is 83% cacao or the milk chocolate chunks that come wrapped in gold tinfoil (Golden Fleece - 4.99 a pound). He looks around for free samples, and instead meets the eye of the bored shopkeeper. She's tall and pale and not looking at him at all.
He looks for ten minutes before his phone rings, and it's Alex, telling him about how he and Z have already ordered and they will eat his food if he doesn't get here soon.
Ryan grabs the biggest sampler he can find and smiles when the shopkeeper waves off his money. "Consider it advertising," she says with a smile, before she disappears into the back again.
***
He means to break out the chocolate at lunch/dinner/breakfast, but he forgets because Z starts talking about how Savage Garden was a more musically adventurous band than Silverchair. Ryan has a hard time wrapping his brain around that, and the free box of chocolates just sits under his chair while he tries to suss out her reasoning.
It's only when he and Alex are walking along the street after, slowly making their way back to Ryan's, that Alex pokes the bag around Ryan's wrist. "What's that?"
Ryan blinks and pulls it up, opening the bag and then the box. "I found this new chocolate place, so I got it." He doesn't want to say that it was free for some reason. Alex gets kind of suspicious when people offer Ryan free things. He's not as bad as Zack or Spencer, but it's a little chafing none the less.
"Oh." Alex wrinkles his nose at them. "They're kind of shaped weird."
The chocolates are shaped weird, as much as chocolate can be shaped weird. They're just rough looking little globs, instead of being shaped smooth and round, but each of them has the same Greek instrument as the sign. It's not a lyre, bigger and kind of guitar shaped.
He starts to think that Brendon would know, but he stops himself. It doesn't matter if Brendon would know. He's probably not going to have a chance to share these with him.
"Yeah, well. They were a good deal." Ryan picks one out and takes a bite. There's no little guide saying what it is, but it taste really fucking good. The chocolate is rich and creamy on his tongue, and there's a hint of some fruity syrup. It may be the best chocolate he's had while sober (everything tastes better high).
At least until he starts to chew, and then the chocolate and sweet fruit is overtaken by the feel of ashes on his tongue, cigarette smoke and just the barest hint of something that could be tuna.
Ryan has a moment of watery-eyed panic where he can't decide if he wants to spit it out or swallow it, because he's wearing his favorite mustard yellow shirt. But at the same time his chocolate tastes like tuna.
Alex starts laughing at him, and then Ryan swallows quickly, tossing the chocolate on the ground as he snaps, "Asshole."
"No good?" Alex pokes at the chocolates in the box again.
"Fuck, no," Ryan says. His entire mouth feels weird, like his teeth are vibrating and his lips are numb, and there's this ache that's starting to creep down his fingers. He shoves the chocolates back into the bag. "I should have known."
He tries really hard not to think of hair cookies.
Then the fading sunlight does some weird thing--it has to, because Ryan's not wearing sunglasses--and suddenly Ryan can't stop looking at Alex, the way his shirt moves as they walk or the way his hair is falling into his eyes and over his ears.
He can smell Alex, the hint of beer and cigarettes and unwashed hair that is normally just background, but now it's in the forefront, and Ryan can't stop himself. He grabs at Alex's shoulders and starts shoving him backwards, at least until they are against a building and Ryan can push his mouth against Alex's.
His lips itch, all the way around his mouth and onto his tongue, and this should work. It should make it better, and it does. It does for the moment that Alex kisses back with his hands on Ryan's arms, and his mouth open and willing when Ryan pushes his tongue inside.
They've kissed before, slow and lazy with pots smoke passing between their lips, and sometimes when they were bored and alone in the house. It's never been quite like this, not when Ryan kind of wants to crawl inside Alex's mouth and bite his lips until they bleed. He wants Alex to touch him, all of him.
Then the moment passes, when he has his hands in Alex's hair and it doesn't feel right to him, like it should be coarser somehow, shorter. He backs up, and Alex stares at him.
"Sorry," he mumbles. The itching hasn't gone away, but he knows, somehow, if he keeps kissing Alex, that it won't get better.
"It's all right," Alex says with a shrug as he pulls out his cigarettes. "Just warn me next time."
***
Ryan means to throw the chocolates out, but he forgets, shoving them in the cabinet next to the peppercorn-ranch Sunchips that no one likes.
