So Frantic For The... [s/a]
Title: So Frantic For The... [s/a]
Author: selectivelyurie
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
POV: Third
Summary: Brendon’s got a new girl now and Ryan is getting completely beside himself.
Disclaimer: Not real, don't believe.
Author Notes: I can't decide how I feel about this fic. Thanks to my_obsession_xx for the quick beta and for dealing with my bitching and alphabetatoast for her encouragement. Title belongs to Empires.
By the time Ryan pushes Brendon into the bed, he’s practically clawing for it. His breath is a marathon of pants chasing after whimpers and when Brendon falls backwards onto the soft sheets layering Ryan’s bed, Ryan loses all lung function at the sight of Brendon staring up at him with these eyes that understand too much.
Ryan shouldn’t- He shouldn’t be doing this because it’s not right, it’s not fair to Brendon and it’s selfish but he’s crawling over Brendon’s torso before he can second guess his intentions or question the consequences, his chest on fire. And Brendon’s vibrating beneath him, a bundle of trembling nerves and the high from recording again still thumping through his veins, but Ryan doesn’t think about the new album because he’s sliding his hands up Brendon’s waist, harder than he intends but the skin there is just so soft. Ryan likes the contradiction.
Brendon gasps, something dangerously similar to hesitation when Ryan’s thumbs scrape over his nipples, his fingers curled around Brendon’s ribs and Ryan feels Brendon’s dick digging into the back of his thigh. It’s so close, so delicious and Ryan grinds down, shudders in long and deep when Brendon moans.
“Ryan.” It’s timid and searching, like a raised hand with an unsure answer and Ryan leans down, presses a kiss, fierce and hungry, onto Brendon’s mouth. For right now it’s answer enough.
His fingers climb like spiders up Brendon’s chest and Brendon’s curving off the bed, whimpering and Ryan sucks bold bruises on the underside of Brendon’s jaw, the exposed flesh too enticing. There’s the leftover bitterness of a good session in Ryan’s warm studio still lingering, still clinging to the goosebumps freckled over the pale skin Ryan’s marking with his teeth, and when Brendon moans again, Ryan feels it on his tongue.
Ryan tugs at Brendon’s shirt and nips at his shoulder, realizing as he mouths at the fabric above Brendon’s collarbone that it’s only hindering at this point. Brendon lifts his arms, lets Ryan slide the fabric up past his ribs, his shoulders, neck and when Ryan reaches up to pull it over his arms, Brendon tugs out of the shirt quickly, wraps his hands around Ryan’s shoulders and pulls him down for a clash of mouths. The shirt is discarded and Ryan takes Brendon’s bottom lip between his teeth and pulls, practically gnashing, and Brendon groans, arms tensing.
He hadn’t anticipated this, the way he’s got Brendon panting beneath him and he himself is about to fall into some sort of stimulus overload, but dammit. It hadn’t been two minutes after they’d called a break from recording and Brendon was phoning her. He’d said Hey, baby. Said, No, yeah. It’s sounding great. Said, I know, I miss you, too. Paused and said, Bay-bee with a pout before ending with I love you, too and shoved his phone in his pocket, oblivious to Ryan’s shadow in the doorway.
“Ryan,” Brendon says again and it’s firmer this time, startling Ryan out of his reverie. Ryan, he’s pawing at Brendon’s pants like he’s been locked out of something dire to his existence and when Brendon reaches down to place a shaky hand over Ryan’s haste-fumbly fingers, everything in Ryan stops thrumming and the blur in his head slams to a halt, jarring and unsettling. “Ryan,” - Ryan licks his lips, panting, craving, aching - “hey, calm- calm down, it’s -”
And Brendon can hardly ever remember a time that Ryan has listened to him, so it’s no surprise that Ryan ignores the advice and continues clawing at the button of Brendon’s jeans, ravenous and greedy.
There is nothing calm about this. There’s nothing Ryan wants less than for this to be calm. If it’s calm then something’s not right, something’s off; there’s a rift in the brain to reality flow he’s trying to perfect because in his mind, there’s nothing calm about the way he’s touching Brendon or the way his hips move, about the way this feels. There is nothing calm about this.
He’s tugging Brendon’s pants off, peeling them tight and slightly sweaty from Brendon’s legs and then he’s crawling back up the length of Brendon’s body, lying flat and heavy, sprawled across him like a blanket and his hips pump teasingly, teeth grating down the column of Brendon’s throat.
“Jesus, fuck,” Brendon groans, grasping Ryan by the hips and stilling the sweet, sweet motion. Ryan whimpers, something pathetic and needy into Brendon’s shoulder and licks tenderly, strains against Brendon’s hands. With a shiver, Brendon says, “Hey.” Coos, “Shh, easy.”
Ryan’s been like this once before, just once. This keening, frantic, completely helpless thunder of hands and mouth. Just once, a few years back when Brendon wasn’t functioning beyond text messaging Audrey, and Ryan, driven by insomnia, had materialized at the edge of Brendon’s bunk at three a.m., a little needy when he looked at Brendon, still sleep bleary and warm, and said, “Don’t let me lose you.”
Ryan nods, shaky and a little pitiful, hands skimming over Brendon’s chest, shoulders and he whimpers when Brendon palms his ass, his heel kneading into the soft fabric of his jeans, fingers tripping over the seam running up the middle of Ryan’s ass. Pushing up into it, Ryan pants, unsure and scared, and Brendon loves it when Ryan feels so fragile beneath his fingers, like hope and surrendering. It’s only when Ryan comes to him like this, approaching with a bent head and itching fingers, that Brendon knows Ryan’s scaling barbed wire fences in his mind and he’ll take what he can get, regardless of what shreds become of his hands.
Ryan doesn’t speak in words but in noises and gestures and Brendon learned to read this body language that night Ryan crawled into Brendon’s bunk, face damp and eyes tired, and curled up against him. And he’d said, “I feel like I’m losing you. I don’t want- I can’t- You-” and cried into Brendon’s neck until he had nothing and Brendon pressed his front flush to Ryan’s back and fucked him slow and deep, side by side in Brendon’s cramped bunk. And he’d promised, “She’s not taking me away,” with his hips, fingers, tongue because the rest of the bus was still sleeping.
Brendon’s got a new girl now and Ryan is getting completely beside himself.
He tells himself that it’s okay. To be jealous. To not like her. To want to touch him where her fingertips lingered, fit his over hers and erase them. To need Brendon’s hand in his constantly in a way that says, You’re not completely hers yet.
