A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square (3a/3)
Headers and Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Three cont.
CHAPTER THREE
JANUARY 2009
Brendon goes out to party with his colleagues on New Year’s Eve at a bar next to the university campus and wakes up the next day on a crowded bed with someone’s arm wrapped tightly around his waist. For the first couple of moments of waking up, he thinks that it’s Shane. Then he remembers that Shane is at the other side of the country and probably wouldn’t be snuggling Brendon even if they were in the same city.
He opens his eyes carefully. It’s bright. Way too bright. Brendon blinks. Spencer is lying about a foot away from him, facing away, with someone’s arm around his back, holding him close. Brendon squints, looks at the hand. That’s Jon’s hand. Huh.
A loud snore comes from the foot of the bed, and Brendon looks down, sees Travis spread out over most of it. There is more snoring coming from the floor. Brendon hopes whoever owns the apartment put in carpet and not timber flooring.
The person holding him shifts a little closer, making a humming sound against Brendon’s neck. Brendon carefully turns his head around, hoping very much that he isn’t cuddled up against Pete or something.
It’s Ryan.
Brendon’s breath hitches in his throat.
Ryan hums again and brushes his lips over the bare skin on Brendon’s shoulder. Because unlike everyone else in the room, Brendon isn’t wearing a shirt. Which means that Ryan’s hand is resting on Brendon’s naked stomach. Low on Brendon’s naked stomach.
He should probably move.
As though he can somehow hear Brendon’s thoughts, Ryan tightens his arms around Brendon in his sleep. The hold feels intimate, but not really sexual. Despite his taller frame, Ryan feels somehow small behind him, huddled into every curve of Brendon’s body like he feels safe there. Or like he subconsciously knows that he’s doing something wrong but doesn’t want anyone to call him on it and make him move away. Brendon closes his eyes and melts into the touch. His hips shift back automatically, just another inch.
Ryan isn’t even hard. Brendon doesn’t know whether to feel flattered or disappointed. Logic tells him that they were all several levels beyond drunk the night before and that alcohol is very destructive to the male anatomy.
His own body happily contradicts the last statement. Brendon really should get moving.
He can’t bring himself to actually do it, though. He’s on a soft bed, and Ryan Ross is spooning him. Brendon’s pretty sure the number of dreams he’s had featuring that exact scenario is well into the double digits.
Ryan nuzzles his neck again, and Brendon decides that the things he should do can go fuck themselves. He puts his hand on top of Ryan’s, weaves their fingers together and pulls Ryan even closer. Ryan mumbles something in his sleep, and Brendon wishes he knew how to provoke people to sleep talk, because every time Ryan makes a sound, his lips ghost across Brendon’s skin, and that feels really incredible.
He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, following the movements of Ryan’s chest against his back and the hot puffs of air that skate over his neck. Ryan cuddles even closer, like he’s somehow trying to get inside Brendon’s skin, or at least merge with it. The buttons of his shirt are digging into Brendon’s back, and Brendon is simultaneously annoyed and grateful. He wants to turn around, slip them out of their button holes and press up against Ryan’s chest. Wants to feel Ryan’s bare back under his hands and bury his face against his neck and rub their stomachs together like Brendon really likes and-
He takes a deep breath. Reminds himself that molesting people in their sleep is considered a Bad Thing To Do. He keeps himself perfectly still until he feels reasonably sure that he’s not going to jump Ryan, and forces himself to relax. In a way, cuddling with Ryan feels even better when he finally does, all melting heat wrapped around loose muscles and Brendon’s head leaning into the pillows so that Ryan’s mouth ends up right against the side of his neck.
He takes another deep breath, closes his eyes and carefully brings the one of Ryan’s hands that is now resting against his chest up to his face. He rubs his cheek against it, places a soft kiss on each of the knuckles and lets it drop back down. As moments go, it feels pretty perfect. Brendon wishes he could freeze it and put it in a box and just-
“Rise and shine, sleepyheads!”
From down the hall, Brendon can hear a door being thrown shut, and after that, there’s movement everywhere. Spencer starts awake in front of him, pretty much slamming into Brendon when he jerks away from Jon. The impact pushes Brendon violently into Ryan’s chest, making Ryan jerk awake and actually fall off the bed as he flails to get all his arms and legs sorted out. Somewhere in the chaos, Brendon manages to kick Travis in the face, and as the dust settles, everyone is looking around the room, making varying sounds of pain and turning towards the door with pissed-off expressions.
“Goooooood morning,” Pete exclaims, bursting into the bedroom with a huge smile and several paper bags and coffee trays in his hands. “Who wants doughnuts?”
Brendon is pretty sure that at least Travis and Spencer would have killed Pete on the spot if it hadn’t been for the trays of Starbucks in his hands. From the way that Pete holds the cups out in front of him like a shield and is smiling obnoxiously, Brendon has a feeling Pete knows it too.
“How the hell did you get in?” a voice comes from the floor, and Ryan’s head pops into view, both his hands massaging his temples. “I thought you left early last night. And why is your hair wet?”
“Borrowed your key,” Pete says nonchalantly. “I got it when we got back from the bar because someone was too busy showing Urie how to make shadow puppets under the street lamp to actually open his own door. And my hair is wet because I took a shower. Something you should all be doing, actually; it fucking reeks in here.”
Ryan doesn’t reply. He’s also very carefully doesn’t look at Brendon as he gingerly gets off the floor and walks out of the bedroom. Brendon watches him go, wondering if this is the part where he’s supposed to follow and try to get Ryan to talk about... whatever it is they have going on. He’s saved from having to make a decision by Jon, who reaches past him to grab a cup of coffee.
“Whatever, dude. Your mom reeks, okay?” Jon says to Pete, handing a cup to Brendon as well. “We should probably move into the kitchen though, if someone can get Marshall off the floor. Smith, you need help off the bed?”
Spencer makes a pained sound and buries his face deeper into the pillows. Jon grins and looks back at Pete. “Any chance you have a triple espresso there somewhere?”
“What do you take me for, an amateur?” Pete says, grinning back and handing over a smaller cup. “Okay, enough lovey-doveing. I need food.”
Pete leaves the room. Brendon stays on the bed and sips his coffee while people slowly clear out. He can hear Spencer’s voice, taking charge organising breakfast in Ryan’s kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It probably is, Brendon thinks. Ryan and Spencer are almost like one person sometimes. It makes sense that Spencer should fall into the role of the host when Ryan isn’t there to do it. From the talking and laughter coming from the kitchen, it’s obvious that Spencer is doing a good job of it, too. If Brendon tried to cook breakfast for a bunch of hungover cops and CSI’s, he’d most likely end up jostling china too loudly and burning all of their food.
Fifteen minutes later, he’s still busy looking down at his cup, tracing the brim with his thumb while his thoughts get steadily more pathetic, and doesn’t notice the soft footsteps in the hallway until he feels someone’s eyes on him.
Brendon looks up. Ryan is standing just inside the room, hair and skin damp from the shower and with only a towel wrapped around his hips. He looks younger without his clothes, thin body matching his face better than the suits he normally wears. Ryan’s hair is curling around his face, darker than Brendon is used to seeing it, and the skin stretching over his chest and stomach is pale and flawless, begging to be touched.
“Hi,” Brendon says automatically, trying to keep himself from staring and failing rather miserably. “Um. I’m sorry. I should-” He makes a gesture with his hand to mean ‘leave you alone’. Ryan ducks his head. There’s more laughter from the kitchen.
“It’s okay. Stay. You’re having coffee, I’ll just-” Ryan replies, with a sort of flaily hand wave of his own that Brendon takes to mean ‘put some clothes on’.
The second he thinks it, it becomes ten times more obvious that Ryan is standing in front of him not wearing clothes. And that Brendon is only wearing his jeans, which suddenly don’t feel like they’re covering much at all.
“Did-did you sleep okay?” Brendon asks. “Um, I mean-” he adds, trying to think of something less obvious to say, “sorry about all of us crashing in your room and all.”
Ryan shakes his head, bites his lip. Brendon probably should do something abut the fact that he’s still staring.
“No, it’s fine. I didn’t mind. I-um.” Ryan looks up at him, blushes slightly and disappears into the closet before he can finish the rest of the sentence. Brendon stares after him, a trail of surprised awareness trickling down his spine.
Ryan comes back out, dressed in a full-on suit, fiddling to get a tie in place around his neck. It’s a stark contrast to before; the only skin left uncovered is that on Ryan’s hands and face, a little at the top part of his neck.
Brendon can still see the blush.
He slides off the bed and makes his way over without thinking, acting off a sudden need to push. To check. To know if the red creeping higher and higher on Ryan’s neck is simple embarrassment or something more. He reaches for Ryan’s tie, taking it in both hands. He adjusts it until the ends are the right lengths and starts to slowly redo the knot. They’re close. Close enough for Brendon to see the fear in Ryan’s eyes and the way his breathing catches a little.
He finishes the double Windsor and pulls it tight. Ryan swallows. Looks down.
“You’re good at that.”
“Learned early,” Brendon says, keeping his hands on the silky material. They’re even closer now. “Three older brothers and we all wore ties to church.”
Ryan nods, like this is important information. Like they’re having a normal conversation and the back of Brendon’s hands aren’t brushing against his chest. Brendon lets go of the tie and slides one hand up to cup Ryan’s neck, leans in, hoping that what he’s about to do doesn’t turn out to be a horrible idea.
A door slams. Ryan pulls back and turns around so fast that Brendon loses his balance a little.
Spencer is standing in the doorway, looking at them with his arms crossed over his chest.
“You know what?” he says, looking from Ryan to Brendon and then back again with a blank expression that Brendon can’t read but that Ryan seems to have no problem with from the way he stiffens at Brendon’s side. “You can make your own fucking eggs.”
He slams the door again on his way out. Ryan turns further away, leaning against the wall with his forehead pressed against it. Brendon reaches out carefully and touches Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan pulls away.
“Ryan...”
“I’m sorry,” Ryan says quietly, keeping his eyes closed and his head against the wall. “Could you please-? I’m sorry, I just can’t-”
Brendon nods. He feels numb, like all the adrenaline rushing through him moments earlier just crashed and left him with nothing more than a tight feeling in his chest. He leaves the bedroom quickly, finds his shirt on the living room floor and is out the front door before anyone has a chance to call him back. He walks about five blocks before his phone rings. The surge of hope as he pulls it out of his pocket makes him feel even more pathetic.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me,” Jon says at the other end of the line. “Listen, we all just got kicked out of Ryan’s place, and Pete and Travis are being really cranky about it. Meet me for breakfast at the coffee shop on Roosevelt?”
“Huh?” Brendon says, articulately. “What? Why?”
“I don’t know,” Jon says. “Ross and Spencer had some stuff they needed to work out. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Come on, come to breakfast with me. I’ll buy you a muffin.”
Brendon doesn’t really want to talk to anyone, but Jon keeps asking, and it’s clear that he won’t take no for an answer, so in the end, Brendon agrees.
“Wanna tell me what happened?” Jon asks once they’re seated next to a window with steaming mugs in front of them. Brendon picks at his muffin, crumbling it on the plate.
“I tried to kiss Ryan.”
“Wow,” Jon says, taking a careful sip of his coffee. “That’s pretty huge.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Brendon says, wincing. “Fuck, I was so stupid.”
“I actually think that’s brave,” Jon says, offering him a smile. “I mean, you’ve liked him for a long time. At least as long as I’ve known you.”
