The Width of a Circle
Title: The Width of a Circle
Author: Telis (theaerosolkid)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Summary: 'An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted upon by an external and unbalanced force.' Patrick watches the pieces fall together.
Word Count: 6262
Disclaimer: Fake, fake, fake.
A/N: Thanks to __killingtime, softlyforgotten, and vertigoxcured for their various beta-help and cheerleading :)
1// we'll make them so jealous
"Sometimes," Brendon says slowly, "sometimes I think I can sing because he needs me to."
Patrick doesn't miss a beat, just keeps flipping through the dusty vinyls, waiting for more. Brendon's holding himself loosely now; but for the tension in his hands, he looks utterly at ease. He's a terrific showman, Patrick thinks, no breaking the fourth wall here. It's only from years of intimacy with Pete that he even knows how hard it is for Brendon to stand calmly, feigning interest in obscure records, pretending that he's spilling out the important parts of himself.
Brendon's the announcer. Ryan bleeds out emotion, to be crass about it, Patrick thinks. In that way, Ryan and Pete are similar. He and Brendon get to be the mouthpieces because they can be. Because they're needed.
"I know what you mean," Patrick says calmly. He pulls a record up, squints at it. "It's not so bad." Brendon stays perfectly still.
"Dude," he says, brightly, "I. Am starving. I'm gonna go get, like, some Twizzlers or something."
And just like that, bam!, introspection's over. Patrick chuckles a little bit. "Go ahead, I'm still looking." Brendon shrugs and heads out the door, snapping his fingers to a silent beat and humming something that sounds suspiciously like Somewhere Over the Rainbow.
If you weren't looking closely enough, Patrick thinks, you'd pass him off as an utter idiot. It's the first impression Brendon gives to almost anyone; he's loud and obnoxious and has almost no sense of personal space. He's like tree sap, touch him once and he won't ever leave. He prattles on and on and insists on the weirdest things. He never stops moving, he fidgets and shovels food in his mouth, bites at his lips and picks at his cuticles. He's got a raging case of ADHD, from all appearances, and enough charisma to pull it off.
All the same, though, there's a reason Brendon is the most musically proficient in the group. He plays the most instruments, and, truth be told, he's a better guitarist than Ryan. Patrick has no idea if Brendon can write music on his own (without Ryan) or if he can write lyrics on his own (without Ryan), but learning to play the cello because you've run out of competition in Guitar Hero speaks volumes. Most people would disregard Brendon because he's so full of manic energy, but he knows how to contain himself. He can be remarkably restrained when he wants to be, and he's certainly not a dimwit.
Patrick thinks it's possibly his favourite thing about Brendon, that the kid is so difficult, just for the sake of it. Brendon and Ryan have that in common.
2// we're like cars on a cable
They're shooting the video for "A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More 'Touch Me'" and Ryan's sitting off to the side with Patrick in between takes. The shoot's pretty involved and there's a lot of down time.
"No, but, really, it was a fucking feather boa," Ryan says, gesturing wildly. Patrick's laughing so hard his face hurts. "like, bright fucking neon pink. Christ. Trevor was pretty crazy."
"What happened?" Patrick asks. "He was in a band with you and Spence, right?"
"Yeah, we were the Summer League." Ryan shrugs. "It just wasn't really going anywhere. We just weren't really getting anything done. I mean, we all got together 'cause we all liked blink, but it was like, all of a sudden, Trevor's the only one who hasn't, like, grown. Expanded, you know? Graduated from blink-182 to, I don't know."
"Fall Out Boy?" Patrick teases, quirking an eyebrow. Ryan laughs.
"Yeah, pretty much. So we asked him if he had a problem with us putting together a new band, and he said he really couldn't make us stick together. So. That was that."
"Musical differences, huh?"
"Artistic license," Ryan snorts. "I don't know. Do I take this too seriously?"
Patrick shrugs. "I wouldn't know. I'm pretty serious, too, I guess. I mean. I can be. Not like Pete, though, he's kind of obsessed with this."
"With the band?" Ryan asks, intent.
"More than that," Patrick says, thinking. "It's like he. He knows he's got this charisma, right, and this way of seeing things and molding people. Ryan, when I met him I was a nobody. And not just 'cause I was in high school, right, I had no idea how to stick with things. I was writing songs in my basement and I didn't even know I could sing."
"How did that even start, you singing?" The story's been told a thousand times, but Patrick doubts that anyone's ever gotten it right.
"We were just sitting there," he says. "Just jamming, you know, playing Saves the Day and that was it. And he just looked at me and said that he needed to hear me sing. Like it was the most normal thing in the world, to tell someone you just met that you needed to hear them sing. So...I did."
"And the rest is history," Ryan finishes.
"I'd like to think that I've gotten better," Patrick says, "I mean, I didn't suck. I could sing live, when the stage fright didn't kill me. But, man, look at the first album, listen to my voice. Now listen to this last album we did. I'm kinda proud."
"You should be." Ryan stares at his hands. "I don't really care how this first record does. Or even the one after it. I just want us to grow, you know? I want us to not sound the same from song to song or from album to album. I don't want to be predictable."
"Predictable is not good," Patrick agrees.
"It was weird, when we got into the studio. Like, we started off really clear on the whole 'let's derive influences from dance and electronica', like 'let's do the Faint, but our way', and the back half of the record totally isn't like that."
"Yeah, that was kind of an interesting shift," Patrick rubs at his chin. "The lyrical style fits that structure a bit better, though. It's more theatrical, and it's tough to pull theatrical off with drum machines and electronic scales."
"I hope I don't run out of words," Ryan says, quiet.
"You won't," Patrick says with confidence.
"Do you ever worry that you'll run out of music?" he asks.
"No," Patrick says, and he's being honest. "There are times when it's hard to work, sure, but then you take a break. You breathe for a while and you go do something. You eat dinner or you go for a drive or you read a book or you watch a movie. And then the next time you sit down to write some music or some words, it's either a little easier or a little harder. If it's harder, you get back up and you go do something else for while. Repeat as needed." He's a little surprised with himself, at how quickly he's bonded with these boys. They're young and he's not normally so open with people he's not in a band with, but it's almost like they're his little siblings. He's invested in them, and not just from a 'these are my band's frontman's mini-mes' way. He cares.
Ryan's staring into the distance now. "It's Brendon's voice that makes it work, for us. We're like you guys, that way."
The non-sequiter doesn't bother Patrick. He knows that Ryan is on the cusp of figuring something out, and sometimes when you're in that place, you just need to talk to someone who will listen and not interrupt the flow.
Speaking of flow: "You think?"
"Yeah. You know, I emailed him the lyrics to Lying, asked him what he thought, like, quality-wise, and he said he just didn't want to sing them."
Patrick's a little surprised. "Really?"
"Yeah. He said they were pretty intense."
"Well." And, yeah.
"I think he didn't want to sound like a little kid singing grown-up music," Ryan muses. "Like, it wasn't something he'd gone through, the whole cheating girlfriend thing. And he didn't want people laughing about a seventeen year old kid singing that he's better in bed or whatever."
Patrick hesitates. "How did you get him to, you know, sing? If he was so dead set against it?"
"I asked him to."
3// there are signs that can't be learned
A few months later, when the three of them go to ask Jon to join Panic! on tour, William Beckett insists that if they want him, they'll have to fight for him! To the death! Or at least until they get bored, anyway, and that's how Ryan ends up wrestling with Beckett on the somewhat questionable floor of the Academy's bus.
Ryan wins, of course, because he can be a vicious little fucker when he wants, and in exuberant celebration, Brendon kisses him squarely on the mouth, holding him tight, before bouncing off to their own bus, on a mission to find some goddamn Skittles.
