Angry Breakfast
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Brendon doesn’t slam the door behind him when he leaves the bathroom, and in a way the silent exit is worse than what could have been accomplished by a loud band or angry shouts to Ryan’s sore and pounding head. Ryan hears him shuffle about in the bedroom, drawers being pulled out and closed again, followed by the fading sounds of steps down a staircase and then empty silence.
He meets his own eyes in the mirror, remembers the broken look on Brendon’s face.
Is this a dream?
Yes.
He closes his eyes, and his arms begin to shake.
***
He finds his boxers and jeans in a pile on the floor, pulls them on. His shirt is wrinkled and smells like someone spilled beer on it (not unlikely), so he leaves it where he finds it, borrows a green and white t-shirt out of Brendon’s dresser instead.
Allow me to exaggerate a memory or two, where summers lasted longer than, longer than we do…
Brendon’s in the kitchen, moving a spatula around with jerked, shaky movements in a frying pan. There’s fresh coffee in a pot on the counter and a carton of orange juice sitting out next to it. Ryan hesitates in the doorway, unsure of how to act, how to even start apologising for what he’s just done.
“You’re going to be sick again if you don’t eat,” Brendon snaps from where he’s standing by the stove. “Just get over here and have some fucking eggs, okay?”
Ryan moves forward, leans against the counter, accepts the fork that Brendon practically jams into his hand. The eggs are perfect, salty and creamy, just runny enough, a touch of garlic and chilli, just the way he likes them. The guilt makes them grow in his mouth, and he forces them down his throat, chases the swallows with large gulps of coffee. On the other side of the counter, Brendon stabs at his own plate, pushing the food around rather than actually eating it.
“Why?” he says finally, voice tense and keeping his eyes firmly on his plate.
Ryan clears his throat, trying to figure out where to start. “I… I thought you wanted-”
“Of course I wanted to,” Brendon explodes. “I’ve been wanting to for years! There have been times when I thought I was going crazy because all I could think about was how much I needed to touch you! But I. Made. A. Choice-we made a fucking choice!-and I told you last night that I didn’t want for this to happen. How could you fucking do this to me?”
“I just wanted to talk,” Ryan says quietly. “That’s why I came over. I just needed to… and then I saw you there, in the moonlight, and you were so fucking beautiful, and I just…” He trails off, because, really, there’s nothing else to say.
Northern downpour sends its love…
They finish their breakfast slowly and in silence and leave the dishes in the sink by unspoken agreement. Normally, Brendon would wash up and Ryan would dry the dishes and they would joke around with water and towels, but today, Brendon just puts his plate down and leaves. Ryan follows him, not sure of what he can do to make things any better, but determined to stay and try until they’re good again or Brendon throws him out.
He’s slightly bewildered when his friend leads him up the stairs and back into his bedroom, stopping next to the bed and crossing his arms as he turns to look at Ryan.
“Get into bed,” he says, and Ryan is pretty positive that he heard it wrong.
“Um… what? Why?”
Brendon pulls his t-shirt over his head in response, throwing it to the floor and moving on to get rid of the loose sweatpants. “Well?”
Ryan freezes. “What do you want me to do?” he asks, shifting his gaze to the bookshelves on his right, biting his lip, trying not to look as Brendon takes off his underwear and socks. Brendon leans over to the bedside table, pulls open a drawer and takes out a bottle of lube. He throws it on the bed with a hard look on his face, and Ryan can’t help but think about 18th Century noblemen and white gloves. “Bren…”
“You don’t get to do this, Ryan,” Brendon cuts him off, shifting a step or two closer. “You don’t get to sneak into my bed in the dead of the night and make the only time I get to touch you into something I can’t remember in more than a few flashes the next day because we were both so drunk we were barely even conscious.” His eyes soften, and Ryan can see the conflicted emotions play across Brendon’s face, see his throat move as he swallows thickly. “I didn’t want for this to happen,” he says softly, not meeting Ryan’s eyes. “Not like this. Not like it’s some fucking mistake or a dirty secret that should be hidden away and forgotten the next day. It’s not fair. You can’t both burn the bridge and not let me keep the memories.”
I know the world's a broken bone, but melt your headaches, call it home…
He reaches out, grabs the hem of Ryan’s shirt with both hands, pulling it over his head. “We’ve already fucked up so badly,” he whispers, leaning into Ryan’s body, sliding his hands down along a warm chest. “Let’s try and make it worth it, at least.” His lips touch the underside of Ryan’s jaw, suckling, tasting, and Ryan feels something inside of him shatter. It feels a bit like his heart, except if it were, it shouldn’t be this painless. There is no logic why breaking apart should feel like relief, like pieces getting glued back together.
