Fic: That Promist Ayde the Tempest to Withstand

[scatterwheeling]

Title: That Promist Ayde the Tempest to Withstand
Band: Panic at the Disco/The Young Veins

Pairing: Brendon/Ryan (Jon/Ryan, Z/Ryan, Z/Tennessee)
Rating: NC-17

Summary: Disgraced sidhe heir Ryan must escape an awful appointment from his queen, and Spencer has a plan to do it.

Warnings: Faerie!AU, marriage of convenience

Notes: For marksykins in the 2010 popoffacork exchange. Thanks to softlyforgotten for the beta. Title from Spencer's Faerie Queene.



"What about her?" Z murmurs in his ear, leaning in closer than she needs to in order to be heard in their quiet corner of the bar.

Ryan follows her gaze to the pretty, petite brunette in Z's line of sight, and smiles indulgently before shaking his head. "You know I prefer blondes."

Z sighs, long-suffering. "It's always about you, isn't it?" she asks, pushing at his thigh under the table.

He makes a wounded sound. "That's not true," he says, nosing aside Z's hair to breathe in the apple-blossom scent of her, kissing behind her ear.

"Right," Alex says from across the table, spreading his arms out to take up his entire side of the booth. "Sometimes it's about me."

Ryan laughs against Z's skin. "Feeling neglected, are we?" he says.

"Around you two? Always," Alex returns. "But don't you worry, I've got my eye on the bartender."

Z slants her gaze over to the tattooed man behind the bar. "And what has he done to deserve you?" she asks. "He seemed nice enough to me."

Alex snorts. "To you, maybe. For those of us who actually have to buy our own alcohol, he's shorting us shamelessly." He gestures listlessly at the half-full vodka tonic in front of him. "Pretty sure there's more lime than booze in this shit."

Ryan arches an eyebrow. "A stingy bartender, Alex? Is that really the best you can do?"

"What can I say," Alex says. "The crowd in here is just too damned nice tonight."

"Well, that's a first," Z mutters, and then gestures at a blonde in a halter top at the opposite end of the bar. "What about her?"

"Oh, now, her I like," Ryan says, his eyes going half-lidded with anticipation. "Do you want to, or should I?"

"I spotted her," Z says, tossing her hair, a subtle fall of glitter settling on her shoulders. "You do the work."

Ryan heaves a sigh and tugs Z closer with an arm around her waist. "Lazy," he tells her.

"Maybe I just like watching you work," she says, her voice low and hot with promise.

"Lazy," he insists, and then smiles when she pushes at his chest.

"Um," Alex says. "Guys-"

"What?" Ryan says, his face still buried in Z's hair.

Someone clears his throat, loudly.

Ryan looks up in annoyance. "What, I said-"

And then he trails off when he sees precisely who is standing at the end of their table.

"Spencer?" he says, eyes widening.

The tall, dark-haired man shifts his weight, like he's uncomfortable with his surroundings. "Hello, Ryan," he says.

Ryan gives him an assessing look. "I take it you're not here to join the party," he says, resigned.

"No," Spencer says. "No, I'm really not."

***

Ryan wishes that he could say he hates the main court, the way it glitters like someone has trapped the sun, moon, and all the stars beneath the earth, but he wouldn't lie to himself like that.  A great colonnade of roses and lavender leads to the throne room, and he can smell juniper on the breeze that always gently blows in the palace, no matter the weather.  The push of magic jumps along his skin.

He wonders if everyone can feel it, but he knows they probably can't.  Or if they can, they can't appreciate it the way he can, especially after a night in the human world.  He loves it.

What he doesn't love is the insistent buzzing of a demi-fae beside his ear.

"You're late to see her," it says. They have sexes, but Ryan can't ever tell. He has enough trouble with the different breeds of sidhe to worry about overgrown moths.

His father would say it's just another reason that he isn't worthy of being a lord with a whole royal house to his name, but his father is an ass. He knows enough, and it isn't as though his father is any great friend to the lesser fae and half-breeds.

The fact that Ryan is a half-breed himself never manages to escape Ryan's notice.

"Best hurry," another demi-fae says, flitting about his other ear.

He bats both of them away impatiently. "I'm going," he says. "Buzz off."

The doors to the throne room are dark stone, carved with flowers and music notes. They glitter in the firelight as Ryan pushes them open and slips inside.

The queen is at her throne, her hair piled high atop her head in dark gold curls, laced with red ribbons that disappear into the frothy red fabric of her dress, where she has spun song solid. Her jaw is set in a grim line as Ryan bows to her.

"My Queen," he says, his voice flat. "You called for me."

"Ryan," she says, matching his tone. "You came." She sounds almost disappointed.

He suppresses the desire to roll his eyes. "When duty calls..." He trails off. It's not like he knows all that much about duty-and what he does know, he largely ignores-but it doesn't take a sage to know that when a High Queen of Faerie requests your presence, you had best show up with bells on.

Or, well. Not with bells on, as the case may be.

Maybe Ryan has been spending too much time in the human realm.

"Ah, yes. Duty," the queen muses. "Tell me, Ryan, what part of your duty is served by consorting with lesser beings in the mortal plane?"

He grits his teeth. "The Lords of the Seelie Court have always been free to move between realms. My father-"

"Your father is the one who has brought complaint against you, boy," the queen says sharply. "And you are not a Lord of my court."

Ryan feels his lip curl. Of course the old man would bring a grievance before the Court rather than talk to him. Ryan's father has never made secret the fact that he is altogether dissatisfied with a half-breed heir. No doubt his loud and strident complaining on that score is what kept him from making a respectable second marriage among the sidhe, after Ryan's human mother decided she'd rather drop dead upon her return to the human world than spend one minute more as the Faerie Lord's wife.

"Your Majesty will forgive me," Ryan says carefully. "It has been a long season since my lord father and I last spoke."

"You are his only heir," the queen says, disapproval writ large on her face.

"I am well aware, my Queen-"

"Which makes your behavior all the more unacceptable." She looks down at him. "Taking a common pixie for a lover?"

Ryan flushes with anger. "That is none of my father's business," he argues. "And Z is anything but common."

"Whelp," the queen says, her eyes flashing dangerously. "I do believe that I shall be the judge of that." She sits back in her seat, the demi-faes settled atop the gilded throne fluttering their wings in agitation. "Your father has granted you a great deal of license."

"I don't deny it," Ryan says.