He forgets about them, mostly, in between working on new songs and trying to remember Spencer's schedule because he needs to call him back, just so something is normal still, and the parties he still goes to with Z and her friends.
It's life as normal, except that he still feels the buzzing sometimes. Sometimes, after he's done a line or smoked a bowl, he'll try to find someone to take the itch away. He tries Z and he tries Chad, a few nameless girls that are friends with someone he can't remember. Nothing works.
If the kissing leads to sex, he can't enjoy it because it always feels wrong, too many freckles or skin too soft. Their fingers should be rough from callouses or their skin dry.
He feels like there's something just on the edges of his consciousness, something he should know. It's frustrating, clawing in his skull for hours, like a melody he should know but has forgotten.
***
Jon finds the chocolates a month later, when they're dicking around with a guitar in the kitchen and he's cleaning. He's the one who throws out the nasty chips and a few half-empty jars of salsa. Ryan doesn't understand why cleaning helps Jon work, but he's more than content to sit on the kitchen counter with a notebook at his side and an acoustic in his lap while Jon cleans.
He's especially okay with it because this means he doesn't have to clear out the mouse traps if they're full. Ryan hates the mouse traps.
"Dude, did you forget you had these?" Jon says, and he sets the box down on the stove.
Ryan makes a face at them. "I tried one and it wasn't very good."
"You probably got the weird green one. Everyone hates that." Jon picks up a piece from the middle. "This one could be caramel," he says carefully, studying it. "Or it might be peanut."
Ryan studies the weird shaped chocolate again. Under the light, he can see the variations of shapes. Maybe he did get the weird green one. He never looked at the color of the filling. He picks up the one that might be almond. "They were free samples," he tells Jon.
Jon stares at the chocolate in his hand. "Did they know who you were?"
He tries to remember the shopkeeper, and he can't. His brain gets jumbled up with the rough hands and soft mouth, the biting kisses that he wants.
He shakes his head to clear it, and Jon is apparently satisfied with the answer before he pops an entire chocolate into his mouth. He makes an appreciative sound.
Ryan takes that as a good sign and bites into his. He's right; it is some kind of nut. It's crunchy without being too hard on his teeth, and the chocolate is just as good he remembers.
He's still chewing when Jon's face suddenly contorts, arm flailing out to grab at the paper towels. Ryan wants to ask what's wrong, but he knows what it is. The flavor of his own candy changes again.
It's not tuna and cigarettes this time--thank god--but it's still kind of disgusting. The chocolate turns hard, sticky in his teeth. It reminds him of the Nik-L-Nips he and Spencer used to steal from the grocery store when they were ten and eleven, only worse because there isn't any sugary syrup, and it's stickier, like his teeth are going to be glued together.
There's a weird aftertaste, too. A combination of the waxy flavor and what he thinks is beer, something a little cheaper and more low-brow than he likes if he has to drink beer at all.
The buzzing is back before he can swallow, and it's rushing all over his body now. He can feel how close Jon is, how his arm is brushing against Ryan's leg as he scrubs at his tongue. "Those are gross," Jon says, but his voice is soft, far away.
Ryan goes to nod, but then he looks up and his eyes click with Jon's.
He's not sure who makes the first move, not sure of anything until Jon's got his hands under Ryan's thighs and is lifting him off the counter. He's fucking Ryan's mouth with his tongue, and Ryan's lips already sting from Jon's beard. He's distantly aware that the guitar's fallen away, crashed on the floor with an ugly sound, but he doesn't care.
He doesn't care when Jon can't really hold him up. He's too awkward in Jon's arms, gangly, and he can't bring himself to stop moving, clawing at Jon's t-shirt and shivering when Jon pulls back enough to bite hard at Ryan's lips.
They end up in a heap on Ryan's kitchen floor, with Ryan straddling Jon, and he's fighting with Jon's shirt when the feeling of this is wrong wells up again. The itch under his skin is worse, and Jon isn't stopping.
Ryan pushes it away, scooting down so his hips line up over Jon's, where they're both hard and rutting against each other. Jon's pulling at Ryan's shirt now, and he knows that Jon is going to rip something, but he doesn't care. Jon's fingers are rough on Ryan's wrists and neck, where he's trying to find a weak spot in the fabric, something that's going to give.
