We'll Reinvent Love [1/10]
Title: We’ll Reinvent Love
Rating: hard R
Pairing: Ryden
Summary: He remembers back when he was younger, and he would scrape his elbow and, because he hadn’t yet started these daily screaming matches with his mom, she would place a band-aid over it, ever so gently, and then an even gentler kiss on top of that. And because Ryan looks like his world is one big scraped elbow at the moment, Brendon leans forward and kisses him, butterfly-soft, and pulls away before Ryan gets a chance to do it first.
It starts on one of those days, one of the days when Ryan inexplicably can’t make it to practice and the others exchange looks and mutter excuses for him. It’s been just four months, maybe, since Brendon joined the band, and seniority demands that he let it slide, but he can’t, not any more, not after he’s convinced his mother to let him go to practice only after an hour-long argument that’s left his throat raw and probably not up to singing anyway.
There’s no answer when he rings the doorbell, so he rings again. No car in the driveway, no lights on upstairs. No sign of Ryan.
There isn’t much hope when he dials, but Ryan picks up after just two rings.
“Yeah, sorry, something came up, my grandma came over for dinner,” comes the listless voice on the other end. It would be a terrible lie even if Brendon wasn’t standing on his front steps with a clear view through the window into the (empty) dining room. Brendon hangs up and opens the door.
Ryan’s lying on his side, facing the wall, when Brendon slips into his room.
“You’re an asshole,” is quiet and muffled by the pillow.
“You’re the one who just doesn’t show up with no excuse.”
“I told you, my grandma came for dinner,” Ryan grits out, with a dead laugh.
He finally turns over then to look at Brendon, and even from across the room Brendon can see the tear tracks. Something inside him twists, hard. He shuts the door behind him and sits down on the bed, cautiously, delicately, so as not to break the fragile birdlike creature that is watching his every move with too-big eyes. Ryan doesn’t shatter, so Brendon stretches out, lays his head on the pillow, and breaks every boundary that Ryan had set in their relationship.
He was the untouchable one from when Brendon met him, distant, quiet except to correct an unsteady rhythm or a false note. And after practice he just disappeared, while Spencer and Brent asked Brendon if he wanted to play video games and he tried not to be too happy to hang out with them, to have someone to hang out with. And now, Brendon’s immersed in Ryan, in his pictures lining the faded blue walls, in his smell that rises off the pillowcase like barely-there aftershave and summer thunderstorms.
“You smell good,” says Brendon, because this is suddenly ten thousand times more important than the barely-dried tears on Ryan’s baby-round cheeks.
“My dad’s an alcoholic,” says Ryan, and another tear gathers in the corner of his eyes and drips over the bridge of his nose onto the pillow, and Brendon falls in love with him just a little bit.
“Oh,” is his deeply sensitive answer.
“He was drunk. He drove off. I couldn’t get a ride.” His voice is barely a breath, for all its matter-of-factness.
“I have a car,” says Brendon.
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause while Brendon tries to figure out what that means, but he’s finding it pretty hard to think with Ryan looking so lost and broken and so very, very close to falling apart.
He remembers back when he was younger, and he would scrape his elbow and, because he hadn’t yet started these daily screaming matches with his mom, she would place a band-aid over it, ever so gently, and then an even gentler kiss on top of that.
And because Ryan looks like his world is one big scraped elbow at the moment, Brendon leans forward and kisses him, butterfly-soft, and pulls away before Ryan gets a chance to do it first.
“What was that for?” Ryan asks, startled out of his brokenness.
“Trying to make it feel better,” mumbles Brendon, blushing because it sounds a lot stupider when he actually thinks about it.
“Oh.”
And suddenly Ryan is kissing him back, just as soft, his lips pillowing between Brendon’s in a way that makes him understand why they invented kissing in the first place. He can’t help but gasp, just a little, when Ryan pulls him closer and their hips collide, and at the ragged intake of breath everything just sort of speeds up. Ryan’s hands are suddenly tangled in his hair, and Ryan’s leg is suddenly hooked between his thighs, and Ryan’s teeth are nipping and sucking at his lower lip, and Ryan’s body is impossibly thin in his arms like he might crack at any second.
There’s no frailty in that kiss, though. That kiss is desperate and needy and getting deeper by the second, till Brendon can barely tell where he ends and Ryan begins.