Brendon huffs out a laugh. “Spencer walked in,” he says. “He seemed a bit pissed I was touching his boyfriend. Fuck, I didn’t even think-I knew there was something going on with them. I should never have fucking-”
“Whoa,” Jon says, leaning forward to put a hand on Brendon’s arm. Brendon looks down. His hands are shaking. “Back up. Spencer’s what?”
“Boyfriend,” Brendon says flatly. “Or whatever they are. Co-dependent life partners? I don’t even know. Fuck, Jon, Ryan’s face, he-”
The shaking is getting worse. Jon gives him a worried look and takes the plate out of his hands. Then he pulls him into a hug, letting Brendon cling as tightly as he wants while rubbing soothing circles into his back.
“Hey,” Jon says softly once the worst of it has passed. Brendon stubbornly keeps his face buried against Jon’s neck. “Bren, listen to me.”
Brendon reluctantly pulls back, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. Jon hands him a napkin and disappears to the counter for a while, giving Brendon time to get himself back together. When he returns, he’s carrying a piece of apple pie.
Brendon could seriously marry him.
“Here,” he says, handing Brendon the plate. “Now, let’s sort this out. First, Ryan and Spencer are not together.”
“You didn’t see their faces,” Brendon says, feeling a wave of humiliation hit him. “God. This is such a fucking mess.”
“No, they’re not. I asked him,” Jon says. “Last night, when we were chilling out in Ryan’s room. He said they’re not together.”
“You asked him?”
“Yeah,” Jon says, shrugging. “He was talking about the apartment, how they used to live together and what shelves he’d put up and stuff. And I was curious. So yeah, I asked.”
“That makes no sense,” Brendon says, muffling his words with a mouthful of pie. “Why the hell would he tell you that and then go all jealous spouse on Ryan the next day?”
“Because he loves him,” Jon says simply, and-wow-Brendon pretty much knew that already, but the words still hit him like a punch to the gut. “He told me they met before Spencer was even twenty, and from what I understand they’ve been inseparable since, even after they broke up. It’s kind of natural they never got over each other. Doesn’t mean they’re together now. Or going to be in the future.”
Brendon nods. What Jon’s saying isn’t making him feel a whole lot better though.
“So where does that leave me?”
“Where do you want it to leave you?” Jon asks, giving Brendon’s hand a small squeeze. “I’d say figure it out and go from there.”
Brendon looks up, feeling a small smile tug at his lips for the first time since he left Ryan’s place. “Screw you for being reasonable and trying to make me feel hopeful about this.”
“What can I say?” Jon says with a grin. “I like making you smile. It’s a character flaw.”
Brendon shakes his head and returns his focus on his food and drink. The tight feeling in his chest doesn’t exactly go away, but Jon’s easy smiles and light conversation keep him distracted enough not to feel it too acutely. Jon buys him more coffee, two muffins, a sandwich and another piece of pie, and by the end of their breakfast (which by that time has become more of a late lunch), Brendon is so hyped up on caffeine and sugar that he can’t concentrate on much of anything anymore. He ends up giggling at Jon’s jokes and trying to keep himself from bouncing his knee, and it’s soothing in a way, how his thoughts spiral far too fast for him to keep up with them.
“Come on, man,” Jon says, pulling Brendon out of his chair and slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go running. That always helps me clear my head. Leaves it all blank and mushy.”
Brendon nods. He leans his head against Jon’s shoulder as they leave the coffee shop, and Jon just smiles, pulls him a little tighter.
It feels good to have a friend.
FEBRUARY 2009
In the weeks after New Year’s, Brendon learns that spending most of his waking hours working together with two people he’s trying to avoid is pretty awkward. And very difficult, especially when Spencer, at least, isn’t trying to avoid Brendon back.
As a result, Brendon spends most of January clinging to Jon. Or Zack. Even Pete when he gets really desperate. Ryan is very quiet about it, closing in on himself in the same way he did after Jon started at the lab. It makes Brendon want to grab Ryan and hug him really tightly, or push him into a wall, or shake him or kiss him or bake him fucking cookies-whatever it takes to get the expression of stoic indifference off Ryan’s face and make him react to something.
And at the same time, Brendon doesn’t want Ryan to snap out of it. Even though he hates seeing Ryan unhappy-hates it even more when it’s he himself who is causing it-it’s a little like having a scab on his knee that he just can’t stop poking at. (Brendon would like to think that he’s sharing the responsibility of making Ryan unhappy with Spencer, but if he’s to be honest with himself, whatever argument Ryan and Spencer had blew over within the first week, and they’re back to their usual dynamic.)
Brendon hates himself for loving the small spark of power he feels whenever Ryan asks him a question and Brendon waits a few seconds to answer. Or when Ryan forgets himself and smiles at him, or brushes against him in the field, or gets excited by something entomology-related that only Brendon gets, and Brendon doesn’t smile back, or pulls away or turns Ryan down in favour of listening to Jon talk about soccer (which Brendon doesn’t even find very interesting, and Ryan knows it).
The list is long. By the end of the fourth week, Brendon pretty much hates himself.
It’s also around that time that Spencer manages to finally track him down in the back of Archives, looking paler than normal but determined as hell.
“I need to talk to you,” he says, without preamble. “And it’s kind of a long story. You wanna go for breakfast or something? My treat.”
Brendon really doesn’t. He’s been trying to avoid Spencer as well, which has been a lot more difficult since Spencer has both been actively trying to get Brendon to talk to him and developed a habit of hanging out with Jon like he’s a man on a mission. But it’s clear from the look on Spencer’s face that he won’t leave Brendon alone before he gets his say. And it goes against Brendon’s instincts to turn down free pancakes, so. He nods. They go to a diner in an area Brendon hasn’t been to much before. Spencer is obviously a regular; within five minutes at least as many waitresses have come by to say hi and ask how he’s doing.
The pancakes are to die for.
“How did you find this place?” Brendon asks after he’s wolfed down his third blueberry one. Spencer looks up from his scrambled eggs and reaches for his cup of coffee.
“I live right around the corner.”
“Oh,” Brendon says. He’s been to Jon’s place a bunch of times, but never Spencer’s, and Ryan’s only once. Privately, he thinks that it’s pretty sad, especially since they all work so much that they barely have time for friends outside of the lab.
“So,” Spencer says, turning the cup slowly in his hands. “I wanted to apologise for being a huge dick.”
Brendon focuses on his pancakes, making a little tower at the side of his plate. “Okay,” he says, shrugging, because he never really had a problem with Spencer to start with. Brendon honestly likes Spencer. It just hurts to be around him sometimes.
“Brendon, listen,” Spencer says. “Please.”
Brendon looks up at that. Spencer’s eyes are incredibly blue. And really hard to look away from.
“Ryan’s my best friend,” Spencer starts again, sounding very much like he’s launching into a rehearsed speech. “I met him when I was nineteen and he pretty much swept me off my feet. And it-it didn’t-we didn’t make it as a couple for more than two years, but he’s my best friend and that means more to us than it does to most people; we’re a bit fucked up and co-dependent that way. And he doesn’t really date. And I don’t either-not in the sense where it means something more-and sometimes that gets confusing.”
Brendon makes some kind of hum to show that he’s listening and puts some more pancake in his mouth so that he doesn’t have to answer.
“Ryan’s... difficult,” Spencer says carefully. “He’s not good at showing people what he feels. He’s had too much experience of people hurting each other and tends to believe that the only way for him not to fall into the same patterns is to never get close to anyone. But when he does, it’s... you just can’t not love him. He’s like this friggin’ baby bird that’s all fuzzy and trying to fly without knowing how, and you just want to hold him and keep him, and-” Spencer takes a deep breath. “And I know I-um-I mean, this thing with him and me-like, I realise how it must look, okay?” he says, quieter now. “But it’s really not-like, we’re not trying to get back together. It’s not-I’m not-” Spencer takes another sip of his coffee, clearly having lost track of what to say next.
“He’s my best friend,” he says at last, looking at Brendon. “And I know you’re in love with him, so if you can please stop avoiding him, I’ll try to be less of a jealous bitch.”
Brendon feels something cold grab hold of his spine. “I’m not in love with him.”
Spencer raises an eyebrow. Brendon can practically hear the oh, please it implies. He focuses his attention on his plate, pretending to be absolutely transfixed by how the last pieces of pancake soak up the maple syrup when Brendon moves them around.
“I’ve known you liked him since the first time at the airport,” Spencer says quietly. “And I’ve been trying to pretend it isn’t true since back then, because it’s confusing and it kind of hurts like hell, but. I think, um. You could be what he needs.”
Brendon tries very hard not to react. He doesn’t want to hope again. Hoping fucking hurts, and he’s already used up too much hope when it comes to Ryan. But this is Spencer in front of him-who is Ryan’s significant other in more ways than most actual husbands and wives are that Brendon knows-and Spencer is looking at Brendon like he is the one who lost something, or came in second, or missed the target, or some other stupid sports metaphor that Brendon can probably thank Jon for putting in his head.
It’s crazy. Ryan has never-the most Brendon’s been able to fantasise about without objectively having to call himself a delusional idiot is interest. Interest or attraction, maybe a crush on a good day if he’s really pushing it. Spencer is Ryan’s family.
Brendon crosses his arms. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because it’s long overdue,” Spencer says simply, meeting Brendon’s eyes. “Me and Ryan have been clinging to each other for almost a decade. It’s time to let go.”
“You’re insane.”
Spencer shrugs and looks back down into his coffee. “I just-” he says, searching for words again. “I would like to go on an actual date with someone and feel nervous about whether they’ll want to see me again. Sleep with someone I like and who actually knows me-I’m so sick of one night stands, you can’t even imagine-” He breaks off, traces the brim of the cup with his thumb. Brendon waits.
“I’m sick of waiting,” Spencer says. “And telling myself that I’m not waiting. I don’t know, I just-I want to be happy. Not just telling myself that I am, I guess.”
He sounds dejected, and Brendon feels a pang of sympathy. Spencer looks smaller somehow, and Brendon feels stupid for assuming that Spencer was always just as cool and confident as he pretended to be, and never actually thinking about how the whole not-thing with Ryan was affecting him as well.
“Hey,” he says, reaching out to touch Spencer’s hand briefly, offering a smile. “You know how it goes. Every little thing’s gonna be all right.”
The corner of Spencer’s mouth curls a little. “Did you just quote Bob Marley as relationship advice? Like, for real?”
“Why not,” Brendon says, grateful to follow Spencer’s lead. “And I agree, waiting blows. Maybe you and I should cut our losses and make a break for it.”
He means it as a joke, of course he does.
Spencer isn’t laughing.
“I’m kind of tired of being someone’s backup plan,” he says, trying to soften the bluntness with a small smile. “But just for the record, if it hadn’t been for Ryan, I would totally have asked you out for coffee the day we met.”
Brendon smiles back. “If not for Ryan, I would have said yes.”
The corners of Spencer’s mouth start to twitch, and soon they’re both lying down on the table, shaking with laughter.
“So, we’re pretty much the most pathetic people ever,” Spencer concludes once they get themselves together. Brendon hums in agreement.
“Are we good?” Spencer continues. “I mean, I know I’ve been a complete dick, but-”
Brendon looks at him. Spencer can really be a first-class bitch at times, and when he and Brendon clash, it’s usually pretty painful. But he’s also the guy who brings Brendon caramel lattes and chocolate chip cookies when they have to work triple shifts, and the guy who always has everyone’s back in the field. He calms Ryan down and makes Jon smile, and Brendon is pretty sure that Spencer’s never purposefully lied to him.
Brendon wouldn’t mind having Spencer for a friend.
“Yeah,” he says, reaching for Spencer’s hand again and giving him another smile. “We’re good.”