She holds up her hand for silence. "A very great deal of license, and I am not at all certain that you are fit to inherit one of our great Houses. Not when you show so little respect for our ways. If you were not your father's sole heir, I might well see fit to banish you to the mortal plane you love so much."

Ryan feels his mouth go dry. Banishment-there is no love lost between Ryan and his father, of course, but were he banished he would never be able to see Spencer or Jon again, and he would lose his magic, lose his ties to Faerie entirely. He may like moonlighting as a human, but the thought of living as one is unbearable. "My Queen," he stammers, bowing his head in contrition. "Mercy, my Queen, I beg of you."

The queen stops him with another imperious motion of her hand. "Calm yourself, boy. I have no intention of banishing you. Your father's petty complaints mean little when I have use for you."

He doesn't like something in her tone of voice. "Use, my lady?"

She smiles then and nods her head.  "I recently recalled Lady Victoria from her posting in the Dark Court."

Ryan bobs his head politely, because he doesn't know Lady Victoria well, other to know that she is one of the court's most beautiful selkies, able to slide in and out of form like she is pulling back a curtain.

The queen smiles, and there is something cold in it, something Ryan cannot place but knows that he doesn't like.  "As such, I am sadly short one ambassador to the Dark Court, and I do know that your friend Alexander is a member of their rank.  I thought perhaps you would not mind a posting there."

Ryan wouldn't, and he begins to say so, nodding because of course he will do as the queen wills and asks.  He is a disobedient son, but he has never gone out of his way to make his queen angry.  He's not a complete idiot, most of the time, and when she is not growing tired of his father's complaints, she is a fair queen.

"Lady Victoria, of course, served as ambassador to the Unseelie's marsh fae.  She reports that the lodging in the marshes is quite comfortable, so I am sure that you will be most comfortable.  I have already passed along your appointment to Queen Amanda's secretary.  She will be expecting you to report within the week."

Ryan doesn't know what else to do but nod and say, "Of course, my queen."

There is no fucking way he can deal with the marsh fae, any of the marsh fae.  He knows that the Will-o-Wisp and some of the naiads hang around in marshes, and while they do have a little bit of deadly sport from time to time, they have nothing on the fideals or the Jenny Greenteeth.  They don't decide that any mortal who comes their way should be drowned and kept in their watery homes to grow grotesque and bloated.

They're mean, and they look at humans like humans see worms, like they're nothing.  They think killing children is funny.  Ryan's mother could have run afoul of them, and they would have delighted in killing her.

They'll probably delight in seeing if Ryan can drown.  (He can't; when he was young his father tried to kill him in half a dozen mundane human ways, to be sure that he could stand as heir to a faerie house. Ryan does not have many pleasant memories of the experience.)

But he has to agree and smile and nod before the queen and take the list of what he is to bring to his posting for his three by three by three years.  He takes the list of what he is not to bring and the notice of how often he is to call home.  He doesn't look; it will never be often enough.

Ryan bows low to the queen before he leaves, and he manages to walk from her rooms and from her corridor.  He walks until he knows that he is not being followed, and then he runs.

***

He doesn't have many human clothes, but he packs all of them into his bags.  He's dressed the way he always is in faerie, in bits and pieces of his own magic, and he isn't sure if he'll be able to do that when he gets to Z's.  She has her own home, a tiny house on the border between the realms, in the no-man's-land just outside both courts, and it's probably the only place he can be safe until he can decide where to go next.

Ryan thinks, crazily, that there are courts still in Ireland and Cornwall, rumors of one in Wales.  He can find a new place to go, a new home, but he doesn't have the power to fly on his own or travel between places the same as Spencer.  He'd have to take a human craft, which means too much metal between him and the ground.  It means human money, too, and human papers that he does not have.

It means being the least of fae in a new court with the whispers of traitor behind his name.  But if it's a choice between being banished away to the worst kind of posting for anyone who isn't a merrow or a selkie, he'll do it.

He has one bag packed and the second one nearly full of mementos, little treasures left over from his mother and things he collecting as he was growing up.  There are a few human photographs of him as a child and one of Spencer.  Ryan thinks Spencer had no idea it was being taken, and it is all the more precious to him.

Spencer materializes then, walking into Ryan's room through the wall, and it makes Ryan start and stumble back.  He doesn't have time to try and hide the bags.  He decides to stand and stare at Spencer with his shoulders back, the way he sees the warriors stand sometimes.

"You're running away," Spencer says, and he raises his eyebrows.  "Without telling me."  The last part feels like an accusation, and Ryan has to look down.

"I didn't want to get you in trouble," he says, and he sighs, shoving hair out of his eyes.  "She's going to be angry when she realizes what I've done."

"This isn't like two years ago, Ryan. You can't hide from this in human taverns and warm bodies."

Ryan glares at the reminder of why he started spending so much time in the human realm in the first place-the pain of losing his first love to his father's displeasure and the bright eyes of a northern sidhe.

He shakes his head. Thinking about Jon won't help anything; it will just slow him down. "I know what I'm doing," he tells Spencer, packing another threadbare cotton shirt into a canvas bag.

"And I'm sure you've found a place to stay," Spencer says, tone very bland.  "A place to stay where her magic won't reach you and won't result in banishment for you and whoever you are going to hide with."  He steps forward and opens his suitcase.  "You know that a lesser fae will fade away outside of here, Ryan," Spencer whispers.

"That's a legend," he says defensively, but he hadn't thought of it.  Z is his dearest friend after Spencer, but she is a pixie.  Pixies, by definition, are lesser fae.  They can marry into the best of sidhe families and be given all the trappings of being sidhe, but their pointed ears and delicate wings will always mark them as other.

He remembers the night that Lady Tennessee's betrothal to an Irish Lord was announced, when Z dragged Ryan out into the human world and drank until she was good and tipsy telling him about it.  He thinks that if Z had been able to, she would have let herself fade then and there from the heartbreak of it, of losing Lady Tennessee. If only he'd known that a short season later he'd also be nursing a broken heart, he might have tried to fade along with her.

Instead they spent the better part of two years trying to drown their sorrows in each other and in an endless procession of human conquests, and Z was gracious enough never to comment on the fact that Ryan couldn't bear to touch any dark-haired man who wasn't Jon.

"Do you want to risk her life?" Spencer undoes the clasp on Ryan's first bag, beginning to take the clothes out.  "Even if I have found a way out of it?"

Ryan stills and turns to look at Spencer.  "A way to keep me from the marshes?" he whispers.