It starts as this worry. Two day’s time between his mouth and Brendon’s and Ryan feels like he’s slipping. Two weeks since he and Brendon shared a heartbeat and Ryan feels like he’s trapped. Two months since Brendon’s had to say “Here I am, right here” and Ryan feels like he’s lost. It starts as this worry, and grows and spawns and feeds off of every cell in Ryan’s being and then blooms into this panicked, hysterical, helplessly terrified ball of energy that Ryan doesn’t know how to control.
And that’s scary. Scary not knowing yourself for fear that you’re losing someone else. Like trying to save your heart without losing your mind. A tug-o-warring in his nerves. And this ball, it builds and builds and builds and he can feel it surging up in his chest, straining against his ribs and starting fist fights with his lungs, and then it bursts. Ruptures and explodes. A shockwave of sheer terror and recklessness driven by the resonating need pulsing through his veins, infiltrating his nervous system only to rewire it with tearing, desperate hands so that the only thing he knows is panic.
Cue absolute stillness. Cue settling. Cue trembling. Cue tears. Cue hyperventilation. Cue Brendon.
Brendon’s hands run down the back of Ryan’s thighs, as far as they can reach and he digs fingers into the denim of Ryan’s pants, pushing him down, pulling him close and Brendon rolls his hips. Ryan’s moan is delicious, swallowed greedily by Brendon’s mouth and Brendon moves his hands to coerce Ryan’s pants open. He says, “Up,” and Ryan lifts his hips, knees digging into the mattress, hands on either side of Brendon’s head, tendons in his arms tight like cords. Brendon fingers open Ryan’s belt and button, hands skimming each of their low stomachs, and slides down Ryan’s zipper while Ryan presses hot, silent kisses of Please against his temple, panting into his ear. Once the waistband is open, hanging loose between them, Brendon’s hands are back on Ryan’s ass, slipping under the boxer briefs tight against the heated flesh Brendon’s sinks his nails into.
The hiss that Ryan emits sizzles into a sighing moan, drenched thorough with soothing when Brendon dips a finger between his cheeks, teasing. Ryan bites hard at the tendon where Brendon’s neck meets his shoulder and shudders, collapsing just enough to grind against the top of Brendon’s hip. A sharp thrust from below tells Ryan to clamber off and onto his back, and while the action itself leaves Ryan crazy with impatience, when Brendon begins popping out the buttons of Ryan’s shirt, tasting Ryan’s tongue and biting his lips, Ryan feels a little sanity itching back into his fingertips. At the last button, Brendon folds Ryan’s shirttails open, tongues quick, barely-there strokes above the line of Ryan’s boxers and presses Ryan’s hips into the mattress when he curves off the bed. He makes it up Ryan’s chest in nibbles and licks, breath becoming condensation on Ryan’s chin as he curls his hands around the caps of Ryan’s shoulders, skin to skin.
Brendon’s fingers weave into Ryan’s, pushing up above Ryan’s head and down into the mattress, pinning and solid. He sinks his head down to taste the skin below Ryan’s ear and when he rolls his hips, murmurs, “’m right here,” Ryan chokes on his breath and strains against Brendon’s hold, fingers clenching harsh. Brendon purrs into Ryan’s neck and Ryan whimpers, melting into the sheets. Brendon tongues at every inch of skin he can when he slides back down Ryan’s chest and when he lets go of Ryan’s hands to remove his shirt, Ryan doesn’t clutch after Brendon’s fingers like Brendon thought he would. Instead, he just lies still, solid but trembling and looking up with these huge, vulnerable eyes that ask for too much and apologize for even more. His fingers are twitching and flexing and now he’s beginning to register what’s happening, there’s not a dense smoke of dark need clouding his judgment and Brendon isn’t just a mass of something he needs to touch.
Ryan blinks, lazy and slow and Brendon’s lips quirk up, just a little to the right, before he presses a kiss to Ryan’s nose.
They’ve entered the eye of the storm.
“Hi,” Brendon rasps, chest still heaving, smile still intact. He brushes back the sweat-sticky hair on Ryan’s forehead and curls it around his fingers.
Ryan’s breaths are short and staccato, sharp and scared, and he whines, “Bren. Bren, I didn’t. I-I-I don’t, I-”
Brendon curls a hand around Ryan’s hip and kisses something soft and finalizing against his mouth, nothing but a gentle lips and slow tongue and when he breaks away, he says, “I know.”
And Brendon does know. Knows how Ryan gets like this, where he can’t control this urge to have Brendon, all of him. To assure Brendon’s not slipping away. He hates that Ryan feels like this, so paranoid and frantic, because Brendon’s not leaving, okay? He’s not. He won’t. He can’t. Not with Ryan clinging to him like this and kissing him with those lips and making him feel these things.
Sarah’s great. She’s beautiful and smart, she laughs at all of Brendon’s childish jokes and she’s actually pretty good at giving head. She’s a good person, she really is, but.
“Brendon, please.”
Nothing can compare to this. This mound of nerves beneath him, wound up tight and straining, breathing heavy, pleading, oblivious to the concept of pride and just wanton, captivating and distracting and just too much skin.
There is nothing next to this.
And right now there is nothing before or after this either because all there is that’s relevant is Brendon blinking and Ryan arching up to him, lips and tongue and hot hot mouth searching for Brendon, any inch of him, every inch.
Ryan chokes out, “Please, Bren. I-” and trembles down into a half sob, surrendering to the warmth of Brendon’s hand petting back his hair. He nuzzles against Brendon’s palm, lips a bit dry and he kisses the lines creased there, slow and whining.
“Ryan,” Brendon whispers, and even if it is a bit choked when it comes out, it’s still distinguishable. “Ryan, c’mere.” He crawls down Ryan’s legs just enough so that Ryan can bend himself in half, sit up and wrap his arms around Brendon’s and kiss his shoulder, soft. Brendon hums when Ryan’s tongue darts out to taste the heat of his throat and he says into Ryan’s hair, “I’ve got you.”
They manage to shake Ryan out of his shirt and Brendon spreads his fingers wide against the warm planes of Ryan’s back, stroking between the valley of his shoulder blades and down the knobby river of his spine to the top of his pants, unbuttoned but still on. Brendon moves off of Ryan’s shins and allows him to lift his hips from the bed; he peels off Ryan’s pants and boxer briefs in one go and lays on his hip beside him, plastered too close, too hot.