MARCH 2009
It’s March 17, and Ryan is in a crowded bar, surrounded by people holding pints of Guinness and Smithwick’s ale and listening to five guys and a girl seriously rock out on a small stage opposite the bar. It was Pete’s idea, a moment of So, listen. This guy I know told me about this bar... that turned into a long speech about how the event would be ‘all legit and shit’ and have ‘actual Irish people playing tinwhistles and stuff’.
Brendon had been the first to fall, and once he did, Jon and Spencer quickly followed. And then they’d all turned to Ryan, who shrugged and pretended he hadn’t already decided to go when he saw Brendon’s whole face light up at the possibility of hearing someone play the uilleann pipes.
So here they are.
The music is mostly instrumental: two types of accordion, some kind of percussion, a guitar, the Irish pipes Brendon was raving about, and a tinwhistle. At regular intervals, the guy on percussion will grab a guitar for himself and liven things up even more by leading everyone into loud group singing with some seriously dirty songs.
Ryan looks over to his left. Spencer is leaning against Jon, gasping for breath from laughing at something Jon apparently said. Ryan feels a slight twinge at the bottom of his gut and reminds himself that Jon is straight. And that it wouldn’t be any of Ryan’s business even if he weren’t.
The musicians finish another song and the guy with the tinwhistle picks up the mic, thanks everyone for coming yet again and starts introducing the other musicians. His name is Conor and he’s got a pretty thick Irish accent. Ryan secretly loves accents, always has. And he finds that with every pint of beer he drinks, the guy becomes easier and easier to understand, which is a nice bonus.
“...and there aren’t a lot of people left who play them, so we’re really happy to have Andrew here tonight,” Conor says, pointing at the guy with the instrument that looks a lot like Scottish bagpipes in his lap. “Andrew on uilleann pipes, everyone!”
A piercing whistle cuts through the air way too close to Ryan’s ear. When he turns around, Brendon’s there, about five feet away, clapping loudly and giving another whistle for the guys on stage.
Ryan waves without thinking and calls Brendon’s name. Loudly. Spencer turns around and looks at him, surprise morphing slowly into a smirk before Jon whispers something else in his ear and Spencer collapses in a new bout of laughter.
Brendon turns around, spots Ryan and pushes himself through the crowd. He’s carrying an almost empty glass and looks flushed and happy. Ryan thinks he was part of the group trying out Riverdance steps earlier with the blonde girl playing accordion. Not that he was looking or anything.
“That guy is just sick,” Brendon says, nodding his head in the direction of Andrew the Pipe Player. “Like, seriously, did you see the wrist movement and finger coordination? I could marry that guy, right now. For real.”
Something hot and uncomfortable curls itself in Ryan’s stomach. “I play guitar,” he says, out of the blue, and instantly wants to hit himself over the head with a heavy object. He drinks deeply from his beer, pretending that everything is perfectly normal and that he can’t hear Jon and Spencer laughing themselves sick.
Brendon looks at him, eyes wide. For a moment, it looks like his whole body is on the verge of uncontrollable laughter as well. And then the corners of his mouth settle into a teasing smile. “Guitar, huh?” Brendon says, with what Ryan assumes is supposed to be a serious face. “I don’t know, Ross. Marriage is a serious thing. You can totally be my dirty mistress, though.”
He winks at Ryan. Actually winks. Ryan drains his beer and hurries to turn his attention back to the stage. Jon and Spencer are still laughing.
“...Shannon, give it up for her! And believe it or not, but the guy on guitar is actually called Patrick. So an extra round of applause for him since it’s his day and all!”
A small guy in the back gives an embarrassed wave. He’s wearing a newsboy cap on his head, pulled down low over his eyes. Ryan can’t really see his face. At the other end of the bar, Pete whoops enthusiastically while Travis tries to keep him from actually climbing up on the bar.
The people Ryan works with are honestly insane sometimes.
“...and last but not least, we have Riley on percussion,” Conor says, pointing at the tall, dark guy who was singing dirty songs a while ago. “Now, since this is an Irish night and no good Irish house party is complete without dancing, we’re gonna do a bit of that. It’s called céilí dancing,” (he pronounces it ’kaylee dancing’) “and first thing we do is get everyone up on the floor. Grab a partner. Any partner. Doesn’t matter if it’s a guy or a girl. Come on.”
Ryan turns towards the bar, intending to flag down the bartender and order more beer.
Brendon takes his hand. Drags him up on the floor. Ryan is too shocked to do anything but follow.
“Oh, Jesus,” he hears Spencer’s voice from somewhere behind them. “Come on, Jon, get up. We need to see this up close.”
Ryan opens his mouth to tell Brendon that he doesn’t dance. Not in any way that requires him to do more than sway in a crowd at a dark club. The few times he’s tried (all back when Spencer was in collage), things ended really badly. Which is no doubt why Spencer is pulling Jon in their direction with such a gleeful look on his face.
“Now form a circle,” Conor calls out, and Ryan feels himself being pulled to the right. He ends up crowded between Spencer, who is smiling widely, and Brendon, who is still holding his hand.
Ryan swallows.
“Great!” Conor continues, joining the circle with Shannon-the-accordion-player. “Okay, so we’ll start with some basic steps. It goes one, two, three, one, two, three. Left foot first, yeah?” he says, demonstrating. Everyone follows. Or tries to. From what Ryan can see, there are very varying levels of success around the circle. Spencer isn’t so much stepping as he’s hanging onto Jon, laughing openly now as Ryan’s feet try to follow the pattern. Spencer’s drunk. Really drunk. Ryan wonders if he should worry.
“Good! Now we’ll add a jump to the first one, so jump, two three, jump, two three. Is everyone following?” Conor says. “Good, then clap your hands.”
Everyone claps their hands. There are a lot more claps than the two that Conor and Shannon demonstrated. “Now, grab the hands of the people on either side of you. Hold them up like this. You’ve all seen this on Riverdance, yeah?”
Brendon raises their joined hands, and Ryan is suddenly very much aware of how they haven’t let go since Brendon pulled him up on the floor. Brendon smiles, and Ryan feels his pulse start to race. He reaches for Spencer’s hand on his other side and finds it after a bit of fumbling. He doesn’t think much about it until Spencer’s hand goes suddenly tense in his. Ryan turns his head. Spencer isn’t looking at him.
“Hey,” Ryan says, leaning in a little closer to Spencer’s ear. “You okay?”
Spencer looks up, pulls his face into another wide smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Terrific.”
He wobbles on his feet as the ring moves to the right, Conor calling out for them to cross one leg over the other. Ryan tightens his hold. On Spencer’s other side, he can see Jon do the same.
“And then we’ll swing our partners around!” Conor shouts. “Grab your partner. Take their left hand. And then put your right hand on their waist, on the inside of their left arm, yeah? Good. And then you spin. Round and round. Unless someone needs to throw up. Then you let them go. Fast as you can. And after that-the spinning, not the throwing up-we’ll start over. Everyone all right with that?”
Ryan lets go of Spencer’s hand and turns to Brendon, who is having some kind of silent conversation with Jon over Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan sees him mouth ’he okay?’, frown and-for some reason-blush, in the span of five seconds. Ryan looks behind him to see Jon leading Spencer off the floor with an arm around his waist. He’s making some kind of joke, head bent close to Spencer’s, and Spencer is smiling again, a real smile this time.
“Jon’s taking him home,” Brendon says, drawing Ryan’s attention back to him and trying to lighten the mood again with a smile of his own. “He’ll make sure he’s okay. Now let’s do this swingy thing.”
Ryan is too confused and overwhelmed by conflicting thoughts and impressions to argue, so he does his best to keep himself from worrying about Spencer and takes Brendon’s left hand. It’s warm. Warmer than it was a minute ago. Ryan takes a careful breath and puts his other hand on Brendon’s waist, making sure to relax his fingers to make the contact as casual as possible. He has to close his eyes for a second when Brendon mirrors him, warm fingers touching his back through the fabric of his shirt. He swallows again and tries to listen to Conor’s instructions on how to shift his weight back during the spin.
Before they have a chance to actually try it, the musicians are starting to play, and Conor and Shannon are calling to everyone to get back to the starting position. Ryan struggles through the first steps, misses the claps, pretty much gets dragged through the seven criss-crossing steps in the circle and then, it’s time to spin.
He doesn’t have time to think this time. Brendon’s hands just fall into place, and then they’re moving, round and around. Brendon starts laughing after the first turn, looking back at Ryan with eyes that are practically shining from excitement.
Ryan feels light-headed.
The dance continues, going back to steps and claps and more of dragging Ryan around the circle. And every time they get to the part where Brendon takes his hand and slides his other one around Ryan’s waist, Ryan loses a little bit of the feeling in his knees.
By the fourth time, he’s turning before Brendon is, letting himself be swept up in the music and not caring about how his hand is tightening its hold at Brendon’s waist. Brendon keeps laughing and smiling and fucking sparkling at him, and Ryan feels himself start to give in. He closes his eyes and leans his head back, lets the laughter in his chest bubble up his throat and stops worrying about how the two of them must look or what will happen when the music ends.
Brendon swings him faster.
APRIL 2009
It’s Brendon’s twenty-eighth birthday, and things are getting out of hand.
It started with a birthday party at one of the bars down town. Nice enough place. No strippers, good food. More people from the lab and some of the detectives joining up. Brendon happy and laughing beside him. Pleasant, comfortable conversations about firefly colonies.
Then there were shots.
And now there is this. Meaning Brendon hanging heavily on Ryan’s arm, drunk and giggling and nuzzling at Ryan’s neck while Ryan tries to get Brendon’s keys out of his pocket and get the damn door open without letting his brain go anywhere near things like how hot Brendon’s leg is beneath the fabric of his jean pocket or how close Ryan’s fingers are to areas he really, really shouldn’t touch.
He gets the door open and wrestles both of them inside, guiding them through the hallway towards the bedroom he knows must be hiding somewhere. Brendon isn’t being any help at all, stumbling along and tripping over his own feet, and-fuck-sliding his free hand into the back pocket of Ryan’s pants.
Ryan finally finds the bedroom and pulls Brendon over to the bed, considering how to get him under the sheets without having to take his clothes off. Or watch Brendon take his clothes off. Maybe Ryan can just dump him on top of the blankets? Get something else to cover him with? He thinks he remembers seeing an afghan spread out on the couch-
Brendon kisses him.
Ryan doesn’t even have time to react. One moment, Brendon is nuzzling happily at the crook of his neck, and a millisecond later, there are hands in Ryan’s hair, pulling him down, and Brendon’s tongue is in his mouth, hot and wet, stroking against Ryan’s.
Ryan panics, hands sort of flailing at his sides, brain suddenly having way too much to deal with at once to be able to guide them to where they should be. Which is at Brendon’s chest, pushing him away. Or on his stomach. Stomach is fine, really-good leverage, easy to press on to create distance, all warm and solid and, fuck, when did Brendon lose his shirt?
Ryan’s not drunk, not really, but he feels like he is; everything is reeling around him, Brendon’s mouth and hands everywhere at once, and Ryan can’t think.
Brendon backs them up against the bed, and then they’re tumbling down on it, Ryan losing his shirt as well in somewhere in the process. The sheets beneath Ryan’s back are cool against his skin, and he can practically feel what’s left of his control slipping when Brendon starts kissing a hot trail down his throat.
“It’s my birthday,” Brendon mumbles, pressing down with his hips in a way that makes Ryan’s vision black out momentarily. “Don’t say no when it’s my birthday. Please, Ryan, pleasepleaseplease.”
Ryan grits his teeth and pushes back, rolling them over to get Brendon beneath him, trapping his hands and breaking the kiss, fighting to get some control back.