"You won't like it as much as your fanciful image of what running away from court will be like, but I think it is better than having to share a meal with Jenny Greenteeth."  Spencer gives him a ghost of a smile.  "In fact, I daresay you'll hate it, but it will keep you at our court, and it will keep anyone from being banished."

Ryan sighs and sits on the edge of his bed, drawing in a breath before he says, "Tell me."

Spencer puts his hand on Ryan's shoulder.  "I have a friend of good family, who is a favorite of the princess and her consort. If you were to marry-Princess Ashlee would surely never let her favorite be sent off to the marshes."

Spencer's right; Ryan hates this plan.  He says, "That is a shitty plan."

"Stop talking like that," Spencer snaps, rolling his eyes.  "Look, you get out of seeing Greenteeth, and you have your friends, land, and wealth.  So you're bound to someone not of your choosing.  There are worse things." Spencer doesn't bother to say Jon's name, but it hangs unsaid in the air between them anyway.

Ryan sighs, and tries to put Jon from his mind. "Like accidentally killing Z, you mean." He looks at his hands, and then he looks to Spencer.  "Why would he want to marry me?  I'm not exactly going to further his family's interests."

"Oh, his position at court is much better than yours," Spencer says, waving his hand like this is a minor detail instead of a big fucking deal.  "But he's poor.  He's the youngest of five acknowledged heirs, and he is entitled to only a fifth of what his next oldest sibling will inherit, and she only a fourth of the one above her."

Ryan sighs again, rubbing his eyes.  He doesn't agree to it, not in so many words, but he starts to help Spencer put his clothes away.  He puts his treasures away and waits until everything is set right again to ask, "What's your friend's name?"

Spencer grins. "Brendon. He's been looking for a husband for a season already. If he agrees, and you can secure the queen's permission, I can arrange to have you married in two days' time."

Ryan groans, covering his face in his hands as he falls back onto his bed.  Two days is not enough time to enjoy the last of his freedom, but it is enough to celebrate not being sent to live in a marsh in a selkie's hut. (He may respect Lady Victoria, but he has no illusions that she knows how to keep a proper house.)

***

Queen Jessica is displeased, to say the least, when Ryan requests an audience to ask her permission to take a husband.

"I was not aware that you were acquainted with Brendon," she says, narrowing her eyes.

Ryan keeps his eyes respectfully downcast, the better to hide the truth. "He is my foster-brother's particular friend, my Queen. Spencer made our introductions." That much, at least, is true; as soon as Ryan's effects were safely back in his bureau, Spencer hauled him off to Princess Ashlee's court for dinner, there to meet a slender, dark-haired-of course he had to be dark-haired-sidhe dressed in white and black, who sat at the princess's left hand at table and constantly kept her smiling. Ryan, seated several places down the table and welcome there only because he used to be friends with Ashlee's consort, Peter, was too far away to hear anything that Brendon said, but Brendon must be a great wit to so charm the Queen's sister.

Of course, Ryan did not get to experience any of that wit first-hand. Their introduction consisted of Brendon looking Ryan up and down and asking Spencer, "This is him?"

Spencer nodded. "May I present Ryan, heir to Summerlin Glen."

Brendon thought for a moment, biting his lip in consideration, and then shrugged. "As long as he's nicer than Lord Summerlin, he'll do."

Ryan never felt so dismissed, and it was only Spencer's hand at his back that stopped him making some sarcastic retort. He really doesn't deserve a friend like Spencer.

Instead he had just inclined his head politely-his father is a notorious curmudgeon, after all, and no one knows that better than Ryan-and said that he would see Brendon in two days' time.

That is, provided he can obtain the Queen's blessing.

She is still giving him that assessing look when she says, "I named you Ambassador precisely because you had no other responsibilities to the Seelie Court."

Ryan clears his throat. "With Your Majesty's permission, I should like to take on the responsibility of marriage."

The queen's attendant demi-fae buzz about her head, whispering in her ears, until she brushes them away. "It has long been Ashlee's desire to see her favorite married," she says. "He could have his pick of the bachelors of the Court. For a short while it was rumored that your Spencer was courting him."

"I was not aware," Ryan says, trying not to let his surprise show. "But it has long been my father's desire to see me married, as well." Married, and thus permanently tied to Faerie, so that his activities in the mortal realm would be put on perpetual hold. For the hundredth time, he wonders precisely what he's getting himself into. He doesn't know if he'll be able to beg the queen to let him make a marriage he doesn't even want in the first place, even if the alternative is exile to the human world or to the marshes. He hopes it doesn't come down to that.

"I daresay this is a better match than you could have hoped for, given your...deficiencies," she says.

He grits his teeth. "As you say, my Queen."

Finally, after another long minute of consideration, the queen relaxes her posture, catching one of the chittering golden demi-fae on one elegant hand and bringing it up to perch on her shoulder. "I suppose I might appoint Gabriel to your post in your stead. He was, after all, Victoria's suggestion for her replacement."

Ryan likewise relaxes. "Your Majesty is most gracious."

"I haven't approved your suit yet, Ryan," she says chidingly. "In my sister's interests, I think it best to grant you permission for a handfasting rather than a marriage. Think of it as insurance against your good behavior."

Handfasting. A trial marriage, of a year and a day-after which, should Brendon desire to sever the knot, the queen might yet send Ryan to the marshes. But it's a far sight better than being sent away now.

He bows to his queen. "Thank you, my lady."

"There is a Faerie Lord within you somewhere, Ryan," she says. "Perhaps taking a husband will make him appear."

Recognizing a dismissal when he hears it, Ryan leaves the throne room for the second time in as many days, but today his chest is filled with something like hope rather than dread.

***

He can't concentrate during the handfasting.  He's too distracted by the hum of Brendon's magic and the way it vibrates across his skin, and then Brendon's parents behind him, his sisters and brothers.  Everything just seems so damned loud, and with Peter lording over their marriage, everything seems a touch more like a spectacle, like he isn't being serious.

Ryan lets Spencer push his hand to Brendon's as Pete begins to say the incantation.  When the jolt of binding magic goes from Brendon and into Ryan, the music is louder, and Brendon's skin seems to turn greener, then more golden.  The music is loud in Ryan's head for another moment, and then it passes away.

"For a year and a day, you are mine, and I am yours," Brendon whispers with a nod of his head to Ryan.

Ryan swallows and whispers the same thing back to Brendon, with his head nodded down.