He braces his hands on Jon's shoulders, moving his hips again, and Jon groans, one hand on the side of Ryan's neck. That hand tightens, just a little, and it's enough to make Jon's eyes fly open.
Then Ryan finds himself scrambling away from Jon, and Jon trying to sit up.
They stare at each other, panting. Jon's shirt is ripped at the neck, stretched out of shape, and Ryan's is coming apart at the sleeve. He doesn't remember that happening. His skin feels like it's boiling, and the itch is unbearable.
"This isn't--" Jon shakes his head and scrubs a hand over his mouth. "Fuck," he whispers.
Ryan has to swallow three times before he nods and touches the sleeve of his shirt. "It'll get worse," he says, softly. He doesn't say I'm sorry, but it feels like he has anyway.
***
Jon doesn't let him throw away the candy ("What if we need to know what it's made out of?") because Ryan can't find the shop again. There's a custard shop where he remembers the chocolatier being, and everyone swears that it's been there for months.
Instead, they put the chocolates in the freezer with put Mr. Yuk plastered all over it. The box is taped shut with a roll of purple duct tape that happens to be laying around Ryan's room.
They don't have sex, but there are more incidents, moments where they start on each other without realizing. It's getting to be too much, and Ryan's skin feels tight, pins and needles all the time. He can't get away from it.
He might make out with Eric, too, once or twice, and he knows that Jon has, too, from the way his ears turn pink when he has to sit on the couch next to him.
***
Spencer's tour ends August 22nd, and Ryan is on his doorstep on the 25th because Spencer's the one he goes to for this kind of shit. (Spencer will always be the one he goes to for this kind of shit.) He knows Spencer always sleeps for two days straight, and then he starts himself back on his home schedule. It's a little awkward because Spencer's doorstep is, in fact, Brendon's.
It's only more awkward because he rings the doorbell, and he can hear the dogs barking but no one answers. Their cars are all in the driveway and parked on the street, except for Brendon's Nissan and Regan's, well, what ever Regan drives, so he doesn't know where they are.
Ryan has the chocolates with him, wrapped up in a bag left over from Chinese carryout, and he tries not to touch them for too long, in case they'll make the itching worse by osmosis or something. Or meiosis. (It's possible science wasn't Ryan's best school subject.)
He sits on the doorstep and waits, pulling out his phone. He wonders if Spencer's sleeping habits have changed that much, since when he and Ryan were still touring together, and he pushes the thoughts away as quickly as they come and tries the doorbell again.
This time, Spencer does answer, in a pair of sweat pants. His hair is wet, and there's a towel around his shoulders. Ryan stares at him for a minute, because the itching is back and it's Spencer and Spencer's presence shouldn't make the itching worse.
"Hey," Spencer says carefully, but he's smiling. "I was going to call you today."
"Hi," Ryan says, and he feels a little stupid for not calling, worse because it only occurred to come see Spencer because he needs help.
"So I'm going to open this door, and you're going to rush in here, before the dogs realize that the door is open," Spencer says, and he does.
The barking starts again immediately, and Ryan isn't really prepared for the barrelling rush of all the dogs. When he was here last, there was only Dylan, Indie, and Bogart. Now it's those three plus Spencer's dogs, and he flails for a minute because Spencer leaves him to all five of them. While Brendon's aren't going to knock him over, Boba and Milo have no such qualms.
***
"So, you think these chocolates made you make out with Jon," Spencer drawls carefully, looking at Ryan like he's insane. There's something else in his voice, a little pouty and put-out maybe. "And Alex. And Eric. And Z and your party friends."
Ryan nods. "I know how it sounds."
Spencer raises his eyebrow and cuts off the tape, popping the box open. He lifts one out at looks at it carefully, before he cuts it open with a knife. It's toffee-chip, or at least that's how it looks to Ryan. There's no goo oozing out. "And you got them for free."
"Yeah." He shrugs.
"After all Zack taught you, you accepted free food?" Spencer looks at him with the corner of his mouth turning up.
"Fuck off. She didn't even look at me."
Spencer pokes another chocolate with his knife. "Did Jon say what his tasted like?"
"No, just that it was nasty." He hasn't really been able to talk to Jon for too long. If they're alone for an extended period of time, they end up mauling each other, and that does not lead to mystery solving.