Jon's probably the only one who notices that Ryan doesn't stop touching his long, graceful fingers to his lips for the rest of the night, and he mentions as much to Patrick the next morning on the phone.
4// god bless catastrophe
Patrick's standing off to the side at the funeral of George Ross, wondering what's going through Ryan's head right now. Ryan is sitting, not next to his relatives, but rather with his family; between Brendon and Spencer. Brendon's got an arm around Ryan's shoulders, the other hand resting lightly on Ryan's forearm. Spencer's just sitting there, stone-faced as usual.
Patrick remembers meeting Ryan's father; he'd been tall. Like, Travis tall, easily a foot taller than Patrick. Unlike his son, he was broad and muscular, though a good deal of that muscle had given way to fat.
"Rock 'n' roll, huh?" he'd said jovially. "Gotta tell you, I was so sure those kids'd end up dead in an alleyway somewhere in California. Giving up college, that scholarship. The record's doing good, though, right?" Patrick wasn't comfortable in this situation, this was Pete's deal, not his, but he nodded.
"Yeah, you should be really proud," he mumbled out.
"I am," George said steadily. "I thought he was making the biggest mistake of his life, when he told me he was dropping out. Pissed me off that he wouldn't listen." Ryan was still standing there, silent. "How about you? Waited until after college?"
"Uh, not exactly. I started touring when I was fifteen, actually, never went to college," Patrick said.
"Goddamn. That's young."
"Guess so."
"Can I get you something to drink? Beer, scotch, bourbon?"
"Uh, no, I'm good, thanks." George had turned to his son expectantly, and Ryan shook his head minutely. George scoffed.
"Some fuckin' rock star," he muttered, good temper gone. Ryan had stared at his father coolly, and Patrick shifted his weight around, uneasy. George stumbled into the kitchen, and Patrick heard the click-pop-hiss of a can of beer opening. Ryan flinched at the sound.
Patrick wished, wildly, briefly, that he could erase that little wince, erase the years that conditioned that wince into Ryan; go deep and erase all the scars. He forced normal behaviour on himself, though, following Ryan's lead. He waited for Ryan's cue to leave, and did his best to make normal conversation until that time.
"I was surprised," George said, calmed with half a beer in his stomach. "The record's pretty damn good. I like it. That fifth song's got a real nice ring to it, whassit called again?"
"Camisado," Ryan responded, the first time he'd spoken outside of introductions. Patrick wondered (still wonders) if George Ross knew that his favourite song was written about him, written in anger and shame and resignation.
"Got a good chorus," George continued. "You boys did well."
"Thanks, Dad," Ryan said. "Patrick and I are going to leave now, all right?" George raised his beer in salute, and didn't watch them leave, though Patrick could swear he heard the opening of 'Nails for Breakfast, Tacks for Snacks' start up as the door slammed shut, and thought that perhaps George Ross knew and, possibly, understood a hell of a lot more than he was letting on.
It's this thought that sticks with Patrick as he watches Brendon rub his hands in slow careful circles against Ryan's back. The real tragedy here isn't that George Ross is dead, but rather that his Ryan was getting to that point where he could confront his father instead of writing cryptic stories into lyrics, and before he managed to sit down and talk, really talk, his father happened to drink himself to death. Patrick wonders if maybe George did it on purpose - if maybe the shame that pushed Ryan so hard was an inherited trait; if George maybe hated himself more than Ryan ever could.
Patrick watches, as they lower the casket, as the light rain fades away and Ryan squeezes Brendon's arm, smiling once, quick, eyes locked with Brendon's, and he stops worrying, abruptly, easily.
5// to my own beat now; the only way i know
Pete's excited about the special edition release of The Nightmare Before Christmas, and even more excited that Disney deemed Fall Out Boy an appropriate choice to cover a song of their choosing from the original soundtrack. When Ryan finds out that Panic! have been invited to do the same, the whole band calls Patrick on speakerphone and talk rapidly, excitedly, about all their billions of ideas, what they could do with just one song.
"This is cool," Jon says. Patrick can hear his grin, practically. "They didn't offer this to us 'cause we're Fall Out Boy's little brother band or whatever. This is something we got on our own."
Someone else might've found it offensive that the newcomer would come right out and insinuate like that that most of Panic!'s success is due to Fall Out Boy, and for a moment Patrick tenses up, preparing for something unpleasant, but all he hears is laughter, on both sides of the conversation.
"So which song?" Patrick asks, and there's a sudden silence on the other end.
"We can't pick," Ryan admits. "What's everyone else doing?"
"We're gonna do 'What's This?', and I know that She Wants Revenge is doing 'Kidnap the Sandy Claws'. Marilyn Manson's doing something, I don't know, he's been really secretive, and Fiona Apple's going to do 'Sally's Song'. Does that help you at all?"
"Well," Spencer begins, and then pauses. "How much creative control are we looking at, here? Is Disney or Touchstone or whoever gonna barge in and play producer? 'Cause if so, we're out."
"I don't think so," Patrick says. "We finished doing ours a couple days ago, sent it over, and they haven't called us to say anything or whatever. We pretty much recorded it and sent it over, end of story." They fall silent again, thinking, and Patrick can hear the cli-cli-click of an iPod scroll wheel turning.
"Got the tracklist right here," Brendon announces, breaking the silence. "'Jack's Lament'? I liked that one, always."
"Yeah," Ryan says slowly. "But it gives us a little less to work with. That song's mostly just a character piece."
"Hey, the 'Town Meeting Song' was always fun," Jon offers.
"Do you really want to try dealing with that many different voices?" Spencer asks.
"Fuck it," Brendon says cheerfully. "We'll do the Overture, record the whole goddamn mess on a keyboard."
A pause. "Actually," Ryan says. "Why not do 'This Is Halloween'?"
"Same thing with the characters," Jon points out.
"Not really," Ryan argues, and Patrick wonders if he should hang up. Clearly, this is a band conversation, now, and he's not going to be asked for his input again. But Ryan keeps talking, and Patrick's interested, so he stays on the line. "Town Meeting tells a story. This Is Halloween is just kind of an introduction, really, it doesn't need all the different characters to interact, the movie just used all the characters to show off how good they were at stop-motion."
"Yeah," Brendon bursts in. "The opening of the movie, it's really visual, they were trying to wow you from the start, and what's more awesome than having all of Halloweentown running around all singing together?"
"But we don't have to do it that way," Jon says, realization dawning. "We can just fuck around with vocal effects, make it really creepy-sounding and shit."
"I kind of don't want to throw a bunch of synth lines at it," Ryan says, somewhat reluctantly. "That's what everyone'll be expecting us to do, make it really fast and hard and dancey. But I'd rather do something more orchestral."
"It's hard to fuck up Danny Elfman," Spencer says practically. "Guys, we are going to kick this thing's ass."
Before they send it off to Disney, Ryan emails an mp3 of the finished cover to Patrick. He likes it, more than he thought he would. It's dark, moody, atmospheric; it sounds like the boys have been branching out, musically. It's a lot more mature than you might expect from a bunch of kids barely out of high school, even kids as musically experienced as that quartet.
When the thing finally comes out, Patrick glances down and sees that there are two covers of 'This Is Halloween'. Huh. Spencer calls that night from the road, and tells Patrick about Ryan pitching a hissy-fit over the lack of coordination regarding the special edition soundtrack.
"Diva," Spencer says affectionately. "He and Brendon are fucking around in GarageBand right now, playing with 'Jack's Lament', I think they're going to finish it off and accidentally let it leak onto the livejournal community."
Patrick laughs. "Whatever makes you guys happy, I guess."
"They're having a good time with it," Spencer says. "Any excuse Ryan can use to get Brendon to sing, you know."