He closes his eyes when Pete gives the proclamations.

***

Ryan refuses to carry Brendon over any thresholds, despite Spencer's prodding.

"He's got legs," Ryan says. "He can walk."

"He's standing right here," Brendon says tartly.

"Whatever," Ryan says, and takes Brendon's hand and peels off from the crowd of family and well-wishers, leading him in silence through the ivy-betrellised corridors of his father's manor to Ryan's suite of rooms.  With a wave of his hand, a seemingly blank section of wall reveals itself as a door, and Ryan smiles bitterly as he motions Brendon through.

Brendon walks a few cautious paces to the center of the guest bedchamber-not Ryan's own; he intends to keep his own space-and looks up at the enchanted ceiling, at the false sunlight warming the room through the canopy of vines and leaves. "Wow," he breathes, and then turns to Ryan. "You gave this up to slum it in the human world with Tennessee's maid?"

Midway through unbuttoning his tunic, Ryan scowls at Brendon in the looking-glass. "It's just a house," he says. "Princess Ashlee's is far grander than this."

"Yes," Brendon says, taking the circlet of ivy from his head and looking down at it as he twines the vines through his fingers. "But this is mine, now. Or, well. Ours."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "Don't let it go to your head," he says, and then sheds his tunic and turns around. "How do you want to do this?"

Brendon doesn't look up. "Oh, well, I-we-" He continues to fiddle with the ivy in his hands as he dithers, a blush spreading across his cheeks, and then finishes, "In the usual way, I'd expect?"

"In the-what?" Ryan's eyes dart between Brendon's blush and the nervous plucking of his fingers, and then he gets it-and thinks, very clearly, that he is going to kill Spencer. "Really?" he asks, disbelieving. "I mean, really?"

And Brendon looks up at that, something steely in his dark eyes. "Not all of us have spent the last few seasons on holiday in the mortal realm."

Ryan opens his mouth to retort that not everyone's parents keep them locked up tighter than a treasury vault, but then he remembers the warm smiles Brendon's mother and father gave them when the handfasting ceremony was complete, the heartfelt congratulations from Brendon's brothers and sisters.

It's more than likely that Ryan's father would have disdained the wedding altogether if the Queen hadn't compelled him to attend.

"Fine," he says. "Take off your clothes."

Brendon blinks. "Aren't you going to kiss me, first?"

"Is that the usual way?" Ryan snipes back, and then shakes his head. He has to make Brendon happy, happy enough that he won't leave Ryan at the end of the year. "Don't listen to me."

"Okay," Brendon says uncertainly as Ryan steps into his space, looking up at Ryan from under his lashes. His lips are soft against Ryan's when Ryan leans in to close the distance between them in a kiss.

"Relax," Ryan breaks the kiss to murmur. "Everything is easier if you relax."

"Easy for you to say," Brendon says under his breath.

Ryan shrugs. "Yes," he says, "it is." Then he slides his hands into Brendon's hair and seals their mouths together again.

Brendon isn't wholly inexperienced, as it turns out; he makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat and licks at Ryan's lower lip when Ryan deepens the kiss. He's breathing a little faster by the time Ryan gets his tunic open and pushed off his shoulders to crumple on the floor, and he clings to Ryan's arms when Ryan takes a step back to look at him.

The enchanted sunlight warms Brendon's skin, makes him look golden. The thought of tumbling a dark-haired man who isn't Jon may wrench painfully in his chest, but Ryan's no fool; he knows gorgeous when he sees it.

Blushing deeper under Ryan's scrutiny, Brendon says, "What?"

"Nothing," Ryan says, shaking his head, and then tips them both back onto the bed.

Brendon spreads his legs so Ryan can fit between them and loops his arms around Ryan's neck. "Now what?" he asks.

"You're still wearing clothes," Ryan points out.

"So are you," Brendon replies, and then his eyes widen, like he's shocked at his own brazenness.

Ryan almost laughs before he catches himself, and covers it by busying himself with getting their pants off, kicking his own down to the foot of the bed and then coaxing Brendon to arch his hips up so Ryan can drag his trousers down and then settle between his legs. Naked, Brendon is definitely breathing faster now, his cock half-hard against his belly, his legs still spread. And while Ryan generally prefers to be in Brendon's position, he's hardly going to argue with having a creature as beautiful as Brendon underneath him.

Brendon only waits a moment before he starts to fidget, his hand making abortive motions towards his cock, his legs twitching against the sheets.

"Impatient," Ryan says.

"Apprehensive," Brendon corrects. "I don't know what you're going to do next."

"Hmmm," Ryan hums, and then leans forward to kiss the jut of Brendon's hipbone, hiding his smile at Brendon's sharp intake of breath.

"Ryan," Brendon says, moving his hand to lightly touch Ryan's shoulder, resting his fingers there like he doesn't know what comes next, and Ryan doesn't bother to hide his grin at that, looking up at Brendon with amused eyes.

"You don't even know what you're asking for," Ryan says.

Brendon digs his blunt nails into Ryan's shoulder. "I'm a virgin, not an idiot," he says.

Ryan winces. "Point taken," he says, and snaps his fingers, calling on his magic to coat them with slick. "Relax," he says again, and then slides his fingers between Brendon's legs to press lightly against his ass.

"Oh," Brendon says, visibly holding himself very still, trembling with the effort.

"You're not relaxing," Ryan says patiently, pressing a careful fingertip inside, feeling the heat of Brendon's body around his finger as he relaxes by inches, slowly letting Ryan in.

Brendon whines when Ryan's finger is knuckle-deep inside of him, restlessly shifting his legs again. "Can't you-do something?"

"I am doing something," Ryan says, but he obligingly leans forward to mouth at the head of Brendon's cock when he draws out his finger and comes back with two. The stretch is a little easier this time; Brendon is a quick study, spreading his legs wider and tilting up his hips so Ryan has better access.

"More," Brendon says when Ryan is fucking him lazily with two fingers, the slide easy because of the scented oil Ryan conjured up, and then he groans when Ryan adds a third, his muscles going taut again around Ryan's fingers. Brendon shivers a little, and Ryan pets his thigh encouragingly.

"Almost," he says, breathing hot over the head of Brendon's cock and then taking him in his mouth again, opening his throat to swallow around him, purring with satisfaction when Brendon moans. He loosens little by little again around Ryan's fingers, enough that three fingers are an easy glide, enough that he's ready.