Brendon moans, arches up. He slides one of his legs up the back of Ryan’s knee, over his ass, wrapping it around his back. Brendon is hard beneath him, rubbing himself against Ryan in a way that feels so, so good. Ryan hasn’t got laid in months, and he’s wanted Brendon for years, and Brendon is grinding up against him, panting against Ryan’s neck, and-
He can’t let this happen.
Ryan tears himself away and scrambles out of bed, doing his pants up with shaking hands, looking frantically around the room for the shirt he was wearing.
Brendon doesn’t follow him.
Ryan’s first thought when he looks over at the bed-still doing up buttons-is that Brendon has passed out.
Then he sees Brendon’s hand.
Brendon’s jeans are open, but not pushed down more than an inch or two. Bright yellow boxers are showing where the black material is falling back, and Brendon’s hand is inside them, moving quickly up and down. His breathing is stuttered and sharp, pulling Ryan’s eyes to how his whole upper body seems to tremble, how the rise of his chest is emphasised when Brendon tilts his head back against the pillows, showing off the long, pale column of his throat.
Ryan can’t breathe. Can’t move. Can’t do anything but watch with his chin probably hanging half-way to the floor as Brendon jerks himself off right in front of him. Brendon opens his eyes, looking back at him, and Ryan isn’t sure what Brendon sees right then, if he knows what’s happening or if he’s too out of it to notice.
Brendon smiles, mouths Ryan’s name, and then his head is falling back, mouth opening in a strangled moan as he comes over his hand and lower stomach, mumbling things that are too incoherent for Ryan to make out.
Ryan stands there, frozen, long after Brendon’s breathing slows down and a lazy smile spreads across his face. He’s beautiful-holy shit, so beautiful-and Ryan wants. Wants so much it hurts to be someone who’s allowed to slide into Brendon’s bed, pull him close and just kiss him until they both die from it.
“Please don’t leave.”
Brendon’s eyes are open again, still smiling but fading fast. Ryan should leave. He has seen the different stages of inebriation enough times to know what to expect. Brendon will fall asleep. Chances are he won’t remember much of anything when he wakes up. If Ryan leaves, Brendon will wake up alone with no evidence of Ryan having been in his bedroom other than perhaps a few flashes of memory that will be easy enough to explain away as nothing but heated dreams.
Ryan should leave. He should. It will be easier for both of them if he does-so much easier to pretend that nothing really happened. They have lives to get on with, cases to solve.
There is wood beneath his hands. Brendon’s dresser. Fuck.
He pulls out a drawer, shuffles through the piles until he finds a clean t-shirt and a pair of purple boxers. He goes back into the hallway, finds the bathroom, runs a wash cloth under the tap and brings it back with him.
Brendon is nearly asleep when Ryan starts to clean him up, but the smile stays on his face through the removal of his clothes and the small protesting noises he makes when Ryan pulls the clean shirt over his head. Ryan thinks of the Cheshire cat and then, in what he thinks is a quite reasonable jump, of losing his head in a croquet game.
He really, really shouldn’t stay.
His shirt and pants end up over the back of a chair, another one of Brendon’s shirts finds its way over his head, and then there are sheets against his back again as the bed moves under his weight. He stays on the far side, watching Brendon fall deeper into sleep. His dark hair is tousled and he’s breathing through his mouth. He looks happier than Ryan’s ever seen him.
Ryan closes his eyes and starts counting down, willing himself to go to sleep.
He gives up at negative thee thousand and thirty-five.
***
Brendon wakes up with a splitting headache and the distinct feeling that something is very wrong.
He opens his eyes, looks around. He’s in his own bed, alone. Good. The sheets are a tangled mess but don’t smell like someone has been having crazy monkey sex on them. Or thrown up anywhere. Also good.
He does a mental check of his body and reconfirms his headache, along with a queasy feeling to his stomach and general sluggishness. He’s sweaty but not sticky; ass and throat both feel fine. So he didn’t get fucked then. For some reason, there’s a sting of disappointment as he draws the conclusion.
Something is floating at the back of his mind, just far enough out of reach that he can’t tell if it’s a memory or a dream or some kind of combination of the two. He can sense pleasure in it. Kissing. Bodies moving together. Even through the layers of confusion, it’s enough to make his pulse speed up. He knows from experience that it won’t get much clearer even if he tries to sort it out, though, so he doesn’t bother, brushes it off as spoils of war.
He sits up in bed and pulls his t-shirt over his head. Freezes. Does a double-take.
This is not the shirt he was wearing to the bar last night.
Brendon only sleeps in anything at all under two sets of circumstances: when he’s home at his parents’ house and when he falls asleep in his clothes. And this is not the shirt he was wearing last night. He looks down. Those are not the boxers he was wearing either.
The feeling of something being wrong creeps back up his spine as he looks around the room a second time. His clothes from last night are nowhere to be seen, and when he turns to the bedside table, there’s a bottle of ibuprofen waiting for him next to a glass of water.
Someone was here. Or helped him home at least. Brendon racks his brain, tries to remember what happened after Pete and Travis came back from the bar with a tray filled with shot glasses. He closes his eyes, concentrates. There’s a smell, and then a brief flash of leaning against someone, breathing against the skin of their neck. And a voice. Low and soothing, a little unsteady over the sound of keys.
Ryan.
Oh God.
He hides his face in his hands for a good long while. Then he rolls out of bed, stopping half-way to take the pills Ryan was nice enough to lay out for him. The water feels like pure bliss running down his throat. He needs more. And coffee. God, next to hiding out in his apartment for the rest of his life and never showing his face down at the lab again, coffee would be the best thing ever.
He stumbles out of his room and down the hallway. The image of coffee is so clear he can almost taste it in his mouth already, the imaginary smell of it growing stronger with every step he takes towards the kitchen.
“Hi.”
Brendon stops dead in his tracks, half-way through the doorway. Ryan is sitting at the table, looking up at him, one of Brendon’s forensic journals on the table next to his cup of coffee.
The non-imaginary coffee that’s keeping warm in its pot on the counter, sending out aromas to the rest of the apartment.
Brendon hasn’t felt this stupid in years.
“Hi,” Ryan says again, looking very nervous. “Did you, um, did you sleep well?”
He stands up and goes over to the counter, pours another cup that he puts down across from himself at the table. Brendon feels his feet move him there on their own, body sinking into the chair and hands gripping the cup like a lifeline.
Ryan still looks nervous as hell as he moves around to fiddle with the toaster. Brendon follows the line of dots from breakfast to coffee to Ryan not only helping him home but staying the night and standing in Brendon’s kitchen now, asking, essentially, if he’s feeling okay.
Oh God, what did Brendon do?
A thousand scenarios explode in his head, each more horrific than the next. He doesn’t want to know, but Ryan already does, and having Ryan act weird around him without having a clue as to why would make Brendon go insane, so in the end, there’s nothing to do but ask.
“Did we-” he starts, keeping his eyes firmly on the table. “I mean, did anything happen? Did I do anything stupid that-?”
“No, no,” Ryan says quickly. Too quickly. “Um, I mean, nothing big. There was-we kissed,” he admits quietly, not meeting Brendon’s eyes. “But just-it just happened. Um, too much alcohol, I guess? And I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have, and-but nothing happened. I mean, we didn’t-”
He trails off, taking a gulp of coffee, both hands clutching too tightly at the cup. The toaster pings, and Ryan turns around, looking through the cupboards for plates. Brendon swallows thickly, staring into his own cup.
Ryan kissed him. Or Brendon kissed Ryan. Or they both fell into it together, whatever. And Brendon doesn’t remember it.
Five and a half fucking years waiting to get a second chance to kiss Ryan Ross, and when it finally happens-on Brendon’s fucking birthday-he doesn’t even remember doing it.
Brendon wants to curl up in his bed and die. Right after he bursts into flames from embarrassment.
Fuck.
“Here,” Ryan says gently, placing a plate of buttered toast in front of him. “Eat. It will make you feel better. I promise.”
Brendon takes a bite. The toast is perfect, all crispy and warm, covered in melting butter. Brendon feels it grow in his mouth.
“I don’t remember.” The words come out without permission. Brendon stuffs another piece of toast into his mouth, hoping it will help him shut the fuck up.
“Maybe it’s better that way,” Ryan says carefully. Brendon feels bile rising in his throat.
“That bad, huh?” he replies. It’s supposed to come out light, break the mood. His voice kind of ruins it by cracking at the end.
“No,” Ryan says, looking stricken. “Of course it wasn’t. How can you even-it just-” Ryan cuts himself off, pressing his lips together. Brendon waits.
“It just made things a lot harder,” Ryan says at last.
It’s not funny. Nothing in this situation is. Brendon’s lips curl up at the corners anyway.
“Oh, shut up,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes. There’s a small smile spreading on his face, however, and things immediately feel more manageable.
They start talking about other things. Work, articles they’ve both read recently. Ryan makes more toast, and Brendon digs the orange juice out of the fridge. As far as morning afters go, Brendon’s definitely had much worse.
“I should get going,” Ryan says at last. “You okay?”
Brendon nods. It’s a big fat lie. He wonders if Ryan will call him on it or just take the out for what it is.
“Bren...”
Damn.
“I just wish I remembered,” Brendon admits. “But I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“Why?”
Brendon shrugs. “Just... it was my birthday,” he says, covering some of the hurt up with another smile. “It’s a day when special things happen, you know? I would have liked to keep the memory, that’s all.”
It’s not the whole truth of course. Brendon wants about a million things more from Ryan than a drunken birthday kiss, but if last night is any indication, Brendon’s convictions to be more than someone who’s willing to take what he can get are obviously a lot weaker than he thought they were.
He gets out of his chair and starts putting dishes into the sink, changing the subject back to one of the cases they’ve been working on.
Ryan stops him with a hand on his shoulder, just resting lightly there. Brendon turns around.
Ryan kisses him.
It happens so quietly that Brendon almost doesn’t dare to breathe. Ryan lets the hand on Brendon’s shoulder drop to his waist, pulling him closer. He keeps the kiss light at first, giving Brendon time to recover from the surprise and relax into it. Brendon makes a tiny sound against his mouth, kissing back, and Ryan tightens his grip, steadying them both as the kiss deepens.
It’s the nicest kiss Brendon’s ever got.
“Happy birthday,” Ryan whispers when they finally break apart, brushing his lips across Brendon’s cheek before stepping back.
Brendon smiles, the first real smile of the day. He can’t not; Ryan just kissed him, just gave Brendon a little part of himself-of them-because Brendon wanted it. He gets that it doesn’t change anything between them, but at the same time, the fact that it was a gift makes him love it even more.
“So,” he says, talking mainly to draw out the moment just a little bit longer. “Was that how it was? Last night, I mean?”
Ryan has an expression on his face that Brendon can’t make out at all; it’s too many things at once; mostly, it just adds up to confusing. “It’s how it should have been,” Ryan says at last, leaning in quickly to steal another kiss, one that is short and wet and that Brendon feels all the way down to his toes. “Sorry, just-one for the road.”
He leaves the kitchen with the speed of someone caught on fire, and Brendon is left staring after him. He touches his lips with one finger; they’re still a little wet. He feels his whole face split into a blinding grin seconds later, pure joy bubbling up inside him so fast that he has to jump up and down and stomp his feet a bit to handle it.
Ryan kissed him. Twice. And if the first time was for Brendon, self-sacrificing and giving and an example of every other kind of pseudo-noble virtue that Ryan likes to pursue, then the second one was for himself, for no other reason than that Ryan wanted to do it.
Ryan Ross wants to kiss him.