6// to crash and burn and then return again
It's after the VMAs, and Patrick is talking with Spencer about Brendon and Ryan in low voices. They're not together, not yet, not exactly, but it's clear to anyone watching closely enough where they're heading. Brendon's kissing Ryan's cheek onstage because he loves it so much when Ryan kisses his mouth softly, backstage, away from almost every prying eye that might judge or categorize. They're drawing closer every week, have been for a long time.
"I don't know," Spencer confesses. "They're actually sort of…adorable."
"Are you nervous they're going to fuck up the band?" Patrick asks, and Spencer pauses.
"Yes and no," he says carefully. "Part of me wants to be the good best friend and say, Hey, if you can find true love or whatever, then forget about the band - that's so much better. But the practical part of me has to say, Well, it's not that simple. We're not kids screwing around in our grandparents' basement, anymore. This is bigger."
"Yeah," Patrick agrees.
"For now," Spencer says, "I've decided that it's not worth worrying about. I'm going to take this one day at a time."
"Good philosophy," Patrick says. "Good way to keep breathing," and Spencer laughs a little.
"Man, you need some time off," he says, shaking his head. "That was practically Wentzian," and Patrick laughs ruefully. Brendon bounces up and throws his arms around Patrick, nuzzling furiously.
"Hiya, buddy!" he yells. "We just won a motherfucking VMA and my grandparents couldn't care less! Wanna help me forget about that disastrous phone call?"
"Sure," Spencer says easily. "Stop hanging all over Uncle Patrick, Brendon, go eat your vegetables or it's a time-out."
Brendon sticks his tongue out at Spencer and laughs. "God, this is weird."
"I know," Patrick says. "Just wait. It gets weirder."
7// i'm just like you, i'm wondering why
It does, actually.
And not the good, quirky kind of weird; it gets creepy. A particularly determined fan manages to somehow worm her way into the dressing room and accosts Ryan, begging for him to draw on her face, eyes wide and wild. It takes Brendon a few minutes before he notices that she's clutching a gun. There's still fear in his voice when he calls Patrick later that night.
"That was scary," he whispers.
"Yeah," Patrick says, heart racing. "What happened?"
A hard, sharp sigh. "I don't fucking know. I guess she flashed her tits or whatever and security let her in or something, I don't know, and that was just really freaky, okay?"
"What happened after you saw the gun?" Patrick clarifies.
"Oh!" There's a shuffling noise, and Brendon is talking in a low voice. He's probably tucked into his bunk. "Jon sort of sneaked up behind her and grabbed the back of her neck and got his hand to her wrist fast enough. She sort of struggled a little, and Ryan was freaking out. And, uh, I don't know, Zack hit her upside the head and she passed out. First aid came by, checked her out, took her to the local hospital. Really quietly, she didn't remember anything when she woke up. I guess Zack hit her a little harder than he meant to."
"Good thing," Patrick says. "Poor kid."
"She's my age," Brendon says, full of wonder. "Shit. I could've gone to school with her. We could've been in the same youth group, even. God."
"I'm sorry," Patrick says, and he is. "Is Ryan okay?"
"Yeah," Brendon says. "He was really quiet, like, scary-quiet, for a while there. I was worried."
"And now?"
"Now he and Jon are arguing about Phil Collins versus Peter Gabriel, I don't know." He sighs hard again, and Patrick hates the sound of it. It's a sound Brendon might not have made two years ago; a year ago, even. "I think I'm going to try and get some sleep, now, okay?"
"Liar," Patrick says. He knows what that sound means.
"I know," Brendon says tiredly. "I can never sleep until he does."
8// silhouetted and ready to bloom
"Seen Tom's pictures yet?" Jon asked casually, leaning back against the doorframe. Patrick glanced up at him.
"No, why?" In response, Jon reaches into his back pocket and withdraws a photograph, holds it out for Patrick. It's of Brendon and Ryan, of course. They're sitting at the table in the tiny bus kitchenette; it's breakfast and they're both in pajamas. Ryan's not even wearing any makeup and Brendon's still wearing his glasses. Their hands are gently clasped and Brendon's eyes are closed behind the soft glare of the lenses. Ryan's leaning in, his lips puckered and pressed lightly to the tip of Brendon's nose, a smile quirking at his eyes.
"That's one that you won't see on the website," he says quietly. Patrick's breath has been stolen, here. Despite the fact that Zack is in the background pouring coffee and Spencer is curled up with a slender book right next to them and he can see the edges of a familiar pair of denim-covered knees at Brendon's back it looks so intimate. The two of them.
"Well, shit."
"So, that's that," Jon says with an air of finality.
"Fair enough," Patrick says agreeably.
9// we're connected, connected
Patrick drives up to the cabin ("Pornocabin!" Brendon yells over the phone, and he can hear the rest of the band choking back laughter in the background) to go visit them, listen to the four completed demos they've got. This time last year they would've burnt a copy and sent it to him or even just emailed the files directly, but they've gotten smarter. They're not going to let any of the music out until they're good and ready.
On the drive up, Patrick listens to the completed version of 'Jack's Lament' that Brendon and Ryan finished a few months ago. It's good, solid. Brendon's voice has grown a lot, it's so much stronger than it used to be, and Ryan's clearly learned to collaborate a little better.
"Hey," Patrick says, sliding out of the seat. Jon is sitting cross-legged on the front porch, idly strumming an acoustic guitar, shirtless and barefoot despite the biting cold, wearing only a pair of worn grey sweatpants. He nods in salute.
"Hiya, Patrick," he sings along with the guitar, grinning wide beneath his beard. The chords he's playing start sounding like 'Paint it Black'. "You're just in time for pancakes, Spencer's making them, I don't know where the fuck Brendon and Ryan are."
"Slippery?" Patrick asks, looking up at Jon as he ascends the stairs, squinting into the sun.
"You have no idea," Jon sings cheerfully, shifting easily to 'When I'm 64'. "It's nice to play something that's not on that goddamn album, anyway, we're making good progress."
"Good to hear," Patrick says, settling down beside Jon.
"Brendon's learning to play the tin whistle," Jon says casually, and the song's something unrecognizable, now, but it's shifted.
"Is it going to show up on the record?" Patrick asks, gaze fixed on Jon's fingers, sliding down the neck of the guitar, searching aimlessly for the right melody.
"Here's hoping. I like how it's sounding, but we'd like to be able to do it live, you know. Depends on the timing of the song and whether or not Ryan and I can carry the vocals when Brendon's playing or catching his breath or whatever." Jon shrugs, and slides into 'Wildflowers', casually.
"Food!" Spencer yells from inside. Jon smacks his palm flat against the strings, halting the music, standing and smiling. Patrick follows Jon into the kitchen. Through the doorway, he can see Brendon and Ryan stretched out on the couch. Ryan's asleep in Brendon's arms, and Brendon - frenetic, hyperactive Brendon who can't even stay still while he dreams - is cradling him, watching him sleep intently.
Patrick is reminded of the photograph Jon had shown him. Except - they're more at ease with each other here; there's a sense that they know each other beyond the fumblings of first-times. It's so sweet that all he can think about is getting the hell out of there, right now, because he knows that the sort of privacy their relationship craves and thrives on is rare and while Patrick is a welcome intruder, he is an intruder nonetheless.
"Food, assholes," Spencer says again, standing on tip-toes to reach the syrup in the cupboard. Patrick's eyes flick back to Brendon and Ryan. Brendon's pressing his mouth gently to the curve of Ryan's neck, nuzzling at his ear, murmuring something. Ryan awakens gradually, and shifts onto his back, remaining in the loose circle of Brendon's arms and tilting his jaw to gaze up at Brendon, lips curling up in a slow, sleepy smile before kissing him, wrapping long thin arms around his neck before they stand, almost in unison, and shuffle over to the kitchen table, holding hands.