Brendon makes a soft sound of protest when Ryan pulls his fingers free and sits back on his heels.

"Turn over," Ryan says, and Brendon looks confused for a moment, but he goes easily enough, legs still splayed wide, knees braced on the bed. His crease is shiny with the oil and Ryan can't resist reaching out to trace his thumb over his stretched rim, dipping inside just to make Brendon moan again.

"Ryan," Brendon says again, and this time there's a little bit of a desperate edge to it, as he stretches out his arms in front of him to fist his hands in the sheets, drawing Ryan's attention to the long line of his back, arching into Ryan's touch.

"Now you're impatient," Ryan says, smug. If they had more time-if Ryan weren't so impatient, himself, suddenly-Ryan could make Brendon beg, he's sure of it.

Brendon hides his blush by rubbing his forehead against the sheets. "Yes," he says.

"It suits you," Ryan says before he can think the better of it, and then he's calling up more oil and slicking his cock, walking forward on his knees until he can press the head against Brendon's ass. "You know what I'm going to tell you."

"I'm relaxed," Brendon promises.

"Just checking," Ryan says. Brendon is tight and fever-hot around Ryan as he slowly pushes in, one long thrust until his hips are pressed tight against the curve of Brendon's ass. "Okay?" he asks.

Brendon chokes out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a moan, and Ryan slowly circles his hips, grinding in deep as Brendon adjusts, trying to make it easier for him. "Does it always feel like this?" Brendon asks softly when he's regained his voice.

Ryan carefully curls his fingers around Brendon's hips. "No," he says. "It gets better."

"Oh, Gods," Brendon says, and then moans again when Ryan gives him a shallow, lazy thrust.

Brendon makes a lot of noise once Ryan gets going, crying out whenever Ryan thrusts in deep. The easy pace that Ryan sets originally is quickly replaced by a harder, faster rhythm, and when Ryan reaches around to wrap his hand around Brendon's cock Brendon just gets louder, until he's moaning continuously and shoving his hips back against Ryan's, looking for more.

"You're going to shout the house down," Ryan says, breathless, closer to coming than he wants to be because Brendon is just so damned responsive.

Brendon turns his head to the side, looking back at Ryan over his shoulder. "Our house," he manages, before his eyes flutter shut and he begins to shake apart, his come slicking Ryan's hand and dripping onto the sheets.

Ryan swears and digs his hand into the flesh of Brendon's hip, dimly realizing that there will be bruises later but not caring, not when Brendon is clenching hot and tight around him. It's the loud, satisfied groan that Brendon makes when he relaxes into the bed, his body pliant under Ryan's, that finally pushes Ryan over the edge.

Magic washes over them as Ryan comes, hips pressed tight against Brendon's ass and cock pulsing deep inside him, and Ryan knows that it's his household's magic accepting the consummation of their marriage, accepting Brendon. It's enough to tear another tiny sound from Brendon as he slumps against the bed.

Ryan carefully pulls out and conjures a soft cloth from the leaves overhead to clean them up, and with a little prodding Brendon tips over onto his side, looking up at Ryan with sleepy eyes. The sunlight in the room begins to dim, responding to Brendon's exhaustion, and Ryan bends to brush his lips over Brendon's sweat-damp temple. "Sleep," he says, intending to leave for his own bed. "The house will take care of you now."

But Brendon reaches for him, wordless but insistent, and Ryan allows Brendon to draw him down to fit himself snugly against Ryan's side.

He waits until Brendon's breathing evens out into sleep before rolling out of bed, silently gathering up his clothes, and walking through the north wall into his own bedchamber.

***

Ryan starts awake at a screech from one of the pillywiggins who inhabits the courtyard. They've become unofficial messengers of the house, if only because the employ of demi-fae and sprites puts a drain on the household coffers and his father's father was a miser of a sidhe.  Tradition is very important to his house and line.

He likes the pillywiggins anyway, because when he was a boy, they would whisper bawdy jokes to him, tucked between ivy leaves where his father couldn't see, and they showed him all the best places to escape and find Spencer.  He used to wish that he could have long fingers like them, long enough to mimic the ivy vines.  They would laugh and tell him that his fingers were quite long enough before tying his hair into knots and sending him on his way.  They aren't as welcome in court because they don't look as nice as many of the tiny fae, and their voices sound rather like the screaming of the bainsidhe.

"Wake up, Master Ryan," the little fae cries. "Your young man is awake!"

Ryan waves his hand to quiet the creature. "I'm awake, I'm awake." He rubs his eyes, acutely feeling the lack of Z's warmth at his side. He can count on two hands the number of mornings in the past two years that he's woken up without her, and it's disorienting, even though he's lying in his own bed in Faerie, with sunlight streaming in through the windows he didn't bother to think closed before he fell asleep, rather than some mortal bed.

It takes a moment for the events of the past few days to come crashing in on him, and he almost falls out of bed in his haste to untangle himself from the coverlet and simultaneously call up clothes from the leaves of his bower.

Dressing himself in bits of magic is a pretty trick that he's gone without for a long time, magic being much harder to come by in the human realm, but it takes much less effort in his own home, when he can glance at a tangle of vines and think to himself, "Trousers."

Ryan thinks he will never get used to the feeling of leaves against his legs for the second it takes for them to become real cloth.  He wouldn't bother dressing this way, as it has left him with wardrobes overflowing with extra clothing, but his father can't clothe himself thus.  Ryan likes the reminder that his own half-blood magic is stronger than his father's.

He passes through the wall into what he has already decided will be Brendon's chambers, expecting to find Brendon still abed, but he is startled to find the room already empty.

"Shit," he says aloud. He didn't mean for Brendon to wake up alone; something tells him that his husband wouldn't take kindly to being abandoned in the night.

His husband. Gods alive.

Brendon's clothes from yesterday are still puddled on the floor where Ryan dropped them last night, so Ryan supposes that Brendon must have grabbed something from the wardrobe in the corner-the overflow from the wardrobe in his own room.

That's a good thing, Ryan supposes. Brendon can't be too mad at him if he's willing to go out wearing Ryan's colors.

The house marks a path in the ivy when Ryan puts his hand to the wall and asks where Brendon is, and Ryan follows the trail downstairs to the Great Hall-and then, curiously, past it, down to the kitchens.

Ryan pushes open the door to the kitchens hesitantly, wondering if the enchantments in the wall made a mistake-it's either that, or Brendon has a serious gift for getting lost.