Brendon needs a better victory dance.
continued here
CHAPTER THREE
JANUARY 2009
Brendon goes out to party with his colleagues on New Year’s Eve at a bar next to the university campus and wakes up the next day on a crowded bed with someone’s arm wrapped tightly around his waist. For the first couple of moments of waking up, he thinks that it’s Shane. Then he remembers that Shane is at the other side of the country and probably wouldn’t be snuggling Brendon even if they were in the same city.
He opens his eyes carefully. It’s bright. Way too bright. Brendon blinks. Spencer is lying about a foot away from him, facing away, with someone’s arm around his back, holding him close. Brendon squints, looks at the hand. That’s Jon’s hand. Huh.
A loud snore comes from the foot of the bed, and Brendon looks down, sees Travis spread out over most of it. There is more snoring coming from the floor. Brendon hopes whoever owns the apartment put in carpet and not timber flooring.
The person holding him shifts a little closer, making a humming sound against Brendon’s neck. Brendon carefully turns his head around, hoping very much that he isn’t cuddled up against Pete or something.
It’s Ryan.
Brendon’s breath hitches in his throat.
Ryan hums again and brushes his lips over the bare skin on Brendon’s shoulder. Because unlike everyone else in the room, Brendon isn’t wearing a shirt. Which means that Ryan’s hand is resting on Brendon’s naked stomach. Low on Brendon’s naked stomach.
He should probably move.
As though he can somehow hear Brendon’s thoughts, Ryan tightens his arms around Brendon in his sleep. The hold feels intimate, but not really sexual. Despite his taller frame, Ryan feels somehow small behind him, huddled into every curve of Brendon’s body like he feels safe there. Or like he subconsciously knows that he’s doing something wrong but doesn’t want anyone to call him on it and make him move away. Brendon closes his eyes and melts into the touch. His hips shift back automatically, just another inch.
Ryan isn’t even hard. Brendon doesn’t know whether to feel flattered or disappointed. Logic tells him that they were all several levels beyond drunk the night before and that alcohol is very destructive to the male anatomy.
His own body happily contradicts the last statement. Brendon really should get moving.
He can’t bring himself to actually do it, though. He’s on a soft bed, and Ryan Ross is spooning him. Brendon’s pretty sure the number of dreams he’s had featuring that exact scenario is well into the double digits.
Ryan nuzzles his neck again, and Brendon decides that the things he should do can go fuck themselves. He puts his hand on top of Ryan’s, weaves their fingers together and pulls Ryan even closer. Ryan mumbles something in his sleep, and Brendon wishes he knew how to provoke people to sleep talk, because every time Ryan makes a sound, his lips ghost across Brendon’s skin, and that feels really incredible.
He closes his eyes and tries to breathe, following the movements of Ryan’s chest against his back and the hot puffs of air that skate over his neck. Ryan cuddles even closer, like he’s somehow trying to get inside Brendon’s skin, or at least merge with it. The buttons of his shirt are digging into Brendon’s back, and Brendon is simultaneously annoyed and grateful. He wants to turn around, slip them out of their button holes and press up against Ryan’s chest. Wants to feel Ryan’s bare back under his hands and bury his face against his neck and rub their stomachs together like Brendon really likes and-
He takes a deep breath. Reminds himself that molesting people in their sleep is considered a Bad Thing To Do. He keeps himself perfectly still until he feels reasonably sure that he’s not going to jump Ryan, and forces himself to relax. In a way, cuddling with Ryan feels even better when he finally does, all melting heat wrapped around loose muscles and Brendon’s head leaning into the pillows so that Ryan’s mouth ends up right against the side of his neck.
He takes another deep breath, closes his eyes and carefully brings the one of Ryan’s hands that is now resting against his chest up to his face. He rubs his cheek against it, places a soft kiss on each of the knuckles and lets it drop back down. As moments go, it feels pretty perfect. Brendon wishes he could freeze it and put it in a box and just-
“Rise and shine, sleepyheads!”
From down the hall, Brendon can hear a door being thrown shut, and after that, there’s movement everywhere. Spencer starts awake in front of him, pretty much slamming into Brendon when he jerks away from Jon. The impact pushes Brendon violently into Ryan’s chest, making Ryan jerk awake and actually fall off the bed as he flails to get all his arms and legs sorted out. Somewhere in the chaos, Brendon manages to kick Travis in the face, and as the dust settles, everyone is looking around the room, making varying sounds of pain and turning towards the door with pissed-off expressions.
“Goooooood morning,” Pete exclaims, bursting into the bedroom with a huge smile and several paper bags and coffee trays in his hands. “Who wants doughnuts?”
Brendon is pretty sure that at least Travis and Spencer would have killed Pete on the spot if it hadn’t been for the trays of Starbucks in his hands. From the way that Pete holds the cups out in front of him like a shield and is smiling obnoxiously, Brendon has a feeling Pete knows it too.
“How the hell did you get in?” a voice comes from the floor, and Ryan’s head pops into view, both his hands massaging his temples. “I thought you left early last night. And why is your hair wet?”
“Borrowed your key,” Pete says nonchalantly. “I got it when we got back from the bar because someone was too busy showing Urie how to make shadow puppets under the street lamp to actually open his own door. And my hair is wet because I took a shower. Something you should all be doing, actually; it fucking reeks in here.”
Ryan doesn’t reply. He’s also very carefully doesn’t look at Brendon as he gingerly gets off the floor and walks out of the bedroom. Brendon watches him go, wondering if this is the part where he’s supposed to follow and try to get Ryan to talk about... whatever it is they have going on. He’s saved from having to make a decision by Jon, who reaches past him to grab a cup of coffee.
“Whatever, dude. Your mom reeks, okay?” Jon says to Pete, handing a cup to Brendon as well. “We should probably move into the kitchen though, if someone can get Marshall off the floor. Smith, you need help off the bed?”
Spencer makes a pained sound and buries his face deeper into the pillows. Jon grins and looks back at Pete. “Any chance you have a triple espresso there somewhere?”
“What do you take me for, an amateur?” Pete says, grinning back and handing over a smaller cup. “Okay, enough lovey-doveing. I need food.”
Pete leaves the room. Brendon stays on the bed and sips his coffee while people slowly clear out. He can hear Spencer’s voice, taking charge organising breakfast in Ryan’s kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It probably is, Brendon thinks. Ryan and Spencer are almost like one person sometimes. It makes sense that Spencer should fall into the role of the host when Ryan isn’t there to do it. From the talking and laughter coming from the kitchen, it’s obvious that Spencer is doing a good job of it, too. If Brendon tried to cook breakfast for a bunch of hungover cops and CSI’s, he’d most likely end up jostling china too loudly and burning all of their food.
Fifteen minutes later, he’s still busy looking down at his cup, tracing the brim with his thumb while his thoughts get steadily more pathetic, and doesn’t notice the soft footsteps in the hallway until he feels someone’s eyes on him.
Brendon looks up. Ryan is standing just inside the room, hair and skin damp from the shower and with only a towel wrapped around his hips. He looks younger without his clothes, thin body matching his face better than the suits he normally wears. Ryan’s hair is curling around his face, darker than Brendon is used to seeing it, and the skin stretching over his chest and stomach is pale and flawless, begging to be touched.
“Hi,” Brendon says automatically, trying to keep himself from staring and failing rather miserably. “Um. I’m sorry. I should-” He makes a gesture with his hand to mean ‘leave you alone’. Ryan ducks his head. There’s more laughter from the kitchen.
“It’s okay. Stay. You’re having coffee, I’ll just-” Ryan replies, with a sort of flaily hand wave of his own that Brendon takes to mean ‘put some clothes on’.
The second he thinks it, it becomes ten times more obvious that Ryan is standing in front of him not wearing clothes. And that Brendon is only wearing his jeans, which suddenly don’t feel like they’re covering much at all.
“Did-did you sleep okay?” Brendon asks. “Um, I mean-” he adds, trying to think of something less obvious to say, “sorry about all of us crashing in your room and all.”
Ryan shakes his head, bites his lip. Brendon probably should do something abut the fact that he’s still staring.
“No, it’s fine. I didn’t mind. I-um.” Ryan looks up at him, blushes slightly and disappears into the closet before he can finish the rest of the sentence. Brendon stares after him, a trail of surprised awareness trickling down his spine.
Ryan comes back out, dressed in a full-on suit, fiddling to get a tie in place around his neck. It’s a stark contrast to before; the only skin left uncovered is that on Ryan’s hands and face, a little at the top part of his neck.
Brendon can still see the blush.
He slides off the bed and makes his way over without thinking, acting off a sudden need to push. To check. To know if the red creeping higher and higher on Ryan’s neck is simple embarrassment or something more. He reaches for Ryan’s tie, taking it in both hands. He adjusts it until the ends are the right lengths and starts to slowly redo the knot. They’re close. Close enough for Brendon to see the fear in Ryan’s eyes and the way his breathing catches a little.
He finishes the double Windsor and pulls it tight. Ryan swallows. Looks down.
“You’re good at that.”
“Learned early,” Brendon says, keeping his hands on the silky material. They’re even closer now. “Three older brothers and we all wore ties to church.”
Ryan nods, like this is important information. Like they’re having a normal conversation and the back of Brendon’s hands aren’t brushing against his chest. Brendon lets go of the tie and slides one hand up to cup Ryan’s neck, leans in, hoping that what he’s about to do doesn’t turn out to be a horrible idea.
A door slams. Ryan pulls back and turns around so fast that Brendon loses his balance a little.
Spencer is standing in the doorway, looking at them with his arms crossed over his chest.
“You know what?” he says, looking from Ryan to Brendon and then back again with a blank expression that Brendon can’t read but that Ryan seems to have no problem with from the way he stiffens at Brendon’s side. “You can make your own fucking eggs.”
He slams the door again on his way out. Ryan turns further away, leaning against the wall with his forehead pressed against it. Brendon reaches out carefully and touches Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan pulls away.
“Ryan...”
“I’m sorry,” Ryan says quietly, keeping his eyes closed and his head against the wall. “Could you please-? I’m sorry, I just can’t-”
Brendon nods. He feels numb, like all the adrenaline rushing through him moments earlier just crashed and left him with nothing more than a tight feeling in his chest. He leaves the bedroom quickly, finds his shirt on the living room floor and is out the front door before anyone has a chance to call him back. He walks about five blocks before his phone rings. The surge of hope as he pulls it out of his pocket makes him feel even more pathetic.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me,” Jon says at the other end of the line. “Listen, we all just got kicked out of Ryan’s place, and Pete and Travis are being really cranky about it. Meet me for breakfast at the coffee shop on Roosevelt?”
“Huh?” Brendon says, articulately. “What? Why?”
“I don’t know,” Jon says. “Ross and Spencer had some stuff they needed to work out. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Come on, come to breakfast with me. I’ll buy you a muffin.”
Brendon doesn’t really want to talk to anyone, but Jon keeps asking, and it’s clear that he won’t take no for an answer, so in the end, Brendon agrees.
“Wanna tell me what happened?” Jon asks once they’re seated next to a window with steaming mugs in front of them. Brendon picks at his muffin, crumbling it on the plate.
“I tried to kiss Ryan.”
“Wow,” Jon says, taking a careful sip of his coffee. “That’s pretty huge.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Brendon says, wincing. “Fuck, I was so stupid.”
“I actually think that’s brave,” Jon says, offering him a smile. “I mean, you’ve liked him for a long time. At least as long as I’ve known you.”
Brendon huffs out a laugh. “Spencer walked in,” he says. “He seemed a bit pissed I was touching his boyfriend. Fuck, I didn’t even think-I knew there was something going on with them. I should never have fucking-”
“Whoa,” Jon says, leaning forward to put a hand on Brendon’s arm. Brendon looks down. His hands are shaking. “Back up. Spencer’s what?”