"Hi," Brendon says, settling down next to Ryan, not bothering to go of his hand, reaching with a fork at the plate of pancakes in the middle of the table with his left hand, dropping them gracelessly to his own plate before nimbly stealing the butter from Spencer, who tsks but lets him.
"How've you been?" Patrick asks, grabbing at a random glass full of milk, hoping it's meant for him.
"Good. Been learning the tin whistle. It's fun." Brendon speaks quickly, wolfing down his food, not meeting Patrick's eyes.
Ryan smiles a little, hunches his shoulders and tugs his hand free. "Thanks for coming," he says. "You didn't have to, I know you're busy."
Patrick waves him off. "Nah. I'm interested, you guys know that." Ryan reaches below the table and pulls forth his laptop, and opens it.
"Jesus, Ryan, let the poor guy eat," Jon says, his mouth stuffed full, muffling his words. Ryan rolls his eyes and boots up the computer anyway. Brendon rubs his fingers across the back of Ryan's neck, and Ryan shrugs, crossing his arm over the keyboard before helping himself to pancakes.
"Spence, you need to learn how to cook something other than breakfast food," he gripes. Spencer snorts.
"You need to learn how to cook at all, Ross," he shoots back, flicking a stray crumb across the table.
"I make killer grilled cheese sandwiches," Brendon offers, wiping at his mouth before gulping from Ryan's milk glass.
"Smoothie day tomorrow!" Jon crows, taking the last pancake.
"Fuck, no," Brendon moans. "We're out of mangos, anyway."
"We still have strawberries, bananas, and about a billion oranges, dumbass," Spencer says smugly.
"Honour the fucking tradition," Ryan says, delicately licking syrup from his long, gracefully angled fingers. Brendon stares, comically transfixed for a moment, then clears his throat and seizes Ryan's wrist, pulling his hand up to his mouth, sucking at a glob of syrup at the side of Ryan's thumb, giving loud exaggerated moans of pleasure. Ryan throws his head back in laughter, squirming a little in his seat. Jon snorts into his milk and Spencer rolls his eyes, but there's no mistaking the grin on his face.
Later, when Patrick listens to the demos, they all crowd around him on the couch. Ryan sprawls in Brendon's lap, easily, like he belongs there. Patrick supposes he does. They sort of match with the new music; thick and layered, deliberate. They way they'd moved in towards one another had been so slow, so careful, and Patrick felt strangely, obscurely grateful that he'd been allowed to witness the odd gravitational pull they exerted upon each other. He doesn't know it, but Jon and Spencer feel the same way, proud and thankful, as cheesy and corny and ridiculous though the sentiment may be. It's real.
10// and you say we're too young; maybe you're too old to remember
"Hey," Brendon mumbles as Ryan stirs. "Whassup?" It's late, and Ryan woke him up with his tossing and turning.
"Do you really think he liked the demos?" Ryan asks, intent. Brendon blinks hard, clearing sleep away from his eyes.
"Uhm," he manages. "I- yeah, why would he lie?"
"Do you think he left really fast?" Ryan asks, propping himself up on his elbows, wriggling away from Brendon's embrace.
"No," Brendon yawned. "He came to listen to some music, that's it. Dude, he probably had shit to do."
"You don't think we made him. Uncomfortable?"
"Why would we?" Brendon says, confused.
"I just- I don't know." Ryan starts pulling at a hangnail, a stupid habit he picked up from Brendon. "I just. I think he would've stayed longer if we hadn't been, like, hanging all over each other."
"Nah," Brendon says, laying his hands over Ryan's. "I think he just wanted to give us some time as a group, you know. The four of us. I don't think it had anything to do with you and me, you know."
"Okay," Ryan says hesitantly. Brendon leans in and kisses him, and Ryan opens for him immediately, wanting it. Not breaking contact, Ryan rolls over onto his back, holding Brendon's jaw with his fingertips, delicately, stroking the firm line of the bone. Brendon bites his bottom lip gently, tugging at it with his teeth, and Ryan curls up into him as Brendon slides a hand down to Ryan's pajama pants and slips fingers into the waistband, knuckles pressing against Ryan's hipbones.
Ryan sighs softly, letting his head drop back against the pillows, wrapping long legs high around Brendon's waist, grinding up into him. Brendon sucks in a sharp breath, feeling Ryan hard against him.
"I want-" Ryan gasps, and Brendon cuts him off with another hard kiss.
"I know," he breathes into Ryan's mouth, and he's right. Rhythm is theirs now. Brendon fumbles at the nightstand for lube, slides down the long thin lines of Ryan's body, pins his hips to the bed and pushes his pants down to his ankles, sucking the tip of Ryan's cock into his mouth. Ryan whines low in his throat and Brendon chuckles, taking him deeper.
Ryan didn't even notice that Brendon's hands left his hips, but they must have because now he's feeling two slick fingers probing at his entrance, teasing at the tight ring of muscle before sliding in, just the tips, pulling out quickly, keeping him on edge. Ryan bucks up to Brendon's mouth, pushes back down onto Brendon's fingers, curling loosely, pushing just the curve of knuckle past weakening resistance, spreading inside him, the stretch and burn of it delicious, almost.
He can't even look, can't look down and see Brendon's thick swollen lips stretched around his cock, cheeks flushed and the soft sweep of his eyelashes fluttering as he works, because if he does it'll be over and he doesn't want that, he wants more, he wants Brendon inside him, as deep as he can take him.
Brendon pulls off, huffs out a soft laugh, and goes back to swirling his tongue just under the ridge, sucking him in farther, harder now, pushing more of his fingers into Ryan. Ryan rolls his hips helplessly, searching for moremoremore, and Brendon strokes inside, hard, suddenly, liking the harsh arch of Ryan's back as he chokes out a muffled cry.
"Brendon," he gasps, and Brendon pulls away, pushes their pants away, rubs a spare thin layer of lube over his cock, rolls Ryan over to his belly, pulling him up to hands and knees.
"Okay?" Brendon murmurs against the back of his neck. "This is all right? Yeah?"
"Just-" Ryan groans, and Brendon pushes in, obligingly, strong hands gripping at his hips.
The first slide in is always the best, full and almost always rushed. This time it isn't, so much, Ryan's so stretched from Brendon's fingers that it's not quite as intense, more just settling in place. But then Brendon draws back, draws out, and when he pushes back in it's more like a slam, like Ryan is everything he wants and if he gets deep enough inside he'll stay there.
Ryan throws his head back and moans for it, "Harder, harder," chanting, almost, and Brendon lets out a low broken sob, dropping to stretch along Ryan's back, biting at the curve of his shoulder, thrusting into him almost viciously. Ryan reaches up to the headboard for support, leans his forehead against it, bracing against the jarring pace.
Brendon's breathing hot and hard against Ryan's skin now, slipping one nimble hand around the loop of his waist and taking his cock into his hand, stroking expertly, tilting his head up to lap at Ryan's ear, "Come on, come on, I want-" and that's when Ryan loses it, spasms and cries out and comes, wetting Brendon's hand. Brendon fucks him through it, mercilessly, doesn't waits for Ryan to catch his breath, and gratefully, Ryan clenches down hard around him, pushes back against Brendon.
It's not much longer after that, but Ryan drops flat to the bed anyway, working his hips back against Brendon's cock a little, but mostly just letting Brendon push him harder into the mattress with every thrust until he pulls out and comes over the spindly curve of Ryan's spine, collapsing to the side of him. Brendon takes in a shaky breath and strokes over Ryan's back, smearing his come. Ryan flops his head to the side, still breathing hard.
Brendon kisses him, more softly this time, before leaning over and lapping at the mess, cleaning him. He's almost tender. Almost. Maybe.
Ryan sighs and drifts off to sleep, letting Brendon drape himself over his sleeping form, burrowing them both under the covers.