A hand creeps up Ryan’s knee, over the crease where his thigh meets his hip, up his chest to his shoulder and back down his arm, and Brendon just kisses kisses kisses him until Ryan wraps his fingers in Brendon’s hair and curls into him, legs twining with Brendon’s.
Brendon cups Ryan’s cheek, tongues the corner of Ryan’s mouth and Ryan says, “I shouldn’t need you this much,” like a sob. He swallows and says, hot and sticky against Brendon’s mouth, “Not like this.”
It sounds like something he should regret, like something he’s trying to feel sorry for but can’t.
Brendon noses at his jaw and closes his eyes. Kissing one, two, five possible replies under Ryan’s ear, Brendon finally settles for saying nothing at all and crawls over Ryan’s heaving chest, elbows digging into the mattress on either side of Ryan. His cock digs into Ryan’s thigh and Brendon rocks slowly, licking the roof of Ryan’s mouth. Ryan groans, low and hungry and digs his fingers into the flesh of Brendon’s ass. Brendon grinds down again and a jolt of electric pleasure shoots up his spine, rippling his muscles and he shudders above Ryan, stilling for a moment.
“Brendon, don’t- I need you,” Ryan says, breathless as his hips buck up involuntarily. He gasps a bit at the friction and his fingers press deeper into Brendon’s skin. “Please.”
Brendon nods, forehead tucked into Ryan’s neck and he kisses at Ryan’s throat. “Is it- The stuff, is it-?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ryan grits out, cock achingly hard, leaking onto Brendon’s hip. “Same place as always.”
He nods again, sweat beneath his short bangs blending with the sweat collecting on Ryan’s collarbone and he puffs out, “’Kay,” before Ryan lets up on him a little and Brendon shifts over to fetch supplies from the nightstand next to Ryan’s bed. The lube is closed, knocked over and pushed to the back of the top drawer and the box of condoms is frayed from being torn open in a rush, half of it’s contents spilled about inside. Brendon grabs one and fumbles to reach the lube and Ryan busies himself with kissing the tip of each finger on Brendon’s left hand, each knuckle, the throbbing pulse beneath his wrist. Brendon doesn’t bother to close the drawer and Ryan moans when Brendon’s dick slips against his as he readjusts himself atop Ryan again.
“Fuck,” Ryan pants, neck craning to see Brendon popping open the bottle and smearing some lube onto his fingers. The cool wetness coating Brendon’s fingers momentarily makes Ryan flinch away when Brendon presses one finger against Ryan’s entrance, swirling around before breaching the tight ring of muscle slowly. Ryan whines and lifts his hips up, giving Brendon better access and Brendon slips in his middle finger alongside his index, pinching Ryan’s earlobe between his teeth. Ryan clenches his jaw and grinds down onto Brendon’s fingers, hands digging into the sheets. Brendon aligns a third finger for Ryan to take but Ryan protests with a shake of his head, a whimper and a “God, Bren, you. I just- just you, please.”
Brendon breathes heavy into Ryan’s ear and kisses down his throat, grazes his teeth over Ryan’s nipple and makes a pit stop at the dip in Ryan’s hips to suck tenderly. He moves a little lower, tongues the head of Ryan’s leaking cock once and Ryan moans, head digging back into the pillow and hips surging off the mattress. Brendon rubs his lower lip against the bitterness pearling at the tip and Ryan watches helplessly as Brendon backs off, dark eyes on him as he flicks his tongue out to collect the residue left behind.
He takes Ryan’s leg and gently hoists it up over his shoulder, crawling a little closer to Ryan, spread out and open before him, and something catches in Brendon’s throat. Ryan moves his other leg out, wider and welcoming and Brendon caresses the back of Ryan’s knee with his thumb. He rolls the condom on carefully and pours some of the liquid into his palm stroking himself slow, hand slick over his cock. Aligning himself, he pushes the tip of his dick to Ryan’s entrance, rubs in teasing circles and Ryan mewls, spine curving off the bed. He turns his head to the side and kisses the inside of Ryan’s knee before sinking in, careful and cautious.
The first inch is difficult. Ryan is tight, really fucking tight, and he’s making noises below Brendon that suggest he’s in pain. And it does hurt, the stretch and the burn and the searing ache of being ripped open again. It’s been a long time since Ryan’s been spread out for Brendon like this, too long, and the pain dwells somewhere deeper than the surface. Somewhere in the fact that it’s been so long since they’ve both been here, not only physically, curled up around each other and gasping through the heat, but emotionally, pushed to the edge and begging for something bigger than they imagined.
It hurts Ryan but he just chokes out, “More,” and urges Brendon on with his heel.
When Brendon’s buried to the hilt in Ryan, hips flush against the back of Ryan’s legs, he drags his teeth down Ryan’s inner thigh, breath sticky and short as he tries not to come undone because Ryan is warm and delicious around him and he’s doing this clenching thing to adjust to Brendon, all of Brendon, and now he’s writhing down for more and-
“Ryan, god. You- Fuck, so good. You feel so good, Ry, just-” He drops his head, shoulders up high around his ears and his lips are dragging against Ryan’s skin as he speaks, dampening Ryan’s thigh with overheated breath and too much pleasure. Clenching his eyes shut, Brendon continues. “I need a minute, okay? So. Don’t- don’t move or you’re going to fuck this up.”
Ryan lies still as Brendon gathers himself, fingers flexing into the blankets, lip bitten between his teeth and every inhale he takes makes his stomach flutter. In that moment, in the way Brendon’s fingers tremble and the way Brendon’s breath shakes, in that moment Ryan realizes that he’d do the impossible for this boy. Defy gravity, find stars in the Vegas sky, swim oceans and paint cities in gold just for Brendon. Just to have the same feeling of selflessness that Brendon has, to hand Brendon the world and say, “For you, this is for you”, like Brendon handed himself to Ryan and said the same.
Brendon takes a breath, swallows the oxygen in the room and Ryan reaches up to touch Brendon’s lips. One finger rests on the damp flesh of Brendon’s mouth and Ryan traces the seam, stops at the edge and cups Brendon’s cheek. Brendon’s fingers find Ryan’s hand and he presses Ryan’s touch closer, steals the warmth from Ryan’s palm and Ryan whispers, “Every day, I want you like this.”
Brendon nods, says, “I’d give you every day if I could.” Brendon kisses the joint of Ryan’s pinkie, says, “But I can’t promise you tomorrow, not when right now seems so much better.”