Spencer sighs and looks at the chocolate again. "I want to try something," he says finally, and he gives half the piece to Ryan. "Eat this and tell me what it tastes like."
Ryan looks at the chocolate, than at Spencer. "What are you going to do?"
"Eat the other half."
"We're going to make out," Ryan says, and he knocks his shoulder against Spencer's. "We're going to make out and fall on the floor, and the dogs will find us and it'll be awkward."
"If we make out, I'm pretty sure I can at least carry you to the couch, like a real gentleman," Spencer says with a smirk. "Besides, it's not like we've never made out before."
"That was different," Ryan says. "This is--"
"A mind-altering agent. Trust me, Ry. It won't be that bad. I promise that I won't rip your shirt."
Ryan sincerely, sincerely doubts that if Spencer can hold himself to that, if Jon started ripping at his clothes, but he sighs and pops the chocolate into his mouth. He doesn't chew though, just letting the chocolate melt down on his tongue.
Spencer eats the other half, chewing. Ryan can tell the moment the taste changes, the way he stops chewing and wrinkles his nose. "Okay," he says, after he forces himself to swallow. "That tastes like body lotion." He swallows again. "What does your side taste like?"
He sighs and bites down. The texture changes, gritty instead of crunchy, like sand, and then he can taste saltwater, the tartness of it. "Not like that," he says. He tightens his hand into fists, and he tries to keep his body still. "Ocean water and sand."
"That wouldn't be so bad," Spencer murmurs, and Ryan can see the way Spencer's looking at him. His entire body feels like it's filled up with needles, and Spencer's just wearing sweatpants. Ryan wants to touch the hair on Spencer's chest, where it seems thicker than he remembers.
Spencer, though, doesn't seem to care. He puts his hands on either side of Ryan, and he looms close. He's so much bigger than Ryan remembers, broader and taller, and Ryan swallows a little. "Spence," he tries to say, but it comes out breathy before Spencer's kissing him.
It's almost, almost right, and Ryan can touch all of Spencer's bare skin, scratch at his back. Spencer's already hard at his hip, and he stops kissing Ryan and starts biting at his neck. "Is this what happened with Jon?" Spencer gasps, and his voice is strangled, like he has to force himself to pay attention to something else than what's happening now.
"Yeah, like this," Ryan murmurs, and he's wearing a v-neck today, something that's easier for Spencer to grab and yank over his head. The t-shirt falls in the kitchen sink, with the nasty murky water because Jon doesn't live here to remind them than there's a dishwasher.
Ryan doesn't care. He can slide his hands into Spencer's sweats, wrap his fingers around his cock, and he can jerk him off. The buzzing is almost painful, but it feels better, just a little, when he brushes his lips over Spencer's jaw, scratching his mouth against Spencer's beard.
"Tell me what happened with Jon, Ry," Spencer gasps, bucking into Ryan's hand, and he nods. The small impulse of this isn't right is there, but the need for this makes it hard to ignore. He just wants now, needs to feel Spencer jerking in his grip and he can't help but press his hand over his own cock.
"We just started kissing," he gasps, and his pants are too tight, Spencer too hot. He feels like he's suffocating slowly. The counter is digging into his back, but he doesn't care. "He ripped my shirt."
Spencer nods and he bites at Ryan's mouth, at his chin. It's sloppy and painful, and Ryan doesn't care. He keeps his fist sliding over Spencer, using his thumb to slide some precome down, so the pace is easier. Spencer groans, sucking his stomach in.
"Why didn't you just fuck him?" Spencer asks, and his voice breaks on "fuck," and it may be the hottest thing Ryan's heard.
"Because, it's not right," he murmurs, and it sounds wrong to say, but it's not what he wants. "It's not exactly."
"Yeah," Spencer says, before he moves one hand down, unzipping Ryan's pants and pulling him out. He licks his palm, and Ryan tips his head back and groans. "Like you're too skinny," he whispers, before he wraps his wet, wet hand around Ryan's cock. It's tight, good, and Spencer twists his hand on the upstroke.
Ryan groans. "Too tall," he murmurs when he goes to bite at Spencer's lips, stretch the bottom one between his teeth. The part of him that makes him think that this isn't right doesn't want to tip his head up to kiss.
Spencer squeezes his hand, and he growls when Ryan stop, pressing his hand against the underside of his cock, against the ridge. "I want to see you and Jon, like this."