He falls to his knees, leaning his forehead against the smooth skin of Brendon’s stomach, and lets his hands stroke languidly over hips and thighs. He breathes in deeply, memorising the way Brendon smells, presses open-mouthed kisses to Brendon’s hipbone, adding taste. He tries to keep his eyes open, because he, too, wants to keep every part of this in his mind, wants images to add to the little sound Brendon makes at the back of his throat when Ryan licks a path up his inner thigh, wants a visual to the feel of warm flesh hardening and twitching a little against his collarbone as he wraps his arm around Brendon’s waist and presses his face against the top of his leg.
Brendon’s hands weave themselves into Ryan’s hair, urging him up. Ryan takes the lead and gets to his feet, confusion written all over his face as Brendon pulls him in for a deep kiss. Brendon keeps their mouths together as he guides them over to the bed, as he eases them down to a half-sitting position on top of the tangled sheets.
“Stretch out on your side,” he asks, breaking the kiss and pushing Ryan down against the pillows. “I don’t want to wait for my turn to do this.”
He leans down in the opposite direction, grabbing a pillow as he goes and rolls to his side, shifting closer until he’s got Ryan’s legs sufficiently parted, giving easy access to his balls and inner thighs. Ryan mimics the movements, trying not to let the fact that this is something he’s never actually tried before make his actions awkward or hesitant. He reaches for Brendon’s hip, pulling him a little closer, pulls a thigh up to angle under his head the same way Brendon is doing. He feels Brendon lean in, feels hot breath against his skin. He flicks his eyes down his body, a broken moan travelling up his throat as he sees Brendon close in on his cock, open his mouth, take the head between those full, gorgeous lips. The dual sensation of feeling it and seeing it happen has his heart race hard and fast in his chest. Brendon tilts his hips, makes a pleading sort of sound and shifts closer, takes Ryan in deeper. Brendon’s scent is rich and heady around him, and Ryan subconsciously wets his lips, wanting to taste. He inches forward, sliding a hand over hip and waist as he lets his tongue out for a first lick, a first swirl. Brendon makes a choking, desperate sound and sucks harder, making Ryan lose concentration for a moment as his head spins and kind of blacks out a little. He takes Brendon in deep, moaning around the hard length, trying to set some sort of rhythm even as he feels his mind slowly seep out of his head and relocate to his balls.
I’ve got more wit, a better kiss…
The sensations become too much all too quickly, and Ryan slows down, moving to suckling lightly at the head of Brendon’s cock, exploring the sensitive skin between his legs with his fingers. Brendon gets the hint and reciprocates with licks and kisses, keeping Ryan right on the edge of his self-control but without pushing him over. They play and tease, learning each other inch by inch, the slow explorations all wrapped up in a red haze of lazy pleasure. Ryan gasps as he feels Brendon’s finger enter him, slow and careful, knowing that Ryan is still sore. It moves around a little inside of him, searching for the right spot, and Ryan feels his eyes roll back in his head as Brendon finds it, drawing shaky breaths through his nose as Brendon starts to stroke and caress. He fumbles over the sheets with his free hand and finds the bottle of lube, cap conveniently left open after Brendon slicked himself up. He spreads the liquid over his fingers and reaches between Brendon’s open legs, trying not to hyperventilate as he pushes inside, feels Brendon close in around him, hot enough to burn. Brendon groans around him and moves back against Ryan’s fingers, driving him deeper inside. Ryan loses track of how long they stay like that, lips and tongues and fingers working until they’re both writhing helplessly against one another, too gone with pleasure to really keep up any kind of technique.
The never-ending swaying haze…
The end kind of flows through him like a steady stream-no dramatic peak or great explosion, just a steady mounting pressure that sneaks up on him and spills over without warning, leaving him gasping and moaning with Brendon still hard and leaking between his lips. Brendon groans and reaches down with his free hand, wrapping it around himself and moves it quickly up and down while Ryan does his best to suck and lick at the tip, fighting for some sense of coordination through his post-orgasmic haze.
“Jesus, Ry,” Brendon pants, forehead pressed to Ryans stomach as he curls into himself, moving his hand faster. “Move your fingers. Please.”
Ryan does, finding the right spot and rubbing it firmly until Brendon cries out, jerks against him and comes in hot spurts over Ryan’s lips and tongue, a few smears landing on his cheek and down his chin where Ryan wasn’t quite fast enough on the uptake. Brendon wipes it off with the back of his hand, fingers stroking Ryan’s face lovingly, before he lets it fall down on the bed, all strength gone from his body.
They just lie there for a while, curled up against one another, too exhausted to move. Ryan plays absentmindedly with the little hairs on Brendon’s stomach, letting his fingers just twist and twirl a little. Brendon makes a content, humming sound and presses a soft kiss against Ryan’s hip. The sun shines in through the skylight, bathing the bed in gold and keeping them warm despite the lack of covers. Ryan closes his eyes and shifts a little closer, taking in the memory of this, encasing it in his heart.
One perfect, golden moment.
Already now, there’s a nagging feeling in his gut telling him that it won’t be enough.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE:
What happens next?
Ryan goes home and calls Pete for advice || Keltie calls while Ryan and Brendon are still in bed