It sounds like a song to Ryan, something beautiful and hurting and Brendon pulls out just to push back in slow and unhurried and Ryan moans, hand slipping down to grip Brendon’s shoulder. Ryan’s so full and so needy and so, so weak without the sensation of Brendon touching him, taking him. Having him. Brendon pumps his hips too slow, rolling them in deep only to roll them out at a pace that allows Ryan to feel every inch dragging inside him. The muscles in Ryan’s stomach ripple with the strain against his abs and his leg quivers on Brendon’s shoulder, but Brendon starts pumping faster, breaking the surge and swell of his hips into a more steady lapping of waves and Ryan rocks with him, hips lifting, back curving, head pressed deep into the pillows.
Staring at the pale line of Ryan’s throat, exposed and inviting, Brendon can’t help but quicken his pace, force his lungs to fill faster and his hips to thrust harder and Ryan’s quiet whimpers steadily grow and grow and grow in volume until he’s gasping, his gut twisting and his hands pressed flat against the wall at the top of the bed. He fucks Ryan deeper, wraps his hand around Ryan’s leaking cock and pumps in time with his thrusts. Ryan’s close, Brendon can feel it in the way his cock jumps in his hand and how his legs are starting to shake and Ryan’s writhing beneath him, choking on words and stuttering all the words he'd thought he'd never say. Brendon feels something white hot and blinding travel up his spine and he comes, hips snapping out of rhythm and his fist slipping from it’s grip around Ryan.
Slumping down, he pants heavily into Ryan’s collar, licks the sweat pooling there and Ryan whines, still needing it, needing Brendon. Without hesitation, Brendon crawls down Ryan’s torso and takes Ryan into his mouth, sucking hard on the head and tonguing the tip with flicks of his tongue that cause Ryan to cry out, bend so far up off the bed that Brendon has to chase after him in order to swallow up Ryan’s orgasm.
He’s a boneless mass of shivers and liquid muscles when he worms his way back up to Ryan’s mouth and when he kisses him, Ryan moans in surprise and post-sex arousal to taste Brendon pushing some of Ryan into his own mouth, tongue then chasing after what it deposited, licking Ryan's tongue lazily.
Ryan cups Brendon’s face and mumbles broken Thank Yous against his lips.
Brendon strokes Ryan’s hip, kisses back slow and calming and Ryan’s nerves die down to a dull thrum beneath his skin. Brendon whispers, “Shh,” and mouths at Ryan’s jaw, allows Ryan to wrap himself around him and ease away his internal chaos.
Some time later Brendon slips out of Ryan’s grasp and Ryan has trouble distinguishing if he let Brendon go willingly or if his arms were just too weak to grapple for him back. Ryan watches as Brendon dresses, pulls on his pants and shirt and pats down his hair and closes his eyes so that he doesn’t have to watch Brendon walk away again.
There’s silence. Thick, suffocating, aching silence and Ryan lets out a shuddery breath before pulling his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. From the corner of his eye he sees a silhouette in the doorway and when he rolls his neck look, Brendon’s still standing there, both hands on either side of the frame, head bowed.
“I really care about her, Ry,” Brendon says quietly, like it’s a secret he doesn’t even want himself to know. Ryan feels something burning up the back of his throat and a familiar stinging behind his eyes. “I don’t want to lose her.”
The outline of Brendon’s face is dark, too dark for Ryan to read and he’s not sure whether he should be relieved or angered that he can’t see the honesty in Brendon’s eyes. He’s staring at the ground and Ryan’s staring at his jaw and Ryan can’t remember the last time he took a breath in.
“But that’s-” Brendon pauses, bites back on something difficult forming on his tongue and swallows, fingers white on the frame. “That’s the thing I don’t- I don’t ever have to worry about losing you, do I?” Brendon’s voice is quivering and Ryan finds it hard not to creep out of bed and wrap around him once again. “I mean, you won’t ever lose me, so- so it goes both ways, right?”
Ryan’s voice betrays him when he croaks out a quiet, cracked, “Yeah,” and Brendon takes in an even quieter breath.
“’Kay,” Brendon says with a firm sense of acceptance. He inhales audibly and says, “C’mon, get dressed. We’ve got an album to record.”
And the way he says it is a little bittersweet, like he’s torn between going back to Ryan’s hot studio or curling back up in Ryan’s warm bed. Ryan doesn’t reply and Brendon leaves without a look back.
Ryan enters his studio minutes later to see the rest of his band snacking, eating potato chips that will grease up his couch and drinking beers that will leave stains on his carpet. Jon throws an unopened Twinkie at Spencer but it gets batted away by Shane and Eric bellows a hearty, “Denied!”
And from the corner, Brendon laughs, eyes lit up bright with a renewed vigor, an energy brimming behind his eyelids and widening his smile and Ryan feels his heart swell so much it physically aches.
Brendon hops up and pats his legs anxiously, cheers, “Let’s get this show on the road, mother fuckers!” and lunges forward to pull Jon to his feet.
They arrange around their instruments with a combined enthusiasm that rivals Brendon’s on a daily basis and Ryan picks up his guitar to settle next to Jon. Spencer counts them in and Eric starts on the piano - something Brendon wrote and it’s beautiful, really. Jon’s bass chases after Ryan’s slow guitar and Brendon steps up to the microphone. When he finally opens his mouth to sing, it’s with more feeling than Ryan’s ever heard. And they’re not really recording yet, just fucking around with what they’ve decided to keep, locked in Ryan’s makeshift studio and sweating. But Ryan wishes the raw strain of Brendon’s voice in that moment was the thing they put on the actual album because Ryan gets a lump in his throat, one that is only comparable to his absolute speechlessness when he first heard Brendon sing, low and to himself after practice. Brendon caused Ryan to put a crack in his guitar but Ryan's Holy shit had nothing to do with his instrument.
And then Brendon looks at Ryan, sings Ryan’s chorus to him, the chorus Ryan wrote for Brendon, all for Brendon, and his lips curl up into a smile, eyes shining something mesmerizing. And Brendon isn’t smiling for anyone else because they wouldn’t understand the flowery metaphors Ryan creates or the cryptic terminology he ravels his words in.
He’s smiling for Ryan, all for Ryan, perfect and selfless and not quite Ryan’s but.
But maybe that’s okay.
Maybe that’s okay because Brendon epitomizes every word Ryan’s ever written, taken it and made it more beautiful than Ryan ever imagined, and.
Maybe it’s okay that he’s not quite Ryan’s because right now, with them like this - hearts light and smiles wide, creating something timeless in Ryan’s hot studio, perspiration collecting like dew on their backs - right now, Ryan has more of Brendon than anyone will ever have, and that’s okay.