And that's--that's good, the image of Spencer watching Jon and Ryan rip at each other's clothes because they're too desperate to stop. For a split second, he can see in his mind's eye, Spencer's face as he watched them, Jon squirming beneath him. Maybe Brendon would be there, watching his wide-dark eyes, maybe with his mouth stretched over Spencer's cock and that's it. That's enough. He's coming then, sticky over Spencer's hand, and he can't keep kissing Spencer, panting hard against his jaw.
Spencer's still hard in his hand, and he looks up at Spencer, when he's come down. His hand is lazy now, even if the itch is just barely sated. Spencer wraps his sticky hand around Ryan's, wrapping their fingers together, and his eyes stay on Ryan as he jerks himself off like that, taking control of Ryan's hand. He only closes them when he comes, and it's quiet, just a hissed breath and panting.
Ryan wonders briefly what would make Spencer completely lose it, shake apart and groan as he comes, but then it's like the switch is flipped again. He looks at Spencer, and the come that's all over both their hands, and Spencer stares at him.
"I'm going to go clean up in the bathroom," he says, and Spencer nods, turning on the kitchen sink for his own hands. Ryan's v-neck is still in the water, draped on a few dirty plates, but Spencer doesn't move to take it out. It's probably ruined anyway. "I'm borrowing something, too," he calls before he runs up the stairs.
***
Ryan doesn't mean to put on one of Brendon's shirts, but he's past the point where he can tolerate wearing Spencer's. Right now, it feels weird, like anyone will look at him and just know he and Spencer fucked around in the living room, and they talked about Jon and it's all just such a mess.
Brendon's shirts still fit, except that Brendon's room is pretty much the same as it always was. There are two rumpled laundry baskets, and then clothes all over the floor. He knows the shit on the floor is dirty to the point that Brendon won't wear anymore. The laundry baskets are kind of hit or miss, though. Brendon has a system, of course, but all the shirts are either washed and not folded, or worn at least once.
He makes a face, but he picks out one of Brendon's t-shirts. It looks like he's barely worn it, but Ryan sniffs it just to be safe.
It's a mistake. He sniffs the shirt, and the tingling is back. The burning under his skin is worse now, like the thing downstairs with Spencer never happened. He's hard like he didn't come ten minutes ago, and it hurts.
Ryan drops the shirt in the laundry basket again and runs back into Spencer's. The blue Bears t-shirt is much too big for him, but he doesn't care. It's too big, and he thinks Spencer's been wearing it to bed, but it doesn't make his damn fingernails itch.
Except that now that he's smelled Brendon's shirt, all he wants is Brendon. It's enough to make his toes curl. He has to leave.
"Spence, I'm booking," he calls as he thunders down the stairs into the hallway.
He doesn't see Spencer, but he sees Shane and Brendon standing next to the chocolates they left open. Ryan knows he needs to run. He's ready for something else already, and Shane and Brendon are both chewing.
Shane waves to him first, and he swallows easily. "Ryan, I didn't know you were coming over."
Ryan feels rooted to the ground then, just as Brendon turns and looks at him. He's still in his wet suit, hair still wet from the water. He probably has sand in it, and Ryan's fingers itch to touch and see.
"I was checking something with Spence. I'm gonna leave, though. Jon's at home," Ryan says, but his voice is far away as he stares at Brendon. His skin feels like it's on fire.
Brendon wrinkles his nose a little, like he's hit the weird taste in the chocolate. "You brought candy," he says, voice husky.
"It's not very good," he whispers back. His face feels flushed.
"I've had worse," Brendon says. He's staring at Ryan, eyes dark. He's biting his bottom lip.
Shane wrinkles his nose. "It taste like perfume, Brendon." And he tosses the box in the garbage, like it's nothing. He doesn't seem bothered by it. "Why did you even buy them, Ryan?"
Ryan shakes his head. He can't talk. He feels like, if he moves, something in the moment will shatter. He can see Brendon starting to get hard through his wetsuit, and he hasn't even done anything.
He gasps a little, when he sees it, and that's enough. Brendon shifts, stepping like he's going to walk up next to Ryan.
And Ryan runs, runs up the stairs. He knows that he won't escape Brendon. His legs are longer, but Brendon works out. He runs and surfs and doesn't usually party until three am. He doesn't think he'll get far, but he doesn't want to flash Shane. That's the only thing that passes through his mind.