Author: Telis (theaerosolkid)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Summary: 'An object at rest will remain at rest unless acted upon by an external and unbalanced force.' Patrick watches the pieces fall together.
Word Count: 6262
Disclaimer: Fake, fake, fake.
A/N: Thanks to __killingtime, softlyforgotten, and vertigoxcured for their various beta-help and cheerleading :)
1// we'll make them so jealous
"Sometimes," Brendon says slowly, "sometimes I think I can sing because he needs me to."
Patrick doesn't miss a beat, just keeps flipping through the dusty vinyls, waiting for more. Brendon's holding himself loosely now; but for the tension in his hands, he looks utterly at ease. He's a terrific showman, Patrick thinks, no breaking the fourth wall here. It's only from years of intimacy with Pete that he even knows how hard it is for Brendon to stand calmly, feigning interest in obscure records, pretending that he's spilling out the important parts of himself.
Brendon's the announcer. Ryan bleeds out emotion, to be crass about it, Patrick thinks. In that way, Ryan and Pete are similar. He and Brendon get to be the mouthpieces because they can be. Because they're needed.
"I know what you mean," Patrick says calmly. He pulls a record up, squints at it. "It's not so bad." Brendon stays perfectly still.
"Dude," he says, brightly, "I. Am starving. I'm gonna go get, like, some Twizzlers or something."
And just like that, bam!, introspection's over. Patrick chuckles a little bit. "Go ahead, I'm still looking." Brendon shrugs and heads out the door, snapping his fingers to a silent beat and humming something that sounds suspiciously like Somewhere Over the Rainbow.
If you weren't looking closely enough, Patrick thinks, you'd pass him off as an utter idiot. It's the first impression Brendon gives to almost anyone; he's loud and obnoxious and has almost no sense of personal space. He's like tree sap, touch him once and he won't ever leave. He prattles on and on and insists on the weirdest things. He never stops moving, he fidgets and shovels food in his mouth, bites at his lips and picks at his cuticles. He's got a raging case of ADHD, from all appearances, and enough charisma to pull it off.
All the same, though, there's a reason Brendon is the most musically proficient in the group. He plays the most instruments, and, truth be told, he's a better guitarist than Ryan. Patrick has no idea if Brendon can write music on his own (without Ryan) or if he can write lyrics on his own (without Ryan), but learning to play the cello because you've run out of competition in Guitar Hero speaks volumes. Most people would disregard Brendon because he's so full of manic energy, but he knows how to contain himself. He can be remarkably restrained when he wants to be, and he's certainly not a dimwit.
Patrick thinks it's possibly his favourite thing about Brendon, that the kid is so difficult, just for the sake of it. Brendon and Ryan have that in common.
2// we're like cars on a cable
They're shooting the video for "A Little Less Sixteen Candles, A Little More 'Touch Me'" and Ryan's sitting off to the side with Patrick in between takes. The shoot's pretty involved and there's a lot of down time.
"No, but, really, it was a fucking feather boa," Ryan says, gesturing wildly. Patrick's laughing so hard his face hurts. "like, bright fucking neon pink. Christ. Trevor was pretty crazy."
"What happened?" Patrick asks. "He was in a band with you and Spence, right?"
"Yeah, we were the Summer League." Ryan shrugs. "It just wasn't really going anywhere. We just weren't really getting anything done. I mean, we all got together 'cause we all liked blink, but it was like, all of a sudden, Trevor's the only one who hasn't, like, grown. Expanded, you know? Graduated from blink-182 to, I don't know."
"Fall Out Boy?" Patrick teases, quirking an eyebrow. Ryan laughs.
"Yeah, pretty much. So we asked him if he had a problem with us putting together a new band, and he said he really couldn't make us stick together. So. That was that."
"Musical differences, huh?"
"Artistic license," Ryan snorts. "I don't know. Do I take this too seriously?"
Patrick shrugs. "I wouldn't know. I'm pretty serious, too, I guess. I mean. I can be. Not like Pete, though, he's kind of obsessed with this."
"With the band?" Ryan asks, intent.
"More than that," Patrick says, thinking. "It's like he. He knows he's got this charisma, right, and this way of seeing things and molding people. Ryan, when I met him I was a nobody. And not just 'cause I was in high school, right, I had no idea how to stick with things. I was writing songs in my basement and I didn't even know I could sing."
"How did that even start, you singing?" The story's been told a thousand times, but Patrick doubts that anyone's ever gotten it right.
"We were just sitting there," he says. "Just jamming, you know, playing Saves the Day and that was it. And he just looked at me and said that he needed to hear me sing. Like it was the most normal thing in the world, to tell someone you just met that you needed to hear them sing. So...I did."
"And the rest is history," Ryan finishes.
"I'd like to think that I've gotten better," Patrick says, "I mean, I didn't suck. I could sing live, when the stage fright didn't kill me. But, man, look at the first album, listen to my voice. Now listen to this last album we did. I'm kinda proud."
"You should be." Ryan stares at his hands. "I don't really care how this first record does. Or even the one after it. I just want us to grow, you know? I want us to not sound the same from song to song or from album to album. I don't want to be predictable."
"Predictable is not good," Patrick agrees.
"It was weird, when we got into the studio. Like, we started off really clear on the whole 'let's derive influences from dance and electronica', like 'let's do the Faint, but our way', and the back half of the record totally isn't like that."
"Yeah, that was kind of an interesting shift," Patrick rubs at his chin. "The lyrical style fits that structure a bit better, though. It's more theatrical, and it's tough to pull theatrical off with drum machines and electronic scales."
"I hope I don't run out of words," Ryan says, quiet.
"You won't," Patrick says with confidence.
"Do you ever worry that you'll run out of music?" he asks.
"No," Patrick says, and he's being honest. "There are times when it's hard to work, sure, but then you take a break. You breathe for a while and you go do something. You eat dinner or you go for a drive or you read a book or you watch a movie. And then the next time you sit down to write some music or some words, it's either a little easier or a little harder. If it's harder, you get back up and you go do something else for while. Repeat as needed." He's a little surprised with himself, at how quickly he's bonded with these boys. They're young and he's not normally so open with people he's not in a band with, but it's almost like they're his little siblings. He's invested in them, and not just from a 'these are my band's frontman's mini-mes' way. He cares.
Ryan's staring into the distance now. "It's Brendon's voice that makes it work, for us. We're like you guys, that way."
The non-sequiter doesn't bother Patrick. He knows that Ryan is on the cusp of figuring something out, and sometimes when you're in that place, you just need to talk to someone who will listen and not interrupt the flow.
Speaking of flow: "You think?"
"Yeah. You know, I emailed him the lyrics to Lying, asked him what he thought, like, quality-wise, and he said he just didn't want to sing them."
Patrick's a little surprised. "Really?"
"Yeah. He said they were pretty intense."
"Well." And, yeah.
"I think he didn't want to sound like a little kid singing grown-up music," Ryan muses. "Like, it wasn't something he'd gone through, the whole cheating girlfriend thing. And he didn't want people laughing about a seventeen year old kid singing that he's better in bed or whatever."
Patrick hesitates. "How did you get him to, you know, sing? If he was so dead set against it?"
"I asked him to."
3// there are signs that can't be learned
A few months later, when the three of them go to ask Jon to join Panic! on tour, William Beckett insists that if they want him, they'll have to fight for him! To the death! Or at least until they get bored, anyway, and that's how Ryan ends up wrestling with Beckett on the somewhat questionable floor of the Academy's bus.
Ryan wins, of course, because he can be a vicious little fucker when he wants, and in exuberant celebration, Brendon kisses him squarely on the mouth, holding him tight, before bouncing off to their own bus, on a mission to find some goddamn Skittles.