Ryan’s shirt is riding up ever so slightly, and the pale sliver of skin that peeks out is burning hot. Brendon puts his hand there wonderingly, slides his hand from Ryan’s waist to his chest to his back and his waist again, and Ryan reaches impatiently for the hem and just slips the damn thing off. It’s only then that Brendon realizes he’s panting, and when he takes his own shirt off too and reaches for Ryan again it’s a collision, an earthquake, it can’t be just a kiss because he’s sure you can’t feel things like this from just kissing.
There are lightning bolts in Brendon’s stomach and crashes of thunder in his ribcage. And when Ryan rolls onto his back and pulls Brendon on top of him, their hips grind together in a way that pulls a whine, a plea, deep from Ryan’s throat, and fireworks are exploding behind Brendon’s eyes.
“Touch me,” breathes Ryan, and without pausing to think about how Ryan is a guy and he really shouldn’t be touching guys, he grinds their hips together one more time (which, wow) before pulling away just enough to fumble with the belt buckle.
Their eyes lock as Brendon slides one trembling hand into Ryan’s boxers, and his breathing is rough and ragged before Brendon’s done any more than run his fingers tentatively up the shaft. When he begins stroking in earnest it doesn’t feel wrong, it feels familiar and right in a way girls never have, and there are these gorgeous groaning sounds pouring out of Ryan that make Brendon remember how achingly hard his own dick already is.
One of Ryan’s hands is pressed into Brendon’s neck, as if scared he’s going to run away, and the other is clutching and twisting in the sheets, but their eyes are locked together, and Brendon’s never seen anything as beautiful as those shocked, scared, vulnerable eyes rolling back in Ryan’s head as he lets out a noise that might me a whimper and might be a moan. He leans down to kiss Ryan, and can’t help but gasp out “Please,” against those rosy lips, and suddenly Ryan is touching him and he forgets just about everything.
There’s electricity shooting through his brain, sparks running up his spine, shivers starting deep in the pit of his stomach, and all it takes is the “O” Ryan’s mouth makes when he comes and the hot sticky ribbons over his hand, and he practically blacks out with his release.
Brendon’s hand is resting on Ryan’s waist when their breathing begins to slow, his nose barely brushing Ryan’s, lying on Ryan’s too-skinny chest with their come sticky between them. When Ryan’s eyes flutter open, Brendon greets them with a faint smile.
They settle back into their original positions, lying side by side, except Brendon can’t even begin to describe how things have changed.
Chapter Two
Rating: hard R
Pairing: Ryden
Summary: He remembers back when he was younger, and he would scrape his elbow and, because he hadn’t yet started these daily screaming matches with his mom, she would place a band-aid over it, ever so gently, and then an even gentler kiss on top of that. And because Ryan looks like his world is one big scraped elbow at the moment, Brendon leans forward and kisses him, butterfly-soft, and pulls away before Ryan gets a chance to do it first.
It starts on one of those days, one of the days when Ryan inexplicably can’t make it to practice and the others exchange looks and mutter excuses for him. It’s been just four months, maybe, since Brendon joined the band, and seniority demands that he let it slide, but he can’t, not any more, not after he’s convinced his mother to let him go to practice only after an hour-long argument that’s left his throat raw and probably not up to singing anyway.
There’s no answer when he rings the doorbell, so he rings again. No car in the driveway, no lights on upstairs. No sign of Ryan.
There isn’t much hope when he dials, but Ryan picks up after just two rings.
“Yeah, sorry, something came up, my grandma came over for dinner,” comes the listless voice on the other end. It would be a terrible lie even if Brendon wasn’t standing on his front steps with a clear view through the window into the (empty) dining room. Brendon hangs up and opens the door.
Ryan’s lying on his side, facing the wall, when Brendon slips into his room.
“You’re an asshole,” is quiet and muffled by the pillow.
“You’re the one who just doesn’t show up with no excuse.”
“I told you, my grandma came for dinner,” Ryan grits out, with a dead laugh.
He finally turns over then to look at Brendon, and even from across the room Brendon can see the tear tracks. Something inside him twists, hard. He shuts the door behind him and sits down on the bed, cautiously, delicately, so as not to break the fragile birdlike creature that is watching his every move with too-big eyes. Ryan doesn’t shatter, so Brendon stretches out, lays his head on the pillow, and breaks every boundary that Ryan had set in their relationship.
He was the untouchable one from when Brendon met him, distant, quiet except to correct an unsteady rhythm or a false note. And after practice he just disappeared, while Spencer and Brent asked Brendon if he wanted to play video games and he tried not to be too happy to hang out with them, to have someone to hang out with. And now, Brendon’s immersed in Ryan, in his pictures lining the faded blue walls, in his smell that rises off the pillowcase like barely-there aftershave and summer thunderstorms.