Brendon catches his ankle on the stair, and he trips, sliding a little, and then Brendon's on top of him. He doesn't give Ryan a chance to say anything, just pushes him down and kisses his open mouth, his tongue pushing in over Ryan's.
He's damp all over, and the wetsuit is cold, but Ryan doesn't care. He wraps an arm around Brendon's neck and pulls him close, letting Brendon push him down against the stairs. He has brush burn on his palm and there's water seeping into his clothes, but he doesn't care.
He doesn't care when Brendon starts biting him, at his neck and sucking hard on his skin. There will be marks in the morning, and they're too high to hide. Brendon's everywhere and Ryan loves it. Everything has come together, the tingling in his mouth and fingers feeling less and less every time he touches Brendon or Brendon touches him.
Brendon bites hard at his bottom lip, and he has his hands wrapped around Ryan's wrists. "I'm still mad at you," he says, before he bites at Ryan's mouth again, and this time he misses, catches his chin.
Ryan hisses in pain and bucks up against Brendon. His clothes don't smell like Spencer anymore, what happened before. Instead it's all Brendon, the saltwater from his wetsuit and the weird coconut smell of his surfing wax. There's nothing in Ryan's house that smells like that, just weed and Eric's cooking experiments and Alex's laundry, unless Jon is there and it all smells like lysol.
He missed the filmy feel of drying salt water. Ryan tries to say it, but all that comes out, as Brendon tightens his grip and pulls on Ryan's earlobe with his teeth, is a whimper and a whispered, "I know. Me too." And then he breathes, and "I miss you" slips out from between his lips. It fills the hallways like steam, and that makes Brendon pull back.
Brendon doesn't let go of Ryan's wrists.
His eyes are clearer than Ryan's head feels, and Ryan wonders if maybe the chocolate told him to go to Brendon, but Brendon's told him to go to someone else. He freezes up at the thought.
"I'm not fucking you on the stairs," Brendon whispers before he climbs off of Ryan all together. He has to let one wrist go, but he holds the left one tight enough to bruise. Ryan can't pretend he doesn't like it, that he doesn't have a flash of Brendon tying him down and doing exactly as he wants.
"Okay," Ryan says, like that's that. He lets Brendon pull him up into his room, where there's clothes all over the floor, in baskets, and everything smells like Brendon. It's overwhelming and heady, and he kisses Brendon again because he can't help himself.
His free hand scratches at the wetsuit, and he whimpers, actually whimpers like he's in pain, before he says, "Off, off, off."
Brendon laughs and guides Ryan's hand to the zipper in the back, where it's hidden so no one can undo it accidentally, and Ryan can't stop himself. He tangles his fingers with Brendon's and tries to pull his hand back. He wants to taste Brendon's hands suddenly, the way they probably taste like car and cigarettes, maybe a little bit like the ocean still.
Brendon laughs, just a little, before Ryan takes his first two fingers into his mouth, and then he just whispers, "Shit, Ryan." Ryan can't help but look at Brendon's face as he does it, as he wraps his tongue around the pads of his fingers, so he can see Brendon's eyes go darker, widen just a bit more, and then he's pushing Ryan back, onto the bed.
Ryan would be jealous of how fast Brendon manages to get out of his wetsuit, pulling it down off his chest and then down his legs, but he can't. He doesn't care. He can't concentrate on anything besides the way Brendon is watching him with his eyes dark and half-lidded. He doesn't care how easy it is for Brendon to get naked, just that Brendon is naked.
He doesn't know what happened to Spencer's t-shirt, or what happened to his pants. He knows that he was damp before, but his skin felt hot enough to make them steam, like rain on sun-fried asphalt. That didn't happen, of course it didn't happen, but he's naked, and Brendon's hands are all over him: on his stomach, on his cock, on the insides of his thighs.
Ryan almost chokes on his tongue when Brendon scratches up his leg, up to where his knuckles brush over Ryan's balls and then so close to his hole that he bucks off the bed. He hadn't thought about it before, not really, but he knows now that it's exactly what he wants. He wants Brendon, he wants Brendon and when he's had Brendon, the burning will stop.