Jon's probably the only one who notices that Ryan doesn't stop touching his long, graceful fingers to his lips for the rest of the night, and he mentions as much to Patrick the next morning on the phone.
4// god bless catastrophe
Patrick's standing off to the side at the funeral of George Ross, wondering what's going through Ryan's head right now. Ryan is sitting, not next to his relatives, but rather with his family; between Brendon and Spencer. Brendon's got an arm around Ryan's shoulders, the other hand resting lightly on Ryan's forearm. Spencer's just sitting there, stone-faced as usual.
Patrick remembers meeting Ryan's father; he'd been tall. Like, Travis tall, easily a foot taller than Patrick. Unlike his son, he was broad and muscular, though a good deal of that muscle had given way to fat.
"Rock 'n' roll, huh?" he'd said jovially. "Gotta tell you, I was so sure those kids'd end up dead in an alleyway somewhere in California. Giving up college, that scholarship. The record's doing good, though, right?" Patrick wasn't comfortable in this situation, this was Pete's deal, not his, but he nodded.
"Yeah, you should be really proud," he mumbled out.
"I am," George said steadily. "I thought he was making the biggest mistake of his life, when he told me he was dropping out. Pissed me off that he wouldn't listen." Ryan was still standing there, silent. "How about you? Waited until after college?"
"Uh, not exactly. I started touring when I was fifteen, actually, never went to college," Patrick said.
"Goddamn. That's young."
"Guess so."
"Can I get you something to drink? Beer, scotch, bourbon?"
"Uh, no, I'm good, thanks." George had turned to his son expectantly, and Ryan shook his head minutely. George scoffed.
"Some fuckin' rock star," he muttered, good temper gone. Ryan had stared at his father coolly, and Patrick shifted his weight around, uneasy. George stumbled into the kitchen, and Patrick heard the click-pop-hiss of a can of beer opening. Ryan flinched at the sound.
Patrick wished, wildly, briefly, that he could erase that little wince, erase the years that conditioned that wince into Ryan; go deep and erase all the scars. He forced normal behaviour on himself, though, following Ryan's lead. He waited for Ryan's cue to leave, and did his best to make normal conversation until that time.
"I was surprised," George said, calmed with half a beer in his stomach. "The record's pretty damn good. I like it. That fifth song's got a real nice ring to it, whassit called again?"
"Camisado," Ryan responded, the first time he'd spoken outside of introductions. Patrick wondered (still wonders) if George Ross knew that his favourite song was written about him, written in anger and shame and resignation.
"Got a good chorus," George continued. "You boys did well."
"Thanks, Dad," Ryan said. "Patrick and I are going to leave now, all right?" George raised his beer in salute, and didn't watch them leave, though Patrick could swear he heard the opening of 'Nails for Breakfast, Tacks for Snacks' start up as the door slammed shut, and thought that perhaps George Ross knew and, possibly, understood a hell of a lot more than he was letting on.
It's this thought that sticks with Patrick as he watches Brendon rub his hands in slow careful circles against Ryan's back. The real tragedy here isn't that George Ross is dead, but rather that his Ryan was getting to that point where he could confront his father instead of writing cryptic stories into lyrics, and before he managed to sit down and talk, really talk, his father happened to drink himself to death. Patrick wonders if maybe George did it on purpose - if maybe the shame that pushed Ryan so hard was an inherited trait; if George maybe hated himself more than Ryan ever could.
Patrick watches, as they lower the casket, as the light rain fades away and Ryan squeezes Brendon's arm, smiling once, quick, eyes locked with Brendon's, and he stops worrying, abruptly, easily.
5// to my own beat now; the only way i know
Pete's excited about the special edition release of The Nightmare Before Christmas, and even more excited that Disney deemed Fall Out Boy an appropriate choice to cover a song of their choosing from the original soundtrack. When Ryan finds out that Panic! have been invited to do the same, the whole band calls Patrick on speakerphone and talk rapidly, excitedly, about all their billions of ideas, what they could do with just one song.
"This is cool," Jon says. Patrick can hear his grin, practically. "They didn't offer this to us 'cause we're Fall Out Boy's little brother band or whatever. This is something we got on our own."
Someone else might've found it offensive that the newcomer would come right out and insinuate like that that most of Panic!'s success is due to Fall Out Boy, and for a moment Patrick tenses up, preparing for something unpleasant, but all he hears is laughter, on both sides of the conversation.
"So which song?" Patrick asks, and there's a sudden silence on the other end.
"We can't pick," Ryan admits. "What's everyone else doing?"
"We're gonna do 'What's This?', and I know that She Wants Revenge is doing 'Kidnap the Sandy Claws'. Marilyn Manson's doing something, I don't know, he's been really secretive, and Fiona Apple's going to do 'Sally's Song'. Does that help you at all?"
"Well," Spencer begins, and then pauses. "How much creative control are we looking at, here? Is Disney or Touchstone or whoever gonna barge in and play producer? 'Cause if so, we're out."
"I don't think so," Patrick says. "We finished doing ours a couple days ago, sent it over, and they haven't called us to say anything or whatever. We pretty much recorded it and sent it over, end of story." They fall silent again, thinking, and Patrick can hear the cli-cli-click of an iPod scroll wheel turning.
"Got the tracklist right here," Brendon announces, breaking the silence. "'Jack's Lament'? I liked that one, always."
"Yeah," Ryan says slowly. "But it gives us a little less to work with. That song's mostly just a character piece."
"Hey, the 'Town Meeting Song' was always fun," Jon offers.
"Do you really want to try dealing with that many different voices?" Spencer asks.
"Fuck it," Brendon says cheerfully. "We'll do the Overture, record the whole goddamn mess on a keyboard."
A pause. "Actually," Ryan says. "Why not do 'This Is Halloween'?"
"Same thing with the characters," Jon points out.
"Not really," Ryan argues, and Patrick wonders if he should hang up. Clearly, this is a band conversation, now, and he's not going to be asked for his input again. But Ryan keeps talking, and Patrick's interested, so he stays on the line. "Town Meeting tells a story. This Is Halloween is just kind of an introduction, really, it doesn't need all the different characters to interact, the movie just used all the characters to show off how good they were at stop-motion."
"Yeah," Brendon bursts in. "The opening of the movie, it's really visual, they were trying to wow you from the start, and what's more awesome than having all of Halloweentown running around all singing together?"
"But we don't have to do it that way," Jon says, realization dawning. "We can just fuck around with vocal effects, make it really creepy-sounding and shit."
"I kind of don't want to throw a bunch of synth lines at it," Ryan says, somewhat reluctantly. "That's what everyone'll be expecting us to do, make it really fast and hard and dancey. But I'd rather do something more orchestral."
"It's hard to fuck up Danny Elfman," Spencer says practically. "Guys, we are going to kick this thing's ass."
Before they send it off to Disney, Ryan emails an mp3 of the finished cover to Patrick. He likes it, more than he thought he would. It's dark, moody, atmospheric; it sounds like the boys have been branching out, musically. It's a lot more mature than you might expect from a bunch of kids barely out of high school, even kids as musically experienced as that quartet.
When the thing finally comes out, Patrick glances down and sees that there are two covers of 'This Is Halloween'. Huh. Spencer calls that night from the road, and tells Patrick about Ryan pitching a hissy-fit over the lack of coordination regarding the special edition soundtrack.
"Diva," Spencer says affectionately. "He and Brendon are fucking around in GarageBand right now, playing with 'Jack's Lament', I think they're going to finish it off and accidentally let it leak onto the livejournal community."
Patrick laughs. "Whatever makes you guys happy, I guess."
"They're having a good time with it," Spencer says. "Any excuse Ryan can use to get Brendon to sing, you know."