Author: selectivelyurie
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ryan/Brendon
POV: Third
Summary: Brendon’s got a new girl now and Ryan is getting completely beside himself.
Disclaimer: Not real, don't believe.
Author Notes: I can't decide how I feel about this fic. Thanks to my_obsession_xx for the quick beta and for dealing with my bitching and alphabetatoast for her encouragement. Title belongs to Empires.
By the time Ryan pushes Brendon into the bed, he’s practically clawing for it. His breath is a marathon of pants chasing after whimpers and when Brendon falls backwards onto the soft sheets layering Ryan’s bed, Ryan loses all lung function at the sight of Brendon staring up at him with these eyes that understand too much.
Ryan shouldn’t- He shouldn’t be doing this because it’s not right, it’s not fair to Brendon and it’s selfish but he’s crawling over Brendon’s torso before he can second guess his intentions or question the consequences, his chest on fire. And Brendon’s vibrating beneath him, a bundle of trembling nerves and the high from recording again still thumping through his veins, but Ryan doesn’t think about the new album because he’s sliding his hands up Brendon’s waist, harder than he intends but the skin there is just so soft. Ryan likes the contradiction.
Brendon gasps, something dangerously similar to hesitation when Ryan’s thumbs scrape over his nipples, his fingers curled around Brendon’s ribs and Ryan feels Brendon’s dick digging into the back of his thigh. It’s so close, so delicious and Ryan grinds down, shudders in long and deep when Brendon moans.
“Ryan.” It’s timid and searching, like a raised hand with an unsure answer and Ryan leans down, presses a kiss, fierce and hungry, onto Brendon’s mouth. For right now it’s answer enough.
His fingers climb like spiders up Brendon’s chest and Brendon’s curving off the bed, whimpering and Ryan sucks bold bruises on the underside of Brendon’s jaw, the exposed flesh too enticing. There’s the leftover bitterness of a good session in Ryan’s warm studio still lingering, still clinging to the goosebumps freckled over the pale skin Ryan’s marking with his teeth, and when Brendon moans again, Ryan feels it on his tongue.
Ryan tugs at Brendon’s shirt and nips at his shoulder, realizing as he mouths at the fabric above Brendon’s collarbone that it’s only hindering at this point. Brendon lifts his arms, lets Ryan slide the fabric up past his ribs, his shoulders, neck and when Ryan reaches up to pull it over his arms, Brendon tugs out of the shirt quickly, wraps his hands around Ryan’s shoulders and pulls him down for a clash of mouths. The shirt is discarded and Ryan takes Brendon’s bottom lip between his teeth and pulls, practically gnashing, and Brendon groans, arms tensing.
He hadn’t anticipated this, the way he’s got Brendon panting beneath him and he himself is about to fall into some sort of stimulus overload, but dammit. It hadn’t been two minutes after they’d called a break from recording and Brendon was phoning her. He’d said Hey, baby. Said, No, yeah. It’s sounding great. Said, I know, I miss you, too. Paused and said, Bay-bee with a pout before ending with I love you, too and shoved his phone in his pocket, oblivious to Ryan’s shadow in the doorway.
“Ryan,” Brendon says again and it’s firmer this time, startling Ryan out of his reverie. Ryan, he’s pawing at Brendon’s pants like he’s been locked out of something dire to his existence and when Brendon reaches down to place a shaky hand over Ryan’s haste-fumbly fingers, everything in Ryan stops thrumming and the blur in his head slams to a halt, jarring and unsettling. “Ryan,” - Ryan licks his lips, panting, craving, aching - “hey, calm- calm down, it’s -”
And Brendon can hardly ever remember a time that Ryan has listened to him, so it’s no surprise that Ryan ignores the advice and continues clawing at the button of Brendon’s jeans, ravenous and greedy.
There is nothing calm about this. There’s nothing Ryan wants less than for this to be calm. If it’s calm then something’s not right, something’s off; there’s a rift in the brain to reality flow he’s trying to perfect because in his mind, there’s nothing calm about the way he’s touching Brendon or the way his hips move, about the way this feels. There is nothing calm about this.
He’s tugging Brendon’s pants off, peeling them tight and slightly sweaty from Brendon’s legs and then he’s crawling back up the length of Brendon’s body, lying flat and heavy, sprawled across him like a blanket and his hips pump teasingly, teeth grating down the column of Brendon’s throat.
“Jesus, fuck,” Brendon groans, grasping Ryan by the hips and stilling the sweet, sweet motion. Ryan whimpers, something pathetic and needy into Brendon’s shoulder and licks tenderly, strains against Brendon’s hands. With a shiver, Brendon says, “Hey.” Coos, “Shh, easy.”
Ryan’s been like this once before, just once. This keening, frantic, completely helpless thunder of hands and mouth. Just once, a few years back when Brendon wasn’t functioning beyond text messaging Audrey, and Ryan, driven by insomnia, had materialized at the edge of Brendon’s bunk at three a.m., a little needy when he looked at Brendon, still sleep bleary and warm, and said, “Don’t let me lose you.”
Ryan nods, shaky and a little pitiful, hands skimming over Brendon’s chest, shoulders and he whimpers when Brendon palms his ass, his heel kneading into the soft fabric of his jeans, fingers tripping over the seam running up the middle of Ryan’s ass. Pushing up into it, Ryan pants, unsure and scared, and Brendon loves it when Ryan feels so fragile beneath his fingers, like hope and surrendering. It’s only when Ryan comes to him like this, approaching with a bent head and itching fingers, that Brendon knows Ryan’s scaling barbed wire fences in his mind and he’ll take what he can get, regardless of what shreds become of his hands.
Ryan doesn’t speak in words but in noises and gestures and Brendon learned to read this body language that night Ryan crawled into Brendon’s bunk, face damp and eyes tired, and curled up against him. And he’d said, “I feel like I’m losing you. I don’t want- I can’t- You-” and cried into Brendon’s neck until he had nothing and Brendon pressed his front flush to Ryan’s back and fucked him slow and deep, side by side in Brendon’s cramped bunk. And he’d promised, “She’s not taking me away,” with his hips, fingers, tongue because the rest of the bus was still sleeping.
Brendon’s got a new girl now and Ryan is getting completely beside himself.
He tells himself that it’s okay. To be jealous. To not like her. To want to touch him where her fingertips lingered, fit his over hers and erase them. To need Brendon’s hand in his constantly in a way that says, You’re not completely hers yet.