But he feels empty, cold, and he didn't realize that was there, not until Brendon's trying to push a finger inside with his other hand digging around behind his mattress. "Please," Ryan begs, and he doesn't care that it burns, doesn't care that there's no lube at all, just the little bit of wet left from Ryan's tongue.
"Shit, shit, shit," Brendon gasps, and he presses his head against Ryan's collarbone. "We need, Ry--We have to have."
"Don't care, don't care, please." Ryan tries to buck his hips up, to get Brendon's finger in deeper, and he cries out when Brendon pulls his hand back completely, going up on his knees and scrambling back.
"Ryan, sh, sh," he whispers, and his voice is strangled. Ryan doesn't know how he's able to keep in control. He wishes Brendon would lose control.
Except then Brendon finds the lube, and Ryan can hear the crinkle of an open condom wrapper. "Now, now," he whispers, and then Brendon's back, slick fingers pushing into Ryan.
It's been a long time since he's been fucked, since before the band split down the center, and he's tight. Brendon's gentler now than he was before, but Ryan knows it's could be gentler, that they could take more time. He doesn't want that, though, just wants Brendon inside and fucking him.
"Brendon," he whines when Brendon adds a third finger. Three is totally unnecessary. He needs Brendon. His skin is burning from the inside.
"Hang on, hang on," Brendon keeps saying, with his fingers too-slowly stretching. The burn fades, and it's almost right, almost exactly what he wants, before Brendon pulls his fingers away all together. Ryan can hear him squeezing more lube out, slick sounds of it over his cock, and he rubs a little more around Ryan's hole.
And then, finally, finally, he pushes in. He's still too slow; Ryan still arches his hips for more, still wants it to be faster, more brutal, and he hates that Brendon still has some control, that he can keep a rhythm going while he's biting savagely at Ryan's lips. He think he might taste blood, but Brendon doesn't shy away.
Ryan can feel the heat building in his gut, the way everything goes crystal sharp around the edges. Brendon's fingers are caging around his hips, pulling him up so he can push in. Ryan doesn't know when Brendon--Brendon who used to strain muscles carrying guitar cases--got strong enough to do that, when he could lift Ryan like he was a rag doll and just pummel into him.
He can feel the strain of it in his back, and the mattress is hitting the wall in the same rhythm as Brendon's fucking him, just a beat behind. It's lower than then slap of their flesh meeting, like a bad harmony, and he wants to laugh, but then Brendon is biting down on his neck.
That's the thing that sends him slamming into those crystal edges and coming messy over his own stomach and a little onto Brendon's. "Shit, I didn't--" Brendon murmurs, and he shakes his head. He keeps fucking Ryan.
Ryan hates being touched right after an orgasm, needs to scramble away, but this time, he can't help but lie there. He's dead weight in Brendon's hands now, but Brendon just keeps fucking him, with Ryan clenching weakly around him.
He doesn't know why Brendon hasn't come, doesn't want to know why. It's like they're animals at this point, rutting against each other. Ryan's control comes back in stages, and he does his best to keep the pace going. Brendon's sweating all over him, his eyes bright and face flushed. He hasn't faltered, hasn't even hesitated, since Ryan came, and again, Ryan has to wonder when that changed. He remembers listening to Brendon jerk off in the bunks, how it was barely a minute, sometimes two, before he was gasping and groaning into his pillow, when everything would go quiet.
Now, though, now it has to have been five minutes, maybe seven, and Brendon's still going. Ryan's cock twitches when Brendon drags over his prostate, and he can't get hard again. It's been under an hour, maybe ninety minutes, and even at fifteen, he couldn't have done it. His body wants to, and he gasps out in pain that's not entirely good. "Please," he says, "Brendon, you have to--"
Brendon nods, even though he can't know what Ryan was about to say, and then he lowers his head, sweat beading from his bangs onto Ryan's neck and collar, and, fuck, he wants to get hard over that. (Ryan swears to god that he is never eating chocolate again.)
It's a surprise when Brendon comes, and it's a moment of complete stillness. His fingers flex on Ryan's hips, squeezing so tight that Ryan knows he'll bruise, and he pants out this low, low groan. Ryan can feel the way his cock spasms inside, or at least he thinks he does, and he's almost ready to pass out from the overstimulation, from the feeling of finally, finally, finally. Then Brendon pulls out and cleans up enough that he can pull Ryan close.