“Boyfriend,” Brendon says flatly. “Or whatever they are. Co-dependent life partners? I don’t even know. Fuck, Jon, Ryan’s face, he-”
The shaking is getting worse. Jon gives him a worried look and takes the plate out of his hands. Then he pulls him into a hug, letting Brendon cling as tightly as he wants while rubbing soothing circles into his back.
“Hey,” Jon says softly once the worst of it has passed. Brendon stubbornly keeps his face buried against Jon’s neck. “Bren, listen to me.”
Brendon reluctantly pulls back, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. Jon hands him a napkin and disappears to the counter for a while, giving Brendon time to get himself back together. When he returns, he’s carrying a piece of apple pie.
Brendon could seriously marry him.
“Here,” he says, handing Brendon the plate. “Now, let’s sort this out. First, Ryan and Spencer are not together.”
“You didn’t see their faces,” Brendon says, feeling a wave of humiliation hit him. “God. This is such a fucking mess.”
“No, they’re not. I asked him,” Jon says. “Last night, when we were chilling out in Ryan’s room. He said they’re not together.”
“You asked him?”
“Yeah,” Jon says, shrugging. “He was talking about the apartment, how they used to live together and what shelves he’d put up and stuff. And I was curious. So yeah, I asked.”
“That makes no sense,” Brendon says, muffling his words with a mouthful of pie. “Why the hell would he tell you that and then go all jealous spouse on Ryan the next day?”
“Because he loves him,” Jon says simply, and-wow-Brendon pretty much knew that already, but the words still hit him like a punch to the gut. “He told me they met before Spencer was even twenty, and from what I understand they’ve been inseparable since, even after they broke up. It’s kind of natural they never got over each other. Doesn’t mean they’re together now. Or going to be in the future.”
Brendon nods. What Jon’s saying isn’t making him feel a whole lot better though.
“So where does that leave me?”
“Where do you want it to leave you?” Jon asks, giving Brendon’s hand a small squeeze. “I’d say figure it out and go from there.”
Brendon looks up, feeling a small smile tug at his lips for the first time since he left Ryan’s place. “Screw you for being reasonable and trying to make me feel hopeful about this.”
“What can I say?” Jon says with a grin. “I like making you smile. It’s a character flaw.”
Brendon shakes his head and returns his focus on his food and drink. The tight feeling in his chest doesn’t exactly go away, but Jon’s easy smiles and light conversation keep him distracted enough not to feel it too acutely. Jon buys him more coffee, two muffins, a sandwich and another piece of pie, and by the end of their breakfast (which by that time has become more of a late lunch), Brendon is so hyped up on caffeine and sugar that he can’t concentrate on much of anything anymore. He ends up giggling at Jon’s jokes and trying to keep himself from bouncing his knee, and it’s soothing in a way, how his thoughts spiral far too fast for him to keep up with them.
“Come on, man,” Jon says, pulling Brendon out of his chair and slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go running. That always helps me clear my head. Leaves it all blank and mushy.”
Brendon nods. He leans his head against Jon’s shoulder as they leave the coffee shop, and Jon just smiles, pulls him a little tighter.
It feels good to have a friend.
FEBRUARY 2009
In the weeks after New Year’s, Brendon learns that spending most of his waking hours working together with two people he’s trying to avoid is pretty awkward. And very difficult, especially when Spencer, at least, isn’t trying to avoid Brendon back.
As a result, Brendon spends most of January clinging to Jon. Or Zack. Even Pete when he gets really desperate. Ryan is very quiet about it, closing in on himself in the same way he did after Jon started at the lab. It makes Brendon want to grab Ryan and hug him really tightly, or push him into a wall, or shake him or kiss him or bake him fucking cookies-whatever it takes to get the expression of stoic indifference off Ryan’s face and make him react to something.
And at the same time, Brendon doesn’t want Ryan to snap out of it. Even though he hates seeing Ryan unhappy-hates it even more when it’s he himself who is causing it-it’s a little like having a scab on his knee that he just can’t stop poking at. (Brendon would like to think that he’s sharing the responsibility of making Ryan unhappy with Spencer, but if he’s to be honest with himself, whatever argument Ryan and Spencer had blew over within the first week, and they’re back to their usual dynamic.)
Brendon hates himself for loving the small spark of power he feels whenever Ryan asks him a question and Brendon waits a few seconds to answer. Or when Ryan forgets himself and smiles at him, or brushes against him in the field, or gets excited by something entomology-related that only Brendon gets, and Brendon doesn’t smile back, or pulls away or turns Ryan down in favour of listening to Jon talk about soccer (which Brendon doesn’t even find very interesting, and Ryan knows it).
The list is long. By the end of the fourth week, Brendon pretty much hates himself.
It’s also around that time that Spencer manages to finally track him down in the back of Archives, looking paler than normal but determined as hell.
“I need to talk to you,” he says, without preamble. “And it’s kind of a long story. You wanna go for breakfast or something? My treat.”
Brendon really doesn’t. He’s been trying to avoid Spencer as well, which has been a lot more difficult since Spencer has both been actively trying to get Brendon to talk to him and developed a habit of hanging out with Jon like he’s a man on a mission. But it’s clear from the look on Spencer’s face that he won’t leave Brendon alone before he gets his say. And it goes against Brendon’s instincts to turn down free pancakes, so. He nods. They go to a diner in an area Brendon hasn’t been to much before. Spencer is obviously a regular; within five minutes at least as many waitresses have come by to say hi and ask how he’s doing.
The pancakes are to die for.
“How did you find this place?” Brendon asks after he’s wolfed down his third blueberry one. Spencer looks up from his scrambled eggs and reaches for his cup of coffee.
“I live right around the corner.”
“Oh,” Brendon says. He’s been to Jon’s place a bunch of times, but never Spencer’s, and Ryan’s only once. Privately, he thinks that it’s pretty sad, especially since they all work so much that they barely have time for friends outside of the lab.
“So,” Spencer says, turning the cup slowly in his hands. “I wanted to apologise for being a huge dick.”
Brendon focuses on his pancakes, making a little tower at the side of his plate. “Okay,” he says, shrugging, because he never really had a problem with Spencer to start with. Brendon honestly likes Spencer. It just hurts to be around him sometimes.
“Brendon, listen,” Spencer says. “Please.”
Brendon looks up at that. Spencer’s eyes are incredibly blue. And really hard to look away from.
“Ryan’s my best friend,” Spencer starts again, sounding very much like he’s launching into a rehearsed speech. “I met him when I was nineteen and he pretty much swept me off my feet. And it-it didn’t-we didn’t make it as a couple for more than two years, but he’s my best friend and that means more to us than it does to most people; we’re a bit fucked up and co-dependent that way. And he doesn’t really date. And I don’t either-not in the sense where it means something more-and sometimes that gets confusing.”
Brendon makes some kind of hum to show that he’s listening and puts some more pancake in his mouth so that he doesn’t have to answer.
“Ryan’s... difficult,” Spencer says carefully. “He’s not good at showing people what he feels. He’s had too much experience of people hurting each other and tends to believe that the only way for him not to fall into the same patterns is to never get close to anyone. But when he does, it’s... you just can’t not love him. He’s like this friggin’ baby bird that’s all fuzzy and trying to fly without knowing how, and you just want to hold him and keep him, and-” Spencer takes a deep breath. “And I know I-um-I mean, this thing with him and me-like, I realise how it must look, okay?” he says, quieter now. “But it’s really not-like, we’re not trying to get back together. It’s not-I’m not-” Spencer takes another sip of his coffee, clearly having lost track of what to say next.
“He’s my best friend,” he says at last, looking at Brendon. “And I know you’re in love with him, so if you can please stop avoiding him, I’ll try to be less of a jealous bitch.”
Brendon feels something cold grab hold of his spine. “I’m not in love with him.”
Spencer raises an eyebrow. Brendon can practically hear the oh, please it implies. He focuses his attention on his plate, pretending to be absolutely transfixed by how the last pieces of pancake soak up the maple syrup when Brendon moves them around.
“I’ve known you liked him since the first time at the airport,” Spencer says quietly. “And I’ve been trying to pretend it isn’t true since back then, because it’s confusing and it kind of hurts like hell, but. I think, um. You could be what he needs.”
Brendon tries very hard not to react. He doesn’t want to hope again. Hoping fucking hurts, and he’s already used up too much hope when it comes to Ryan. But this is Spencer in front of him-who is Ryan’s significant other in more ways than most actual husbands and wives are that Brendon knows-and Spencer is looking at Brendon like he is the one who lost something, or came in second, or missed the target, or some other stupid sports metaphor that Brendon can probably thank Jon for putting in his head.
It’s crazy. Ryan has never-the most Brendon’s been able to fantasise about without objectively having to call himself a delusional idiot is interest. Interest or attraction, maybe a crush on a good day if he’s really pushing it. Spencer is Ryan’s family.
Brendon crosses his arms. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because it’s long overdue,” Spencer says simply, meeting Brendon’s eyes. “Me and Ryan have been clinging to each other for almost a decade. It’s time to let go.”
“You’re insane.”
Spencer shrugs and looks back down into his coffee. “I just-” he says, searching for words again. “I would like to go on an actual date with someone and feel nervous about whether they’ll want to see me again. Sleep with someone I like and who actually knows me-I’m so sick of one night stands, you can’t even imagine-” He breaks off, traces the brim of the cup with his thumb. Brendon waits.
“I’m sick of waiting,” Spencer says. “And telling myself that I’m not waiting. I don’t know, I just-I want to be happy. Not just telling myself that I am, I guess.”
He sounds dejected, and Brendon feels a pang of sympathy. Spencer looks smaller somehow, and Brendon feels stupid for assuming that Spencer was always just as cool and confident as he pretended to be, and never actually thinking about how the whole not-thing with Ryan was affecting him as well.
“Hey,” he says, reaching out to touch Spencer’s hand briefly, offering a smile. “You know how it goes. Every little thing’s gonna be all right.”
The corner of Spencer’s mouth curls a little. “Did you just quote Bob Marley as relationship advice? Like, for real?”
“Why not,” Brendon says, grateful to follow Spencer’s lead. “And I agree, waiting blows. Maybe you and I should cut our losses and make a break for it.”
He means it as a joke, of course he does.
Spencer isn’t laughing.
“I’m kind of tired of being someone’s backup plan,” he says, trying to soften the bluntness with a small smile. “But just for the record, if it hadn’t been for Ryan, I would totally have asked you out for coffee the day we met.”
Brendon smiles back. “If not for Ryan, I would have said yes.”
The corners of Spencer’s mouth start to twitch, and soon they’re both lying down on the table, shaking with laughter.
“So, we’re pretty much the most pathetic people ever,” Spencer concludes once they get themselves together. Brendon hums in agreement.
“Are we good?” Spencer continues. “I mean, I know I’ve been a complete dick, but-”
Brendon looks at him. Spencer can really be a first-class bitch at times, and when he and Brendon clash, it’s usually pretty painful. But he’s also the guy who brings Brendon caramel lattes and chocolate chip cookies when they have to work triple shifts, and the guy who always has everyone’s back in the field. He calms Ryan down and makes Jon smile, and Brendon is pretty sure that Spencer’s never purposefully lied to him.
Brendon wouldn’t mind having Spencer for a friend.
“Yeah,” he says, reaching for Spencer’s hand again and giving him another smile. “We’re good.”