It starts as this worry. Two day’s time between his mouth and Brendon’s and Ryan feels like he’s slipping. Two weeks since he and Brendon shared a heartbeat and Ryan feels like he’s trapped. Two months since Brendon’s had to say “Here I am, right here” and Ryan feels like he’s lost. It starts as this worry, and grows and spawns and feeds off of every cell in Ryan’s being and then blooms into this panicked, hysterical, helplessly terrified ball of energy that Ryan doesn’t know how to control.
And that’s scary. Scary not knowing yourself for fear that you’re losing someone else. Like trying to save your heart without losing your mind. A tug-o-warring in his nerves. And this ball, it builds and builds and builds and he can feel it surging up in his chest, straining against his ribs and starting fist fights with his lungs, and then it bursts. Ruptures and explodes. A shockwave of sheer terror and recklessness driven by the resonating need pulsing through his veins, infiltrating his nervous system only to rewire it with tearing, desperate hands so that the only thing he knows is panic.
Cue absolute stillness. Cue settling. Cue trembling. Cue tears. Cue hyperventilation. Cue Brendon.
Brendon’s hands run down the back of Ryan’s thighs, as far as they can reach and he digs fingers into the denim of Ryan’s pants, pushing him down, pulling him close and Brendon rolls his hips. Ryan’s moan is delicious, swallowed greedily by Brendon’s mouth and Brendon moves his hands to coerce Ryan’s pants open. He says, “Up,” and Ryan lifts his hips, knees digging into the mattress, hands on either side of Brendon’s head, tendons in his arms tight like cords. Brendon fingers open Ryan’s belt and button, hands skimming each of their low stomachs, and slides down Ryan’s zipper while Ryan presses hot, silent kisses of Please against his temple, panting into his ear. Once the waistband is open, hanging loose between them, Brendon’s hands are back on Ryan’s ass, slipping under the boxer briefs tight against the heated flesh Brendon’s sinks his nails into.
The hiss that Ryan emits sizzles into a sighing moan, drenched thorough with soothing when Brendon dips a finger between his cheeks, teasing. Ryan bites hard at the tendon where Brendon’s neck meets his shoulder and shudders, collapsing just enough to grind against the top of Brendon’s hip. A sharp thrust from below tells Ryan to clamber off and onto his back, and while the action itself leaves Ryan crazy with impatience, when Brendon begins popping out the buttons of Ryan’s shirt, tasting Ryan’s tongue and biting his lips, Ryan feels a little sanity itching back into his fingertips. At the last button, Brendon folds Ryan’s shirttails open, tongues quick, barely-there strokes above the line of Ryan’s boxers and presses Ryan’s hips into the mattress when he curves off the bed. He makes it up Ryan’s chest in nibbles and licks, breath becoming condensation on Ryan’s chin as he curls his hands around the caps of Ryan’s shoulders, skin to skin.
Brendon’s fingers weave into Ryan’s, pushing up above Ryan’s head and down into the mattress, pinning and solid. He sinks his head down to taste the skin below Ryan’s ear and when he rolls his hips, murmurs, “’m right here,” Ryan chokes on his breath and strains against Brendon’s hold, fingers clenching harsh. Brendon purrs into Ryan’s neck and Ryan whimpers, melting into the sheets. Brendon tongues at every inch of skin he can when he slides back down Ryan’s chest and when he lets go of Ryan’s hands to remove his shirt, Ryan doesn’t clutch after Brendon’s fingers like Brendon thought he would. Instead, he just lies still, solid but trembling and looking up with these huge, vulnerable eyes that ask for too much and apologize for even more. His fingers are twitching and flexing and now he’s beginning to register what’s happening, there’s not a dense smoke of dark need clouding his judgment and Brendon isn’t just a mass of something he needs to touch.
Ryan blinks, lazy and slow and Brendon’s lips quirk up, just a little to the right, before he presses a kiss to Ryan’s nose.
They’ve entered the eye of the storm.
“Hi,” Brendon rasps, chest still heaving, smile still intact. He brushes back the sweat-sticky hair on Ryan’s forehead and curls it around his fingers.
Ryan’s breaths are short and staccato, sharp and scared, and he whines, “Bren. Bren, I didn’t. I-I-I don’t, I-”
Brendon curls a hand around Ryan’s hip and kisses something soft and finalizing against his mouth, nothing but a gentle lips and slow tongue and when he breaks away, he says, “I know.”
And Brendon does know. Knows how Ryan gets like this, where he can’t control this urge to have Brendon, all of him. To assure Brendon’s not slipping away. He hates that Ryan feels like this, so paranoid and frantic, because Brendon’s not leaving, okay? He’s not. He won’t. He can’t. Not with Ryan clinging to him like this and kissing him with those lips and making him feel these things.
Sarah’s great. She’s beautiful and smart, she laughs at all of Brendon’s childish jokes and she’s actually pretty good at giving head. She’s a good person, she really is, but.
“Brendon, please.”
Nothing can compare to this. This mound of nerves beneath him, wound up tight and straining, breathing heavy, pleading, oblivious to the concept of pride and just wanton, captivating and distracting and just too much skin.
There is nothing next to this.
And right now there is nothing before or after this either because all there is that’s relevant is Brendon blinking and Ryan arching up to him, lips and tongue and hot hot mouth searching for Brendon, any inch of him, every inch.
Ryan chokes out, “Please, Bren. I-” and trembles down into a half sob, surrendering to the warmth of Brendon’s hand petting back his hair. He nuzzles against Brendon’s palm, lips a bit dry and he kisses the lines creased there, slow and whining.
“Ryan,” Brendon whispers, and even if it is a bit choked when it comes out, it’s still distinguishable. “Ryan, c’mere.” He crawls down Ryan’s legs just enough so that Ryan can bend himself in half, sit up and wrap his arms around Brendon’s and kiss his shoulder, soft. Brendon hums when Ryan’s tongue darts out to taste the heat of his throat and he says into Ryan’s hair, “I’ve got you.”
They manage to shake Ryan out of his shirt and Brendon spreads his fingers wide against the warm planes of Ryan’s back, stroking between the valley of his shoulder blades and down the knobby river of his spine to the top of his pants, unbuttoned but still on. Brendon moves off of Ryan’s shins and allows him to lift his hips from the bed; he peels off Ryan’s pants and boxer briefs in one go and lays on his hip beside him, plastered too close, too hot.
A hand creeps up Ryan’s knee, over the crease where his thigh meets his hip, up his chest to his shoulder and back down his arm, and Brendon just kisses kisses kisses him until Ryan wraps his fingers in Brendon’s hair and curls into him, legs twining with Brendon’s.