He does not expect to find Brendon sitting at the hearth with the brownie who runs the kitchens, sipping from a mug of tea and laughing at some story Cook is telling. Ryan suspects that he is the object of their amusement, which suspicion is only confirmed when he clears his throat and they go immediately silent.

"Good morning, Master Ryan," Cook says, and then she bustles out the back door, leaving Brendon and Ryan alone.

Awkward silence stretches between them for a moment, and then Ryan clears his throat again. "We do have a Great Hall, you know," he says. "You walked right past it on your way here."

Brendon looks down. "I know, the house was quite insistent upon showing me there. But I was-I didn't want to disturb your father." He starts to blush, and it occurs to Ryan precisely why Brendon might not want to face Ryan's father this morning.

He can't quite keep the smirk from his face. "If it makes you feel any better, the old man sleeps with a silencing charm over his rooms."

"Oh, good," Brendon says, sighing with relief.

Ryan shrugs. "Even if he didn't, it was our wedding night. He's utterly intolerable most of the time, but I doubt he'd begrudge newlyweds a little noise."

Brendon's blush deepens. "I think it was more than a little noise."

"I was being charitable," Ryan says.

"Better to be honest," Brendon says.

Ryan shrugs again. "As you wish." He sits down at the hearth next to Brendon and takes his hands, inspecting the moss-green tunic Brendon chose from the wardrobe upstairs. The tunic is beginning to yellow and curl at the hem and cuffs, like old leaves, and Ryan frowns and draws on his magic to smooth down the edges.

Brendon looks up at Ryan from under his lashes again. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say anything the back door to the kitchens bangs open again, making both of them jump.

"Hello?" Z's voice rings down the corridor.

Ryan immediately stands up to greet her as she flits inside, taking both of her slender hands in his and kissing her cheek. "Aren't you ever going to use the front door, Z?" he asks.

She shrugs, the motion disrupting the fluttering of her wings and making her dip in the air. "Front doors are for guests."

"You are always welcome here," Ryan says, frowning.

"Yes, well," she says, seating herself on the edge of the low kitchen table and letting her wings flit to rest. "Your lord father might have something to say about that."

"My lord father can rot in Hell," Ryan says.

Z smiles. "Ah, yes. Speaking of Hell-" She motions at Brendon. "Aren't you going to introduce me?"

"Cheeky," Ryan chides her, smiling, and then offers Brendon a hand up. "Brendon of House Canto, Z the pixie."

Brendon stands up easily enough, but the look he gives Z is positively frosty. "I believe I'm Brendon of House Summerlin now," he says.

Ryan blinks. "Yes, of course, how silly of me." He glances down at Brendon and smiles, trying to elicit a smile in return. He doesn't get it, and that just makes him frown again, unsure of precisely what he did wrong.

Z looks between the two of them, assessing, and then shrugs again. "Well," she says, "I only came to say goodbye. Alex and I are heading back presently, as soon as I can meet him."

Ryan gives her a wistful look. "Tell him hello for me, will you? I'm sure he's heard about-" He reaches down and touches Brendon's hand. "-but he's probably very put out at missing the opportunity to mock me in person."

Brendon stiffens slightly at his side, and Ryan sighs.

Nodding, giving Ryan a curious look, Z says, "Of course," and hops off the table, her wings catching her just as her toes graze the stone floor. "It won't be the same without you, you know." She pauses. "Nice to have met you, Brendon."

"Charmed," Brendon says flatly.

Z flutters out the way she came in, and when she's gone Brendon brushes past Ryan, intent on the other door.

"Aren't you going to have some breakfast?" Ryan asks, taking an abortive step after him.

"I'm not hungry," Brendon says on his way out. "Thank Cook for the tea."

"I-all right," Ryan says.

He still doesn't know what he did wrong.

Shit.

***

"Brendon?" Ryan says, laying his hand on the door to Brendon's room, smiling ruefully as the ivy on the walls weaves its way through his fingers. At least he hasn't pissed off his house.

He hears Brendon's footsteps on the other side, and jumps back a foot when Brendon swings the door open, a look of resignation on his face. "Don't just stand there," he says. "These are your rooms, aren't they?"

Ryan ducks inside the bedchamber, letting Brendon shut the door behind him. "This is your room, actually," he says. "I mean, if you want it."

"My room," Brendon says.

"If you don't like it-"

Brendon cuts him off with an impatient wave of his hand. "No, I meant-my room, not our room. Is that why you didn't stay here last night?"

"I-" Ryan looks down. "My room is next door. Or, well, it doesn't have a door, but." He shrugs.

"I thought that not having to sleep alone was one of the perks of being married," Brendon says.

"I'm not used to sharing a bed with someone," he lies, thinking guiltily back to his first waking thoughts of the morning, of how keenly he missed Z lying next to him.

Brendon snorts. "You're a terrible liar."

Ryan feels his face heat. "I'm not used to sharing a bed with someone I'm married to," he amends, not at all certain that it won't get him in more trouble. He saw the way Brendon looked at Z.

Surprisingly, Brendon's expression softens. "Neither am I," he says. "But I'm willing to try it if you are."

"That's-" Ryan blinks. "You're not angry at me?"

Brendon gives him a half-smile. "Spencer warned me that you were difficult," he says. "I don't know why I was surprised when he turned out to be right."

Ryan looks down again. "Don't be angry with Z, either. She's-I suppose you might say that she's difficult, too."

"I'm not angry with anyone," Brendon says.

"Are you sure?" Ryan asks.

"Not right now," Brendon assures him with another small smile.

"In that case," Ryan says, offering Brendon his hand, "I would be honored to show you the Glen, if you would care to ride."

Brendon curls his fingers around Ryan's, his grip warm and sure. "Thank you, my lord, I would be delighted."

***

They spend the first three days of their handfasting at Ryan's father's house, with the old man rattling around with them. Ryan does his best to avoid his father, which isn't difficult given that he has a lifetime of practice, but he thinks Brendon isn't so lucky, based on the few times he happens upon Brendon running from the rooms his father usually haunts. He would offer to keep Brendon company all day, but Brendon was quite insistent that he learn every corridor of his new home, father-in-law be damned.

Still, he's less than surprised when Brendon declares that he wants to spend a few days at court. He's even a little thankful. Ryan doesn't usually care for the constant motion of court, but anything is better than another moment with his father. Besides, he thinks he might like to see court the way Brendon does. He's never held a high position at court, never really cared to, but he's curious, and he might as well take advantage of having married one of the princess's favorites.