MARCH 2009
It’s March 17, and Ryan is in a crowded bar, surrounded by people holding pints of Guinness and Smithwick’s ale and listening to five guys and a girl seriously rock out on a small stage opposite the bar. It was Pete’s idea, a moment of So, listen. This guy I know told me about this bar... that turned into a long speech about how the event would be ‘all legit and shit’ and have ‘actual Irish people playing tinwhistles and stuff’.
Brendon had been the first to fall, and once he did, Jon and Spencer quickly followed. And then they’d all turned to Ryan, who shrugged and pretended he hadn’t already decided to go when he saw Brendon’s whole face light up at the possibility of hearing someone play the uilleann pipes.
So here they are.
The music is mostly instrumental: two types of accordion, some kind of percussion, a guitar, the Irish pipes Brendon was raving about, and a tinwhistle. At regular intervals, the guy on percussion will grab a guitar for himself and liven things up even more by leading everyone into loud group singing with some seriously dirty songs.
Ryan looks over to his left. Spencer is leaning against Jon, gasping for breath from laughing at something Jon apparently said. Ryan feels a slight twinge at the bottom of his gut and reminds himself that Jon is straight. And that it wouldn’t be any of Ryan’s business even if he weren’t.
The musicians finish another song and the guy with the tinwhistle picks up the mic, thanks everyone for coming yet again and starts introducing the other musicians. His name is Conor and he’s got a pretty thick Irish accent. Ryan secretly loves accents, always has. And he finds that with every pint of beer he drinks, the guy becomes easier and easier to understand, which is a nice bonus.
“...and there aren’t a lot of people left who play them, so we’re really happy to have Andrew here tonight,” Conor says, pointing at the guy with the instrument that looks a lot like Scottish bagpipes in his lap. “Andrew on uilleann pipes, everyone!”
A piercing whistle cuts through the air way too close to Ryan’s ear. When he turns around, Brendon’s there, about five feet away, clapping loudly and giving another whistle for the guys on stage.
Ryan waves without thinking and calls Brendon’s name. Loudly. Spencer turns around and looks at him, surprise morphing slowly into a smirk before Jon whispers something else in his ear and Spencer collapses in a new bout of laughter.
Brendon turns around, spots Ryan and pushes himself through the crowd. He’s carrying an almost empty glass and looks flushed and happy. Ryan thinks he was part of the group trying out Riverdance steps earlier with the blonde girl playing accordion. Not that he was looking or anything.
“That guy is just sick,” Brendon says, nodding his head in the direction of Andrew the Pipe Player. “Like, seriously, did you see the wrist movement and finger coordination? I could marry that guy, right now. For real.”
Something hot and uncomfortable curls itself in Ryan’s stomach. “I play guitar,” he says, out of the blue, and instantly wants to hit himself over the head with a heavy object. He drinks deeply from his beer, pretending that everything is perfectly normal and that he can’t hear Jon and Spencer laughing themselves sick.
Brendon looks at him, eyes wide. For a moment, it looks like his whole body is on the verge of uncontrollable laughter as well. And then the corners of his mouth settle into a teasing smile. “Guitar, huh?” Brendon says, with what Ryan assumes is supposed to be a serious face. “I don’t know, Ross. Marriage is a serious thing. You can totally be my dirty mistress, though.”
He winks at Ryan. Actually winks. Ryan drains his beer and hurries to turn his attention back to the stage. Jon and Spencer are still laughing.
“...Shannon, give it up for her! And believe it or not, but the guy on guitar is actually called Patrick. So an extra round of applause for him since it’s his day and all!”
A small guy in the back gives an embarrassed wave. He’s wearing a newsboy cap on his head, pulled down low over his eyes. Ryan can’t really see his face. At the other end of the bar, Pete whoops enthusiastically while Travis tries to keep him from actually climbing up on the bar.
The people Ryan works with are honestly insane sometimes.
“...and last but not least, we have Riley on percussion,” Conor says, pointing at the tall, dark guy who was singing dirty songs a while ago. “Now, since this is an Irish night and no good Irish house party is complete without dancing, we’re gonna do a bit of that. It’s called céilí dancing,” (he pronounces it ’kaylee dancing’) “and first thing we do is get everyone up on the floor. Grab a partner. Any partner. Doesn’t matter if it’s a guy or a girl. Come on.”
Ryan turns towards the bar, intending to flag down the bartender and order more beer.
Brendon takes his hand. Drags him up on the floor. Ryan is too shocked to do anything but follow.
“Oh, Jesus,” he hears Spencer’s voice from somewhere behind them. “Come on, Jon, get up. We need to see this up close.”
Ryan opens his mouth to tell Brendon that he doesn’t dance. Not in any way that requires him to do more than sway in a crowd at a dark club. The few times he’s tried (all back when Spencer was in collage), things ended really badly. Which is no doubt why Spencer is pulling Jon in their direction with such a gleeful look on his face.
“Now form a circle,” Conor calls out, and Ryan feels himself being pulled to the right. He ends up crowded between Spencer, who is smiling widely, and Brendon, who is still holding his hand.
Ryan swallows.
“Great!” Conor continues, joining the circle with Shannon-the-accordion-player. “Okay, so we’ll start with some basic steps. It goes one, two, three, one, two, three. Left foot first, yeah?” he says, demonstrating. Everyone follows. Or tries to. From what Ryan can see, there are very varying levels of success around the circle. Spencer isn’t so much stepping as he’s hanging onto Jon, laughing openly now as Ryan’s feet try to follow the pattern. Spencer’s drunk. Really drunk. Ryan wonders if he should worry.
“Good! Now we’ll add a jump to the first one, so jump, two three, jump, two three. Is everyone following?” Conor says. “Good, then clap your hands.”
Everyone claps their hands. There are a lot more claps than the two that Conor and Shannon demonstrated. “Now, grab the hands of the people on either side of you. Hold them up like this. You’ve all seen this on Riverdance, yeah?”
Brendon raises their joined hands, and Ryan is suddenly very much aware of how they haven’t let go since Brendon pulled him up on the floor. Brendon smiles, and Ryan feels his pulse start to race. He reaches for Spencer’s hand on his other side and finds it after a bit of fumbling. He doesn’t think much about it until Spencer’s hand goes suddenly tense in his. Ryan turns his head. Spencer isn’t looking at him.
“Hey,” Ryan says, leaning in a little closer to Spencer’s ear. “You okay?”
Spencer looks up, pulls his face into another wide smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Terrific.”
He wobbles on his feet as the ring moves to the right, Conor calling out for them to cross one leg over the other. Ryan tightens his hold. On Spencer’s other side, he can see Jon do the same.
“And then we’ll swing our partners around!” Conor shouts. “Grab your partner. Take their left hand. And then put your right hand on their waist, on the inside of their left arm, yeah? Good. And then you spin. Round and round. Unless someone needs to throw up. Then you let them go. Fast as you can. And after that-the spinning, not the throwing up-we’ll start over. Everyone all right with that?”
Ryan lets go of Spencer’s hand and turns to Brendon, who is having some kind of silent conversation with Jon over Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan sees him mouth ’he okay?’, frown and-for some reason-blush, in the span of five seconds. Ryan looks behind him to see Jon leading Spencer off the floor with an arm around his waist. He’s making some kind of joke, head bent close to Spencer’s, and Spencer is smiling again, a real smile this time.
“Jon’s taking him home,” Brendon says, drawing Ryan’s attention back to him and trying to lighten the mood again with a smile of his own. “He’ll make sure he’s okay. Now let’s do this swingy thing.”
Ryan is too confused and overwhelmed by conflicting thoughts and impressions to argue, so he does his best to keep himself from worrying about Spencer and takes Brendon’s left hand. It’s warm. Warmer than it was a minute ago. Ryan takes a careful breath and puts his other hand on Brendon’s waist, making sure to relax his fingers to make the contact as casual as possible. He has to close his eyes for a second when Brendon mirrors him, warm fingers touching his back through the fabric of his shirt. He swallows again and tries to listen to Conor’s instructions on how to shift his weight back during the spin.
Before they have a chance to actually try it, the musicians are starting to play, and Conor and Shannon are calling to everyone to get back to the starting position. Ryan struggles through the first steps, misses the claps, pretty much gets dragged through the seven criss-crossing steps in the circle and then, it’s time to spin.
He doesn’t have time to think this time. Brendon’s hands just fall into place, and then they’re moving, round and around. Brendon starts laughing after the first turn, looking back at Ryan with eyes that are practically shining from excitement.
Ryan feels light-headed.
The dance continues, going back to steps and claps and more of dragging Ryan around the circle. And every time they get to the part where Brendon takes his hand and slides his other one around Ryan’s waist, Ryan loses a little bit of the feeling in his knees.
By the fourth time, he’s turning before Brendon is, letting himself be swept up in the music and not caring about how his hand is tightening its hold at Brendon’s waist. Brendon keeps laughing and smiling and fucking sparkling at him, and Ryan feels himself start to give in. He closes his eyes and leans his head back, lets the laughter in his chest bubble up his throat and stops worrying about how the two of them must look or what will happen when the music ends.
Brendon swings him faster.
APRIL 2009
It’s Brendon’s twenty-eighth birthday, and things are getting out of hand.
It started with a birthday party at one of the bars down town. Nice enough place. No strippers, good food. More people from the lab and some of the detectives joining up. Brendon happy and laughing beside him. Pleasant, comfortable conversations about firefly colonies.
Then there were shots.
And now there is this. Meaning Brendon hanging heavily on Ryan’s arm, drunk and giggling and nuzzling at Ryan’s neck while Ryan tries to get Brendon’s keys out of his pocket and get the damn door open without letting his brain go anywhere near things like how hot Brendon’s leg is beneath the fabric of his jean pocket or how close Ryan’s fingers are to areas he really, really shouldn’t touch.
He gets the door open and wrestles both of them inside, guiding them through the hallway towards the bedroom he knows must be hiding somewhere. Brendon isn’t being any help at all, stumbling along and tripping over his own feet, and-fuck-sliding his free hand into the back pocket of Ryan’s pants.
Ryan finally finds the bedroom and pulls Brendon over to the bed, considering how to get him under the sheets without having to take his clothes off. Or watch Brendon take his clothes off. Maybe Ryan can just dump him on top of the blankets? Get something else to cover him with? He thinks he remembers seeing an afghan spread out on the couch-
Brendon kisses him.
Ryan doesn’t even have time to react. One moment, Brendon is nuzzling happily at the crook of his neck, and a millisecond later, there are hands in Ryan’s hair, pulling him down, and Brendon’s tongue is in his mouth, hot and wet, stroking against Ryan’s.
Ryan panics, hands sort of flailing at his sides, brain suddenly having way too much to deal with at once to be able to guide them to where they should be. Which is at Brendon’s chest, pushing him away. Or on his stomach. Stomach is fine, really-good leverage, easy to press on to create distance, all warm and solid and, fuck, when did Brendon lose his shirt?
Ryan’s not drunk, not really, but he feels like he is; everything is reeling around him, Brendon’s mouth and hands everywhere at once, and Ryan can’t think.
Brendon backs them up against the bed, and then they’re tumbling down on it, Ryan losing his shirt as well in somewhere in the process. The sheets beneath Ryan’s back are cool against his skin, and he can practically feel what’s left of his control slipping when Brendon starts kissing a hot trail down his throat.
“It’s my birthday,” Brendon mumbles, pressing down with his hips in a way that makes Ryan’s vision black out momentarily. “Don’t say no when it’s my birthday. Please, Ryan, pleasepleaseplease.”
Ryan grits his teeth and pushes back, rolling them over to get Brendon beneath him, trapping his hands and breaking the kiss, fighting to get some control back.