“You smell good,” says Brendon, because this is suddenly ten thousand times more important than the barely-dried tears on Ryan’s baby-round cheeks.
“My dad’s an alcoholic,” says Ryan, and another tear gathers in the corner of his eyes and drips over the bridge of his nose onto the pillow, and Brendon falls in love with him just a little bit.
“Oh,” is his deeply sensitive answer.
“He was drunk. He drove off. I couldn’t get a ride.” His voice is barely a breath, for all its matter-of-factness.
“I have a car,” says Brendon.
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause while Brendon tries to figure out what that means, but he’s finding it pretty hard to think with Ryan looking so lost and broken and so very, very close to falling apart.
He remembers back when he was younger, and he would scrape his elbow and, because he hadn’t yet started these daily screaming matches with his mom, she would place a band-aid over it, ever so gently, and then an even gentler kiss on top of that.
And because Ryan looks like his world is one big scraped elbow at the moment, Brendon leans forward and kisses him, butterfly-soft, and pulls away before Ryan gets a chance to do it first.
“What was that for?” Ryan asks, startled out of his brokenness.
“Trying to make it feel better,” mumbles Brendon, blushing because it sounds a lot stupider when he actually thinks about it.
“Oh.”
And suddenly Ryan is kissing him back, just as soft, his lips pillowing between Brendon’s in a way that makes him understand why they invented kissing in the first place. He can’t help but gasp, just a little, when Ryan pulls him closer and their hips collide, and at the ragged intake of breath everything just sort of speeds up. Ryan’s hands are suddenly tangled in his hair, and Ryan’s leg is suddenly hooked between his thighs, and Ryan’s teeth are nipping and sucking at his lower lip, and Ryan’s body is impossibly thin in his arms like he might crack at any second.
There’s no frailty in that kiss, though. That kiss is desperate and needy and getting deeper by the second, till Brendon can barely tell where he ends and Ryan begins.
Ryan’s shirt is riding up ever so slightly, and the pale sliver of skin that peeks out is burning hot. Brendon puts his hand there wonderingly, slides his hand from Ryan’s waist to his chest to his back and his waist again, and Ryan reaches impatiently for the hem and just slips the damn thing off. It’s only then that Brendon realizes he’s panting, and when he takes his own shirt off too and reaches for Ryan again it’s a collision, an earthquake, it can’t be just a kiss because he’s sure you can’t feel things like this from just kissing.
There are lightning bolts in Brendon’s stomach and crashes of thunder in his ribcage. And when Ryan rolls onto his back and pulls Brendon on top of him, their hips grind together in a way that pulls a whine, a plea, deep from Ryan’s throat, and fireworks are exploding behind Brendon’s eyes.
“Touch me,” breathes Ryan, and without pausing to think about how Ryan is a guy and he really shouldn’t be touching guys, he grinds their hips together one more time (which, wow) before pulling away just enough to fumble with the belt buckle.
Their eyes lock as Brendon slides one trembling hand into Ryan’s boxers, and his breathing is rough and ragged before Brendon’s done any more than run his fingers tentatively up the shaft. When he begins stroking in earnest it doesn’t feel wrong, it feels familiar and right in a way girls never have, and there are these gorgeous groaning sounds pouring out of Ryan that make Brendon remember how achingly hard his own dick already is.
One of Ryan’s hands is pressed into Brendon’s neck, as if scared he’s going to run away, and the other is clutching and twisting in the sheets, but their eyes are locked together, and Brendon’s never seen anything as beautiful as those shocked, scared, vulnerable eyes rolling back in Ryan’s head as he lets out a noise that might me a whimper and might be a moan. He leans down to kiss Ryan, and can’t help but gasp out “Please,” against those rosy lips, and suddenly Ryan is touching him and he forgets just about everything.
There’s electricity shooting through his brain, sparks running up his spine, shivers starting deep in the pit of his stomach, and all it takes is the “O” Ryan’s mouth makes when he comes and the hot sticky ribbons over his hand, and he practically blacks out with his release.
Brendon’s hand is resting on Ryan’s waist when their breathing begins to slow, his nose barely brushing Ryan’s, lying on Ryan’s too-skinny chest with their come sticky between them. When Ryan’s eyes flutter open, Brendon greets them with a faint smile.
They settle back into their original positions, lying side by side, except Brendon can’t even begin to describe how things have changed.
Chapter Two