Brendon has his own appointment of rooms at Queen Jessica's palace, and from the moment Ryan enters the suite he can't stop himself from staring. Brendon's bedroom here is easily twice the size of Ryan's at home, tastefully appointed in black and red, and everything seems to hum in harmony, like each piece of furniture is its own instrument. When he touches the bed-hangings, his fingers passing through the fabric, he can hear the low strumming of a harp.

They arrive on the afternoon before a fête in honor of some lord Ryan has probably met and forgotten, and now it is Brendon who adjusts Ryan's clothing with stiff fingers.

"I know I married into your house," he says, smoothing the formal leaf-green waistcoat that Ryan called up before they left the manor, "but my person is better regarded here than yours. I will not have you reflect poorly on me, or on the Lady Ashlee."

Ryan wants to say something sharp in retort, to snap at Brendon, but then Brendon runs his fingers through Ryan's hair, smoothing it, and Ryan quite forgets what he was going to say. Brendon's touch is softer now, and he looks almost embarrassed when he explains, "Her Majesty wishes us to be presented to the court, to show how our consequences have changed."

"I've never had consequence before," Ryan says softly, looking at himself in the mirror when Brendon steps away. The lines of his clothing seem sharper, and there is a fine red piping at the neck and sleeves of his tunic, but he is otherwise unchanged.

Brendon laughs before he slides an hand into the crook of Ryan's arm. "Escaping the marshes isn't the only advantage of handfasting to me."

Ryan doesn't know what to say to that, and he lets Brendon walk him to the main hall, where the court is assembled. The chair at table set aside for the Lord of Summerlin is empty, as usual-his father hates the court, which is why they chose to escape him by taking up residence there. Ryan means to move past it, to stand at the back of the hall in his accustomed place, but Brendon won't allow him, gently nudging him to sit before Brendon takes the consort's chair beside him, which has been empty for even longer than Ryan's father's seat.

He feels off and uncomfortable in the high-backed chair, like at any moment someone is coming to pull him off and scream that he's in the wrong place. He hasn't earned this reward yet. His father would never allow it.

But the reproof never comes. Lesser fae and the rabble sidhe bow their heads as they pass, and Brendon hums thoughtfully beside him.  "Relax," he says to Ryan, arching an eyebrow when Ryan gives him a sideways look, and Ryan clearly recalls their first night together. His cheeks grow warm at the memory, and who taught Brendon to flirt like that, anyway? The self-assured creature beside him bears so little resemblance to the blushing virgin Ryan claimed a few days ago that it makes Ryan's head spin.

Brendon laughs softly, like he knows exactly what Ryan is thinking, and reaches over to take Ryan's hand, pulling it into his lap and linking their fingers together. They sit together in companionable silence, watching the panoply of the court play out before them, and then Ryan sees Lord William of Barrington coming close, his berry-rich robes dragging on the floor behind him.

He is a lord in his own right, well-married into a respectable family and having sired an heir within a year of marriage, something almost unheard of among the sidhe. They used to be on cordial terms-William and Jon were close friends-but he has never once stopped to talk to Ryan since Jon left.  He stops now, though, and gives a sweeping bow that Ryan suspects is meant more for Brendon than for him.

"Brendon," William declares, confirming Ryan's suspicions, "I would have expected you to do better than this." His smile is a subtle taunt.

Ryan feels Brendon grip his fingers tightly under the table, the message clear-calm down and let me handle this-and then Brendon lounges casually in his chair and replies, "How disappointed you must be, William. I know you had your heart set upon your man winning my hand, but he could hardly satisfy me as Ryan can. His romances are legend."

Ryan starts and glares at Brendon, trying to take his hand away, but Brendon holds on tightly.

William laughs, a silver, mocking sound. "Are you trying to imply that Carden isn't as much a man as my lord Summerlin's heir?  He's twice his size, a trained soldier, and possesses a much more...solid pedigree."  William leans closer, still all but ignoring Ryan except to insult him.  "And he has the potential for great diplomatic success."

"Call me lazy, then."  Brendon lifts Ryan's hand, even as Ryan tries to fight him, angry at William's casual disdain.  "I prefer to marry into an august house, to a husband who has more power than Michael could ever hope to summon."  He kisses the back of Ryan's hand.  "Besides, Mike could never compare to Ryan's beauty, and service takes the glory from one's face and the light from the eyes.  I couldn't bear to watch Ryan lose either."

William laughs.  "You'd almost think this was love," he says, and then he bows to Ryan, as though he has finally noticed him.  Ryan feels hot with shame.  "My lord heir of Summerlin.  I am glad that someone has finally persuaded you to take your place.  Brendon is correct in one regard: you are too pretty to stand with the others. But much can happen in a year."

Ryan waits to turn a glare on Brendon until William has stepped away to pester someone else.  "What was that?"

"It's court, Ryan.  Half our lives are spent building our own prestige by trying to make others seem less worthy." Brendon rolls his shoulders, casual.  "He wanted me to marry his man, and I like Mike well enough, but, well. I should have gained nothing more in marrying him than what I already have.  His lands are far to the west, a diplomatic posting, and William won't offer anything to have me marry him that would make it worth my while to leave the court."

Ryan frowns.  "What if you fell in love with him?"

Brendon smiles gently.  "My parents raised me to be a courtier and a politician, Ryan.  I never expected to fall in love before I married."  He touches Ryan's hand again.  "That doesn't mean I don't like being handfasted to you."

Ryan can't stop himself from smiling back, and he keeps doing it, even as they turn their attention to the next lord coming their way.

***

The most unique thing about Brendon's room is the sitting area, the large couches that materialize when someone comes to the door.  Ryan isn't used to the near-constant stream of visitors, especially when most of them are the court's elite.  William comes with nectar and is much more polite in private, sitting and talking about compositions with Brendon and Lord Peter's friend, Lord Patrick.  They sit together and sing, and Brendon only looks away from the sheaves of music when someone comes in with a document.

Ryan sits on the bed and watches, flipping through a new novel that someone gifted to him in congratulations for his marriage.  It's awful, of course, set in the human realm but written by someone who has obviously never spent any substantive time there, but he knows well enough to look through the pages like he's interested in what's on them.  There are at least interesting illustrations of human gadgets that he is rather certain never existed.