6// to crash and burn and then return again
It's after the VMAs, and Patrick is talking with Spencer about Brendon and Ryan in low voices. They're not together, not yet, not exactly, but it's clear to anyone watching closely enough where they're heading. Brendon's kissing Ryan's cheek onstage because he loves it so much when Ryan kisses his mouth softly, backstage, away from almost every prying eye that might judge or categorize. They're drawing closer every week, have been for a long time.
"I don't know," Spencer confesses. "They're actually sort of…adorable."
"Are you nervous they're going to fuck up the band?" Patrick asks, and Spencer pauses.
"Yes and no," he says carefully. "Part of me wants to be the good best friend and say, Hey, if you can find true love or whatever, then forget about the band - that's so much better. But the practical part of me has to say, Well, it's not that simple. We're not kids screwing around in our grandparents' basement, anymore. This is bigger."
"Yeah," Patrick agrees.
"For now," Spencer says, "I've decided that it's not worth worrying about. I'm going to take this one day at a time."
"Good philosophy," Patrick says. "Good way to keep breathing," and Spencer laughs a little.
"Man, you need some time off," he says, shaking his head. "That was practically Wentzian," and Patrick laughs ruefully. Brendon bounces up and throws his arms around Patrick, nuzzling furiously.
"Hiya, buddy!" he yells. "We just won a motherfucking VMA and my grandparents couldn't care less! Wanna help me forget about that disastrous phone call?"
"Sure," Spencer says easily. "Stop hanging all over Uncle Patrick, Brendon, go eat your vegetables or it's a time-out."
Brendon sticks his tongue out at Spencer and laughs. "God, this is weird."
"I know," Patrick says. "Just wait. It gets weirder."
7// i'm just like you, i'm wondering why
It does, actually.
And not the good, quirky kind of weird; it gets creepy. A particularly determined fan manages to somehow worm her way into the dressing room and accosts Ryan, begging for him to draw on her face, eyes wide and wild. It takes Brendon a few minutes before he notices that she's clutching a gun. There's still fear in his voice when he calls Patrick later that night.
"That was scary," he whispers.
"Yeah," Patrick says, heart racing. "What happened?"
A hard, sharp sigh. "I don't fucking know. I guess she flashed her tits or whatever and security let her in or something, I don't know, and that was just really freaky, okay?"
"What happened after you saw the gun?" Patrick clarifies.
"Oh!" There's a shuffling noise, and Brendon is talking in a low voice. He's probably tucked into his bunk. "Jon sort of sneaked up behind her and grabbed the back of her neck and got his hand to her wrist fast enough. She sort of struggled a little, and Ryan was freaking out. And, uh, I don't know, Zack hit her upside the head and she passed out. First aid came by, checked her out, took her to the local hospital. Really quietly, she didn't remember anything when she woke up. I guess Zack hit her a little harder than he meant to."
"Good thing," Patrick says. "Poor kid."
"She's my age," Brendon says, full of wonder. "Shit. I could've gone to school with her. We could've been in the same youth group, even. God."
"I'm sorry," Patrick says, and he is. "Is Ryan okay?"
"Yeah," Brendon says. "He was really quiet, like, scary-quiet, for a while there. I was worried."
"And now?"
"Now he and Jon are arguing about Phil Collins versus Peter Gabriel, I don't know." He sighs hard again, and Patrick hates the sound of it. It's a sound Brendon might not have made two years ago; a year ago, even. "I think I'm going to try and get some sleep, now, okay?"
"Liar," Patrick says. He knows what that sound means.
"I know," Brendon says tiredly. "I can never sleep until he does."
8// silhouetted and ready to bloom
"Seen Tom's pictures yet?" Jon asked casually, leaning back against the doorframe. Patrick glanced up at him.
"No, why?" In response, Jon reaches into his back pocket and withdraws a photograph, holds it out for Patrick. It's of Brendon and Ryan, of course. They're sitting at the table in the tiny bus kitchenette; it's breakfast and they're both in pajamas. Ryan's not even wearing any makeup and Brendon's still wearing his glasses. Their hands are gently clasped and Brendon's eyes are closed behind the soft glare of the lenses. Ryan's leaning in, his lips puckered and pressed lightly to the tip of Brendon's nose, a smile quirking at his eyes.
"That's one that you won't see on the website," he says quietly. Patrick's breath has been stolen, here. Despite the fact that Zack is in the background pouring coffee and Spencer is curled up with a slender book right next to them and he can see the edges of a familiar pair of denim-covered knees at Brendon's back it looks so intimate. The two of them.
"Well, shit."
"So, that's that," Jon says with an air of finality.
"Fair enough," Patrick says agreeably.
9// we're connected, connected
Patrick drives up to the cabin ("Pornocabin!" Brendon yells over the phone, and he can hear the rest of the band choking back laughter in the background) to go visit them, listen to the four completed demos they've got. This time last year they would've burnt a copy and sent it to him or even just emailed the files directly, but they've gotten smarter. They're not going to let any of the music out until they're good and ready.
On the drive up, Patrick listens to the completed version of 'Jack's Lament' that Brendon and Ryan finished a few months ago. It's good, solid. Brendon's voice has grown a lot, it's so much stronger than it used to be, and Ryan's clearly learned to collaborate a little better.
"Hey," Patrick says, sliding out of the seat. Jon is sitting cross-legged on the front porch, idly strumming an acoustic guitar, shirtless and barefoot despite the biting cold, wearing only a pair of worn grey sweatpants. He nods in salute.
"Hiya, Patrick," he sings along with the guitar, grinning wide beneath his beard. The chords he's playing start sounding like 'Paint it Black'. "You're just in time for pancakes, Spencer's making them, I don't know where the fuck Brendon and Ryan are."
"Slippery?" Patrick asks, looking up at Jon as he ascends the stairs, squinting into the sun.
"You have no idea," Jon sings cheerfully, shifting easily to 'When I'm 64'. "It's nice to play something that's not on that goddamn album, anyway, we're making good progress."
"Good to hear," Patrick says, settling down beside Jon.
"Brendon's learning to play the tin whistle," Jon says casually, and the song's something unrecognizable, now, but it's shifted.
"Is it going to show up on the record?" Patrick asks, gaze fixed on Jon's fingers, sliding down the neck of the guitar, searching aimlessly for the right melody.
"Here's hoping. I like how it's sounding, but we'd like to be able to do it live, you know. Depends on the timing of the song and whether or not Ryan and I can carry the vocals when Brendon's playing or catching his breath or whatever." Jon shrugs, and slides into 'Wildflowers', casually.
"Food!" Spencer yells from inside. Jon smacks his palm flat against the strings, halting the music, standing and smiling. Patrick follows Jon into the kitchen. Through the doorway, he can see Brendon and Ryan stretched out on the couch. Ryan's asleep in Brendon's arms, and Brendon - frenetic, hyperactive Brendon who can't even stay still while he dreams - is cradling him, watching him sleep intently.
Patrick is reminded of the photograph Jon had shown him. Except - they're more at ease with each other here; there's a sense that they know each other beyond the fumblings of first-times. It's so sweet that all he can think about is getting the hell out of there, right now, because he knows that the sort of privacy their relationship craves and thrives on is rare and while Patrick is a welcome intruder, he is an intruder nonetheless.
"Food, assholes," Spencer says again, standing on tip-toes to reach the syrup in the cupboard. Patrick's eyes flick back to Brendon and Ryan. Brendon's pressing his mouth gently to the curve of Ryan's neck, nuzzling at his ear, murmuring something. Ryan awakens gradually, and shifts onto his back, remaining in the loose circle of Brendon's arms and tilting his jaw to gaze up at Brendon, lips curling up in a slow, sleepy smile before kissing him, wrapping long thin arms around his neck before they stand, almost in unison, and shuffle over to the kitchen table, holding hands.