Brendon cups Ryan’s cheek, tongues the corner of Ryan’s mouth and Ryan says, “I shouldn’t need you this much,” like a sob. He swallows and says, hot and sticky against Brendon’s mouth, “Not like this.”
It sounds like something he should regret, like something he’s trying to feel sorry for but can’t.
Brendon noses at his jaw and closes his eyes. Kissing one, two, five possible replies under Ryan’s ear, Brendon finally settles for saying nothing at all and crawls over Ryan’s heaving chest, elbows digging into the mattress on either side of Ryan. His cock digs into Ryan’s thigh and Brendon rocks slowly, licking the roof of Ryan’s mouth. Ryan groans, low and hungry and digs his fingers into the flesh of Brendon’s ass. Brendon grinds down again and a jolt of electric pleasure shoots up his spine, rippling his muscles and he shudders above Ryan, stilling for a moment.
“Brendon, don’t- I need you,” Ryan says, breathless as his hips buck up involuntarily. He gasps a bit at the friction and his fingers press deeper into Brendon’s skin. “Please.”
Brendon nods, forehead tucked into Ryan’s neck and he kisses at Ryan’s throat. “Is it- The stuff, is it-?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ryan grits out, cock achingly hard, leaking onto Brendon’s hip. “Same place as always.”
He nods again, sweat beneath his short bangs blending with the sweat collecting on Ryan’s collarbone and he puffs out, “’Kay,” before Ryan lets up on him a little and Brendon shifts over to fetch supplies from the nightstand next to Ryan’s bed. The lube is closed, knocked over and pushed to the back of the top drawer and the box of condoms is frayed from being torn open in a rush, half of it’s contents spilled about inside. Brendon grabs one and fumbles to reach the lube and Ryan busies himself with kissing the tip of each finger on Brendon’s left hand, each knuckle, the throbbing pulse beneath his wrist. Brendon doesn’t bother to close the drawer and Ryan moans when Brendon’s dick slips against his as he readjusts himself atop Ryan again.
“Fuck,” Ryan pants, neck craning to see Brendon popping open the bottle and smearing some lube onto his fingers. The cool wetness coating Brendon’s fingers momentarily makes Ryan flinch away when Brendon presses one finger against Ryan’s entrance, swirling around before breaching the tight ring of muscle slowly. Ryan whines and lifts his hips up, giving Brendon better access and Brendon slips in his middle finger alongside his index, pinching Ryan’s earlobe between his teeth. Ryan clenches his jaw and grinds down onto Brendon’s fingers, hands digging into the sheets. Brendon aligns a third finger for Ryan to take but Ryan protests with a shake of his head, a whimper and a “God, Bren, you. I just- just you, please.”
Brendon breathes heavy into Ryan’s ear and kisses down his throat, grazes his teeth over Ryan’s nipple and makes a pit stop at the dip in Ryan’s hips to suck tenderly. He moves a little lower, tongues the head of Ryan’s leaking cock once and Ryan moans, head digging back into the pillow and hips surging off the mattress. Brendon rubs his lower lip against the bitterness pearling at the tip and Ryan watches helplessly as Brendon backs off, dark eyes on him as he flicks his tongue out to collect the residue left behind.
He takes Ryan’s leg and gently hoists it up over his shoulder, crawling a little closer to Ryan, spread out and open before him, and something catches in Brendon’s throat. Ryan moves his other leg out, wider and welcoming and Brendon caresses the back of Ryan’s knee with his thumb. He rolls the condom on carefully and pours some of the liquid into his palm stroking himself slow, hand slick over his cock. Aligning himself, he pushes the tip of his dick to Ryan’s entrance, rubs in teasing circles and Ryan mewls, spine curving off the bed. He turns his head to the side and kisses the inside of Ryan’s knee before sinking in, careful and cautious.
The first inch is difficult. Ryan is tight, really fucking tight, and he’s making noises below Brendon that suggest he’s in pain. And it does hurt, the stretch and the burn and the searing ache of being ripped open again. It’s been a long time since Ryan’s been spread out for Brendon like this, too long, and the pain dwells somewhere deeper than the surface. Somewhere in the fact that it’s been so long since they’ve both been here, not only physically, curled up around each other and gasping through the heat, but emotionally, pushed to the edge and begging for something bigger than they imagined.
It hurts Ryan but he just chokes out, “More,” and urges Brendon on with his heel.
When Brendon’s buried to the hilt in Ryan, hips flush against the back of Ryan’s legs, he drags his teeth down Ryan’s inner thigh, breath sticky and short as he tries not to come undone because Ryan is warm and delicious around him and he’s doing this clenching thing to adjust to Brendon, all of Brendon, and now he’s writhing down for more and-
“Ryan, god. You- Fuck, so good. You feel so good, Ry, just-” He drops his head, shoulders up high around his ears and his lips are dragging against Ryan’s skin as he speaks, dampening Ryan’s thigh with overheated breath and too much pleasure. Clenching his eyes shut, Brendon continues. “I need a minute, okay? So. Don’t- don’t move or you’re going to fuck this up.”
Ryan lies still as Brendon gathers himself, fingers flexing into the blankets, lip bitten between his teeth and every inhale he takes makes his stomach flutter. In that moment, in the way Brendon’s fingers tremble and the way Brendon’s breath shakes, in that moment Ryan realizes that he’d do the impossible for this boy. Defy gravity, find stars in the Vegas sky, swim oceans and paint cities in gold just for Brendon. Just to have the same feeling of selflessness that Brendon has, to hand Brendon the world and say, “For you, this is for you”, like Brendon handed himself to Ryan and said the same.
Brendon takes a breath, swallows the oxygen in the room and Ryan reaches up to touch Brendon’s lips. One finger rests on the damp flesh of Brendon’s mouth and Ryan traces the seam, stops at the edge and cups Brendon’s cheek. Brendon’s fingers find Ryan’s hand and he presses Ryan’s touch closer, steals the warmth from Ryan’s palm and Ryan whispers, “Every day, I want you like this.”
Brendon nods, says, “I’d give you every day if I could.” Brendon kisses the joint of Ryan’s pinkie, says, “But I can’t promise you tomorrow, not when right now seems so much better.”