He doesn't realize that he's zoned out, lulled into a near-coma by the soft music that fills Brendon's chambers, until Brendon flops on the bed beside him.  "You have the best light," he says, and he leans a long parchment close to Ryan.

He frowns and begins to sit up.  His skin is fair to glowing, which is rather embarrassing.  His paternal grandmother is a sunlight sidhe, and she always glows like lightening bugs.  He only does it when he's content, and Ryan is not used to being content.

"Hey," Brendon says, softly.  He gives Ryan a smile.  "Best light in the room, and the print is small."

Ryan shakes his head.  "I can't keep it going by thinking," he whispers, and he feels like he's confessing a dark secret.  He is, sort of.  Only Spencer and Jon know exactly what makes him glow, and now Brendon does as well.

He bites his lip and summons the faerie lights, letting them fill the air beneath the bed's canopy.  "Will that suffice?"

Brendon rolls his eyes at Ryan before he begins to look over the document.  Ryan attempts to follow along, but he decides after a few lines that he would much rather read his book, rolling away from Brendon to start to thumb through it again.  He doesn't miss, though, when Brendon makes a tiny noise, a quick "ah!" before he gets off the bed and hands back the parchment.

He cranes his head back to try to see who would bring Brendon something so tedious.  He thinks it may be one of the sirens, from the flash of gold hair he sees, and the way she laughs when Brendon says, "He forgot to add a duration clause.  You do have to come with him for a spell, but if that spell is twenty minutes or years is entirely up to you."

"Thank you," the siren says.  "I am in your debt."

Ryan feels the air constrict tightly around him, and he sits up.  Lords Patrick and William have gone, and only Brendon and the siren-Greta, he thinks-are left.  He supposes that he is witness to the declaration of debt, should Greta try to renege.  He doesn't think she will, though; Greta has always been rather sensible for a siren, and the complicated business of favors and reciprocity is deadly serious business to all faeries in all courts.

"You read contracts?" he says, once Greta has left them and Brendon has locked the doors, when he knows they will be alone.

Brendon nods, shrugging.  "My father is an arbiter.  He taught us all to read the language that they use and look for loopholes.  Most faeries don't have much sense, he says, and if you have a touch of it, you can get as far as you'd like."  Brendon begins to pull off his fine court tunic, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"And you have more than a touch of sense?"  Ryan sits up, his legs crossed.  He knows nothing about legal documents, except that he was taught to never sign one if he can avoid it.  It is possibly the only good advice his father has ever given him.

"I suppose so.  I don't like dealing with bargains and contracts, but I like favors."  Brendon grins, almost childish in his glee.  "Both Patrick and William owe me a favor, and Peter.  Ashlee did owe me one, but I used it to help a friend, and there are other favors here and there that I'm owed.  When Spencer asked me to marry you, I thought that I might have to cash in more than a few in case you ended up like your father."

"To break our handfasting?"

"More to make it be like it never happened, to hide me away until the year and day had passed."  Brendon reaches over to touch Ryan's hair, just laying the tips of his fingers to it before he pulls his hand away, as if it had been burned.  "But you aren't so bad, when you aren't pouting."

"I have been told my pout is very becoming," Ryan says, but he settles back on his side of the bed.  He is far from tired, but he dismisses most of the faerie lights until the room is dim.

"You have been told wrong," Brendon says airily.

Ryan attempts to throw a pillow at him, but he misses by a long ways and Brendon just laughs at him more.  It makes him grumpier and more unsettled than it probably should, and he turns his back to Brendon as he attempts to read the novel one last time.

***

Their time at court doesn't drag the way Ryan is used to, but he never really becomes accustomed to the constant intrusions into their room.  The music stays low, and most of the time it's comforting, but at least once he has to go out and walk the halls without Brendon at his side.  He has never had to crave quiet before.

He still likes the look of the court, even if it doesn't feel quite as special anymore.  He mourns that, because he liked being able to tell that he was close to something amazing and powerful.  He doesn't like that it feels almost like being at home now, except that there are long corridors and hundreds of faeries that he barely knows.

Ryan doesn't expect anything to come of these walks, not really.  He expects it much less after Spencer tells him to stop moping and go tell Brendon he wants to go home.

Then he manages to run into Tennessee.

For a sidhe, he supposes Lady Tennessee would be considered either very plain or very typical.  She's half-blooded, like Ryan.  Her mother is one of the premier sidhe ladies of court, but her father is at least half-swan maiden.  Such things rarely out on men, save for very pale skin and long necks, but Tennessee stands a touch awkwardly and she looks better in a man's tunic than she does a woman's gown.  And she's pale, considering that she is a flower sidhe, her mother's family keepers of the dogwood tree.

He bows to her, saying, "Lady Tennessee."

She smiles at him, and it's genuine, if a little bitter.  "I see your marriage has brought you much joy."

Ryan shrugs.  "We all must do what we must to avoid the Queen's wrath."

"You managed to avoid her wrath and keep from being banished to the marshes."  She smoothes a hand down her pale tunic, diaphanous enough that he can see the slight curves of her waist.  She turns her head, and he can see the beauty that Z likes to wax on about, the sweetness of her eyes even when she looks so very sad.

"Mine was a special case," he demurs.  "Most are not so lucky."

Tennessee swallows.  "You should tell her that I will learn to be happy, and she should too.  I want her to be happy and find a home that will take her and let her be the fine lady she should always be."

She keeps her eyes down, and he knows that she doesn't believe it.  He doesn't either, and he tries to think of something to say. When he hears an approaching song, he feels something strange.  He almost feels happy, and when he turns to look behind him, he sees Brendon in all his courtly finery.

He's with one of the court's brownies, and they're running.  "I think something may be wrong," Brendon says, and his song is calming, Ryan realizes.  Brendon is actively trying to make him feel better.  He takes Ryan's hand as the brownie stops, bowing quickly to Lady Tennessee before he turns to Ryan.

"Have word from Summerlin's Cook, for you to go home.  The Pillywiggins, sir, they are all out of sorts, and Cook says there's a problem."  The brownie bows again.  "I would say more, but I can't trust all the sidhe to keep the confidence."

"Brendon," Ryan says, because it sounds terrible.  It sounds like it could be his father, and much as he dislikes him, he should be there if something's wrong.

"Of course," Brendon whispers, pressing a kiss to Ryan's temple, and Ryan nearly misses the way he looks at Tennessee for minute, his eyes going wide.  But he turns away from her to nod at Ryan again.  "Of course."

Part Two