Ryan shouldn't let him. Brendon's like a personal furnace, and he's already going to wake up sticky and disgusting from lube. There's nothing he can do about it now, though, not when he's dropping into sleep before Brendon can pull the sheets over them.
***
He wakes up to someone humming, and he thinks he might be able to hear the ocean from the open window. Only one of those things is true, but it's enough to make him crack an eye open and see Brendon's shit strew all over the floor.
"Fuck," he murmurs. He wants to sit up, but his head feels like it's been loaded with sand while the rest of his body doesn't have bones. It's like no hangover he's ever had.
"What happened?" Brendon's across the room, sitting with his legs crossed. He has his iPhone out, but he doesn't look like he's doing anything more than turning it over and over in his hands. He looks a little stricken, and Ryan tries not to stare at the marks on Brendon's neck, the scratches on his arms.
"I think there was something in the chocolate," Ryan whispers. He gathers the sheets up around his waist, even though Brendon's still naked and there's really no point now.
"What the fuck?" Brendon sighs. "What, like it was sex drugs or something? Or like--"
"I don't know," Ryan says, and he rubs his eyes. He thinks it might almost be dawn from the light filtering in through Brendon's curtains. It's a pretty neat trick, considering it was almost dinner time when he saw Brendon and Shane in the kitchen.
"I should go," Ryan says, because he's suddenly aware that he's in Brendon's bed, with marks from Brendon's teeth all over his neck and shoulders. They haven't talked, not really, since after South Africa.
Brendon doesn't let him, getting out of the chair and sitting on the bed close to Ryan. "Oh, we are talking about this, Ross."
"There's nothing to talk about, Brendon," Ryan says, except that there is. That he wanted Brendon and only Brendon, no matter how much sex he had otherwise. Brendon only had two pieces, two in rapid succession, and that doesn't mean it was the same for him.
"Oh, I think there is," Brendon says carefully. He's not looking at Ryan. "Regan's car is outside on the driveway, and the windows are a little steamy, and I don't know where Spencer is. He won't answer his phone."
"I don't--"
"I happen to know for a fact that Regan and Shane are in that car, Ross," Brendon says, giving him a Look. "It's California. No windows stay that steamy for long, and I didn't really need a look at Shane's naked ass."
"So?"
"I also happen to know that Shane and Regan have been dating long enough that they've gotten over the whole sex-in-the-back-seat thing." Brendon taps his fingers off the sheet. "Shane said the chocolate tasted like perfume."
Ryan's throat feels dry. He knows what the chocolate tasted like for him, what it means now that he's had Brendon and has Brendon sitting in front of him. "So?" His voice is strained.
"I thought that the chocolate tasted like Easy Mac, kind of gritty, and like weed and cigarettes. Not perfume." Ryan's heart is pounding. He wants to throw up, and he doesn't understand what all of this means.
He doesn't want to understand.
"You should tell me what yours tasted like," Brendon says, not looking at Ryan now.
Ryan wrinkles his nose and tries to cover his face with a pillow. "Can we have sex again?" Ryan's pretty sure that his dick will fall off if he has sex again, has sex at all in the next twenty-four hours. He'd rather be a eunuch than talk about this.
"No, it's either you tell me this, or we go surfing, Ross, because both of my surfing buddies are a little busy apparently, and someone locked all three dogs in the downstairs bathroom." Brendon taps a finger against Ryan's leg, and Ryan's whole body feels that.
Ryan blinks, and he decides that he doesn't like Brendon's tone, how he's leading Ryan to a conclusion that makes him feel a little shaky and unsteady, like he's trying to stand in an old canoe without it capsizing.
"But if Shane went for Regan and Spencer went for who ever Spencer joneses for now, you went for me." Brendon licks his lips. "And I went for you."
Ryan blinks, and he tries to find a way to say that it's true and it's not, that he went for Jon and Spencer too, but they weren't exactly what he needed. There's no way to say that, and there's no hiding from the look in Brendon's eyes.
He just sighs, and he kisses Brendon. His mouth tastes like sleep, and Brendon's is minty fresh. "I'm going to need a wetsuit," he murmurs.
Brendon snorts, and he pinches Ryan's side. "Good. We can talk in the car on our way."
And he's gone, out of the room, before Ryan realizes that he's been had.