Brendon moans, arches up. He slides one of his legs up the back of Ryan’s knee, over his ass, wrapping it around his back. Brendon is hard beneath him, rubbing himself against Ryan in a way that feels so, so good. Ryan hasn’t got laid in months, and he’s wanted Brendon for years, and Brendon is grinding up against him, panting against Ryan’s neck, and-
He can’t let this happen.
Ryan tears himself away and scrambles out of bed, doing his pants up with shaking hands, looking frantically around the room for the shirt he was wearing.
Brendon doesn’t follow him.
Ryan’s first thought when he looks over at the bed-still doing up buttons-is that Brendon has passed out.
Then he sees Brendon’s hand.
Brendon’s jeans are open, but not pushed down more than an inch or two. Bright yellow boxers are showing where the black material is falling back, and Brendon’s hand is inside them, moving quickly up and down. His breathing is stuttered and sharp, pulling Ryan’s eyes to how his whole upper body seems to tremble, how the rise of his chest is emphasised when Brendon tilts his head back against the pillows, showing off the long, pale column of his throat.
Ryan can’t breathe. Can’t move. Can’t do anything but watch with his chin probably hanging half-way to the floor as Brendon jerks himself off right in front of him. Brendon opens his eyes, looking back at him, and Ryan isn’t sure what Brendon sees right then, if he knows what’s happening or if he’s too out of it to notice.
Brendon smiles, mouths Ryan’s name, and then his head is falling back, mouth opening in a strangled moan as he comes over his hand and lower stomach, mumbling things that are too incoherent for Ryan to make out.
Ryan stands there, frozen, long after Brendon’s breathing slows down and a lazy smile spreads across his face. He’s beautiful-holy shit, so beautiful-and Ryan wants. Wants so much it hurts to be someone who’s allowed to slide into Brendon’s bed, pull him close and just kiss him until they both die from it.
“Please don’t leave.”
Brendon’s eyes are open again, still smiling but fading fast. Ryan should leave. He has seen the different stages of inebriation enough times to know what to expect. Brendon will fall asleep. Chances are he won’t remember much of anything when he wakes up. If Ryan leaves, Brendon will wake up alone with no evidence of Ryan having been in his bedroom other than perhaps a few flashes of memory that will be easy enough to explain away as nothing but heated dreams.
Ryan should leave. He should. It will be easier for both of them if he does-so much easier to pretend that nothing really happened. They have lives to get on with, cases to solve.
There is wood beneath his hands. Brendon’s dresser. Fuck.
He pulls out a drawer, shuffles through the piles until he finds a clean t-shirt and a pair of purple boxers. He goes back into the hallway, finds the bathroom, runs a wash cloth under the tap and brings it back with him.
Brendon is nearly asleep when Ryan starts to clean him up, but the smile stays on his face through the removal of his clothes and the small protesting noises he makes when Ryan pulls the clean shirt over his head. Ryan thinks of the Cheshire cat and then, in what he thinks is a quite reasonable jump, of losing his head in a croquet game.
He really, really shouldn’t stay.
His shirt and pants end up over the back of a chair, another one of Brendon’s shirts finds its way over his head, and then there are sheets against his back again as the bed moves under his weight. He stays on the far side, watching Brendon fall deeper into sleep. His dark hair is tousled and he’s breathing through his mouth. He looks happier than Ryan’s ever seen him.
Ryan closes his eyes and starts counting down, willing himself to go to sleep.
He gives up at negative thee thousand and thirty-five.
***
Brendon wakes up with a splitting headache and the distinct feeling that something is very wrong.
He opens his eyes, looks around. He’s in his own bed, alone. Good. The sheets are a tangled mess but don’t smell like someone has been having crazy monkey sex on them. Or thrown up anywhere. Also good.
He does a mental check of his body and reconfirms his headache, along with a queasy feeling to his stomach and general sluggishness. He’s sweaty but not sticky; ass and throat both feel fine. So he didn’t get fucked then. For some reason, there’s a sting of disappointment as he draws the conclusion.
Something is floating at the back of his mind, just far enough out of reach that he can’t tell if it’s a memory or a dream or some kind of combination of the two. He can sense pleasure in it. Kissing. Bodies moving together. Even through the layers of confusion, it’s enough to make his pulse speed up. He knows from experience that it won’t get much clearer even if he tries to sort it out, though, so he doesn’t bother, brushes it off as spoils of war.
He sits up in bed and pulls his t-shirt over his head. Freezes. Does a double-take.
This is not the shirt he was wearing to the bar last night.
Brendon only sleeps in anything at all under two sets of circumstances: when he’s home at his parents’ house and when he falls asleep in his clothes. And this is not the shirt he was wearing last night. He looks down. Those are not the boxers he was wearing either.
The feeling of something being wrong creeps back up his spine as he looks around the room a second time. His clothes from last night are nowhere to be seen, and when he turns to the bedside table, there’s a bottle of ibuprofen waiting for him next to a glass of water.
Someone was here. Or helped him home at least. Brendon racks his brain, tries to remember what happened after Pete and Travis came back from the bar with a tray filled with shot glasses. He closes his eyes, concentrates. There’s a smell, and then a brief flash of leaning against someone, breathing against the skin of their neck. And a voice. Low and soothing, a little unsteady over the sound of keys.
Ryan.
Oh God.
He hides his face in his hands for a good long while. Then he rolls out of bed, stopping half-way to take the pills Ryan was nice enough to lay out for him. The water feels like pure bliss running down his throat. He needs more. And coffee. God, next to hiding out in his apartment for the rest of his life and never showing his face down at the lab again, coffee would be the best thing ever.
He stumbles out of his room and down the hallway. The image of coffee is so clear he can almost taste it in his mouth already, the imaginary smell of it growing stronger with every step he takes towards the kitchen.
“Hi.”
Brendon stops dead in his tracks, half-way through the doorway. Ryan is sitting at the table, looking up at him, one of Brendon’s forensic journals on the table next to his cup of coffee.
The non-imaginary coffee that’s keeping warm in its pot on the counter, sending out aromas to the rest of the apartment.
Brendon hasn’t felt this stupid in years.
“Hi,” Ryan says again, looking very nervous. “Did you, um, did you sleep well?”
He stands up and goes over to the counter, pours another cup that he puts down across from himself at the table. Brendon feels his feet move him there on their own, body sinking into the chair and hands gripping the cup like a lifeline.
Ryan still looks nervous as hell as he moves around to fiddle with the toaster. Brendon follows the line of dots from breakfast to coffee to Ryan not only helping him home but staying the night and standing in Brendon’s kitchen now, asking, essentially, if he’s feeling okay.
Oh God, what did Brendon do?
A thousand scenarios explode in his head, each more horrific than the next. He doesn’t want to know, but Ryan already does, and having Ryan act weird around him without having a clue as to why would make Brendon go insane, so in the end, there’s nothing to do but ask.
“Did we-” he starts, keeping his eyes firmly on the table. “I mean, did anything happen? Did I do anything stupid that-?”
“No, no,” Ryan says quickly. Too quickly. “Um, I mean, nothing big. There was-we kissed,” he admits quietly, not meeting Brendon’s eyes. “But just-it just happened. Um, too much alcohol, I guess? And I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have, and-but nothing happened. I mean, we didn’t-”
He trails off, taking a gulp of coffee, both hands clutching too tightly at the cup. The toaster pings, and Ryan turns around, looking through the cupboards for plates. Brendon swallows thickly, staring into his own cup.
Ryan kissed him. Or Brendon kissed Ryan. Or they both fell into it together, whatever. And Brendon doesn’t remember it.
Five and a half fucking years waiting to get a second chance to kiss Ryan Ross, and when it finally happens-on Brendon’s fucking birthday-he doesn’t even remember doing it.
Brendon wants to curl up in his bed and die. Right after he bursts into flames from embarrassment.
Fuck.
“Here,” Ryan says gently, placing a plate of buttered toast in front of him. “Eat. It will make you feel better. I promise.”
Brendon takes a bite. The toast is perfect, all crispy and warm, covered in melting butter. Brendon feels it grow in his mouth.
“I don’t remember.” The words come out without permission. Brendon stuffs another piece of toast into his mouth, hoping it will help him shut the fuck up.
“Maybe it’s better that way,” Ryan says carefully. Brendon feels bile rising in his throat.
“That bad, huh?” he replies. It’s supposed to come out light, break the mood. His voice kind of ruins it by cracking at the end.
“No,” Ryan says, looking stricken. “Of course it wasn’t. How can you even-it just-” Ryan cuts himself off, pressing his lips together. Brendon waits.
“It just made things a lot harder,” Ryan says at last.
It’s not funny. Nothing in this situation is. Brendon’s lips curl up at the corners anyway.
“Oh, shut up,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes. There’s a small smile spreading on his face, however, and things immediately feel more manageable.
They start talking about other things. Work, articles they’ve both read recently. Ryan makes more toast, and Brendon digs the orange juice out of the fridge. As far as morning afters go, Brendon’s definitely had much worse.
“I should get going,” Ryan says at last. “You okay?”
Brendon nods. It’s a big fat lie. He wonders if Ryan will call him on it or just take the out for what it is.
“Bren...”
Damn.
“I just wish I remembered,” Brendon admits. “But I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“Why?”
Brendon shrugs. “Just... it was my birthday,” he says, covering some of the hurt up with another smile. “It’s a day when special things happen, you know? I would have liked to keep the memory, that’s all.”
It’s not the whole truth of course. Brendon wants about a million things more from Ryan than a drunken birthday kiss, but if last night is any indication, Brendon’s convictions to be more than someone who’s willing to take what he can get are obviously a lot weaker than he thought they were.
He gets out of his chair and starts putting dishes into the sink, changing the subject back to one of the cases they’ve been working on.
Ryan stops him with a hand on his shoulder, just resting lightly there. Brendon turns around.
Ryan kisses him.
It happens so quietly that Brendon almost doesn’t dare to breathe. Ryan lets the hand on Brendon’s shoulder drop to his waist, pulling him closer. He keeps the kiss light at first, giving Brendon time to recover from the surprise and relax into it. Brendon makes a tiny sound against his mouth, kissing back, and Ryan tightens his grip, steadying them both as the kiss deepens.
It’s the nicest kiss Brendon’s ever got.
“Happy birthday,” Ryan whispers when they finally break apart, brushing his lips across Brendon’s cheek before stepping back.
Brendon smiles, the first real smile of the day. He can’t not; Ryan just kissed him, just gave Brendon a little part of himself-of them-because Brendon wanted it. He gets that it doesn’t change anything between them, but at the same time, the fact that it was a gift makes him love it even more.
“So,” he says, talking mainly to draw out the moment just a little bit longer. “Was that how it was? Last night, I mean?”
Ryan has an expression on his face that Brendon can’t make out at all; it’s too many things at once; mostly, it just adds up to confusing. “It’s how it should have been,” Ryan says at last, leaning in quickly to steal another kiss, one that is short and wet and that Brendon feels all the way down to his toes. “Sorry, just-one for the road.”
He leaves the kitchen with the speed of someone caught on fire, and Brendon is left staring after him. He touches his lips with one finger; they’re still a little wet. He feels his whole face split into a blinding grin seconds later, pure joy bubbling up inside him so fast that he has to jump up and down and stomp his feet a bit to handle it.
Ryan kissed him. Twice. And if the first time was for Brendon, self-sacrificing and giving and an example of every other kind of pseudo-noble virtue that Ryan likes to pursue, then the second one was for himself, for no other reason than that Ryan wanted to do it.
Ryan Ross wants to kiss him.
Brendon needs a better victory dance.
continued here