"Hi," Brendon says, settling down next to Ryan, not bothering to go of his hand, reaching with a fork at the plate of pancakes in the middle of the table with his left hand, dropping them gracelessly to his own plate before nimbly stealing the butter from Spencer, who tsks but lets him.
"How've you been?" Patrick asks, grabbing at a random glass full of milk, hoping it's meant for him.
"Good. Been learning the tin whistle. It's fun." Brendon speaks quickly, wolfing down his food, not meeting Patrick's eyes.
Ryan smiles a little, hunches his shoulders and tugs his hand free. "Thanks for coming," he says. "You didn't have to, I know you're busy."
Patrick waves him off. "Nah. I'm interested, you guys know that." Ryan reaches below the table and pulls forth his laptop, and opens it.
"Jesus, Ryan, let the poor guy eat," Jon says, his mouth stuffed full, muffling his words. Ryan rolls his eyes and boots up the computer anyway. Brendon rubs his fingers across the back of Ryan's neck, and Ryan shrugs, crossing his arm over the keyboard before helping himself to pancakes.
"Spence, you need to learn how to cook something other than breakfast food," he gripes. Spencer snorts.
"You need to learn how to cook at all, Ross," he shoots back, flicking a stray crumb across the table.
"I make killer grilled cheese sandwiches," Brendon offers, wiping at his mouth before gulping from Ryan's milk glass.
"Smoothie day tomorrow!" Jon crows, taking the last pancake.
"Fuck, no," Brendon moans. "We're out of mangos, anyway."
"We still have strawberries, bananas, and about a billion oranges, dumbass," Spencer says smugly.
"Honour the fucking tradition," Ryan says, delicately licking syrup from his long, gracefully angled fingers. Brendon stares, comically transfixed for a moment, then clears his throat and seizes Ryan's wrist, pulling his hand up to his mouth, sucking at a glob of syrup at the side of Ryan's thumb, giving loud exaggerated moans of pleasure. Ryan throws his head back in laughter, squirming a little in his seat. Jon snorts into his milk and Spencer rolls his eyes, but there's no mistaking the grin on his face.
Later, when Patrick listens to the demos, they all crowd around him on the couch. Ryan sprawls in Brendon's lap, easily, like he belongs there. Patrick supposes he does. They sort of match with the new music; thick and layered, deliberate. They way they'd moved in towards one another had been so slow, so careful, and Patrick felt strangely, obscurely grateful that he'd been allowed to witness the odd gravitational pull they exerted upon each other. He doesn't know it, but Jon and Spencer feel the same way, proud and thankful, as cheesy and corny and ridiculous though the sentiment may be. It's real.
10// and you say we're too young; maybe you're too old to remember
"Hey," Brendon mumbles as Ryan stirs. "Whassup?" It's late, and Ryan woke him up with his tossing and turning.
"Do you really think he liked the demos?" Ryan asks, intent. Brendon blinks hard, clearing sleep away from his eyes.
"Uhm," he manages. "I- yeah, why would he lie?"
"Do you think he left really fast?" Ryan asks, propping himself up on his elbows, wriggling away from Brendon's embrace.
"No," Brendon yawned. "He came to listen to some music, that's it. Dude, he probably had shit to do."
"You don't think we made him. Uncomfortable?"
"Why would we?" Brendon says, confused.
"I just- I don't know." Ryan starts pulling at a hangnail, a stupid habit he picked up from Brendon. "I just. I think he would've stayed longer if we hadn't been, like, hanging all over each other."
"Nah," Brendon says, laying his hands over Ryan's. "I think he just wanted to give us some time as a group, you know. The four of us. I don't think it had anything to do with you and me, you know."
"Okay," Ryan says hesitantly. Brendon leans in and kisses him, and Ryan opens for him immediately, wanting it. Not breaking contact, Ryan rolls over onto his back, holding Brendon's jaw with his fingertips, delicately, stroking the firm line of the bone. Brendon bites his bottom lip gently, tugging at it with his teeth, and Ryan curls up into him as Brendon slides a hand down to Ryan's pajama pants and slips fingers into the waistband, knuckles pressing against Ryan's hipbones.
Ryan sighs softly, letting his head drop back against the pillows, wrapping long legs high around Brendon's waist, grinding up into him. Brendon sucks in a sharp breath, feeling Ryan hard against him.
"I want-" Ryan gasps, and Brendon cuts him off with another hard kiss.
"I know," he breathes into Ryan's mouth, and he's right. Rhythm is theirs now. Brendon fumbles at the nightstand for lube, slides down the long thin lines of Ryan's body, pins his hips to the bed and pushes his pants down to his ankles, sucking the tip of Ryan's cock into his mouth. Ryan whines low in his throat and Brendon chuckles, taking him deeper.
Ryan didn't even notice that Brendon's hands left his hips, but they must have because now he's feeling two slick fingers probing at his entrance, teasing at the tight ring of muscle before sliding in, just the tips, pulling out quickly, keeping him on edge. Ryan bucks up to Brendon's mouth, pushes back down onto Brendon's fingers, curling loosely, pushing just the curve of knuckle past weakening resistance, spreading inside him, the stretch and burn of it delicious, almost.
He can't even look, can't look down and see Brendon's thick swollen lips stretched around his cock, cheeks flushed and the soft sweep of his eyelashes fluttering as he works, because if he does it'll be over and he doesn't want that, he wants more, he wants Brendon inside him, as deep as he can take him.
Brendon pulls off, huffs out a soft laugh, and goes back to swirling his tongue just under the ridge, sucking him in farther, harder now, pushing more of his fingers into Ryan. Ryan rolls his hips helplessly, searching for moremoremore, and Brendon strokes inside, hard, suddenly, liking the harsh arch of Ryan's back as he chokes out a muffled cry.
"Brendon," he gasps, and Brendon pulls away, pushes their pants away, rubs a spare thin layer of lube over his cock, rolls Ryan over to his belly, pulling him up to hands and knees.
"Okay?" Brendon murmurs against the back of his neck. "This is all right? Yeah?"
"Just-" Ryan groans, and Brendon pushes in, obligingly, strong hands gripping at his hips.
The first slide in is always the best, full and almost always rushed. This time it isn't, so much, Ryan's so stretched from Brendon's fingers that it's not quite as intense, more just settling in place. But then Brendon draws back, draws out, and when he pushes back in it's more like a slam, like Ryan is everything he wants and if he gets deep enough inside he'll stay there.
Ryan throws his head back and moans for it, "Harder, harder," chanting, almost, and Brendon lets out a low broken sob, dropping to stretch along Ryan's back, biting at the curve of his shoulder, thrusting into him almost viciously. Ryan reaches up to the headboard for support, leans his forehead against it, bracing against the jarring pace.
Brendon's breathing hot and hard against Ryan's skin now, slipping one nimble hand around the loop of his waist and taking his cock into his hand, stroking expertly, tilting his head up to lap at Ryan's ear, "Come on, come on, I want-" and that's when Ryan loses it, spasms and cries out and comes, wetting Brendon's hand. Brendon fucks him through it, mercilessly, doesn't waits for Ryan to catch his breath, and gratefully, Ryan clenches down hard around him, pushes back against Brendon.
It's not much longer after that, but Ryan drops flat to the bed anyway, working his hips back against Brendon's cock a little, but mostly just letting Brendon push him harder into the mattress with every thrust until he pulls out and comes over the spindly curve of Ryan's spine, collapsing to the side of him. Brendon takes in a shaky breath and strokes over Ryan's back, smearing his come. Ryan flops his head to the side, still breathing hard.
Brendon kisses him, more softly this time, before leaning over and lapping at the mess, cleaning him. He's almost tender. Almost. Maybe.
Ryan sighs and drifts off to sleep, letting Brendon drape himself over his sleeping form, burrowing them both under the covers.