It sounds like a song to Ryan, something beautiful and hurting and Brendon pulls out just to push back in slow and unhurried and Ryan moans, hand slipping down to grip Brendon’s shoulder. Ryan’s so full and so needy and so, so weak without the sensation of Brendon touching him, taking him. Having him. Brendon pumps his hips too slow, rolling them in deep only to roll them out at a pace that allows Ryan to feel every inch dragging inside him. The muscles in Ryan’s stomach ripple with the strain against his abs and his leg quivers on Brendon’s shoulder, but Brendon starts pumping faster, breaking the surge and swell of his hips into a more steady lapping of waves and Ryan rocks with him, hips lifting, back curving, head pressed deep into the pillows.
Staring at the pale line of Ryan’s throat, exposed and inviting, Brendon can’t help but quicken his pace, force his lungs to fill faster and his hips to thrust harder and Ryan’s quiet whimpers steadily grow and grow and grow in volume until he’s gasping, his gut twisting and his hands pressed flat against the wall at the top of the bed. He fucks Ryan deeper, wraps his hand around Ryan’s leaking cock and pumps in time with his thrusts. Ryan’s close, Brendon can feel it in the way his cock jumps in his hand and how his legs are starting to shake and Ryan’s writhing beneath him, choking on words and stuttering all the words he'd thought he'd never say. Brendon feels something white hot and blinding travel up his spine and he comes, hips snapping out of rhythm and his fist slipping from it’s grip around Ryan.
Slumping down, he pants heavily into Ryan’s collar, licks the sweat pooling there and Ryan whines, still needing it, needing Brendon. Without hesitation, Brendon crawls down Ryan’s torso and takes Ryan into his mouth, sucking hard on the head and tonguing the tip with flicks of his tongue that cause Ryan to cry out, bend so far up off the bed that Brendon has to chase after him in order to swallow up Ryan’s orgasm.
He’s a boneless mass of shivers and liquid muscles when he worms his way back up to Ryan’s mouth and when he kisses him, Ryan moans in surprise and post-sex arousal to taste Brendon pushing some of Ryan into his own mouth, tongue then chasing after what it deposited, licking Ryan's tongue lazily.
Ryan cups Brendon’s face and mumbles broken Thank Yous against his lips.
Brendon strokes Ryan’s hip, kisses back slow and calming and Ryan’s nerves die down to a dull thrum beneath his skin. Brendon whispers, “Shh,” and mouths at Ryan’s jaw, allows Ryan to wrap himself around him and ease away his internal chaos.
Some time later Brendon slips out of Ryan’s grasp and Ryan has trouble distinguishing if he let Brendon go willingly or if his arms were just too weak to grapple for him back. Ryan watches as Brendon dresses, pulls on his pants and shirt and pats down his hair and closes his eyes so that he doesn’t have to watch Brendon walk away again.
There’s silence. Thick, suffocating, aching silence and Ryan lets out a shuddery breath before pulling his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. From the corner of his eye he sees a silhouette in the doorway and when he rolls his neck look, Brendon’s still standing there, both hands on either side of the frame, head bowed.
“I really care about her, Ry,” Brendon says quietly, like it’s a secret he doesn’t even want himself to know. Ryan feels something burning up the back of his throat and a familiar stinging behind his eyes. “I don’t want to lose her.”
The outline of Brendon’s face is dark, too dark for Ryan to read and he’s not sure whether he should be relieved or angered that he can’t see the honesty in Brendon’s eyes. He’s staring at the ground and Ryan’s staring at his jaw and Ryan can’t remember the last time he took a breath in.
“But that’s-” Brendon pauses, bites back on something difficult forming on his tongue and swallows, fingers white on the frame. “That’s the thing I don’t- I don’t ever have to worry about losing you, do I?” Brendon’s voice is quivering and Ryan finds it hard not to creep out of bed and wrap around him once again. “I mean, you won’t ever lose me, so- so it goes both ways, right?”
Ryan’s voice betrays him when he croaks out a quiet, cracked, “Yeah,” and Brendon takes in an even quieter breath.
“’Kay,” Brendon says with a firm sense of acceptance. He inhales audibly and says, “C’mon, get dressed. We’ve got an album to record.”
And the way he says it is a little bittersweet, like he’s torn between going back to Ryan’s hot studio or curling back up in Ryan’s warm bed. Ryan doesn’t reply and Brendon leaves without a look back.
Ryan enters his studio minutes later to see the rest of his band snacking, eating potato chips that will grease up his couch and drinking beers that will leave stains on his carpet. Jon throws an unopened Twinkie at Spencer but it gets batted away by Shane and Eric bellows a hearty, “Denied!”
And from the corner, Brendon laughs, eyes lit up bright with a renewed vigor, an energy brimming behind his eyelids and widening his smile and Ryan feels his heart swell so much it physically aches.
Brendon hops up and pats his legs anxiously, cheers, “Let’s get this show on the road, mother fuckers!” and lunges forward to pull Jon to his feet.
They arrange around their instruments with a combined enthusiasm that rivals Brendon’s on a daily basis and Ryan picks up his guitar to settle next to Jon. Spencer counts them in and Eric starts on the piano - something Brendon wrote and it’s beautiful, really. Jon’s bass chases after Ryan’s slow guitar and Brendon steps up to the microphone. When he finally opens his mouth to sing, it’s with more feeling than Ryan’s ever heard. And they’re not really recording yet, just fucking around with what they’ve decided to keep, locked in Ryan’s makeshift studio and sweating. But Ryan wishes the raw strain of Brendon’s voice in that moment was the thing they put on the actual album because Ryan gets a lump in his throat, one that is only comparable to his absolute speechlessness when he first heard Brendon sing, low and to himself after practice. Brendon caused Ryan to put a crack in his guitar but Ryan's Holy shit had nothing to do with his instrument.
And then Brendon looks at Ryan, sings Ryan’s chorus to him, the chorus Ryan wrote for Brendon, all for Brendon, and his lips curl up into a smile, eyes shining something mesmerizing. And Brendon isn’t smiling for anyone else because they wouldn’t understand the flowery metaphors Ryan creates or the cryptic terminology he ravels his words in.
He’s smiling for Ryan, all for Ryan, perfect and selfless and not quite Ryan’s but.
But maybe that’s okay.
Maybe that’s okay because Brendon epitomizes every word Ryan’s ever written, taken it and made it more beautiful than Ryan ever imagined, and.
Maybe it’s okay that he’s not quite Ryan’s because right now, with them like this - hearts light and smiles wide, creating something timeless in Ryan’s hot studio, perspiration collecting like dew on their backs - right now, Ryan has more of Brendon than anyone will ever have, and that’s okay.